“Give Honour to the Truth!”

Karl Fast · Experiences from Russia's Recent Past 1950 · Published by the author · North Kildonan, Manitoba, Canada

The Parental Home.

S. 7

There, where Europe borders on Asia, where the Ural River and the mighty Ural Mountains with their many riches divide these two continents from one another, a courageous band of Mennonites believed they had found a favorable region for their tireless industry. Mother Earth here was young and fresh, and could yield everything that man and beast required. Nature satisfied the needs of all in ample measure. Vast expanses, which a few years later would bear waving fields of grain, called for the farmer's capable hand. Hills and meadows waited longingly for their guests — the peacefully grazing herds of the settlements. Favored by God and by nature, the courageous conquerors of the Russian soil soon achieved a considerable prosperity, which not seldom aroused the envy, and still more the admiration and respect, of the native population.

In peace and harmony the Germans — at first only a few — lived here, far removed from the rest of the world, in reverence before God; they built a livelihood for themselves and a secure future for their children. The Russian state granted them the rights it had promised, and was at bottom glad to have a reliable source of grain and other agricultural produce, for they produced far more than the Russian peasants, who for the most part covered only their own needs.

S. 8

This quiet, productive state of affairs was not to last very long, for the events that followed threw the world into utter confusion and by no means spared this little corner of the earth. The war of 1914–18 brought the Mennonites of this region their first trial — that is, the beginning of a long and hard time of testing. The men, who until then had been exempted from military service by law, were conscripted into various forms of alternative service, such as forestry work and medical duty. Through their long absence, and through the effects of the civil war that followed the war's end, their farms fell into decay. Only some years after the cruel civil war, which fundamentally changed conditions in the Russian state, could the farms be set in order again and the former prosperity restored. With God's help, the most terrible events of that period of destruction had been kept away from the Mennonite settlements. Yet this welcome pause was to be only brief, making way for a still worse time.

After three and a half years of service in the First World War as a medical orderly in various field hospitals and hospital trains, the Mennonite Heinrich Siebert, then twenty-six years old, returned to his family. Weary of the endless back-and-forth, and energetic like all his brethren, he was soon in possession of a fine farm. Believing they were building a lasting happiness for themselves and their family, he and his wife, who came from a prosperous family, worked tirelessly at this great life's task. When their second son, Abram, was born to them in 1921, they were already in a happy position, even if it meant leading a life S. 9 full of toil. Both father and mother took the greatest pains to raise their child to be a God-fearing person. The father, who before his call-up had worked as a teacher, and the mother, who had enjoyed a good upbringing in her parents' home, were of one mind: to give their children an upbringing that would enable them to find their way through all the storms of life. They taught them obedience to God, who had always been gracious to them and to their children. The family life of the Sieberts was a happy one, blessed by God. The children grew up free of care. How many joys were granted them! The sleigh rides every Saturday in winter, the riding in spring, the many visits to relatives, the splendid holidays — whether beautiful Easter or the beloved feast of Christmas — all of them joys that their parents' home was able to give them. Accompanied by all these childhood joys, the autumn of the year 1929 now drew near for eight-year-old Abram. His first day of school.

The Banishment of Christianity from the School.

With a joyful heart, his school satchel on his back and his cone of sweets under his arm, the little boy walked the road to school alone for the first time, where he was received by Teacher Braun, an elderly and venerable gentleman. Teacher Braun, who had grown up and been educated before the revolutionary upheaval, tried, contrary to the regulations already in S. 10 force, to give the children a Christian upbringing at school. In recent times, however, a new type of teacher had been trained up — one who clung fanatically to Communist principles, rejected everything else on principle, and forbade whatever the parents had taught. A typical representative of this sort was Teacher Wall. In his fanaticism he went so far that he did not fail to plant himself before the class and explain to the children with a sneer: "Dear children, you know that in two weeks your parents will be celebrating Christmas. Has your mother or father at least told you what Christmas actually is? Christmas is a made-up fairy tale that people tell little children. But you no longer believe in fairy tales — after all, you are big now."

The children looked at him doubtfully, for they were far too sorry to lose their beautiful Christmas joys around the Christmas tree with all its little angels. Seeing their sad faces, Teacher Wall began again: "Well, that surprises you, doesn't it? Don't be sad. If your parents want to celebrate Christmas, just tell them that you have to go to school. I will speak to your fathers about it myself." And so it happened. The parents were informed of the new regulations, which required them to send their children to school on the first and second days of Christmas. Agitated and angry, the father came home that evening.

"As long as there have been Christians, Christmas has been celebrated — the feast of all feasts, on which Christ, the Savior of the world, was born to us — and now suddenly they want to force us to give it up. In their de- S. 11 crees they preach freedom of conscience, and on the other hand they force us to abandon our faith. They have threatened expulsion from the school if the children do not appear at Christmas."

The mother, who had set aside her preparations for the holy feast, looked at him questioningly. "Abram, you will go to school at Christmas," the father said gruffly, and disappeared into the parlor.

On Christmas Eve of 1930 they still celebrated much as they always had, though on Christmas Day they had to forgo the customary visits to relatives. The gifts were as plentiful as ever, but the joy was considerably dimmed by outward circumstances. The authorities believed themselves strong enough to erase the Christian faith at a single stroke. It was the last Christmas celebration in the Siebert home, for in the years that followed, care was taken to see that the holy feasts were no longer observed even at home, in the circle of the family. People's trust in one another slowly began to fade; they began to fear each other, and all domestic life grew more withdrawn, more secretive. Prayers were spoken quietly; of faith in God, of the Redeemer, one spoke only within the family. Other places of Christian life no longer existed anyway — the churches and meeting houses had for the most part been torn down or converted into granaries and clubs. With this a new and very weighty factor set in, one that hastened the decay, above all of the moral life, of the Mennonite congregations — for the church had been the guardian of all that was good and upright. Now, apart from S. 12 the parental home, there was no power left to exhort the young to virtue, to make clear to them what path they must walk in order to remain always in the grace of God. It was precisely this circumstance that became the undoing of the rising generation.

The Free Peasantry Is Destroyed.

Outwardly, the Siebert family lived its accustomed life. As before, many people came and went here, which did not fail to leave its mark on the children. The father's hospitality and the mother's ever friendly and cheerful nature drew their acquaintances again and again. The neighbors came with their cares; the Kirghiz came, driven from their pastures by the revolution and now eking out their existence far from home; the Bashkirs came, always welcome guests of Heinrich Siebert, and their merry chatter — part Russian, part German and Bashkir — would then fill the whole house, to the mother's vexation. On such days there was much work to do, for the guests had to be entertained in their own fashion. Dishes and cutlery bought expressly for the purpose had to be brought out, and the food likewise prepared to the taste of the friendly guests. In this way life went on, peaceful and good, with no inkling of the events drawing near.

But an abrupt upheaval came in 1929, when suddenly there was talk of working the fields communally — talk that was very soon put into S. 13 practice. At first the farmers resisted. Some who flatly refused to approve of the plan were expropriated, for the simple reason that they had employed outside laborers on their farms. The rest were told that it was only a matter of mutual help; everyone could keep his fields, and everything a man owned would remain private property as before. Help one another they were willing to do — and without anyone noticing, there arose the seed of the later Kolchose (collective farm), which destroyed the farmer as an independent force. In that same year, collective farms of enormous extent were founded. One need only mention the Kolchose "Das Morgenrot" ("The Dawn"), which consisted of five large villages, each of which held at least 700 hectares of land. The boundaries now disappeared, and this gigantic complex was worked from early morning until late evening. Naturally no chairman (as the head of the Kolchose was called) could supervise the work, even though a host of brigade leaders and overseers stood at his disposal. The work was no longer carried out as conscientiously as before, because every collective farmer knew perfectly well that he was working not for himself but for the state — which was anything but his friend.

If at the beginning many had said they would go along with the whole thing on a trial basis, it was now perfectly clear to everyone that this institution was not for the farmer's good but the reverse: it made him a beggar; it turned him into a laborer in a gigantic agricultural factory. To force the farmer to work in the Kolchose, measures were now applied that allowed the authorities to hold him fast and bind him utterly S. 14 to the collective. By law he could leave the village only with the permission of the collective administration — which was rarely given, since labor was short everywhere. The system of work was likewise arranged so that anyone, man or woman, could be compelled to go to work. For this purpose a wage system had been introduced under which each person had to perform his share of labor. A workbook was kept for every able-bodied person, and in this workbook the workdays were recorded. The workday served as the unit of reckoning. Thus weeding one hectare of potatoes counted as 1.75 workdays; hauling in four wagonloads of grain (loading and unloading) as one workday. At year's end, a man working full time averaged 300 to 350 workdays.

After the tax had been paid to the state, after the state Machine-Tractor Stations (M.T.S.) had been paid for their work on the collective's fields, after the seed grain for the following year had been set aside and the various government and livestock-fodder funds secured, the miserable remainder came up for distribution according to workdays earned, after the famous principle: "From each according to his abilities, to each according to his work." In a better-than-average harvest year, a workday then brought roughly 1 to 1.5 kilograms of grain in kind. What could the farmer do with his "earnings"? He had bread grain for a year, true — but his family needed not only its daily bread; clothing, household goods, and other things had to be provided as well. Only a very few could even think of it. To be sure, the S. 15 farmer also received money for his workdays — from 1 to 30 kopecks per day. But out of this money the taxes had to be paid, along with the state domestic loans by which he demonstrated his sympathy for the Soviet regime. The taxes were deducted on the spot when the money was paid out, so that for the great majority the net amount came to zero. Forced by circumstances, the farmers who were supposed to feed the country had to look about for additional earnings, for what they made in the Kolchose was not enough to support an average family. A quiet discontent began to make itself felt among the farmers. Naturally this fact did not escape the authorities either, and measures were taken to smother the budding ill-feeling at once. The prosperous farmers were mercilessly driven from house and farm. Taken by surprise, they had to pack their most necessary belongings in haste; they were then loaded onto wagons and shipped off to Central Asia, to the region of the present-day industrial city of Karaganda. There, in the semi-desert, they long eked out a wretched existence that claimed many victims, until the surviving remnant had managed after a fashion to establish itself.

With this, two birds had been killed with one stone. First, a demand of the revolution — the destruction of the middle stratum of the peasantry — had been fulfilled; second, such fear had been driven into the remaining farmers that no one dared any longer to rise against the existing order. No — people no longer even grumbled about it, for every ill-meant word was reason enough to have to take leave of one's family forever S. 16 — if one was even given the time for that — and to perish as an enemy of the state in the north of the country or in Siberia.

God Tests His Own.

The year 1932 became a defining cornerstone in the life of the Siebert family. It began like every year before it, with its usual cares and joys. In August, to the blessing of the parents and the delight of the four brothers, little sister Katharina was born — whom they all fondly called Tinchen. But the father had for some time been suffering from a grave stomach ailment. The doctors offered the sick man words of comfort, claiming it was a catarrh of the stomach, though they knew only too well that he would soon succumb to stomach cancer, incurable in those days. Hoping for a full recovery, the father traveled from city to city, from sanatorium to sanatorium. The parents' money was running out. Dame Care became a gradual guest in the Siebert house, settling in more firmly with each passing day. While the father was once again spending several weeks in a clinic in O., the mother prayed to God to intervene and help. But the Almighty had chosen another path for this family, which had so far lived free of care — a path they had already, unsuspecting, begun to walk.

It was a glorious October day when Abram hurried home from school in high spirits. The mother, too, was in good humor that day. The brothers were busy playing in the garden, and little Tina lay smiling in her carriage. The sun beat hot upon the S. 17 village; everything thirsted for water. Not a breath of wind was willing to bring cooling relief to man or beast [?] — as if everything were bent on engulfing the countryside in an all-consuming blaze.

Fire!

Shortly after the midday meal the bake-oven was to be heated, and Abram was given the task of lighting it. He had barely done so — though not without first trying an experiment, namely whether the fire would burn if the flue were left closed. It burned, but darkly, ominously. Quickly he opened the flue, and a strong draft from the open door fanned the smoldering fire with such violence that it leapt far out of the oven. After this mischief the boy was sent back to his schoolwork, and the mother took over the stoking herself. A few moments later a neighbor woman, utterly out of breath, called in at the door: "Fire! Fire! Save yourselves, quickly!"

At first the mother stood motionless. She could not grasp the bitter fact. Could her beloved home, everything dear and precious to her, the cradle [?] of her children, really be in such great danger? Was everything not hard enough already? Was God's testing still not great enough? And what would Heinrich, her husband, say? What to do? These thoughts shot through her mind like lightning. At last she understood: "It's burning. Our house, everything we own, is at the mercy of the flames." Beside herself, she snatched a few forks and spoons from the table and ran S. 18 out of the house to the baby carriage where her slumbering child lay. Strangers had already carried it to safety.

Meanwhile the ravenous flames had greedily taken hold. They leapt from board to board, from beam to beam; along the ridge of the roof they advanced fastest of all. Wherever they had passed they left behind little tongues of flame that quickly grew and hurried onward by themselves. In barely a quarter of an hour the whole dwelling house, the stables, barn, and sheds were seized by the fire, which now did its work thoroughly. The house cracked in every joint. Groaning and creaking, the beams gave way. A few minutes later the entire roof frame crashed down, shrouding everything beneath a fiery blanket. At the last minute the livestock could still be saved, and they fled bellowing. Then the ceiling collapsed; the cellar vault could not withstand the pressure. Great clouds of smoke now veiled what had been the house. When they drifted away, only ruins remained, with nothing living or useful in them. The sight was terrible. Frau Siebert held her youngest in her arms while the others stood sobbing beside her. "What now?" was the anxious question. The few rescued belongings lay and stood scattered across the whole yard. Where to go? For the approaching night had to be thought of. One of Father's friends had rented three rooms from a certain Herr Peters and ordered a wagon, and by nightfall the family was housed. Only now did the mother recover her presence of mind, and she thought to send her husband a telegram with the news of the calamity.

The Father Provides One Last Time.

S. 19

The next evening a carriage drove up and brought the sick man, straight from his hospital bed, to his family. Pale and careworn, walking slowly to the door — so his wife saw him after their long separation. She had hoped to have him home again, healthy, before long, but now it seemed clear that a cure was hopeless. Yet the father was not as disheartened and weak as he appeared, for in the circle of his children he soon put on a smiling face, though it seemed somewhat forced. In the very next days he got in touch with his friends and with various offices in order to obtain a house, a home for the family. With the remainder of his money he made a purchase in Kn. Once more he had provided for his family's future — but then the illness threw him onto his bed, which from that time on he was never to leave. It was decided to wait until spring to move, in the hope that the father would bear it better then; slowly the winter days crept by. In March the first warm days came. When the father saw the approaching spring, he pressed for the move into the newly acquired house. He asked friends to come to him and discussed with them this question that had suddenly become so important to him. They advised him to wait a little longer, but he was not to be dissuaded.

It was the 20th of March when a row of sleighs drew up before the house. Everything was loaded according to S. 20 the father's directions. Onto the last sleigh they carried the heavy bed in which the sick man lay. Well wrapped, his still-smiling face — though it now showed deep furrows on the brow — looked out from the blankets into the blue March sky. The first snow-melt trickled down from the hills into the valley, green was beginning to color the slopes already free of snow, the trees were waking to new life. They arrived safely at the new dwelling — for it was no longer a farmstead with stables, sheds, and barns. All of that was superfluous, since one way or another everything had passed, or already been taken, into the Kolchose [?]. Within two days everything was arranged; they had made themselves at home as best they could. On the second day, toward evening, Siebert called his eldest son to him: "Abram, can you hang the big wall clock?" With much effort the heavy clock was finally set going. The boy went to his father's bedside, and the father stroked him most lovingly with his thin hand.

"Listen, Abram: you are your mother's first support — help her wherever you can. Above all, never cause her needless sorrow. To you personally I give this advice: learn, as long and as much as you can. Knowledge is no burden; it can never be taken from you, and you will make your way through life the better for it. Never forget that, my child!" The child promised his father to follow this advice — for it was his own wish to go to school for a long, long time. But neither of them suspected that they had spoken with one another for the last time.

Dame Care Becomes a Constant Guest.

S. 21

On the 23rd of March the mother, full of worry, drew her son into the parlor and whispered in his ear: "Ride to Grandmother's at once and tell them that Papa is very, very ill — they should come here quickly. But mind you take care: Papa must not know, for he cannot possibly accept that he is so sick." Despite the muddy road, the village of St. was soon reached, and all the relatives promised to arrive that afternoon.

The father looked at his wife in astonishment when his old mother and his brothers and sisters stepped up to his bed. He knew his wife had sent for them, and he received them with the words: "You think I'm dying, do you? There you are mistaken — I do not want to die, for I must live a long while yet. If that is why you have come, you may as well go home again. But since you are here, do stay — only you must sit me up." He could no longer hold himself upright in bed, so he was propped up with pillows, and there he sat, entertaining them until late in the evening with his merry stories. Tired and utterly exhausted, he sank back into the pillows. One could see in his face that here a man was fighting with all his strength against an inescapable fate. He knew only too well what lay ahead for his family if he should no longer be there. It seems as though even then he foresaw the misery and want of the years to come. The sickroom had grown still as death, though everyone had stayed. One heard only the S. 22 short, labored breathing of the father. The mother sat impassively on the edge of the bed and gazed into his face. Without another word, he passed away in the early morning hours of the 24th of March.

Only when the dead man had been carried out did the mother grasp the bitter fact: she had lost her happiness forever; she was left alone with her under-age children; she had always been in her husband's keeping. Now she stood helpless, for she had never yet felt the rough side of life. The great cares had always been borne by the father alone. Now she was to manage life, and the raising of the children, by herself. She already sensed the great hardship that would soon break over her family. Strong as the mother was, she now collapsed, utterly spent, over the empty bed, and a flood of tears broke free. No one was able to comfort the desolate woman. Perhaps it was even good so, for once she had composed herself again she seemed the braver for it. Quietly she knelt down at the bed with her children and asked almighty God for His help and His support.

Two days later the burial of the departed took place. In the funeral procession one saw all the father's relatives and friends. They all deeply mourned the loss of this upright man. Even the Bashkirs and Kirghiz — rough peoples in themselves — and the Russians of the surrounding villages came to show their sympathy with the bereaved in their sorrow.

The authorities, however, could not let this peaceful scene pass without interference. S. 23 Even here, at the burial, they tried to introduce new customs and usages. Their representatives appeared before the mother and sought to persuade her to paint the coffin red, for the only valid color in the Soviet state was red. This fairly took the grieving woman's breath away, and she refused brusquely, declaring to the gentlemen that her husband would be buried according to old custom in a black coffin, and that the funeral address would be given by the minister. And so it was done, despite the anger of the local Soviets — but this step of the mother's was never forgotten by these people.

The Artificially Created Famine.

The winter of 1933 was a winter of true horror, not only for the Siebert family but for wide circles and regions along the Volga, in central Russia, and in the western parts of Siberia and Central Asia. A total crop failure plunged the population of these regions into famine. Beggars, half starved, wandered the endless roads from village to village, trying to obtain something nourishing somewhere. But hardly anyone was in a position to give them even the barest necessities, for every house suffered grievous want. In the roadside ditches, in straw ricks and in barns, one could find the starved, ragged figures [?]. Driven out of a land overflowing with flocks of sheep and vast camel caravans, they met death by starvation in strange fields. They had not been quick enough to sing songs of praise S. 24 to the state that was destroying them, and so they had to atone for it in this fashion. Only in those days could everyone see how dearly even the peoples commonly regarded as backward loved freedom. But in the realm of "freedom" and "humanity," might went — and still goes — before right. How boundlessly great was the need, how loud the cries of the suffering for help — yet the ears of the ruling powers remained deaf. In this way they rid themselves of many people who were not to their liking, and so they looked on, calm and composed, at a misery that claimed millions of human lives. In later years they sought to shift the blame for this crime by declaring out of hand that enemies of Soviet power had brought about the catastrophe. Enemies indeed were to blame: they were the enemies of their own people, who maintained themselves in power with an inhuman ruthlessness; they were the men who, in the Soviets, embodied the dictatorship of the "proletariat" over the proletariat. Only in the autumn of 1934 could the people's distress be eased, when nature took pity on mankind — for man as such was in no position to step in and help, although in the other regions of the vast empire there was bread in abundance.

The Siebert family suffered great want along with the others. Hunger edema struck Hans, then eight years old. Only with difficulty could the mother keep her little daughter alive. She carried her clothes to the market, and with the proceeds could now and then procure food. Usually it was money she received — money with which she could do nothing. How often in those days one heard Frau Siebert's prayers to God that He might preserve her children. And S. 25 her pleas were heard, for now her brothers and sisters living overseas helped as best they could. Hardly had the summer holidays come for the children than they had to think of earning bread, for they did not want to go hungry again. Dame Care had taken full possession of them all. From morning to evening the children worked, only to fall dead-tired into bed. The joys of childhood were over — even as they glorified their childhood in songs at school. In the Soviet Union people sang, and sing still, of what is not there, to distract the people's attention from the emptiness. They sing of freedom — a freedom that resembles the freedom of a prison. They sing of the worker's prosperity — though he is forced to tremble constantly for his piece of bread. They sing of culture and progress in the land — which exist only in the smallest measure. They sing of the country's will to peace — though the government aims at nothing but war.

Led Astray.

The autumn of 1934 became the turning point in Abram's life. The family had moved back to the old home village of D., and he now went, with seven other children, to the middle school in Pr. A very gifted boy, he soon became the teachers' favorite, which gave him a self-assurance too strong for his years. This showed itself rather badly in his behavior, until one day his mother learned of it and took him to task. From that time on he strove S. 26 to be modest. Modesty was to become his finest garment. The level of instruction at the school was satisfactory, but the boy underwent a considerable estrangement from his upbringing at home; the constant company of children who had more or less succumbed to Communist education became a looming danger for him. Here no one spoke any longer of love and respect for one's parents; reverence before God was no longer cultivated — on the contrary, the children were given as models other children who had betrayed their parents to the security organs because they disagreed with the existing order. The children were put into atheist circles, where faith in God was mocked and derided. They were preached the sentence of Karl Marx: "Religion is opium for the people." Abram, who had learned to pray from his parents and who knew very well that there is a God who stands above all earthly things, at first prayed openly in the presence of his schoolmates; then he did it fearfully, under the blanket in bed before going to sleep, for he had grown weary of his comrades' constant mockery. Finally he gave it up altogether, and in time came to assert that it was scientifically proven that no God exists. Yet this transformation did not take place in the child just like that. The boy was torn by hard struggles of conscience before he gave credence to his teachers' explanations and believed he had found the right path. Throughout this whole battle of faith he had, at home with his mother and his brothers and sisters, conformed to the accustomed ways. But coming home once more for a few days, he could no longer — as he saw it — S. 27 reconcile it with his conscience to do something that was not inwardly serious to him, that was indeed repugnant to him, and he resolved to rise from the table during grace. The mother, who for a long while had not spoken with her son about questions of faith, looked at him in astonishment. To her question whether he had forgotten to pray, he declared that he no longer wished to pray. Gerhard, his eldest brother, tried to persuade him to be sensible and to see that he owed everything to almighty God, but Abram would not listen. He had already risen and left the room. He saw well enough that he was in the wrong, but he would no longer admit it — indeed he could not, for he had already strayed too far from the true path, been led too far down the wrong road that his generation, and later generations of Russia, were walking. Wholly removed, by the distant life of the boarding school, from his mother's upbringing and influence, he fell more and more under the sway of the atheist idea. Many years later he found his way back to faith in God, though the road to Jesus was long and hard.

With the Pioneers.

When, in December 1934, Kirov, the Bolshevik party functionary of the Leningrad Bolsheviks, was murdered, a mass enrollment of the children into the Pioneers, the Communist children's organization, was set in motion at the school. Without asking the children S. 28 beforehand, without the parents' consent, the red neckerchief was tied around the children's necks and they were told that from now on they were the vanguard [?] of the children. Abram received this "honor" with mixed feelings, for he knew only too well that his mother, his brothers, and all his relatives looked on it with disapproval. None of the adults dared to raise a protest against this violation of the children — and the children were thereby emboldened. Their initial doubt about the rightness of the thing turned into enthusiasm. Very soon Abram became a leading member of this children's organization, in which the children were instructed in field games and marksmanship, in politics and other things. Through the Pioneer organization, children from their eighth year onward were removed entirely from their parents' upbringing; here they were raised to be bearers of the Soviet order, knowing no commandments of decency or respect for human beings. They knew only one thing: good is only what the Soviet government offers them; that they were to defend it without scruple; that they were to love Stalin, the father of all Soviet peoples — as was drummed into them again and again — more than their own natural father. Everything outside this sphere was declared false and inhuman, and rejected. With torchlight processions and flag parades, carried out in military order, the children demonstrated their devotion and loyalty to the Soviet regime. In the course of time the young had grown undemanding; whatever was given them they regarded as a direct gift of the Bolshevik party. The young generation had been convinced that it was the happiest youth in the world. Indeed, the attempt was made to prove it to them S. 29 by examples. Children's palaces and children's camps were fitted out with great splendor. From all parts of Russia individual children were brought again and again, who then had to report on these true marvels in every district. These thousands had had the good fortune to enjoy for themselves this finest child care in the world — while millions upon millions could only hear the reports of these few, or read them in the newspapers. These institutions were visited by numerous delegations from abroad. The visitors were shown these merry, carefree children — but the children in the collective farms, in the orphanages, and in the factories were forgotten. And no one ever gave a thought to the many beggar children who, utterly destitute [?], dragged themselves along their tormented road from village to village.

"Artek."

The final examinations for the school year 1935/36 are in full swing when suddenly an automobile from the district youth league drives into the schoolyard. Abram Siebert is called by his class teacher into the director's office and told that he — as the only German — is being sent to the All-Union Pioneer camp "Artek" in the Crimea. As the best pupil of the whole school, this honor is his. To Abram it seems scarcely believable: he is a German; three of his uncles have been arrested by the N.K.W.D. of those days, so he is politically compromised; his grandparents live abroad — he is suspect of espionage. How can this be possible?! But in this country everything is possible, even the most im- S. 30 probable. The last examinations are quickly passed. At home a suitcase is packed with the essentials, and the very next day Abram is fetched by wagon. From the whole region, which numbered some three million inhabitants, four children were sent to the Crimea for a holiday.

Now began the journey across the breadth of Russia: from the Urals to Moscow, where there was a three-day stopover to admire the sights of the socialist capital, the bulwark of Bolshevism. Implacable, oppressive, and menacing, the Kremlin conceals its occupants [?]. Then onward toward the south, to the southern shore of the Crimea. At that time Abram did not yet know that there is such a thing as a propaganda journey — otherwise he would have called this trip in a first-class sleeping car exactly that. The station of Simferopol is reached, hidden entirely among green trees, the tall cypresses proudly displaying their dignity. Here it fairly swarms with people of every nation. They have come here to recover from the strains of daily life. Watching the bustle of Simferopol, one gains the impression that it really is true that the people of Soviet Russia all live in happiness and joy. But in such observations one usually forgets that these are the chosen few out of 173 million. How vanishingly small is the number who have the chance to allow themselves this pleasure! From Simferopol the journey continues by bus along the south coast to "Artek." The bus rolls along winding, steep roads closed in by trees. Glorious country! How happy many people would be if they were allowed to spend even a single hour here. On the bus raced, past the splendid S. 31 palaces of the princely and imperial houses, which had been spared the devastations of the revolution. They have been declared museums, or spas have been established in them. The people are shown that the party bosses of today have not moved into the showpiece palaces of yesterday's masters — that these riches are truly in the hands of the people. Yet the masters of today are not the people; they merely came, once, from the people. Today they have long forgotten their origins and are the all-powerful lords of Russia, who oppress the people without mercy.

A tumultuous reception awaits the newcomers. To be sure, here one can live without care; here there is no child labor. Hunger is unknown here. Here one does not see how the fathers of one's friends disappear overnight. Here there are only joys... With enthusiasm the children climb Ay-Petri, the highest mountain of the Crimea. They delight in the legend of the Ayu-Dag. Singing, they roam the woods, which here exist only for the children. Splashing, they romp in the waves of the Black Sea. No one need fear drowning — there are people enough watching over the children. Glorious! And all of it costs no more and no less than that one takes notice of it [?]. Just like every other state, the Soviet Union too sees in its youth its support.

In six weeks the children, drawn from every stratum of the peoples of the Soviet Union, were shown everything imaginable. With a grandiose farewell campfire this singular fairy tale ended — for most of the children now utterly convinced that their childhood was the most beautiful there is, just as everything else in vast S. 32 Russia was the most beautiful in their eyes. This conviction of the children was confirmed, moreover, by the children of Spanish Communists who had been brought from Spain, for they described their former life in the most dreadful colors.

The First Disillusionment.

Once again the road led homeward through the collective-farm fields, where everywhere the same drudgery went on, through cities, by way of Moscow, through endless forests, all the way to D. The dusty roads here gradually woke the children to the awareness that the pleasures were now finally over. The journey had not missed its purpose, for the reports of what had been experienced naturally turned out favorable. But the conditions at home, and in the other families, struck the boy — who was now beginning to think — like a cold shower. He began to notice that the many splendors exist only for the onlookers, that all institutions of this kind served only to deceive the public. How very different reality looks! Millions upon millions of children live in the most meager circumstances, with scarcely clothing and food enough. The many resorts on the southern coast of the Crimea were, true enough, also for collective farmers — but only for those who fulfilled their work quota three and four times over. As a spur to the others, they were rewarded with a stay in such a sanatorium, while the rest, year in and year out, without Sunday rest, winter and summer, performed their corvée in the Kolchose.

Children Are Carried Off.

S. 33

The school year began with the customary opening ceremony. The children rejoiced not so much at the start of lessons as at being freed once more from the heavy work in the fields. The younger pupils — like all the children from the surrounding villages, who gathered from far and wide, for only one German middle school had been permitted for the 28 German villages — now lived more carefree again; they no longer saw the careworn faces of their parents, which had left their stamp on the children's own. The pupils of the upper classes already had other worries, for the N.K.W.D. had identified and arrested "enemies of the state" in several classes. These seventeen-year-olds had committed no other crime than that their fathers, an uncle, or some other relative had been arrested by the N.K.W.D. Those men had been taken from their beds overnight, without a warrant, without the presentation of any charge. They were given no time to take leave of their families. A rapidly spreading psychosis of fear took hold of most of the men. No one knew whether he would still be free tomorrow — whether tomorrow he might not already be in one of the numerous prisons, to be transported from there to the remotest regions of Russia. Only a vanishing few of these deported men ever returned home, for they had been condemned indefinitely, without trial. Their hands built the industrial cities of Central Asia, S. 34 such as Karaganda, and the northern ports of Archangelsk and Igarka.

As has been said, it was not only the adults who feared being carried off, but schoolchildren and students as well. The wave of arrests claimed, at the school in Pr., fifteen persons at a single stroke: four teachers and eleven pupils. In place of the arrested teachers came reliable persons who would have liked best to re-educate all the pupils into steel-hard Communists on the very first day. The people bowed beneath the hovering sword, kept silent, and acted as though they were devoted fighters for the totalitarian state — yet inwardly there remained, in most of them, the great longing for personal freedom, for human dignity, the burning desire for a faith, for a view of the world that would give them inner footing and not hover before them like a soap bubble that may burst at any moment and turn into nothing.

"And If the Times Should Change?"

The teachers with Communist leanings tried to school the children in the materialist world-view. Yet they were helpless when asked about the beginning, the origin, of matter. They could demonstrate well enough the stages of development of all being, but as soon as this question was raised they gave empty answers of one kind or another, which a logically thinking person could scarcely credit. Every leaning toward idealist views S. 35 was ridiculed and punished with the worst marks. In this manner they succeeded, with time, in training everyone to materialist thinking. More and more young people joined the Communist Youth League. Abram Siebert, too, became an enthusiastic member of this body. The red neckerchief of the Young Pioneers was laid aside, and in its place came the membership book of the Communist Youth League. The mother took this event without any outward agitation, though inwardly she was deeply grieved by this step of her son's. She merely put to him the question of what he would do if the times should one day change. The misguided boy had no answer to give beyond what had been drummed into him for years at school — namely, that the existing regime would endure forever. He did not yet know that Communism rests on measures of force alone, and that this force must one day fail.

Russified Despite the Stalin Constitution.

The Germans still possessed certain autonomous rights. They had their own district, with German as the official language; in all schools, German was the language of instruction. Through diligence and thoroughness, progress was soon noticeable in the German district in contrast to the Russian ones. It was feared that the Germans would outgrow the Russians, and so in 1938 came the dissolution of the district, on the grounds S. 36 that it was territorially too small. The 28 villages were now parceled out among the adjoining districts, so that they no longer had any economic contact with one another [?]. Conditions thereby worsened visibly. There were no more German officials and clerks; the schools could no longer be run in the German manner — in short, the authorities proceeded ruthlessly against everything German and carried out an all-embracing Russification. But it would be wrong to think that these measures were applied only to the Germans; no, all the small ethnic groups scattered throughout the Soviet Union suffered under them. They were permitted to cultivate their national character and their mother tongue only if they constituted a full Union republic, an autonomous republic, an autonomous region, or a national district. For most this was not the case, and so they fell mercilessly victim to Russification — in a country to which chauvinism was supposedly foreign, in which all nations were supposed to have equal rights. These rights were laid down on the basis of the Stalin Constitution. But after all, one did not need to abide by it, so long as it served the purposes of consolidating Soviet power. For that, any means was acceptable. How far the matter of Russification was carried, the following example shows. When the census was taken at the end of the thirties, care was taken to register as many Germans as possible with Russian as their "mother tongue." The older people, of course, could not be moved to it; among the younger age-groups, on the other hand, "Soviet patriotism" had been coddled to such heights that the majority let themselves be registered as Germans with Russian as their mother tongue. And no one dared to point out S. 37 that this is a perfect paradox. By force and by stultification, even the most impossible things have become, and remain, trifles in Russia under Soviet rule. What is especially important is the fact that only a very few — chiefly the older people — still openly professed Christianity, though inwardly they held to it as before. Whoever did not conceal his faith in God counted as a reactionary and could be taken away by the N.K.W.D. at any time. But sadly, the courage for such a bold confession was lacking in most.

The State Demands.

The year 1937 had brought in a good harvest, whereas the following year was a total crop failure. The food situation in the village had worsened considerably. The collective farms could not raise the taxes owed to the state. The portion still owing was loaned to them as a debt, to be paid off from the new harvest. The hope of at least earning something on one's workday-units the next year had fallen rapidly. Fate willed that the crop failure repeat itself once more. Implacably the state demanded its levies, the previous year's debts included. No Kolchose could manage its delivery quota. The debt account grew; the farmers — if one could still call them that — suffered on, for they had now earned nothing for two years running. It seems unbelievable that a people should accept such injustice in S. 38 silence, that human beings can endure such a thing without a single word of discontent. But the force with which they were compelled was greater still than the injustice. To this force everyone bowed who did not wish to be crushed by it, and everyone consoled himself with the thought that one day all would be better — whether through the rulers coming to their senses, or because this system of violence might yet collapse. Leading figures of those years, such as Marshal Tukhachevsky, Rykov, and others, saw well enough that the people of this state must perish unless a change came soon. The security organs struck swiftly [?]. Tukhachevsky and his fellow conspirators were condemned to death. Such a case came as if made to order [?]: now there was an opportunity to unload upon these condemned men everything that had been perpetrated against the people in recent years. Cases of this kind, great and small, were fabricated again and again, from time to time. It had become customary to explain away abuses by simply saying: "The enemies of Soviet power are to blame — the saboteurs of socialist construction." The true causes of this misery, however, were to be sought in the impossibility of reconciling the theory and practice of Communism — which the Bolshevik rulers will never, ever admit.

The Terrible Phantom.

S. 39

In these hard years the Siebert family had been reduced to utter poverty. One could still see in the mother the earlier years of prosperity, but she suffered all the more under the present burden. She wanted to let all four sons study, to secure them a better future. Abram, who still needed several years to finish middle school, could no longer receive any support from his mother. His health left much to be desired. How often the mother begged him to leave school, for she feared he might do himself lasting harm. But the boy remembered his father's words on his deathbed. He was determined, whatever the cost, to become a teacher. In his need he turned to the rector of the school at that time. Rector Kliewer was an elderly gentleman who still remembered the former days well and had the necessary understanding for everything. He also found a way out, proposing that after lessons the boy work as a tutor and supervisor of the younger classes. That meant, to be sure, four additional hours of work a day. But in return the boy had the money he needed to cover his living expenses. The last two years passed slowly and hard, with a twelve-hour working day — but the intermediate school-leaving examination was passed with the grade "very good."

These years had utterly broken the boy inwardly. The constant fear of being carried off, and the strain of the work, shattered his

[The sentence continues on p. 40 — Batch 2 begins there.]

S. 80 …gars, let alone shooting them. On the contrary: they even threw them slices of bread from the trucks. But Mischa and Siebert walked past with lowered heads, gladly as they would have picked them up — for hunger had not yet destroyed their pride, nor did their honor yet permit them to pick up a piece of bread from the roadside ditch, thrown to them generously by enemies. On they went, past the endless column of vehicles, loaded with the most varied implements of war. Enormous cannon rumbled along the road. Mighty trailers, drawn by super-heavy tractors, carried great pontoon bridges toward the Dnieper. No German soldier went on foot, as in the Red Army. Whole units on motorcycles overtook them. The soldiers were cleanly dressed and had well-kept uniforms, in contrast to the tattered uniforms of the Red Army men with their shorn heads. The two in the roadside ditch were still walking that evening beside the column, which seemed never to break off, in the direction of Gomel. At the onset of dusk they turned off the road to make their night's lodging in a straw rick. When they awoke in the morning with growling stomachs, they joined the vehicles again and watched as ever new units rolled toward the city of Gomel. Siebert and Mischa were now curious how Gomel would withstand the enemy, for it was claimed that the Red Army would resist this enemy who had penetrated too far! In view of these forces, equipped first-class from foot to head, it was completely clear to them that at Gomel too a Russian defeat was to be reckoned with, although it was claimed that a strong defensive line had been erected.

S. 81 Having spent another night under the open sky — though after a hearty breakfast with a compassionate peasant woman — they read off, on the kilometer stones, the hundredth kilometer of their march. They saw distinctly the towers of Gomel. To direct their steps there would mean walking toward annihilation. The city had to be skirted. In the early morning hours, when it was barely growing light, a fearful noise of engines startled Siebert. Many ground-attack aircraft, accompanied by fighters, flew toward Gomel. After a few minutes the earth trembled under the heavy explosions of the bombs. Clouds of smoke rise high. All Gomel is wrapped in smoke and dust. When the veil of smoke finally falls, it seems to be day, for a city seized by flames lights the region in a wide circle. What the bombs and flames spared is utterly destroyed by a short drumfire barrage that opened the attack on the city. For several days the city defended [?] itself desperately, but then it too is forced to the ground by the crushing superior power.

The march proved harder for the two than they had thought, and on the third day, as they meant to skirt [sic] Gomel, they noticed that their strength was fading. If they wanted to go farther, they absolutely had to have more food. In the villages, however, they could only rarely get anything. Not that people did not want to give them anything — no; but the fear of harboring soldiers was the reason that doors were only seldom opened to them. Often they walked the whole length of a village to still their hunger, but no one was willing to help them. Siebert made Mischa the proposal to walk along the railway line. S. 82 They could make faster progress there and also find food more easily. No sooner said than done. The very next morning they stood on the Gomel—Bachmatsch line. No train ran on the rails; no railway watchmen inhabited the little houses that stood at regular intervals. Every evening now, shelter was certain — one only had always to be the first [?] in the search for warm quarters. By each little house there was also a small garden in which there were potatoes and vegetables. Once a day now there was regularly a warm meal, and if one had luck, one also found better provisions in the cellars, or even an abandoned hen in the desolate yard of the fled railwayman.

For a longer while everything went quite smoothly, until at a spot before the station "Dotsch" a German patrol gathered up everyone who came along the tracks. How many were marching in those days like Siebert and Gorbunov? If the fairy tale of the prison had always helped before, this time they had been caught out. Siebert and Mischa had to join the column, and toward evening they landed in a prisoner-of-war camp. The people lay here under the open sky and without rations. In the night the friends sought a hole in the wire fence and escaped, to continue their way along the rails, always close behind the German battle line. They passed Mena, Klingy [?], until at last they came to Bachmatsch, a great railway junction. Siebert and Mischa avoided people for another reason as well. The majority of the peasants and workers were not content with the existing regime in Russia and gave free rein to their indignation, now S. 83 that the Bolsheviks had been driven out. One could now speak about everything that had oppressed the people for decades. They had hope of a free life. They believed in a future prosperity. Now they no longer needed to drudge in the Kolchose for an all-devouring state. In many villages from which the Bolsheviks had been driven, people went out to meet the German troops with bread and salt, the sign of hospitality. The Russian population believed that the Germans would bring them the longed-for freedom. At first it appeared as though their hopes and wishes would be fulfilled. The White Russians and Ukrainians were in 1941 truly friendly-minded toward the Germans. Partisans were a rarity. They existed only where scattered troops of the Red Army were active as such. This attitude of the population was foreign to Siebert and Mischa; indeed, they were even indignant at it, for it was incomprehensible to them that one could be glad to see an enemy.

Wearily they were walking through a village when they are suddenly hailed by an aged man. Siebert stops and converses with him. The old man knew how to tell of former times. His eyes glowed when he spoke of freedom and prosperity. During the Soviet regime everything had been taken from him: his horses and cows, pigs and sheep; his fields and meadows had become communal property. He owned nothing more. Even his children had been taken from him. They were in prisons, in distant enterprises, and one son had had to go to the war as a soldier. Now he believed that the Germans would deal justly with him and the many others. S. 84 He railed at the Soviet government, at Stalin, who were to blame for the misery. The old man, at his advanced age, wanted to begin once more from the beginning. A horse and wagon he possessed [?]. The Kolchose had now been dissolved [?], and he would then plow his own soil, would sow grain, and in the autumn gather in his own harvest. He fancied himself already happy to be able to work for himself. Listening to these words, Siebert and his friend felt positively sick. As though they were afraid of the old man, they took their leave and went on with hurried steps. Toward midday they reached the station of Bachmatsch. Already from a distance one heard heavy detonations. Was the place being fought over? But the detonations came at regular intervals. No exchange of fire was in progress. Curiosity drove the two into the town. Directly by the railway track stood an enormous grain elevator which the Russians had set afire before their withdrawal. It was filled to the top with grain. But in the grain, in layers, lay mines, shells, and other munitions. The heat brought them to explosion from time to time, whereby the grain was hurled far into the surroundings. The population then ran head over heels to the side. Despite the great danger, people had hurried here from far and wide to fetch the grain for themselves. They did not want to starve. On the other hand, they at last had opportunity to avenge themselves on the hated state and to retrieve the goods that had been robbed from them. With handcarts, barrows, horse-drawn wagons, and sacks they had appeared. Greedily they scooped buckets and sacks full. One could even get it roasted [?]. Suddenly another layer of mines exploded. Great clouds of smoke S. 85 hid everything for the moment. Wild screams pierced the air. Devastating was the picture when the swaths of smoke had cleared. The upper parts of the walls had collapsed. Under the masses of stone people were moaning. Others lay in the grain with limbs torn off. Weeping, a five-year-old child sat beside its dead mother, who in her severed hand still held the handle of her bucket. Siebert saw that this scene had already repeated itself several times, and believed the people would now at last leave this place of horror. But he was far mistaken. Scarcely had the pillars of smoke blown away when they threw themselves again upon the golden-yellow grain as though nothing had happened. They knew only one thing: here there is bread for the hungering family, and such an opportunity does not come every day. Siebert tried to think himself into the situation of these people. But in the same instant he was flung to the ground by the powerful blast of a further detonation. Now, only away from here! In a wide arc they skirted the station, for here too everything was in danger. Burning munitions trains hurled, as with a mighty hand, death and ruin upon the people. To one of these trains a wagon with empty barrels had been coupled. At a trot a peasant drives up here and loads his wagon. Siebert was already counting the twentieth barrel, and the peasant kept loading on more. What can he want with the barrels? Siebert went to him and asked what he needed the many barrels for. Astonished, the peasant looked at his questioner:

"Man, don't you grasp that we will now be farming on our own? Each for himself and not in the Kolchose. For that one needs all sorts of things."

S. 86 Shaking their heads, the two went on. It seemed to them as though all Bachmatsch had gone mad, for even the school building was being torn down. Several vehicles stood in the yard, and some men were busily engaged in dismantling the roof tiles. Children carried them to the wagons. Beams, doors, windows, and window frames were lifted out and carted away. The schoolhouse was the only larger building that had not been set afire by the withdrawing Russian troops. Since everything that in any way recalled communal life had to disappear, the men did not consider that they themselves would later need the classrooms. An insurmountable greed had befallen them. Human traits stirred here again which the Bolsheviks claimed to have rooted out long since, root and branch. They always preached that people under Communism would not strive to possess more than they absolutely needed to live. Under Communism each is to work as much as he can and take as much as he needs. The Bolshevists [sic] asserted that the Soviet people were ripe for the transition to Communism. But here the opposite showed itself in all clarity. Man remains man despite all oppression. As soon as the lever of pressure disappears, all the traits return that before were scarcely to be noticed. The striving after something of one's own, after free action and creation, after one's own initiative, breaks its path — and does so immediately upon the removal of the oppression. The people rejoiced at last no longer to have to work under the guardianship of the brigadiers, at last to see the fruits of their labor and to dispose of them themselves.

S. 87 This joy the Bolshevists [sic] had taken from them long enough. In the Kolchose, already on the second day after the withdrawal of the Red Army, people were busy dividing up the implements and the livestock. The communal stables, insofar as they had been preserved, were torn down and distributed. A wild disorder still reigned, although the newly elected mayors — in part installed by the Germans — strove convulsively to create order.

A lively activity developed in the churches. Only rarely had the houses of God remained intact. Here and there the ruins still stood, but the interior furnishings had long since vanished. The believers, of whom there were suddenly so many, set about putting the churches in repair. In this respect too it showed itself plainly that by means of force one can only suppress a world-view, but never destroy it. The clergy were there again as well, however many of them had been carried off and murdered. Church life blossomed again as though there had been no interruption of more than a decade. The strength of the Christian faith came openly to light.

Siebert and Gorbunov had reached the edge of the town of Bachmatsch and had to discover, to their horror, that the Germans were collecting prisoners. Before they knew it, they were seized and brought to a camp. Thousands of people lay here, driven together into the narrowest space. The Germans were not in a position to procure rations for this mass. Hunger, sickness, and wounds plagued the prisoners of war. Prisoners resident in the vicinity were released, while the greater part, however, came from Central Russia and had to remain. The S. 88 two friends saw the boundless misery that could seize them too. Were they to perish here? No — flee, only away from here! That, to be sure, was not so simply done as said. Siebert went to a German soldier and asked his permission to go for water. The German sounds inspired some trust, and Siebert and Mischa went to the nearby well — and then vanished in a flash behind a house. From here, before nightfall, they left Bachmatsch by the quickest way, in the direction of Romny.

Childbed in the Roadside Ditch.

Now they travelled no longer in an easterly direction, but toward the south. Autumn, with its cool, in part already cold nights, had made its entry. Siebert and Mischa looked more and more often at their scanty clothing, which had now become rags altogether. How was it to be in the autumn? The poor clothing was probably the main reason they turned toward the south. If the Germans crossed the Dnieper there in time, they could get as far as the Molotschansk district, where an uncle of Siebert's lived. In that case both would be helped, for the long way, and their weak strength besides, would make reaching the place before winter impossible [?]. One comfort for them was that they were not alone in counting the sleepers of the railway line. Countless refugees — women and children, old men and S. 89 soldiers, prisoners and expellees — besieged the roads. Scenes of horror, of utter despair, were no rarities.

Heavy storm clouds hung in the sky as Siebert and his friend meant to go on. Before the rain they thought to reach one of the line-keepers' cottages. But here too the war had destroyed this only dwelling place. All of them were burned down. The bed had to be made ready on the meadow, in the roadside ditch. They were already falling asleep when both became aware of the moaning of a weary woman stumbling over the sleepers. Slowly, her upper body bent far forward, she came nearer. When she caught sight of the two men, one saw joy flash up in her eyes for a short time. She was no longer alone; she could speak with someone! She hoped that these men would, in case of need, also help her. Breathing heavily, she sat down in the grass and poured out her sorrow to the strangers. When the war began she was living in Lemberg. Her husband had been taken [?] into the Red Army. In her fear of the German troops she left everything standing and fled toward the east. In Charkow lived her parents. Now, this night or tomorrow morning, she was to give birth to a child. What was to happen now? Who was to help the poor woman? Far and wide no human habitation. The woman too had to pass the night under the open sky. Siebert and Mischa had both fallen fast asleep — weariness and hunger did their part. When they awoke in the morning, the woman lay with her newborn child in the ditch. Even in this terrible time miracles happened: mother and child were fine and healthy. Siebert promised the woman to persuade a peasant in the next S. 90 village to fetch her, which indeed he did by midday. A good-natured Ukrainian hitched his nag to the wagon and brought the new mother into the village.

Shortly before Romodan, a town some 20–100 kilometers [?] before Krementschug, Siebert suddenly fell ill. His bodily strength had run out. In the middle of the open field they halted. Only by the next midday was he far enough along that they could walk laboriously to the next village. But farther it would not go. This time, in their misfortune, they truly had luck, for they were allowed to stay with a peasant woman until Siebert's recovery. The warm food and the warm room did the sick man good.

Krementschug—White Russia—Krementschug.

After three days he was restored, and now they passed Romodan and after a few days reached their former garrison town of Krementschug. The streets, insofar as the fighting had not torn them apart, were familiar. They knew their way about here exactly, for often enough they had tramped these streets — and nevertheless they crept from street corner to street corner like criminals who wished to avoid [?] being stopped [?]. Suddenly they stood on the bank of the Dnieper. On the other bank lies the barracks. In its storeroom are their civilian things. Might they have been preserved there? Then they are saved, for their suitcases contain everything one needs for the immediate future. Only get across as quickly as possible. But S. 91 how? The former bridge, with its 800-meter length, has been blown up, and only single piers jut out of the waves as though crying for help. There is, to be sure, a makeshift bridge, but it is most strictly guarded. No civilian may set foot on it unless he has a pass. But no local commandant's office would issue them one. So — go begging again. Siebert told the sentry the fairy tale of their alleged stay in the forced-labor camp and of the parents who were supposed to live on the far side of the Dnieper. The soldier lets himself be persuaded, and the two walk across the bridge. Arrived on the other bank, they gaze for a long time at the barracks, into which they must get at all costs. Before they know it, they are standing before the main gate. The barracks is occupied by a German anti-aircraft unit. It is rather risky to go into the inner courtyard, and so they decide first to have a look around. Civilians report that the whole barracks and the storerooms were plundered after the departure of the Red Army. The suitcases have not been appropriated by any civilians [?]. The hope of good clothing is gone. They must go on walking in their rags, on into cold and rain, until they fall ill. No — only not fall ill! That is certain ruin. A way out must be found.

In a conversation with local residents Siebert learns that in the region of Krivoj Rog there are German colonies. The place named to him is Terny. It is not an exact address. Mischa is of the opinion that they must stay on a Sowchose (state farm), where they could work and at the same time have a place to stay for the winter. But Siebert is firmly resolved to seek out a German colony, for there he can be helped; S. 92 there he will have friends who think and feel as he feels. He will be among Germans who bear the same fate as he. Nothing can turn him from his purpose. The next day — it is the end of September — they set out in the direction of Krivoj Rog.

The situation of the two friends grows ever more hopeless. The wind whistles cold about their ears. The damp weather penetrates [sic] to the bone through the rags in which they are wrapped. In this region conditions are so far ordered that no person may spend the night in a village without police registration. Rarely is shelter offered them. Mischa continues to insist energetically on seeking work on a Sowchose. He does not believe they will ever come upon a German settlement — and even if they do, it would long since have become winter.

On the 2nd of October they stand on the market square of Pjatichatka, completely wrapped in fog. Icy, damp cold compels haste. Where to? Nearby is a Sowchose. Should they really direct their steps there? To be always among people of a foreign tongue is something Siebert has no wish for at all. Mischa, who commanded only his Russian mother tongue, would have preferred it. He has already asked the way and begs Siebert for the hundredth time finally to give up this long wandering and searching — when the latter catches sight of an old, good-natured-looking man in a garden and asks him for information. He must know, for a life of sixty years speaks with certainty [?]. And truly, he confirms that a German colony lies about ten to twelve kilometers from here. Alexandrowka is known far and wide, as the talka- S. 93 tive Ukrainian said. In three hours they would be there, he reckons. Siebert, for excitement, could scarcely tell [?] his friend that in a few hours they could be at their goal. What awaits them there is all one, for the situation could hardly become worse or more desperate. Mischa could not conceal his vexation that his friend now had yet another compelling reason to go on. He had grown weary of the long walking. How long was it to last? Careworn, despondent, and clothed in rags that were completely lice-ridden, they had been walking aimlessly, day after day, for two long months already. Twelve hundred kilometers they had covered in this time. How often had they been weary, their feet walked raw? To go on farther now? No — let Siebert go alone; fond as he was of him, he can go no farther. He is staying here. What would he do in the colony? People would always look at him askance, would not deign to give him a friendly word or glance. No, he stays. Siebert begs him to be reasonable and come along. The people in the colony will be good; they will give them work, and in the end they will have everything they need [?]. He must not condemn the Germans before he has even come to know them. They can always leave again, after all. Just today, until evening, farther along the road — then no more. One more day, and Siebert will accept his proposal. He begged his friend not to be afraid; the German colonists had themselves experienced too much suffering to be able to inflict suffering on others. And after all, they wanted nothing immodest: only work, a place to stay after work, and to earn the barest necessities of life. That much Siebert would manage to arrange. Mischa could S. 94 rely on him in the future as well. As the latter still doubted, Siebert, with quick resolve, strode alone into the fog. His friend still hesitated, thinking no doubt of the services Siebert had rendered during the whole journey. He had always gone ahead. In the most difficult circumstances he had exerted himself again and again, and Mischa had not been stopped and brought to a camp — no, he still walked free upon the road. Would he find his way alone now? Would it not be better to go with Siebert? One more day, then. With hurried steps he too went into the foggy road in which Siebert had already disappeared. When the latter saw his Russian friend, he gave him only a pitying smile. Siebert knew too well what feelings moved Mischa, for he wanted to be with his own people. He feared the loneliness, which would only enlarge the distress. Now they went straight ahead over stubble fields, hills, and valleys. Far and wide no village in sight, only in the distance a geometric point toward which they steered. Near the tower, villages must lie. Siebert climbs the seven-meter tower — and truly, behind a hill to the right lies a village. It can only be a Ukrainian village. To the left, behind the little wood, long roofs rise up, such as do not exist in a Ukrainian village. Joyfully Siebert calls to Mischa: "A German settlement! We are there!" Quickly he was down, and already they went into the little wood, into which the autumn sun once more brought warmth. The leaves rustled underfoot; they meant to say quite plainly: autumn has come, life in the forest is going out [sic]. The birds had long since departed — a deathly stillness reigned all around. Suddenly an over- S. 95 whelming weariness fell upon the two, a weariness that overpowers everyone who, after long hardships, is at last at his goal. Their strength is used up — indeed, has long been so. Now it is no longer necessary to force the body to reach goals [?], and one feels that the last, too, has been given [?]. It goes slack, and one feels how needful rest is. Siebert and Gorbunov sat down in the grass. Not a word was exchanged: each pursued his own thoughts. A gulf seemed to have opened between the two that could not be bridged again. Gorbunov seemed unable to forget that he had had to subordinate his will to the will of his friend. He feared the further course of developments. Mischa wanted no deviation, not even the slightest, from the acquired, the deeply imprinted world-view — and yet he knew that much in it was false and rotten. The ambition of this man did not permit him to admit having served a mendacious idea for years. He simply did not want to believe he had walked so long on false paths. And yet he bowed to Siebert's will. After an hour's rest they rose and walked toward the entrance of the village, where they could already read the place-name "Neuland" (formerly Alexandrowka) plainly on a large black board, in German and Russian.

[End of Chapter 2 and of Batch 2 (pp. 40–95). Batch 3 begins with Chapter 3, "Among German People" (p. 96), where Siebert and Gorbunov arrive in the colony of Neuland.]

Chapter 3.

Among German People.

S. 96 Neuland lay on a flat plain, sheltered on its eastern side by a trim little wood, standing alone as the only German colony in the district of Pyatikhatka. Along the straight street stood some 35–40 houses on either side, all of which had no doubt once looked handsome, but which the hard years had sadly left rather neglected, so that they bore striking witness to the poverty of the place. And yet a calming feeling came over Siebert as he reached the first house. But the calm was at once crowded out by other thoughts. Were these really German people who lived here? How would they receive him? Nor could he grasp that he was appearing here as a beggar, as an expellee looking like a vagabond. And still the longing for rest drove him on down the street.

For the last time the autumn midday sun burned hot. Not a soul far and wide. The inhabitants [sic] were partly out in the fields, partly going about their work in the houses. While Siebert and Mischa were still deliberating which house to make for, they stood in the village street. The first was too large, for they had learned by experience that people in better circumstances have less understanding for the distress of their fellow citizens. So, walk on. The second had all its shutters closed and for that reason seemed less trust-

S. 97 worthy. A little house set somewhat back from the street, hidden behind tall trees, gave the impression that good people lived there. Not yet quite master of their agitation and their doubt, the two friends considered once more how they should account for their appearance. In fact they wanted to look for work for the winter. They needed to learn where the mayor was to be found. That they could surely do in this house. Hesitantly they directed their steps toward it. Even the windows [sic], warm as they looked, and the doors were so familiar. They recalled the distant home. At their knock the door was gladly opened to them. In the house itself there were only women, who pressed anxiously behind a large table as Siebert and Mischa entered the room. Siebert noticed their fear. They were dead certain they had beggars before them and were just conferring on how they might send the men off. But they spoke German — indeed the very dialect his mother had taught him. Quickly he joined the conversation with a question about the mayor. How astonished the women were when the man in rags addressed them in their own Plattdeutsch! At once the ice was broken. Now the talk flowed merrily along. What was there not to tell! Only late in the afternoon did the two make their way to the mayor's house. Mayor Driediger was a man in his mid-thirties. The hardness of the times had left its strong mark on his features. He directed the two to the two nearest houses, went there with them himself and discussed the matter with the farmers. Here Siebert and Mischa were now allowed to stay. Now they had lodging for the winter. Finding work — that, after all, was

S. 98 the main thing. The Derksen family, with whom Siebert was quartered, lived in a small cottage with their children. The war had deepened this family's want still further. For all their efforts the parents were unable to provide even the barest necessities of life. Siebert was received very kindly, and whatever Frau Derksen could offer him was his. How glad he was to be among people at last who took him in. Oh, he knew how to value every little thing; he knew only too well what it means to have a bed each night, even if it consisted only of straw on the clay floor, a pillow and a blanket. It was already worth much to receive a meal at every mealtime, however sparse it might be. More these good people could not do. They did their utmost. Had Siebert not forgotten the heavenly Father, the Ruler of all things, he would have thanked Him; he would have owed Him boundless thanks. But sadly, in this period he no longer knew the Savior. And so he accepted his fortunes, full of gratitude, as a matter of course [?]. How well he felt among these people, who after only a few hours had already become his good friends. He rejoiced with them over their experiences and terrors in the time of the dreadful war [?]. They told him of their experiences and terrors [?]. When it became known in the village that Siebert was a teacher by profession, there was talk of appointing him at the local school. In general [sic] instruction would have begun at once, but first a host of difficulties had to be cleared away. The schoolhouse was not fitted out for the winter. No teaching materials or school supplies were available. Indeed, Siebert himself

S. 99 was in no condition to enter a classroom. In his rags he could not even show himself on the street.

Opportunities to earn something did exist, but the money would never have sufficed to buy clothing. He was therefore compelled to stay in the house. On Sunday the village youth strolled laughing through the street. Siebert too was drawn there, for he was after all only twenty years old. With tears in his eyes he sat at the window and watched the merry goings-on. Never in his life had he felt so cast out, never so alone, as in those days. Was he to stand at the margin of life much longer and look on from a distance? Siebert quarreled with fate. Again and again he asked himself what he had done to deserve so hard a punishment. That it was to become his salvation he did not yet know — indeed, he did not even suspect it. Siebert found no inner footing within himself. He was firmly convinced that human beings were to blame for his misery. He did not know — or rather, he did not believe — that God determines the fate, the life's path, of every human being. Ever more insistently he asked himself what crime he could have committed. However often he looked back over his life, he found no deed, no act, for which he would have deserved so harsh a punishment. The loneliness and forsakenness seemed almost to crush him. His eyes fell again on his torn clothing, wandered over his feet wrapped in rags [sic], and stared into emptiness out of sheer desolation. The laughing and singing of the young people he had long since ceased to hear — his thoughts were far away with his dear mother, with his brothers and sisters. With them he had lived in constant, great anxiety, it is true — but for all that, at home. With

S. 100 them had once been his home. When he roused himself again, everything had long since grown still; the singing had died away. The sun was sinking deep toward the west. In Neuland there seemed to be profound peace, although the all-destroying war was not so very far away. The people believed they had escaped every danger. They lived in the hope of being free again at last, of having escaped forever the looming threat of deportation. They worked for themselves and their children. Indeed, many were already making plans for the future. They saw themselves once more in good houses, well clothed, leading a sensible life.

Siebert noticed the hopes of his fellow men well enough, but he could not understand them. Was it now really to be different? How could it be possible that the Ukraine was administered and held occupied by Germans? Had the Soviet system now fallen? How could the people consent to a new system? Or had they stood close to the Soviet world-view? Perhaps they had always been opponents of the destructive regime but, under the circumstances and under the dictatorial surveillance of the N.K.V.D., had kept silent or played the part of its friends. This dictatorship had now vanished at a stroke. A completely new world opened up before the people, and they threw themselves into the arms of the new era, in the hope of leading a better life in it, of finding in it freedom — not merely in solemn proclamations, but a true freedom, of which the young generation knew only from books and the tales of the old. That this world of the "New Order" would likewise bring nothing but deceptions, no one sus-

S. 101 pected, and had anyone suspected it, he would have rid himself of the thought as fast as he could, for no one wanted it to be true.

Siebert spent the Sunday in broodings and reckonings. At night he tossed on his wretched bed. The lice he had picked up in some poor hut somewhere in Byelorussia still tormented him. The underclothes he wore had hung on his body since July — long months now. He had not even bathed since that time. His body smelled and itched everywhere. His one consolation was that he was not alone in such a plight. No — his fate was shared by thousands upon thousands: men and women, indeed even children and the aged, scarcely able to stay on their feet, had for months been drifting along the comfortless, endless roads of Russia. To them a still heavier lot was appointed, for they would perhaps never find such good people as he had. Love and kindness toward other human beings, who had nothing to offer but their need of help, was a rare article, and one could speak of great good fortune when one found it and it was truly granted. Mostly one was turned away in silence, for want and misery reigned everywhere. When one met the well-fed, they often lacked understanding for another's need. The Russian proverb "The sated man is no friend to the hungry" showed itself in all its harshness.

On Monday Siebert and Mischa set about earning their bread. Like all the other villagers who belonged to the kolkhoz (collective farm), they appeared at the brigade yard. Quietly and inconspicuously they placed themselves

S. 102 in a corner and waited to be assigned to work. Nor did they attract notice here, for it was no rarity for the homeless and hungry to appear at the kolkhoz to earn a piece of bread. The farmers looked them over with brief glances, whispered something to one another and went their ways. Since both looked very worn, the brigadier assigned them to comparatively light work. Several women worked with them at a cleaning machine; even the mayor's wife was among them.

In the first months after the retreat of the Soviets the collective farms and state farms remained in their former shape, with the difference that one's work was now paid, and one had the hope that the kolkhozes would not endure much longer. Everyone looked forward to the day when he would be master of his own soil. This last strengthened the farmers especially, for their craving for independence and for the chance to use their own initiative was too great. For years they had been shouted at, threatened and harried. Now they were told they were free and could act at their own discretion. With redoubled energy the people set to work. Since Siebert could not understand these people's feelings, he doubted them [?] and felt his own lot doubly heavy. The day seemed as if it would never end, and when evening came at last, he was glad to be alone once more.

A Teacher Once More.

S. 103 After a few days the mayor suddenly appeared again and asked Siebert to take over the school. The necessary clothing was to be provided by the German district commissar in Pyatikhatka. The next day Mayor Driediger drove with Siebert to the district commissar — a Nazi in field-grey — (the "golden pheasants," as the representatives of the civil administration were called in the vernacular, came only later) — who received Driediger and Siebert with a certain condescension, but still in a friendly manner. Arrogant as the German soldier already was in those days, these gentlemen far outdid the soldiers. They were the sole masters in the territory placed under them and had the power to dispose over life and death. It required only their signature to condemn someone to death or to pardon someone. Everything depended on their mood. They looked upon everything with the eyes of the conquerors of Europe; they believed they already had victory in their pocket, saw the "New Order of Europe" already triumphant, and themselves as owners of vast estates somewhere in the sunny Caucasus or in the Crimea. A typical representative of this sort of man was the district commissar. He quickly fitted Siebert out with a set of clothing, and with a residence permit for the village of Neuland, Mayor Driediger and Siebert were dismissed. Though the clothes were simple, Siebert was glad to be able at last to lay aside his lice-ridden and filthy rags.

S. 104 Now he could even bathe. How well he felt can be judged only by one who has himself been plagued by lice for months, who has himself once reached the point where his own smell rose to his nose.

The very next day Siebert went to the forgotten school building that was now to become his new field of work. It was a sad sight, for on the Russians' withdrawal some of the teachers had fled as well, and all syllabi and lesson plans, along with the teaching materials and school supplies, had been carried off. If new work was to be begun here, much labor was needed. Books and exercise books were now rare, and it was rarer still to know where they might be had. No one even knew any longer the number of school-age children in the village. Still a complete stranger in the place, Siebert set to work. How would the parents stand toward him? But here he was at once relieved of all worry, for when he went from house to house to register the children, he found good, friendly people everywhere. They all wanted their children brought up in the spirit of their forefathers. They were to become decent, reverent human beings. Siebert wanted to help them in the accomplishment of this task. On his round through the village he met the former teacher, Frau Penner. She was in her mid-forties, though at first glance one would immediately have judged her mid-fifties. Her face bore the mark of the weight of the times. In 1937 the N.K.V.D. henchmen had taken her husband away in the dead of night. For what? The true answer to that question she never learned. He did not concern himself with politics; he spoke seldom, but worked from early till late in the kolkhoz horse stable. Nor had he engaged in

S. 105 sabotage. No, he did his duty conscientiously. He provided for his family as best he could. His sole guilt consisted in living in the "workers' paradise." The land groaned under the relentless terror. A vast wave of arrests flooded over it. People were needed who could be sent to the dreadful exile camps and whose labor could be bought and sold. The arrested men were not sentenced; they were simply banished. Their arrest was at the same time the pronouncement of their sentence. The wide forests of Siberia and the far North offered room enough for these poorest of the poor. Here they built cities — "socialist cities," they were called in Russia. Every map showed them with a long red line under the name. They ought to have been underlined in blood, for their foundations rested on the bones of the many human beings who collapsed at slave labor from hunger, exhaustion and cold. In Soviet public life they were spoken of with pride — were they not cities erected in the years of Stalin's Five-Year Plans? One builder of these Stalinist cities, together with many other men from Neuland, was the husband of this former teacher. Frau Penner had laid down her post at the beginning of the twenties. After her husband's arrest she had struggled through life as best she could with her five daughters. The heavy work had made her old and worn, and yet she gladly took up her work as a teacher again, for the task was to show the children the right way into the future. Laboriously Siebert and Frau Penner had prepared everything for the opening of the school.

S. 106 They could begin their work.

It was the 12th of October 1941 when the classrooms filled with children once more for the first time. It was a true joy to see the children. But just as great was the pity when one saw that the want of the past years had settled firmly in the little ones' faces. How long would it take before good cheer lit up their eyes? It seemed to them almost unbelievable to be taught in their mother tongue. Distrustful and yet with a joyful feeling they sat there with wide eyes and awaited the things that were to come. It was a real pleasure to be able to work with this eager-to-learn little folk. The results were satisfying.

The parents had looked on in silence, and only when they saw that their children were in good hands did they show lively interest in the school. Siebert cultivated the connection between the parents and the school. In this way he was able to influence positively the upbringing of the children entrusted to him.

A Joyous Christmas.

Slowly Christmas drew near. War Christmas, 1941. If one thought one's way deeper into the meaning of Christmas, could one rightly say "Peace on earth"? Millions of human beings had been deported. Just as many suffered bitter want and privation. Every day thousands upon thousands died the so-called hero's death on the battlefields

S. 107 of Europe, Asia and Africa. And yet there seemed to be peace — at least for those whose ears were not deafened by the thunder of guns and the roar of engines. They lived in a semblance of peace. They were allowed to rest from work on Sundays and holidays, indeed even to go to church, though not all had kept their faith in God. People had grown friendlier; they stood closer to one another again. The fear of being betrayed by one's best friends had gradually [sic] faded. The village community drew ever more tightly together. In customs and usages much was brought out again that had long seemed forgotten. These circumstances allowed one to say, with a certain justification: "Peace on earth, good will toward men." For how long had one not been permitted to say that?

Siebert himself at that time saw in Christmas only a festival of joy, a festival at which people give one another gifts and are glad. But he knew that the parents saw in Christmas a holy festival, a festival on which [sic] Christ was born for the redemption of the world. He knew the deeper meaning of Christmas but, through his long communist upbringing, could no longer believe in it. He regretted it deeply, yet doubted the possibility of ever again being allowed to set foot on the path abandoned in childhood. So he kept to the festival of joy. To whom should he bring joy? Especially close to him now [?] — only the schoolchildren had, in the short time, grown deeply dear to his heart. All his love belonged to them. He delighted in their good spirits, in their joy. If they were happy and cheerful, he too was content. He resolved, together with his colleague Frau Penner, to bring the chil-

S. 108 dren joy and to take his own delight in that sincere childish joy. Not only would the children be glad at Christmas; the parents of these children would be glad as well, and their hearts would open to the beauty of this festival. To bring people joy — that was his aim. With this resolve he set about preparing the Christmas celebration. Frau Penner gladly stood at his side with her knowledge and experience. The children's joy mounted from day to day. When Siebert called the parents together to discuss the Christmas celebration with them, they agreed at once.

Closer and closer drew the Holy Evening. The preparations with the children were nearing their end. Despite the many difficulties, something could still be scraped together for the giving of gifts.

Deep snow covered the fields. The streets lay snowed under — only a narrow track for sleighs and pedestrians led through the village. Slowly the evening dusk settled on the roofs as the first impatient children came stamping through the soft snow toward the school [?]. Toward eight in the evening the school was filled to the last seat. After many years the whole village community had gathered to celebrate the holy feast of Christmas. All had come; even old women and men who otherwise no longer left the house ventured the way, leaning on their sticks: they wanted to be edified together with children and grandchildren on the Holy Evening. And God blessed the people and their good beginning. Solemnly the schoolchildren took their places beside the Christmas tree. Together the guests, with open hearts, sang the wondrously moving song: Silent

S. 109 night, holy night... For a long, long time there had been no such solemn hour in the village. How fervently the words rang! One remembered times long past. The eyes of the little ones shone with joy, while tears of joy stood in the parents' eyes. How much happiness united the people in this hour! Overjoyed, they heard the glad tidings: "Unto you is born this day a Savior." These people truly knew how great and almighty God's grace is. They knew what happiness had been granted them through Christ's birth. They received Him gladly: their hearts offered room enough for Him. They were full of thanks and praised aloud: "Glory, glory be to God on high." Siebert, despite his personal forsakenness, rejoiced in the joy of his many guests. He had succeeded in making these people happy. More than that, he believed, he did not need. For him the true feast of Christmas had not yet come. The way to a Christmas in which he too could rejoice was to be long, thorny and steep.

With thankful hearts the children received the meager gifts, for they knew that even these laboriously gathered presents represented a true grace of God.

The Christmas tree is the loveliest tree we have on earth. It lit up the souls of all on the Holy Evening. The close of this beautiful evening was the song: O du fröhliche, o du selige, gnadenbringende Weihnachtszeit ("O how joyfully, O how blessedly, comes the glory of Christmastime"). Then the smallest girl of the first class bade farewell to the parents and guests with the words:

S. 110

You dear parents, cherished guests, We thank you all for coming here And wish you at this holy feast The very best of everything, But above all other things The blessing of almighty God.

The children left the room in cheerful chatter. The parents, deeply moved by the solemnity, went homeward turned in upon themselves.

Siebert had scarcely noticed how people thanked him for the beautiful evening, how they wished him a merry Christmas. Then he was suddenly alone, quite alone before the decorated tree. After this joy he felt doubly forsaken. For a long while he still stood there. Whither should he direct his steps? When the candles flickered out, he walked with slow steps along the snowy street toward his lodging. Arrived at home, he sat down at the table with the little tree he had prepared for himself and thought of his dear ones at home. They lived, after all, in a land where Christmas was forbidden and frowned upon. How gladly he would have celebrated this evening with his dear mother and his brothers and sisters at the shining tree. Then he would not have been so alone. But God had ordained otherwise. He was leading him along hard but blessed ways.

Hardened as Siebert's heart was at this time — slowly the ice over his spirit began to melt; he began to give ear to the words of God.

S. 111 When Siebert one day told him of his experiences during the war, Samatzky surprised him with the question: "And do you believe you accomplished all that by yourself? Are you not also of the opinion that God's hand guided you? Would you have reached the safe shore without His protection?" The self-assured Siebert could not and would not give the right answer to this question. His friend's words rang on in his ears with an echo that would not die away. They forced him to reflect on this problem. If he wished to be honest, he had to admit to himself that he was a weakling, dependent solely on the help and grace of God. Unfortunately he was too ambitious to concede this fact. For a long time afterward he still denied it. It took several more years before he made an open confession of his faith in the omnipotence of God. Even after this confession he still remembered his friend's question, for now and then a bitter fate would overtake him.

Siebert fought persistently a hard fight for the forgiveness of his sins, an abrupt fight against the world-view he had earlier acquired. In this he often remembered the words of his dear mother: "My boy, mark this proverb: to conquer oneself is the hardest fight; to conquer oneself is the finest victory." This victory he was determined to win at all costs. One evening, after seven years, he knelt down again in prayer. He prayed the prayers his mother had taught him, without believing they would be heard. It was incomprehensible to him that even a sinner's prayers can be heard. Gladly would others have told him that God accepts all sin-

S. 112 ners, that with Him all men find comfort and rest. But he did not dare to ask his friends for help. He went this arduous way alone.

Victims of Their Own Mistakes.

After Christmas 1941 two men from Germany appeared in Neuland. Ott and Martinson both wore the brown uniform of the NSDAP (National Socialist German Workers' Party) and belonged to Sonderkommando Dr. Stump (special detachment). Sonderkommando Stump had the task of registering and looking after all the Germans of Russia. It consisted in part of convinced National Socialists, of men who had fled Russia after 1917 [?]. Ott and Martinson looked after the villages of Neu-Chortitza, Gnadental, Hochfeld, Steinfeld and Neuland-(Alexandrowka). Since Neuland lay rather far from the other colonies, they decided to resettle the Germans of Neuland to Grünfeld and Steinfeld. To make room for the Germans in the two colonies, the Ukrainians living there were to be brought to Neuland.

In May 1942, when the fields had been sown, the large-scale removal began. Private property was taken along, while the property of the kolkhoz stayed where it was. If the wishes of the Germans were still given some consideration, the wishes of the Ukrainians were heeded not at all. They drew the shorter straw altogether, because the dwellings

S. 113 in Neuland were far worse than those in Grünfeld and Steinfeld. The whole removal was carried out in two days. After a short time the excitement had subsided and life resumed its usual quiet course.

In Steinfeld and Grünfeld people now set about, with all due care, dividing up the collective farms. The land was allotted to the individual families. Each family received a horse. The implements did not suffice to provide for every farmstead, and for this reason they were divided among groups assembled by neighborhood [?]. The members of these groups helped one another out in their work. The cultivation of the land had become the task and care of each individual. It was therefore accorded far greater importance than before. What the farmer produced was his property, and after paying his taxes he could manage it as he pleased. The dream of the collective farmers had thus been fulfilled.

It was otherwise with the kolkhozes in the Ukrainian villages. They remained in existence, although these too had been promised immediate dissolution and the introduction of individual cultivation of the land. This promise, however, was not kept, however earnestly the Ukrainians pleaded. On the contrary — the position of the Ukrainians was worsened further in that the kolkhozes were placed under the appointed German Sonderführer (special officers), who were in turn subordinate to the district agricultural officers. These administered the kolkhozes at their own discretion. Only a small part of their produce was left to the population for its livelihood. Moreover, from the

S. 114 first day of the occupation the Ukrainian population was treated as second-class. In many places this rough treatment degenerated into abuse. For the slightest offenses floggings were imposed. It sufficed, for example, to have slaughtered a pig without the Sonderführer's permission to receive fifty lashes. Where the German administration still showed leniency or overlooked something, Ukrainian officials and offices were often zealous enough to make up for this "oversight" by their own officiousness.

These conditions made the Ukrainian population take notice. Ever more often one heard the remark: "One yoke they have taken from us and pressed another upon us — we would rather have stayed with the old one."

When the Germans marched into Russia in 1941, joy prevailed widely among the population. They believed they had at last come into possession of freedom. But when everything developed to the disadvantage of the Ukrainians, when in the parks and shops the signs appeared ever more frequently — "Germans only," "Aryans only," "Forbidden to Ukrainians" — they saw that their independence, their national existence, was threatened. Into this period falls the formation of numerous partisan detachments and sabotage groups — understandably. Even harsher countermeasures on the part of those responsible only brought about worse. An indescribable hatred of the Germans flamed up, which finally degenerated into a merciless struggle and claimed countless human victims.

The Germans proceeded further to the solution of the "Jewish problem" of their own invention. Mostly at once, sometimes shortly after the entry of the German troops, the Jews were driven into ghettos and annihilated

S. 115 according to a bestial plan in the concentration camps of the Ukraine, Poland and Germany. This fact aroused great dismay and disillusionment among the population. Not only the German troops took part in the annihilation of the Jews, but in many cases the Ukrainian police as well. [Note: Writing in 1950, the author describes the Holocaust in the occupied Ukraine — the ghettoization and murder of the Jewish population, in which German forces and local auxiliary police participated. His account accords with the historical record of these events.] The high point of the violation of the Ukrainian population was the deportation of its youth to labor in the German armaments works. Here the authorities proceeded with an inhuman ruthlessness. To every person designated for labor in Germany the labor office sent a summons. The assembly point announced was usually the market square. Whoever did not appear there was hunted down like fair game and brought there by force. Here one could witness the saddest scenes of parting. Mothers scream in tears for their children, accompanied by the bellowing of the soldiers and policemen. Then the people are loaded into freight cars, the doors bolted fast, and the trains roll away with their precious freight toward an unknown fate and unknown destinations. Many of these young people never returned home, for they met their death in the bombed cities of Germany. Many were regarded by the Soviets as traitors to their country and lead the life of outcasts in Russia to this day. Another part of these deportees recognized in time that after the collapse of Hitler's Germany the opportunity was offered them to lead a life in freedom. They stayed in France, Austria, Belgium, Holland and in the western zones of Germany. From there they set out toward a better future. As D.P.s (Displaced Persons) they emigrated to every part of the world. This last group was reported to the population by the Soviet

S. 116 press as dead or as slaves of the Western powers. The fate of these people is a chapter in itself.

These were doubtless the chief reasons for the rejection of the German occupation by the Ukrainian population. At the same time these conditions were fertile soil for Soviet propaganda in the Germans' rear. The Germans here became, quite literally, victims of their own mistakes — or rather, victims of their pernicious [?] world-view. In the occupied territories they acted according to Hitler's principle: "They need not love us; let them fear us." This they achieved — only with the addition that the people swore tenfold retribution.

As a result of the resettlement of Neuland's population, fate carried Siebert first to Grünfeld. Until collectivization the place had been rich and beautiful. Two large steam mills, an agricultural machinery factory and a great number of prosperous farmhouses had once been among its enterprises [?]. Today nothing of these enterprises was to be seen. The mills and the factory, known far and wide, no longer existed. They had been torn down. Only the empty building sites betrayed that works had stood here which served the people. In their mania for destruction the Soviets had simply erased them from the face of the village. In Grünfeld not a single farm building was left. If one came here as a stranger, one involuntarily got the impression that the houses were only now being built. In reality only demolition had gone on here — of building up, no trace. But let no one think Grünfeld was an exception; so it looked in every region

S. 117 of Russia. In place of the individual farmsteads, which had been provided with all the necessary equipment, great collective stables and granaries had been erected, which in name belonged to the collective community but in fact were state property. They were mostly so badly built that after the dissolution of the kolkhoz they could no longer be used. All this injustice struck Siebert's eye only now. What human hands had created in hard labor had here been senselessly destroyed — and that only to subject the people to a regime of force.

The population of Grünfeld set about restoring their village. Building went on with great industry. People worked from early till late. By 1943 the school and church had been restored. In the school the children were taught by six teachers. Church life resumed its old course, and God's blessing was not withheld.

At the close of the 1941/42 school year Siebert went on holiday. But the times were too stormy for resting. He decided to take a post as interpreter at the railway operations office in Pyatikhatka. Pyatikhatka was a former [sic] small town of about 10,000 inhabitants. Since it had a large station and counted as a railway junction, considerable importance was attached to it. The German occupation troops had set up their numerous offices here. No wonder that the effects of Hitler's "New Order of Europe" were felt here most of all.

The daily arrests of alleged and actual partisans, the executions of hostages,

S. 118 were bound soon to enlighten everyone as to the true character of National Socialism.

The German eastern front still stood stable, partly on the defensive, partly attacking. The population still believed in a victory of the German troops and arranged its life accordingly. Under great difficulties individual private shops and enterprises came into being.

At the railway works Siebert could observe especially well the ill-treatment of the Russian workers. Floggings were constantly the order of the day. Slowly things began to seethe here too. Ever more often acts of sabotage were reported. Instead of relaxing the guard, it had to be reinforced.

Siebert was glad when at the end of July he held in his hands an order transferring him from Grünfeld to Steinfeld. He departed at once and set about putting the school in order. How he rejoiced to be able to devote himself once more to the education of the children [?]. He gave himself wholly and entirely to this great task.

The inhabitants of Steinfeld had succeeded, thanks to the capability and good connections of their mayor Neufeld, in procuring many facilities that were still denied the other communities. The building up of private farms proceeded here considerably faster than in Grünfeld and the surrounding places.

God Found Their Souls.

S. 119 The year 1943 began with the terrifying defeat of the Germans at Stalingrad. The news of the Russian advance brought a certain sobering to the great majority of the population. Even if one did not feel altogether at ease under German rule, one had long since ceased to want a return of the Soviets. People refused to accept this fact. The war with all its devastations would rage through the region once more and utterly destroy what goods had remained intact. Countless human sacrifices would have to be made. Nevertheless, work went on feverishly. Siebert himself did not believe in a failure of the gigantic German war machine.

Since 1941 he had worked without having a personal goal. He wanted only to bring up truly useful human beings, without thinking of himself. Only at the end of 1942 did he begin to think of his own future. During the winter months he had come to know a girl in Neuland who in the course of time had grown dear and precious to him. Ella was the only person in whom, in his loneliness, he placed his trust. In her quiet and simple way she understood how to share his cares with him. She comforted him in anxious and heavy hours. Gradually Ella became more and more the substance of his life. All his work, he believed, he must now do for her. His joy was her joy too, for she had ample understanding for his work at the school.

S. 120 he attended divine service, sang in the church choir, without himself truly believing. Quite unconsciously Ella influenced his development in a most positive direction. Through her he was led slowly but steadily nearer to God, until at last he had arrived at Him. At Easter 1943 the announcement appeared that all who had found the way to God would be baptized at Pentecost in Grünfeld. He felt a burning desire to receive holy baptism as well. Full of joy he told his sweetheart of it. Together they attended the preparatory religious instruction, to the utmost astonishment of his colleagues, who could not comprehend that a man like Siebert, who was supposed to educate the children in the National Socialist spirit, suddenly wished to be baptized. They could not suspect it, for in teachers' circles of that time one spoke of such things not at all, or only very little. His colleagues' gibes left Siebert cold. He had recognized too strongly that Christ truly is the Savior of the world. He wished to serve the Lord who had guided him so wonderfully thus far. Now, for the first time, he said with a sincere heart: "Take, Father, my hands and lead me."

Impatiently Siebert and Ella awaited the feast of Pentecost. The baptismal service was announced for the morning in the church at Grünfeld. Many people from the surrounding colonies streamed in for this high feast. When Siebert appeared with his two friends Niehen [?] and Sawazky, the church was filled to the last seat. Lovingly the baptismal candidates took their places in the first row of pews. Only now did Siebert become fully conscious of what a solemn step he was taking in his life this day. When at last the

S. 121 opening hymn, sung by the candidates, rang out, he knew that it was not he who had sought and found the way to God, but the reverse: God had sought and found him. The words of the hymn seemed made expressly for him:

At Thy call, O Lord, I come before Thee here And seek salvation in Thy blood, that flowed on Golgotha. I come now unto Thee, O Lord, draw Thou near to me.

Clothed in deep black, the candidates knelt down to receive the blessing of the Lord. They received it with thankful hearts.

After the service Siebert and Ella wished each other much happiness on this important event, and both looked into each other's happy and confident eyes, for they knew that from now on God would never forsake them if they followed Him obediently. They were glad to have a refuge that no storm can overthrow and to which they could always repair. There the help they needed would never be denied them. Joyfully he entered the following lines in his diary: "Once I was very far from the Savior, as far as a man can be. Today I am with Thee. Together with Ella I took the step that is surely our greatest shared experience. May this rebirth of our souls never be taken [?] from us. With Thee we are sheltered. Great God, we laud and praise Thee." From this time on Siebert had found his way back into life. For him there seemed to be no more difficulties.

In October Siebert and Ella decided to marry. Ella's parents did have some misgivings on account of the evil times, for the news of

S. 122 the ever-approaching fighting gave little hope, indeed almost none, of a quiet life in Steinfeld. How bad it would later become, they too did not suspect. But Siebert and Ella had directed their great plea to the Lord to join them together, however short the time of their union might be. And the Lord heard their prayer — Ella's parents gave them their blessing. How thankful the loving hearts were! Almost all of Grünfeld was invited to the wedding celebration. Even the schoolchildren — 120 in number — had come. They all rejoiced with their teacher, whom they had learned to love in the course of time. Now Siebert was no longer alone. He had a person who wished to share joy and sorrow with him. Indeed, not only Ella had become dear and precious to him, but her parents as well. In conversations with friends he used to say: "Her parents, through [?] Ella, gave me the substance of life." In the later years too, the thought of his family always raised Siebert up with a strength he had never suspected.

Siebert furnished his dwelling completely, in the hope of living for some time in happiness and peace. Already on the wedding day the cannon-thunder of the German guns had been part of the wedding music. Thoughts of a possible flight spread with furious speed. People began to fear for their goods and chattels, indeed for their bare lives. Was freedom to have been of such short duration only? Then the question arose: will God withdraw His grace from the people in this anxious hour? The way He had appointed them was unclear, dark and incomprehensible. Was the humili-

S. 123 ation of these already so sorely tried people to go still further? Would their strength suffice to endure the hardships of a months-long flight?

The Soviets Are Coming!

Murky clouds covered the autumn sky. Cold rain soaked the earth ever deeper. In normal days one would have held the roads impassable. In earlier years man and beast rested in such weather. Strong winds shook the last leaves from the trees. The clouds scarcely let the day grow light. The sun did not venture to show its usually friendly face. And yet in Steinfeld there was the greatest agitation. Despite the cold and wet, people stood in the street. Women ran anxiously from house to house. Indeed, even the children showed themselves with fear-filled faces in the doors and windows. The cause of this agitation was the provoking [?] machine-gun fire from the east near the surrounding villages. Russian, and now and then German, fighter planes roared low over the roofs. German troops streaming back — no longer in any way comparable to the victory-confident soldiers of 1941 — passed through the village in loose throngs. Even the units stationed in the village broke camp without informing the population of the approaching danger, although the company commander had assured them again and again that no one would be left in the lurch.

Scarcely had the soldiers departed when

S. 124 the men gathered at Mayor Neufeld's, and it was decided that all the inhabitants of Steinfeld would take flight together. All wagons and horses had to be made ready at once, so as to depart that same day. Now the village resembled a stirred-up anthill — it was a matter of saving one's bare life. No one wanted to fall into the hands of the Soviets. Where there were men in the family, the preparations went briskly. Things looked far worse in the families whose men had been deported years before. These often possessed only one horse, more rarely still a wagon fit for so difficult a journey. With tears of fear and despair they sought out their companions in suffering, so as to flee together. To describe the cares of these women is scarcely possible; they were too great for description. And yet within a few hours every family had been loaded onto 64 horse-drawn teams. Heavily laden, the wagons stood on the churned and rutted village street. A relative calm still reigned in the wagon column, which grew ever longer. On several farmyards, despite loud gee-ing and haw-ing, despite whip and stick, the horses could not be moved to pull the sunken wheels out of the muck. The anxious weeping and lamenting of the old people, the women and the children heightened the fear [?]. After hard labor Steinfeld was at last ready to depart.

Siebert and Ella had packed their belongings onto a long harvest wagon, to which three small but sturdy horses were hitched. They shared the wagon with a woman and her three small children. Well bundled up, the little ones awaited the things that were to

S. 125 come. Siebert comforted them as best he could. Ella he had settled beside himself in front. She, who otherwise looked so bravely and courageously into life, was now gripped by an anxious feeling of dread. Siebert, with assumed courage, tried to distract her from the danger, for he too was not convinced of the success of this perilous race for life.

The sun, which for a short while looked out from the clouds upon the earth, as if to see at least a small part of this unspeakable misery, was sinking deep toward the west when the mayor's wagon, standing at the head of the column, slowly set itself in motion. The people looked back once more at their houses, at their beloved home that had been everything to them. With heavy hearts they raised the whip and urged on the horses. Cows that were to follow the wagons would not stir from the spot, as though they wished to convince the people of the hopelessness of their doings. The ropes that held them broke, and, as if released from dreadful torment, they ran back to their stalls. They could not be fetched again, for the column was in motion and each urged the other on to haste. The road from Steinfeld to Grünfeld became the first stage of this agonizing way.

In Grünfeld people still seemed calmer, but when the head of the column drove onto the village street, the calm was over here too. A running and hurrying began. The procuring of vehicles was far more difficult in Grünfeld. Several families had to be loaded onto one wagon. The line of the Steinfeld wagons was doubled by those of Grünfeld.

Then suddenly a voice rings out, hoarse and

S. 126 croaking: "Ladies and gentlemen, have you gone mad? Do you actually believe Germany is losing the war? We trust in our Führer, the greatest commander of all time." Nearby gun-thunder interrupted the speaker. He wipes the sweat from his brow and mounts the running board of his carriage. Then he continues: "The Russians have been thrown back. I have just received the report from the front. I hereby order you to drive home again at once and go back to work. Whoever does not obey the order will be punished." It was the Sonderführer of the district, who wished to prove his courage here once more and thought to earn his spurs, without asking how the people were to be saved later if the main battle line drew still nearer. Should one believe this man? Was the danger that hung threatening over the people's heads really removed? It would almost be too good to be true. The burning villages, whose fires showed a broad red streak across the sky, said the opposite. Hesitantly the wagons drove back along the churned-up road. In turning, the first wheels broke; others sank in the mire. Deep darkness wrapped Steinfeld in an impenetrable mantle as the people arrived at their farmyards. Steinfeld had been transformed into a field of devastation. Doors and windows stood wide open. Rarely had a house been spared the plundering of the Cossack troops passing through. Cupboards, pantries and attics had been ransacked and presented one single ghastly confusion. Everywhere lay parts of slaughtered livestock. The beds had been slit open with sabers and knives, and feathers cov-

S. 127 ered everything that stood or lay in the rooms. Ownerless cattle ran in the streets, and in the stalls the animals still living cried for fodder.

Should the wagons be unloaded again? After much back and forth, everything was left ready for travel. The overtired women and children huddled down, fully clothed, in a corner of their once so beloved and now estranged, devastated dwellings for a short night's rest. The men gathered at the mayor's. It seemed as though worry had robbed them all of speech. From time to time one went out into the street and looked to the east, where the bright fires flared up ever more strongly. Never had a night passed so slowly. At last the morning broke, lifting the veil that had hitherto hidden the devastations. The streets were strewn with flour sacks, great cupboards, household goods and other property — everything that increased the load was thrown mercilessly from the wagons, only to get forward faster. The morning was used to put the vehicles in order. Spare wheels were procured and the harness mended. The drive to Grünfeld had shown that the horses were the key to this difficult problem. With strong nags one could still be fairly confident [?]. Therefore as much fodder as possible was taken along.

In the late afternoon an airplane landed before the village. An official of the district commissariat of Krivoy Rog brought the news that Soviet troops had broken through the German front and strong tank formations were advancing on Krivoy Rog. The entire population, Germans and Ukrainians alike, was to flee. Now the inevitable had moved within arm's

S. 128 reach. Once again the column moved along the muddy road toward Grünfeld. Scarcely had they come out into the open when Russian fighters roared over the wagons. Their bombs sowed the ruinous lead, yet without success — the column remained unhurt. When the machine guns began to rattle, the drivers lashed at the horses and drove recklessly into one another. Cows that were struck bellowed and fell beneath the wheels; crushed people screamed for help. Nothing could halt the frantic mass — the fury of war drove its victims before it. Here there was only a Forward, if one did not wish to fall prey to certain death.

With steaming horses they drove into Grünfeld without halting, for here too part of the people had taken flight. Now complete disorder came into the line of wagons. The road became somewhat better [?]. At a full gallop they now went in the direction of Dolginzewo — a place near Krivoy Rog.

The exit roads from Gnadental, Neu-Chortitza and several Ukrainian villages fed into the road to that place. Long columns stretched out of these villages, and now it was a matter of getting to the head of this endless serpent. There arose the merciless race for first place. Friend and foe had become one and the same notion when it came to overtaking one or the other. Everything not absolutely needed was thrown from the wagons. Barrels of meat, sacks of flour and fruit lay beneath the wheels. For better or worse the horses were driven on. Screams and furious curses accompanied the faster ones, until each had gained his place according to the fleetness of his horses and the load of his wagon. Then gradually

S. 129 calm came over the people. The animals too had grown deaf to the cracking blows of whip and stick. At a trot the wagons rolled into Dolginzewo, taking in ever new streams of refugees. Scarcely had the wagons halted when the factory sirens announced an air raid on Dolginzewo. On they went at a furious pace. Man and beast seemed to have gone mad. In the darkness far more patience was needed to get out of this tangle. With great difficulty the wagons could be drawn up village by village. Everywhere the names of the localities were called out. At last Steinfeld had assembled and drove in closed order into the darkness. Dolginzewo was long out of sight. On both sides of the road stretched great maize fields, in which Steinfeld halted for the night's rest.

A clear starry sky spread like a giant tent over the wide land. If one turned one's gaze to the heavens and saw the familiar constellations, one might have believed oneself in deepest peace beside a resting herd of cattle. But it sufficed to direct one's gaze to the horizon, and one perceived with horror that an all-destroying war was raging, for everywhere the flames rose to the sky, as though to indict mankind's mania for destruction. Anti-aircraft guns sent long glowing chains of shot up toward the stars, where without cease now Russian, now German aircraft circled with ear-splitting din. Huge searchlights cleared the human eye's path through the darkness. They threw their bright cones of light back and forth across the sky. Such and similar pictures formed the background of these people halted for

S. 130 their rest. The horses were tied to the wagons for feeding. For nourishment they received the dry maize straw from the ground. Some of the people were busy the whole night. The women and children slept on open wagons, for only some [?] had had time enough to roof them over.

This first night under the open sky seemed much longer than any other night. Scarcely did the first dawn show itself when women set about preparing breakfast for their families. This work was in no way comparable to that in one's own house. The kettles set on stones, they crouched beside them and tried, with the breath of their lungs, to kindle a fire underneath. The greatest worry was to find water. Mounted men set out in search of this precious liquid. With great difficulty the animals had been watered and breakfast, taken standing at the wagons, scarcely eaten, when the first vehicles rolled on. The route was given only roughly; in general one drove the nearest way westward. On and on went the journey without pause. No events brought the wagon column to a halt. Wheels break, horses fall and are left lying. Whole wagons plunge into the ditch, burying women and children beneath them. People sicken and die. Children are born. The column drives on. The days and nights string themselves into weeks and months. And still the people drive on through rain, snow and icy cold. The horses cannot be shod. Their feet leave thick trails of blood on the road. Then they are unharnessed, and the owner has the care of procuring a new one. Buy one he can nowhere. He is forced to go to the

S. 131 nearest kolkhoz, and there the stables are searched for these animals until they are found. Once discovered, they are taken along, if need be by brute force. — Bare life is at stake! Right and wrong have long since ceased to be distinguished here. Here it is only: save himself who can! Each is thrown on his own resources. In spite of everything, each found ways and means to continue the flight.

Siebert and Ella had come through the first days of the flight well. With all the other refugees they drove through the towns of Inguletz, Novy Bug, Pervomaisk. In Pervomaisk the columns from all regions gathered. There arose a column whose length the eye could not take in. To give a true picture of the scale of this restless flight, let the following be mentioned.

One evening Siebert halted with Ella's parents before a farmhouse, to lodge the parents and the wife of Ella's brother with her one-year-old child there for the night. An old man stepped out before the house and bade the refugees welcome. From the conversation with the old man Siebert learned that for two weeks already an unbroken stream of refugees had been passing through the place. The column in which Siebert drove had its end still several days behind it. Thousands upon thousands of people were fleeing and wandering. All the nations of Russia were represented: Ukrainians, Russians, Germans, Kalmyks, Caucasians, Crimean Tatars, Don Cossacks and Byelorussians. They feared not so much the terrors of the war, which raged on a scale never yet seen, as above all coming again under the rule of the So-

S. 132 viets. They knew only too well that the N.K.V.D. would accuse them all of treason against the country, because in 1941 they had not fled before the advancing German troops. They had borne suffering enough under the Soviets to be unwilling to do the same again. They preferred to eke out a wretched existence as free human beings, in flight through foreign lands, rather than to perish at home as serfs. For all that, these many people had not unlearned the love of their homeland. Oh no, they loved it, every one. Each grieved that his homeland, in which he was born and grew up, in which his parents, grandparents and forefathers had labored, was so sorely tried. To help the homeland in this time was impossible, as it had been impossible in the earlier years and remained impossible later. The good will of the people was suppressed with bestial cruelty by their own merciless dictatorship of Communism. From this dictatorship the measureless multitude fled.

When the flight began in October, the weather was still fairly mild. Now it was the beginning of December, and still the journey went on in wind and weather. By day, in the faint warmth, the roads were churned to mire. The night frosts froze everything stiff. The wheels cut deep into the muck. The wagons froze fast; the horses stood covered with hoarfrost before their fodder.

Around the 10th of December a halt could at last be made. The front lay farther back. The Russians had temporarily stopped their pursuit of the Germans to refresh their troops. The refugees had reached the district town of Krassilov, west of Vinnitsa.

S. 133 Whole villages were assigned to the individual communities for their rest. Everyone rejoiced at the longed-for repose. The horses could at last be housed in stables. The people delighted in domestic warmth, however small and poor the dwellings of the Ukrainians might be. At last one had a sheltering roof over one's head again.

Once more Christmas drew near. How sad would it be? How poorly must this otherwise so joyous season be spent! Siebert and Ella lodged with a farmer who had come out of prison only with the entry of the German troops. His wife and his son, who had grown up in his absence, gladly took Siebert and Ella in, for they knew only too well how people feel who no longer have home or shelter. The farmer himself had full understanding for these people's flight, for he had been sentenced as an "element hostile to the state" to ten years in a forced-labor camp, solely because his father, who had been dead for many years, had once, before the Revolution, owned a water mill in Russia. At that time Siedorow had been quite a small boy, and yet he was suspect — as the son of a man of property, an enemy of the state. How easy it was to become an "enemy" of one's own country!

Somewhat rested from the hardships of the long journey, Siebert set about preparing the Christmas celebration with his former schoolchildren. The children joined in body and soul. In the remote village, German Christmas carols rang out [?] for the first time. Even the nativity plays were rehearsed, to brighten the grey daily round for the parents. Despite the almost insuperable difficul-

S. 134 ties, despite the want that seemed near to crushing the people, they gradually raised themselves up again. But the toilsome way had also brought them nearer to God. Many a hardened soul had recognized that only with God's help had it escaped the threatening danger. The rooms for divine service were exceedingly small — the greater had the room for God become in the hearts of the people. As the festival room for the Holy Evening the old dilapidated village school was fitted out. The windows had to be boarded up with planks. The holes in the roof were covered makeshift with old sheet metal. Seating there was none, for the school desks had been used as firewood. One simply stood. A large sheet-iron stove was, with the greatest exertion, able to warm the room through.

In all the houses Christmas spirit reigned. The refugees rejoiced just as much as the residents. The latter celebrated Christmas 14 days later, and yet they were already now in high spirits. They would simply celebrate the glad season twice [?]. This glad season was clouded by an alarming report. Raging bands — also called partisans — had attacked several localities and plundered the refugees. Like it or not, the men brought out their rifles and patrolled the streets at night to protect their families and themselves from robbery.

Since all wished to take part in the Christmas celebration, the celebration had of necessity to be moved from the Holy Evening to the morning of Christmas Day itself. The room was completely dark, so that the Christmas tree shone in full splendor when the people appeared. Sad as

S. 135 the situation was, an astonishing calm lay on every face. On this Christmas morning all — including the Russians, who had come in great numbers — were very near to the Almighty. The poor room had here taken in over four hundred persons, all of whom trusted in God and in God's protection.

Siebert received the impression that the Christmas address, the songs and the children's recitations had seldom made so strong an effect on the Christmas guests as precisely here, in the remote, foreign village of Monjki.

In the first days of the year 1944 the fighting began to flare up anew along the entire German eastern front. Already on New Year's Eve the red glow of the city of Vinnitsa could be observed. But now the thunder of the guns was clearly audible. It was high time to continue the flight. With dread each thought of the days to come. Although icy weather still held and deep snow covered the earth, the farther west one came, the more one had to reckon with thaw. For these conditions, however, one was not equipped. Many had replaced their wagons with sleighs. Where were so many wagons to be got so quickly? With anxious hearts they made ready for the further journey through snow and ice, mud and rain. At last they set out, without prospect of the hoped-for success [?]. After one day's travel a halt was made — by order of the German military authorities. There followed an anxious waiting. Only on the tenth day came the order: all refugees are to be loaded into railway cars and taken to Poland — to the Warthegau, as it then was. The things were loaded onto the vehicles again. Again the children wept and cried

S. 136 with cold. On all the roads long columns of wagons and sleighs drew toward the Krassilov railway station, which lay to the east. The station and the station grounds resembled one great heap of rubble. Burnt-out railway cars, shattered locomotives, German army goods whirled about in wild confusion, stretches of track torn up by aircraft bombs — all were unanswerable witnesses to the great merciless destructive power of this unholy war.

Day and night, people, luggage and the best horses were loaded. The owners were supposed to be allowed to keep or sell the horses in Poland. It was not so [?], for none of the farmers ever saw his horses again. Nor were they ever paid for.

The people crouched, 45 and more persons together, in the cold and dark freight cars. Of lying down there could be no thought at all, for the luggage filled a good half of the cars. If on the horse-drawn wagon each had been by himself, on the railway consideration had to be shown for one's fellow travelers. Fear and nervousness threatened to make it well-nigh impossible. Only with a great expenditure of self-control could larger quarrels be avoided.

Then the cars rolled westward, toward an entirely foreign land. The journey went slowly. Again and again the train halted. Now the people had to receive food, which throughout the whole journey consisted of cold tinned goods and bread; now the horses had to be watered. Often there were longer stops because partisans had blown up the track. The trains passed Lemberg (Lwow),

S. 137 Litzmannstadt (Lodz). Gradually the destination was reached. The train in which the former Steinfelders traveled halted on the 27th of January at Freihaus (Zdunska-Wola). Here, for the first time on the journey, things proceeded in an organized fashion. Scarcely had the train stopped when great trucks had already driven up to fetch the women and children, while the men were busy loading the luggage.

The refugees were housed in a large building, a former cloister. Well over 300 persons lived here in one huge room. One lay on the straw-covered floor. The people's rations were simple and scant, and yet they were content. How often had these people folded their freezing hands in prayer and begged the Almighty for help! And He had heard this pleading. Now the snow no longer whipped into their faces; the children no longer needed to weep with cold. The people's eyes gradually grew brighter and more courageous. Soon they would be allowed to go about their work again and, as they hoped, build themselves a new life. As yet only the fewest suspected that the suffering had been tasted only to the half. This apparent end was to be only a brief interruption. No one believed that the end of this long road would be so hard [?] and so cruel. For [?] the ways that God leads are, for each individual and for every people, often — indeed mostly — incomprehensible. Now they lead to bright heights, now the path plunges steeply into the depths, so deep that one doubts ever coming out again. Only at the end of the road one has traveled does one grasp why one had to travel it — provided, of course, that one goes through life with open eyes.

[End of Chapter 3 and of Batch 3 (pp. 96–137). Batch 4 begins with Chapter 4, "Auf der anderen Seite" / "On the Other Side" (p. 137), covering the family's resettlement in the Warthegau and Siebert's conscription — this overlaps the material transcribed in the German original at pp. 137–159.]

Chapter 4: On the Other Side.

S. 138 Slowly the days passed in the cloister at Freihaus. The first fourteen days counted as quarantine for the refugees: the quarters were not to be left. The time was spent settling various formalities. At the beginning of March the refugees were distributed among the individual localities. The farmers fetched them on wagons and installed them in their dwellings. These had once belonged to Poles who had been resettled to other places. Hitler pursued a policy in Poland according to which the Warthegau was to be cleared of the Polish population. Under cover of night they were loaded onto wagons by the SA and sent to France [?] or to Germany. There they worked in the various branches of industry, in part also in agriculture. The expulsion itself was a picture of raw violence. The refugees understood the Poles very well when they left their houses weeping or with angry looks, to go and struggle along with their families somewhere in a strange land. And yet they had to tie up their bundles and go.

Siebert and Ella moved into a dwelling in a former Polish school building. The room contained the barest necessities. A little garden was Ella's joy. Siebert worked in the ration-card office. Here he became acquainted for the first time with the organization of the German Reich. How much

S. 139 was exaggerated here! And yet an enormous amount of work was accomplished. Daily, new refugees arrived. To the stream of refugees from the East were added the many bombed-out people from the West German industrial cities, all of whom had been made homeless. They cried out for help. These people lacked literally everything. Often they had been able to save only their children and a handbag from destruction. These people had to be helped above all else, and help was given as well as one was able. If in the first years the war had raged far from Germany's borders, it was now doing thorough work in Germany itself: one city after another collapsed in on itself, burying people and goods beneath its rubble. The distress of the German people grew from day to day and took on gigantic proportions. Ever nearer drew the front. In East Prussia the fighting was already on German soil.

Around Easter time Siebert began to sit in as an observer at the school in Janischewitze [?]. Although he possessed the knowledge for his profession, he had, like all his colleagues from home, to be retrained. Siebert was already looking forward to being among a laughing crowd of children again. But here too the war drew a thick line through his reckoning. At the end of June [?] — Siebert and his brother-in-law Peter were at a teachers' conference — both received their call-up orders to the German Wehrmacht. They had, to be sure, always reckoned with it, and yet they were surprised. Scarcely had they found a place in life again and already they were being torn abruptly out of this seemingly peaceful existence. Peter and Siebert had both already felt the hardness of the war. They knew that fate would lead them into a difficult si-

S. 140 tuation. This circumstance was also the reason for their slight hope for the future, which they tried as far as possible to conceal from their relatives. Swiftly the last days of their being at home raced by.

A German Soldier.

On the 4th of July Ella's brothers and sisters gathered at their parents' to bid farewell to Peter and Siebert. All were conscious that it was perhaps the last meeting. In silence, each pursuing his own thoughts, they made their way to the station. Siebert and Ella took leave of each other in the glad hope that the grace of God would be with them and bring them together again. How short their happiness had been! But God had then heard their plea to let them go through life together for a short time. Now He was showing them that He had determined their way differently. Both bore it with patience, hope, and confidence. Then the train rolled out of the station. When will it bring him home to them again?

The farther the train traveled, the more acquaintances boarded. It had caught them all: they were to defend Germany. No one asked whether they wanted to or not. The call-up orders stated quite unambiguously: from the 4th of July they were regarded as soldiers of the German Wehrmacht and were subject to the laws of war. Refusal [?] would be regarded as high treason and punished most severely by the courts-martial [?]. Here too there was no contradiction [?]. The nonresistance of the Mennonites was not recognized here. The few who dared to insist on their

S. 141 nonresistance were immediately locked up in Posen or in Stralsund. After six days they too stood with rifle in hand on the dusty barracks square. With raw force their will had been broken.

After a day's journey the recruits got out at Posen and were divided among the various replacement battalions. Siebert, Peter, and many other acquaintances from Russia and Poland were sent to Stralsund. Here began the training as a German soldier. It was a hard life they now went to meet. It was shown to them from an entirely different side. If until now much in Germany had remained veiled, the curtain now lifted further and they saw more distinctly the face of National Socialism. More and more frequently comparisons were drawn between Russia and Germany [?]. While in Russia one proceeded with raw, open violence, Hitler was clever enough to disguise his dictatorship somewhat, though in the last years this was not really succeeding for him. From his platoon leader Siebert learned for the first time something of the concentration camps in Germany. This man spoke about the Jewish ghetto [sic] in Warsaw with a self-satisfied indifference. He had been a guard officer there [?]. In the concentration camp it was again a turbulent day: Jews were being sent from Warsaw to Dachau and Sachsenhausen [?]. The ghetto lay in a quarter of the city that had suffered heavily in the war of 1939 [?]. The guard officer was walking [?] through a street. Suddenly he is hailed from a high wall. He looks up. What a shock! Before him rises the wall of a collapsed house. The masonry still stands up to

S. 142 the third story. Up there, covered only with a short dress, stands a young Jewish woman with her infant in her arms. Then she calls down to him in a screaming voice:

"Hey, you down there! Here, take my child. May God repay your deeds!" In the same instant she throws her dearest down to him from the wall. As if drawn by a magical power, his hands stretch out and already he holds in his arms the breathless child.

"But me you will never have alive, you dogs!" — she screamed in a hoarse voice. Then her body smacked onto the pavement beside him, to lie there dead.

At this account thick tears stood in the platoon leader's eyes. Even the heart of a hardened soldier grew soft at that. He rose and took leave of Siebert with the question: "When will we be allowed to do good works again?" God grant, very soon.

Peter and Siebert were fitted out with uniforms and equipped with the necessary weapons. Then it was off toward Hammerstein, where a huge troop training ground lay. Thousands of soldiers were instructed here in the craft of war. Life in the barracks proceeded under great exertion for the recruits. In the rations one noticed clearly [?] that Germany had lost the fertile eastern territories. The recruits would only too gladly have had more to eat, but that could not be granted. Siebert and Peter bore their lot with patience. They were more accustomed to it than the others; they could therefore also endure it more easily.

One morning, when the company had marched out

S. 143 for exercises, the company commander, a young first lieutenant, stepped up to Peter and Siebert. "Penner and Siebert, you both have the Abitur, do you not?" The two answered the question in the affirmative.

"Well, good. Then report to the orderly room today and fill out the questionnaire for officer candidates." Siebert looked at Penner with astonished eyes: "Herr Oberleutnant, I would rather not fill out the questionnaire. I am a teacher by profession, and when one day the war is over I want to practice my profession and not play soldier somewhere in the world. Secondly, I am not suited to the duties of an officer. I will do my duty toward Germany, but as a common soldier."

"And you, Penner?" asked the first lieutenant.

"I concur with Siebert's remarks."

"Very well, gentlemen, you will regret not having taken up my proposal." From that day on Siebert and Penner had no more peace. Wherever there was hard duty to be done, they were part of it. A few days later their NCO training course began [?]. For this their consent was not needed; the order of the company commander sufficed. After eight weeks of endless drills both were NCO candidates. Six months later, if they lived to see it, they were to be promoted to Unteroffizier.

Siebert's wife had stayed behind in Suchozasty [?] near Freihaus. She led her brave life alone among the Polish population. Her parents and siblings often came to visit her and helped her wherever they could. Ella and Siebert had come to happiness even in separation [?]. They

S. 144 felt themselves ever bound by the deep love that had once brought them together. Added to this was the fact that in October their first child was to be born. How much they looked forward to it! The child was to become the joy of their lives. In all her letters Ella expressed the single wish that Siebert might come home for this time. He could not promise it to her, for who would give a recruit leave after four months of service? He did not believe in a furlough. There was one possibility of going on leave: somebody had to fall ill. Then he hit upon the droll idea of sending his wife the following text for a telegram: "Delivered. Gravely ill. Come at once." It was, to be sure, a lie at the moment, but who could say that the telegram would not later correspond to the truth?

The 20th of October was a day like any other. The sun had not yet risen when Siebert with his squad of eight men "stormed" a hill in the wet heather. An exercise that was practiced every day. Soaked through, the men marched, weary and yet singing, toward their barracks [?]. The sergeant came toward Siebert laughing and handed him the envelope with a telegram from Ella. With trembling hands he opened the envelope and read the text he himself had devised: "Delivered. Gravely ill. Come at once. Ella." What had happened? The only thing he knew was the fact that he had become a father. How were Ella and the child feeling? Again and again this anxious question pressed upon him. No one could give him an answer.

Without taking off his steel helmet, holding the telegram

S. 145 in his hands, he ran in the direction of the orderly room, where at this hour the platoon and company commanders were to be found. He looked neither left nor right — only to ask for leave as quickly as possible. All his senses revolved around the green paper that was called a furlough pass. Then suddenly a bang, a violent blow in the back, and he is lying in the road. Beside him an overturned motorcycle, its engine running at full throttle. From under the machine a major was cursing the wildest oaths — he had run into the brand-new father and taken a fall in doing so. "You confounded blockhead, can't you watch out?! You are to walk on the right! If you shouldn't know where left is, then take hold of your hands — where the thumb is on the right, that is the left side, from which you are to press over to the right toward the ditch. With such a people one is supposed to go to war! Man, get up off my legs. Just you wait, I'll teach you yet how to get out of a major's way!"

While the major raged, Siebert had examined his limbs for soundness. All whole, thank God. At the last words that the man cooed [?] out from under the machine, he had sprung up and set the motorcycle upright. The major, who had come away with a scraped knee and a bruised elbow, swung himself onto the machine and sped as fast as possible out of the sight of the gaping soldiers. Then, snorting with rage, he stops the machine once more: "Hey! What company are you from, you half-soldier?" Siebert stopped short with a jolt and answered curtly: "From the first, Herr Major." Then he ran on to the orderly room.

S. 146 The company chief, First Lieutenant Otto Hase, and the platoon leader Karl Fink stood laughing in front of the orderly room; they had watched the major's fall. Quite out of breath, Siebert halted his steps before the two and drew himself up to attention as best he could. From sheer agitation he could scarcely bring out the few words: "May I beg leave to show the Herr Oberleutnant the telegram?" Hesitantly he held the telegram out to him.

"I know it, Siebert. I'm informed. You want to have leave. I'm sorry, there's no leave. We have a total leave freeze at the moment. Perhaps later sometime. Besides, we are leaving Hammerstein in the next few days. The order to march off may arrive at any moment. Have you understood that?"

"Yes, Herr Oberleutnant, but my wife is gravely ill. Surely that is a valid reason. Can I not have at least five days' leave? I beg you."

At these words the young papa must have made a rather sorrowful face, for the officer barked at him quite sternly and harshly:

"Man, I told you, there is none now [?]. As soon as we are at the new post, you will travel to your wife and your child. Send your wife a telegram and put her off for a few days. Are you satisfied?"

Willingly or not, he had to be satisfied, for it was hopeless to find understanding for his situation here. Siebert put his hand to his helmet and withdrew with lowered head. He simply had to remain in uncertainty [?]. He cursed the unsuspecting text of the telegram, fretted over the fate of his wife and his child. Indeed he

S. 147 did not even know whether a son or a daughter had been born to him. His single wish was to move out of Hammerstein.

His brother-in-law saw at once from Siebert's face that the matter of the leave had not worked out. What to do? Should Siebert call on the company commander once more? But he might grow angry and withdraw his promise for later. So, wait. The telegram "Coming later" had been dispatched. Should he now write to Ella as well? She had looked forward too much to his coming, and now she would be too deeply disappointed. No, he would not write. So the two of them sat on their bunk and took counsel over their situation. Finally they came to the conclusion that God would make all things well. Then sounded the whistle of the duty NCO: "Everyone fall in!" A few minutes later the company stood assembled. Siebert and his squad received the order to take over the transport guard at once, until the company was loaded.

As darkness settled over the sandy soil of Hammerstein, the men of Siebert's squad went silently to the station. Each had his own thoughts, which were surely cheerful for none of them. Scarcely were the sentries posted and the train loaded [?] when the station thundered. After half an hour the train halted. It had already grown dark and no one could determine where they were. Toward morning Siebert was to relieve the sentries again, and then it struck him that the locomotive had long since disappeared. The transport with the war matériel stood on the open line, about 15 km from Hammerstein. Far and wide not a house. Of people, no trace.

S. 148 The men, who for the greatest part came from Mennonite families, had fitted out the car in which they lived as well as possible. A stove gave off the necessary warmth — for a cold wind swept over the fields — and at the same time one could warm food on the stove, or indeed cook some.

Siebert paced back and forth in silence and impatience. Again and again he looked out for the company, which surely had to come at last if they were to be at the front in three days. In this waiting the first day passed; the second followed and brought no deliverance. Only on the third day, at nightfall, the first sergeant suddenly appeared with men of another squad. Siebert and his comrades were relieved. What had happened? What was being done with his comrades [?]? Would they let him travel now? Or would they go on making sport of his feelings?

Peter received Siebert with a beaming look: "Congratulations — Ella has borne you a little daughter. Lilli is the little one's name. Man alive, be glad!" Siebert said not a word, but silently took the letter from Peter's hands and read it. Ella herself had not written. Her mother reported in detail on the conditions at home, which only agitated Siebert the more.

"Is Siebert here?" the guard commander called into the room, while Siebert was still staring at the sheet. "Yes, here!" — "You have duty today. It is 1800 hours. Fall in for guard mounting." That was all Siebert needed. When was he finally to come to rest? The first sergeant, who had likewise learned of the telegram and of Siebert's

S. 149 worries, could not let slip the fun of making the matter as hard as possible for him. He wanted to make his soldiers "hard," and with Siebert it seemed especially necessary to apply the toughening cure. Nothing remained for Siebert but to put on the steel helmet, buckle on the pistol, and go to the parade ground.

After the 24 hours of guard duty had run their course, Siebert went to the orderly room about leave, for the departure order no longer seemed so urgent. The companies drilled as before; things were gradually being unpacked again. In the orderly room he found the platoon leader Fink.

"Herr Leutnant, will you permit me now to write an application for leave?"

"Siebert, you really are a miserable weakling. You were expressly told that you would travel later. You may march off any day, and you want to go on leave. You are a soldier and your Fatherland needs you. Do you understand that?"

Siebert had to go once more. What more was he to contrive in order to obtain a furlough pass? Was there no one at all who would help him? Again an agonizing day went by. His wife had now been ill for five days. Who would come to her aid?

The next day Peter and Siebert learned that two of their comrades had received a sixteen-day furlough. So one could after all be spared from the unit, if one stood in good standing with the first sergeant and the company chief [?].

Siebert asked again for permission to write an application for leave.

"Well, fine. Write it," said the first sergeant scornfully.

S. 150 Siebert wrote. As the grounds for his request he gave: his wife's illness and her preparations for evacuation. The latter seemed to him especially important, for the Russians stood before Warsaw and could launch an attack any day. In the event that they should break through, his wife and child would be delivered up to the Russians without any help. That he wanted to avoid under all circumstances.

That very day he brought his application to the orderly room. By chance First Lieutenant Hase was also there. He looked at the sheet and immediately turned crimson. "Man, now I truly doubt no longer. You have lost your senses! So you still believe [sic] that Germany will lose the war. No Russian will set foot on German soil. Evacuation of my [sic — likely "a"] German wife! Man, I could laugh myself to death. Take your application back!" Siebert picked it up and withdrew. His only wish was to be able to remain calm.

Now the application was rewritten. As grounds he gave only his wife's illness. Not until the next morning did he bring the paper in. The first sergeant took it in hand. "There you are. Show it here!" He examined the paper from all sides without looking at the text. "Well now! Can't you use a proper sheet of paper [?]? I cannot pass the application on like this. The sheet is to be written on one side [?]!" Siebert went out the door flushed red. It really was a mean trick not to accept the application over a trifle [sic — "Kappalie" for "Lappalie"] [?]. The sheet had been taken from the writing folder and the spine edge was somewhat bent. That delayed the proces-

S. 151 sing of the application by a day. Arriving in his room, he laid a ruler on the edge of the paper and cut off the turned-up part — half a centimeter. Before the start of duty he went with pounding heart to the first sergeant.

"Well, and why not like that in the first place, Siebert?" said the first sergeant. "The day after tomorrow you will come to report and collect the result."

On the appointed day Siebert appeared. "Herr Hauptfeldwebel, I wished to ask after my application."

"Not approved," the man hissed laconically. Siebert felt the first sergeant's scrutinizing eye directed at him and was about to go [?], when the latter rose, took a stack of papers from the table, and said: "Here you have your identity papers, the furlough pass. Now be off with you. Your train leaves today at 18:15. Mind you come back to me on time. All the best. Give my greetings to your wife and daughter."

Siebert gave thanks, clicked his heels together, and ran to the door. So his application had been approved after all. How glad Ella will be! And he? Well, his feelings he could not yet define. Rage and agitation over the humiliation, then fear for Ella's health; the indescribable joy over the birth of Lilli and the joy over the reunion with Ella surged in his breast, which seemed almost to burst [?]. Quickly the suitcases were packed, farewell taken of Peter. Then he betook himself in all haste to the station, although it was not nearly time yet. But he went in order to have the training ground and the barracks at his back. So he spent several hours in the waiting room until at last the train arrived. Only when the train

S. 152 pulled out did he truly believe that he would be at home. Fourteen days — unless a telegram recalled him — he would stay with his loved ones. The journey went comparatively well — as well as one could travel in those days of the year 1944. Because of the many bombing raids the trains ran irregularly and with great delays. The stations were crammed with civilians, refugees from the east and west of Germany. Soldiers traveled from one front to the other. A train journey had long since ceased to be a pleasure. Getting in and out was managed through the windows, for human bodies choked the doors.

In the early morning hours Siebert got off at the Freihaus station. Slowly he walked the familiar way home. Slowly, of all things, without really wanting to, as though he wished to linger long in the anticipation of the near reunion to which Ella and he had looked forward for so long. He still could not grasp that he had really become a father. And Ella is supposed to be a mother? — Scarcely to be believed. And yet he rejoiced like a child. Spinning his thoughts on, he suddenly stood before his front door. He had no need to knock, for the door stood ajar. A deathly stillness reigned in the hallway, where he set down knapsack and suitcase. The same picture [?] — as if not a living soul were in the house. Had something bad happened? In the sitting room he took off the rest of his things [?]. Now he became aware of the child [?]. From the bedroom he caught Ella's voice. Softly he crept to the door and saw his sick wife with the child in bed. Ella could not believe that her husband was really there. Again and again she said that now she too would re-

S. 153 cover, be glad, and thank the Lord, who had so graciously heard her prayers.

Now, for the time being, all was well. They were happy. Ella did not ask how long the furlough would last. Only on the third day did she venture the question. Eleven days left! How quickly they would pass. Then came the bitter parting. Ella had been out of bed only one day. At the door she said to Abram [?] through her tears: "Do stay. You will never come back — I feel it." These words struck Siebert like a blow, for in 1940 his mother had said: he would never come back. His father's house he was never permitted to enter again. All bridges to his homeland had been broken off behind him. Fate had made him a traitor to his country. He had left a land that he loved, as every decent person loves his fatherland. But in this land there prevailed an order that thrusts every person from itself as soon as he sees life soberly with his own eyes. Indeed, not only thrusts him away, but lets the burning wish arise to see the people in his homeland free and fed, to save them from complete ruin. Because one could not agree with the existing conditions, thousands upon thousands became "traitors to their country"; because they offended against the laws of this modern dictatorship-state, they were banished forever. Implacable were these laws, whose effects Siebert knew only too well. They read: If a person commits treason against the country, he is condemned to death. (After 1947, to 25 years of forced labor. The death penalty was abolished in the Soviet Union. Why shoot people when they can work themselves to death in the concentration camp?) Under this law fall

S. 154 his relatives as well, although they are entirely innocent. This law demanded that he never come home again. More still: no one was permitted to learn of his existence.

"You will never come back," it droned in his ears. Could Ella too have spoken the truth? Would fate play such a wicked game with him once more? No, he refused to believe it.

"I will surely come back, Ella, believe me. God will stand by us. He will help us [?]," Siebert tried to comfort his wife. He could not quite understand himself [?]. He did not trust his own words. He did not know where his way was leading and what was allotted to him [?]. Then the darkness took him in. He could no longer see Ella, but he heard her sobbing [?] behind the door.

Ella's parents were already at the station when Siebert arrived there. They accompanied him to the stop [?]. During the ride he asked the father, in the event the Germans should fall back further, to flee as far to the west as at all possible, so as on no account to fall into the hands of the Soviet troops. Then he was alone with his thoughts. The train rattled by way of Posen, Schneidemühl, and Neustettin toward Hammerstein. Would his unit still be there? Heavily laden with foodstuffs, he tramped through the deep sand toward the barracks. His comrades were already waiting longingly for him, for he had brought something from the relatives for many a one — either a small parcel or a loving greeting.

Siebert reported back to the first sergeant: Lance Corporal Siebert reporting back from leave. No special occurrences.

S. 155 "So, very well. That you would be back so quickly I would not have thought. The business about coming back on time was not meant so severely. From tomorrow you are on duty again. You may go."

Back to the Front.

At the end of November, quite unexpectedly, came the order to march. That very day all the equipment was loaded. Where to now? To the west or toward the east? In the west the fighting raged without pause, while the eastern front had for months sunk into a war of fixed positions. An attack from the German side was not to be reckoned with, for Germany's forces barely sufficed for defense. And yet troop transports rolled from west to east and vice versa. Larger troop movements were the order of the day. Several battalions from Hammerstein rolled eastward, among them the one in which Siebert served. It would be a double fight: on the one hand for Germany, on the other for one's own life. Not only did one have to fight as a soldier, but there was the possibility of falling into captivity. What would be done with people in that case? Fight on and let things come as they would [?]. Siebert had a good and reliable comfort. He knew and firmly believed that the Almighty would appoint [?] him a strong guardian angel. He would guard and keep him. With this firm conviction he sat in the car and waited with utmost suspense for

S. 156 the final destination. On and on went the racing journey. On the 30th of November they crossed the Vistula bridge at Modlin. The town was already rather battered. The war had not spared the little Polish town, and it was yet to live through many an anxious hour. Here the train halted. At the ramp the unloading proceeded with much shouting. Vehicles rolled off the railway cars. Guns were hauled off with a clatter. Scarcely did the equipment stand on the ground before it was moved to the deployment points. One did not need to be so cautious here, for the Russians and the Germans were both massing their forces. While the Russians prepared an attack, the Germans strove to bring up additional forces for the defense. Everyone knew of these undertakings, but neither tried to disturb the other. The time of the decisive confrontation had not yet come. The arriving troops were funneled into the Vistula bridgehead at the great bend of the Vistula. The unit in which Siebert served relieved the now very weak 183rd Infantry Division in the trench. Weary stood the men of the 183rd Infantry Division in the trench. Many of their comrades had fallen on the retreat — their ranks were badly thinned. Those still alive had had their fill of the long life in the trenches. Dull and overtired were their eyes, which however soon brightened when they were told that they were now going into well-earned rest. Brief orientations followed, and then they slipped out of the trench into the sheltering darkness.

Siebert and Peter moved with their squads into position side by side. Machine guns and submachine gunners were posted. The watch could begin. Cold winds drove snow mixed with sand across

S. 157 the fields, which had not yet been harvested. By day one rested. Sleep was restless and uncomfortable, for at any moment an attack had to be reckoned with. The trenches of the opposing positions lay quite close together. In places one trench was only fifty–sixty paces from the other. Quite clearly and distinctly one could hear the voices of the Russians. This short stretch was quickly covered — if one did not collapse on the way, struck by an enemy bullet. For hours, whole nights through, the young soldiers, most of them only seventeen years old, stared into the darkness. They sought the enemy. The faintest noise seemed to be a Russian, at whom one fired until one was convinced of the error. No wonder that these young fellows often fired the whole night through, to drive away their fear by convincing themselves of the effect of their death-dealing weapons. In such hours Siebert and Peter went from post to post and peered into the darkness with the men. Signal flares were fired off to calm the anxious youngsters. Brightly lit, the ground they could survey [?] lay before them. Nothing but dunes of snow and sand was to be seen. Behind them [?] one saw the Russian trenches [?], in which nothing stirred. Then they were reassured. The same seemed to be going on in the Soviet positions as well. Whole nights through the German trenches were fired upon without those over there having any target. This fear of the enemy who was not there — at least not visible — often had cruel effects.

One liked to have one's best friend standing at one's side, for he keeps watch even when one's own eyes fall shut from wea-

S. 158 riness; on him one could rely. But how easily could one mistake the friend for the enemy! The soldiers Janzen and Hübert were good friends, and again and again they asked to be allowed to stand next to each other. Siebert consented. When, on a pitch-dark December night, he was again going through his section of trench from man to man, he came upon the empty foxhole in which half an hour earlier Hübert had stood. The carbine leaned abandoned against the trench wall. What could have happened? Had Russians got at him? Had they "stolen" him? It often happened that small Russian parties came into the positions and silently, without firing a shot, fell upon German soldiers, gagged them, and dragged them off. Could that be the case here too?

The next post was Janzen. Siebert was with him quickly: "Have you seen nothing? Was someone here?" he asked him.

"Yes indeed," answered Janzen — "the Russians are in our rear. I shot one. There he lies." About 30 paces behind the trench lay a dark heap. In the darkness one could not really determine what it actually was. Siebert drew the flare pistol and fired. But alas, it was no Russian, for the corpse wore the field-gray coat that Siebert and Janzen also wore. It could only be Hübert. Janzen did not suspect that he had shot his best friend from his home village. His aim had been true, for Hübert had been dead instantly. Siebert and Janzen pulled Hübert into the sheltering trench. Only here did Janzen see what he had done. Pale as death he knelt beside the corpse and wept

S. 159 bitterly. How could he undo this deed? What would Hübert's mother say? Who would comfort her? The calamity had happened; it had to be accepted. Nor could anyone be blamed — if anyone, then only Hübert himself, who had committed the imprudence of climbing out of the trench. An enemy bullet could just as well have struck him. But surely that could only be chance [?] — if one can speak of such a thing in the pitch-black night. "Why shouldn't one risk climbing out of the trench for five minutes to dig up a pail of potatoes [?]?" It was to cost Hübert dearly.

How strange are God's dispensations often, and how incomprehensible to men! Yet God's plans stand firm for every human being. He carries them out as soon as He deems the time right. Without ceremony Hübert was buried the next morning. Such cases, and similar ones, were no rarity. Often the fear of death and of the Russians drove men to self-mutilation. Without long reflection one shot oneself through the leg, through the arm, or the hand, and believed one thereby had a so-called "homeland shot." But this kind of "homeland shot" was severely punished by the military courts. At the beginning of the war the men were transferred to punishment units, where they had to perform dreadfully hard duty. In the last years of the war, however, that no longer sufficed, for the soldiers saw that the war was being lost and preferred to put a bullet through their own limbs. One went to the field hospital and believed one would thus happily survive the end of the war. The

S. 160 cases of self-mutilation grew ever more frequent, and they were punished with death by shooting. At executions for such offenses the units, as far as the situation permitted, had to be present. They were meant to serve as a deterrent for the others.

The Baptism of Fire.

Christmas seemed to the Soviets the suitable time to attack — or Christmas Eve — for they did not celebrate Christmas, hardly knew it any longer even by name, but knew only too well that the Germans celebrated Christmas very lavishly, and there was much to be had in the German positions: wines of every kind, chocolate, biscuits, all sorts of baked goods, cigars, cigarettes, and so on. The Russians had almost none of these things, so that they were gladly prepared to launch an attack for the sake of the plunder alone. On the other hand, the Germans were not as vigilant at Christmas as usual. It was therefore comparatively easy to break into the German positions. Already several days before Christmas the German soldiers asked one another: "What do you think — will Ivan come on Christmas Eve?" Most had not yet been through a major attack, and so many a one was afraid. Already on the 24th of December the position was inspected. The weapons were cleaned more thoroughly than usual [?]. If one inquired after the reason, one heard the following answer: "Ho, don't you know that tomorrow the thing has to shoot like mad, for tomorrow Ivan is sure to come calling." [?] What irony lay in these words! "Peace on earth" — and

S. 161 here the weapons were being sharpened for the great slaughter. Everything seemed to be in order, for on Christmas Eve all went on watch as usual, only somewhat earlier than customary. From many foxholes one heard the beloved Christmas melodies sounding. From one hole came the notes of a guitar. It had long been dark, but not a single shot had yet disturbed the quiet. What had happened? Was it really to be Christmas today, even in the Russian trench? Scarcely to be believed. Over the enemy positions lay complete quiet. The Silent Night had actually remained silent. At midnight the soldiers went one by one to fetch their Christmas presents from the platoon command post and carried them into their bunkers, only to appear again at once at their firing posts. From hole to hole they called "Merry Christmas" to one another. How gladly would these men have spent this season at home with their loved ones! How gladly would they have had these pious and modest Christmas wishes — but they were not to be fulfilled [?]. Perhaps later sometime, if they remained alive. — Now, however, it was a matter of standing here and defending the Fatherland. If only it were not all in vain. None of these soldiers thought that four months later it would all be too late [?]. Ah, no one thought so far ahead, for in four months it could already have "got" many a one, as the saying went when an enemy bullet pierced the human body or a shell tore it apart [?]. One lived only in the present, only in the today.

Gradually it had grown light. Would the attack still come now? Now, in daylight? No, that he cannot afford. The soldiers went into their bunkers, which were nothing other than roofed-over holes in the earth. But

S. 162 a little fir branch was not lacking even in this wretched hole in the ground. In the hope that all would remain quiet, they set about celebrating Christmas as soldiers do. The winter sun stood high over the snow-covered earth. Not a breath of air stirred. Even the clouds did not dare to dim the blue sky. It was Christmas, the feast of all feasts. How many yearning hearts were now thinking of their loved ones, and many more still were praying for the men in the foremost trench.

"Ala-a-a-arm! Everyone to the rifles! The Russian is attacking," roared the trench patrol. No one thought any longer of Christmas, of his loved ones at home. All were moved by the single thought: the Russian is attacking! As if driven by a fury, the men scattered along the trench and pressed their rifles firmly to the shoulder, to fire the ruinous lead at the enemy. As yet he could not be seen; only his guns sowed [sic] death and destruction into the German trench with their shells. They crashed down now before, now behind the positions. The trench itself was still spared. One shell chased the other until the thunder ceased just as suddenly as it had begun. In the same instant gray masses of men sprang over the Russian embankment and ran straight toward the enemy. Like a huge pack of hounds the German machine guns barked and cut great gaps in the Russian ranks. The submachine guns struck in between like whiplashes and threw the men in the gray coats and short quilted jackets to the ground. But ever new waves climbed over the embankment, until a part of them had reached the German trench. A dreadful hand-to-hand fight flared up. The Russians were numerically superior and penetrated into the German positions, gaining more and more

S. 163 ground. The losses on both sides were considerable. The German trench was being rolled up. It had become quite short. Only when reinforcements came did the Germans succeed in becoming masters in their own trench again. How quickly the Christmas picture had changed! The comparatively peaceful terrain had become a battlefield covered with corpses. The soldiers remained in the trench; many stood beside their fallen comrades, who could not be carried away because of enemy observation. Siebert and Peter lay rather to the side of the point of attack; their squads therefore had no greater losses to mourn.

On the second day of Christmas all was again quiet as ever. Now one could at least spend a few hours comfortably together. Toward midday the young soldier Peter Neufeld appeared in Siebert's bunker. In 1941 he had still been Siebert's pupil and counted only 17 springs. He was glad to be among acquaintances. When Penner appeared as well, they left the overcrowded bunker and went into the hole of an advanced post directly at the barbed wire before the minefields. Here "little Peter," as Neufeld was called, told of his experiences of the day before. The boy was rather agitated. The fear of the past night still lay in his features. He was second machine-gunner and could handle his weapon well. When the Russian stormed their section of the trench, he and his friend Klassen lay ready to fire with their machine gun. Scarcely did the first Russian helmet show itself when they blazed away. The weapon functioned superbly. Neufeld had all he could do to hand Klassen the full cartridge belts. Klassen had forgotten everything around him: he saw only the enemy, who despite all the lead that

S. 164 his MG spat out came ever nearer. In this fervor the machine gun began to stutter and then suddenly fell silent. There was no time to look for the fault. He seized his carbine, climbed out of the trench, and fired at the oncoming Russians. This lasted only a few moments; then he sank, mortally hit, into the trench, from which Neufeld fired at the enemy with his sidearm. Only when the trench had been cleared could he look about for Klassen. It was too late, for a bullet had pierced his skull. Klassen's body too had to remain where it was until nightfall. His young friend stood watch beside him. In the presence of the dead man the boy began to reflect on the seriousness of life. In the early morning the two of them had still been sitting cheerfully together, looking forward to the reunion with their loved ones at home — and now? For Klassen there was no reunion with his loved ones in this world. Neufeld recognized the omnipotence of the great God. All alone in the pitch-dark night, beside his dead friend, whose blood clung to his coat, he folded his hands and prayed, for the first time in this place, to the heavenly Father, the Ruler of all earthly and heavenly things. No one had called on Neufeld to do it; no one had gone before him with a good example. No, God had so led this young man that he had to come to Him. Not man had sought God, but God sought him and won him for Himself, that he might remain with Him. Neufeld vowed, at the close of his account, from now on not to depart from the path of prayer he had entered. Despite the fear he had endured, he was happy and content; he looked hopefully into the future and trusted

S. 165 the great God. It was already almost dark when the three left the hole, walking bent low. Half an hour later they stood again in their posts, peering toward the enemy.

Budapest.

Shortly after Christmas the word suddenly came: "We are being relieved and are going to the southeastern front." At first all were glad to get out of this dangerous trench and out of the lice-ridden bunkers. If the Russian should attack the bridgehead, escape was no longer to be thought of, since only one bridge led over the Vistula. In the first hours it would fall victim to the aircraft bombs, and thus the only way of retreat would be closed. A horror came over one at the mere thought of it. One felt a great deal better once one had escaped from this dangerous dead end by orderly routes. There was hurrying and rushing at the Modlin station. The loading went considerably faster than in Hammerstein. Even if the destination was at first still uncertain, one thing was known: express transport to Budapest, which had for some time been encircled. Three strong rings the Soviets had thrown around the capital of Hungary. In the city itself many thousands of soldiers waited for their liberation. They were not permitted to leave the city [?]. Hitler had ordered them [sic] to defend it to the last man. The Russians and the Germans waged here a hard, merciless fight. All supply routes had been cut off from the Germans; only

S. 166 from the air were they still supplied. But this possibility too was brought to nothing on the 24th of December. On that day the last Ju-88 took off in Budapest with wounded.

Now the access roads were to be opened again, in order to bring provisions and ammunition into the city. This difficult task had been assigned to the many express transports from Germany, Poland, Denmark, and the western fronts. They all met in the Hungarian town of Komarum [sic] and from here it now went on toward Budapest over the snow-covered roads of Hungary. Under the command of the SS General Hilly several SS panzer divisions had been concentrated here. All other units were attached and subordinated to them. Here they were winding up for a mighty blow. The vanguard of this battle group had already made contact with the enemy. The fight began.

The battalion in which Siebert served rolled along the road to Budapest in the endless column of tanks and motor vehicles. Vehicle upon vehicle forced its way forward here, through the dense tangle of men and iron. Everything that did not move forward was tipped into the ditch. There lay Russian tanks, trucks, horse carcasses, overturned horse-drawn wagons, cattle, and human beings. On the road itself lay human beings, over whom the German war machine now raced. The truck on which Siebert rode also droned without pause and pushed its way further forward.

At last the column had reached the Carpathians. Tata — a small Hungarian town — received the German soldiers joyfully. Here the Russian troops had been not even six weeks, but everything,

S. 167 everything they had plundered. Almost no storehouse had any supplies left. The wine cellars contained only empty barrels, insofar as those too had not been carried off. The houses were for the greatest part devastated, the people intimidated and starving. With tears of joy in their eyes the Hungarians received the Germans. After a stay of one day the journey was to continue. In the night before the departure the panzer troops drove on without pause, after the Soviet troops. The battalion "Danmark" received the task of taking over the flank security not far from Tata at the village of Dardos. Dardos lay at the foot of the Carpathians in a deep, narrow valley that was entirely wooded. Here in the forests strong Soviet troops, in part scattered remnants, were holding out with the weapons still left to them and threatened the Germans from the flank. The companies moved into their positions. The sector of the front was rather small, so that the stretches could be manned quite densely. Most dangerous was the valley through which a well-built highway wound its way through the mountains. Here lay Penner with his men. Siebert visited him toward evening, and together they discussed how and where the machine guns might best be employed. Anti-tank guns (Pak) had taken up position here as reinforcement. The weather in Hungary was far milder than in Poland, so one felt more comfortable here in the long nights. Siebert lay with his men at the edge of the village toward the Carpathians; 100 meters further on the forest stood opposite like a black wall. The evening drew quite still over the land — everywhere quiet reigned; one might have believed that the war with its roaring and thundering was long since past.

S. 168 Quite suddenly the quiet was broken from out of the forest. Right and left of the road the Russians began to scream wildly. Savage curses of the officers and the noise of engines reached the ears of the Germans. Horses were urged on, dogs barked. Like a breaking surf the Soviet masses drew nearer on the road and in the forest on both sides of the Hungarian village, in which a single company of about 180 men lay. The attacking officers drove their soldiers to hurry, until the manifold hurrah of the Russians rang out. A devastating firefight set in. Heavy machine guns, anti-tank guns, and other weapons went into action against the roaring. Mighty explosions threw their hissing flames skyward on the road, lighting everything round about bright as day. The first houses in the village were already burning; the church had lost half its roof. All the German soldiers drew together at the road. There they fought with dogged tenacity until the Russians, under heavy losses, saw themselves forced to withdraw. What a dreadful picture the breaking morning showed here! The village was partly burned down; on the streets lay dead soldiers — German and Russian. Along the highway, over a stretch of four and a half [sic] kilometers, stood lined up one after another: motor vehicles, guns, tanks, horses before their wagons, a whole pack of signal dogs, a field hospital with wounded, looted goods, beginning with the smallest child's shoe and ending with costly furs. Everything was to be found here; even the army pay-chest was not lacking. Worst off were the wounded, for they froze miserably on the shabby wagons. By the time the road had been cleared for their removal, many had frozen

S. 169 to death. Implacable was the war toward man and beast; the demands it made went far beyond the natural. The greater part of the Russian baggage train had been left standing somewhere in the mountains; they had taken along only the barest necessities. The horses had been tied to the wagons. Starved and wretched, they whinnied mournfully, as if begging, as if they wished to accuse man for inflicting so much suffering on them.

Many German soldiers had procured themselves a horse. Siebert too possessed his white horse, which was to carry him through Hungary. But he had to give up this plan, for on a reconnaissance ride he sprained his leg and came for a longer time to the baggage train. On the very first evening that he spent here, the radio brought the long-expected news of the Soviet offensive on the Vistula. What will now become of the population here? [?] Forty-eight hours of drumfire from ten thousand barrels destroyed human dwellings in the entire regions, indeed every kind of life. Thousands of tanks crushed everything that came under their mighty tracks. The Soviets were winding up for the last, decisive blow. Again and again one posed oneself the question: what will the U.S.A. and England do with Russia? Will they go along with Russia to the end? Will these states come to see that Russia had concluded this alliance with them only because she was too weak to win the war against Hitler's Germany alone — that she needed this alliance only as a means of furthering her policy of expansion? [?] Despite the supposedly good relations with the capitalist states, the communist press again and again propagated the fight against capitalism as the greatest enemy of mankind. In Russia the sentence was stamped

S. 170 ever more loudly: it is all the same with whom the S.U. allies itself, even if it be the greatest enemy.

After eight days Siebert's leg was in order again and he was able to rejoin the company just at the moment of its transfer. In a wide arc they drove around the site of the fighting and reached Lake Balaton, on into the area of Stuhlweissenburg. Here a heavy battle had been raging for several weeks already. The units were driven straight into the foremost line, to be thrown at once into the attack. With tanks they stormed into the village of Kapolnasnek [?], in which the Russian defended himself doggedly. He was indeed pressed together in the middle of the village, but he could not be driven out. From this area he undertook two attacks daily against the German positions, but always in vain — with great losses of men he had to fall back to his starting positions. His dead lay in dense rows before the German positions. The misery, the human distress, crowded together here, cried out to heaven. When these attacks did not satisfy the Russian troops, they brought up tanks and believed that with the help of these steel colossi they could overwhelm the Germans. The battalion lay in position along the village. To the sector of the first company fell a third of the whole stretch. Penner and Siebert had spread their weapons far apart. From their squads too many men were already missing, whose places now stood empty.

Toward evening a thick fog wrapped everything in a dull, impenetrable garment. These evenings were mostly unbearable, for one could not see five paces ahead; the enemy had the possibility of creeping up quite close to his

S. 171 opponent and falling upon him unexpectedly.

When toward midnight the fog lifted, one saw oneself confronted with the accomplished fact: opposite the 1st Company five Russian T34 tanks had driven up. Their engines were running at very low speed — the time of the attack had not yet come. They still stood at a considerable distance; only their outlines could be seen. Siebert and Penner took counsel over the situation. Neither of them had ever fought against tanks; their comrades were in the same case. Would they stand firm? And if they all charged? Then all is lost. In such a case they too would take to their heels. They unbuckled their light packs and went to their men, who had likewise already recognized the danger but remained perfectly calm in their hiding places. The enemy engines droned louder and the tanks slowly set themselves in motion, halting again from time to time. Quite slowly these steel giants crept up on the Germans, who still lay quietly as if nothing at all were happening. Was it fear that made them all freeze, or was it the weapons, which had so often convinced them of their reliability and lent them this admirable calm? Now the enemy vehicles were plainly to be seen. One clearly made out the infantry riding on them with their small arms, which made the situation still worse. The calm in the German ranks persisted. Then the garden fences burst beneath the tracks; the trees cracked. No shot was fired. The tanks had already passed the Germans in their holes without having seen anyone. This circumstance made the Russians suspicious. Then the weapons of the Germans rattled. A dreadful inferno of fire arose

S. 172 around the tanks. Panzerfausts pierced the steel walls, rendered the tanks immobile. Some of them were already burning. In headlong flight, saving their lives, the crews climbed out, only to sink into the snow a few steps further on, hit. Half an hour later quiet reigned again — the stillness of the grave. Weary from agitation and fear, no one dared to say a word. In many a hole thanks were given to the heavenly Father for life preserved.

Siebert went into a barn where the wind did not blow in too strongly, knelt down, and thanked the Lord. Here he laid his fate entirely into the Lord's hands and asked Him to lead him as He deemed good for him — and the Almighty heard his plea. The proof of this he received only a few minutes later. He went to Peter and told him that he must have something to drink, and then walked toward the house in which they had left their things. The mistress of the house here was very obliging and gave the soldiers everything she possibly could. In her house the Russians [?] had raged for forty-two days. Only a few things had remained intact. Her daughters she had been able to save by locking them in a room whose door was concealed by a heavy kitchen cupboard. Forty-two long days and nights the girls spent in this room in constant fear of being discovered after all, for most of the Russian soldiers shrank from nothing and no one. Daughters were violated in the presence of their mothers, and the reverse. Daughters had to look on while these men gone wild committed their violations. Even women with infants could not escape them. In Kapolnaschnek [?] a tank crew had possessed the inhumanity

S. 173 to force a woman with five children into the machine and then drive into battle with them. The weeping of the mother and the screaming of the children were drowned out by the roaring engines; one saw only the fear-contorted faces. They never returned. All persons who seemed suspicious to the Russians were laid face-down on the market square, and then a shot in the back of the neck put an end to their lives [sic]. The row of these frozen corpses, which no one was permitted to bury [?], had grown rather long in the six weeks of the Soviet occupation. The astonishing thing [sic] was that among the shot there was not a single soldier — only civilians, men and women. No wonder the population was glad to be delivered from this horror.

The mistress of the house to whom Siebert now went believed she owed the Germans thanks, and therefore did her best. He knocked at the door. Hurried steps approached it from the other side. Through a narrow crack Siebert recognized the face of the mistress. He could say nothing to her, for the door flew crashing into its lock [?]. Did she think the Russians would soon come and she would be accused of having ... [?]? What did it matter to him what was the matter with her. He would simply wait until morning and then fetch enough to drink for the company [?]. Begging he could not do, and quarreling was far from his nature. Unconcerned, he went back to Peter. When it was light again, the two of them went to the house. Now the mistress was friendly, and motherly kindness lay in her features. Laying both hands on her breast, she said in agitation: "Oh, what a fright I had last night when you knocked at the door! Seven Russians, you see, had forced their way

S. 174 into our house and were hiding here from you. I already saw you lying dead in the snow. But then it was as if a voice said to me that I should run quickly to the door. Swiftly I pushed the Russians with their leveled rifles aside and barred your entry. How glad I was when you went away in silence. Only shortly before daybreak did the Russians withdraw." God had truly sent Siebert a watchful guardian angel. How thankful he was to Him! The grace of God is able to overcome even the greatest dangers. On the next day too God held His protecting hand over Siebert's head, as the German positions were continually blanketed with shells.

Peter, Siebert, and the rifleman Kohn lay at the edge of the village, peering into the distance. This shellfire could be the preparation for an attack. So it was necessary to be on guard.

Quite suddenly a shell strikes immediately in front of them. For a moment nothing is to be seen but lumps of snow and earth falling to the ground. But then Kohn screams with all his might: "Medic, medic! My right arm is off!"

The picture that presented itself here was a devastating one. The machine gun that had lain beside Kohn was in pieces. Kohn's sleeves were torn to shreds and the severed arm bled in streams. Peter held his left hip with both hands. Siebert shook all his limbs and established that everything had remained whole. On the other hand he had strong pains on the right side of his chest. Here the shreds hung from his body; to judge by them, his body must have been torn open. Peter and Siebert lifted the groaning Kohn to his feet and all three made for the dressing station.

S. 175 Kohn was indeed in a bad way. His arm was amputated. Peter's pains came from a splinter, which however could easily be removed. Last of all came Siebert's turn. He took off the fur coat, which showed a hole in the sleeve and on the chest. The leather jacket had the same damage, likewise the cloth tunic. Then followed the pullover, which had the hole only in the sleeve. On the chest it was whole. The shirt was completely intact. What had happened here? After a longer search a larger splinter was found in the diary that Siebert always used to carry in his pocket. The iron had bored through it as far as the back cover. But here its force was spent. — Harmless, it stuck among the pages.

How wonderfully God preserves those whose hour has not yet come! Even in the wild tumult of battle He sees the dangers drawing near for each one and averts them, if it pleases Him. It is not man who can escape his fate or bend it straight to suit himself; God alone is able to guide him as is best for him, and indeed each one there walks the path prescribed for him. It is not man's merit that preserves him, but only the grace of almighty God, thanks to which he is kept so long until he has made his pilgrimage to the end of his road.

Only Three Kilometers Still Open.

S. 176 The company cannot defend the road in its sector much longer. The losses are great. The onslaught of the Russians grows ever stronger. The advancing German troops have pushed to within six kilometers. If the encircled divisions dare the breakout from Budapest, the masses are saved. The many wounded can be brought to hospitals at home. What is especially important, if Budapest is given up, is the fact that the beautiful city with its majestic bridges would be spared senseless destruction. But a little clique of fanatical SS generals [?] insisted on the continued defense of the city. They demanded that Budapest be fought free from the outside, as Hitler had ordered. The staff of the encircled army was located in the cellar rooms of the castle. Despite unspeakable hardship in the city, despite the great hunger of the troops and the many wounded, the feasting in the castle went on without pause. While the soldiers fought — no longer for Budapest, no, there was still one's own life, which wanted to be defended — while these men fed themselves on nothing but the flesh of fallen horses, while the population of this great city languished for weeks in the cellars without water and bread, precious foodstuffs were squandered in the castle in great quantities. The misery in Budapest grew ever greater. General Hilly and his troops could no longer make headway from the outside either, for on January 31, 1945 came the

S. 177 news that the Russians would close the breach that had been struck in their lines. Only 3 km were said to be still open — three kilometers more, and the ring is closed, and the troops that were to rescue others must themselves plead for a rescue that no one can give them. That means they will perish miserably, without mercy. Everyone was clear about this.

Immediately after this shattering news arrived, the order for retreat came through. The relief of Budapest had failed. The three kilometers of Hungarian steppe still open had to be reached as quickly as possible, if one did not want to fall to enemy bullets or go into Russian captivity. In the black of night the soldiers left the village they had fought for so long, in which many of their comrades had found an early grave. Everything had been in vain. What more was it all going to cost? —

A few tanks of the "Tiger" type stayed behind as the last in the village, to ward off a possible Russian attack.

Endless columns of tired soldiers moved through the cornfields and vineyards, leaving deep tracks behind in the snow.

By day the masses burrowed into the snow to take up the fight with their pursuers. By night they crept onward like hunted game. The three kilometers had still been reached safely, but only now was the flight to begin in earnest. The Soviet command had learned of the German retreat in time and had immediately taken up the pursuit. A bitter end was to be prepared for them.

Peter, Siebert, and their good friend Gerhard Wiebe went together. As three it was easier. One

S. 178 helped the other, one watched out for the other. They vowed to support one another and to stay together, no matter what might come.

On February 3 the battalion went as rearguard at the tail of the mass flooding back. The deep snow slowed the soldiers' steps so badly that the assigned objective could not be reached in time. At 10 in the morning they had to occupy the makeshift positions again. The work was not yet finished when the enemy riflemen had already pushed up so far that their carbines reached into the German ranks. A few minutes later the first wounded appeared here, dragging themselves laboriously farther back through the snow. The shooting grew heavier, without the Germans answering.

Siebert rose and looked toward the enemy. Gray masses were massing here. Tanks overtook the men on foot. On the highway to Siebert's left the Russians were hauling numerous light and heavy field guns by manpower. No fighting could help anymore. The cry "Every man for himself!" dissolved everything that in any way still resembled order into chaos and panic. The bulk of the company, about 160 men, took the way toward the highway. Here one and the same fate overtook them all: they were mowed down by the shells and machine guns of the Russian tanks.

"Hands Up!"

S. 179 Peter, Wiebe, and Siebert were to the right of the others and were still hesitating, for Peter first wanted to load his ammunition boxes onto a little hand sled. However much Wiebe and Siebert begged him to leave it, he believed he might still need the ammunition. Then finally they too went: Wiebe and Siebert in front, and some 60–70 paces behind them Peter dragged his sled. The bullets hissed past them; shells whirled up great clouds of snow now here, now there, and hurled their splinters through the area. A moment before [sic], Wiebe and Siebert had looked back at Peter: he was walking at a brisk pace. But now he called out quite loudly and distinctly:

"Heinz, come help! I'm wounded!"

Wiebe and Siebert looked at each other in shock, as if a bullet had gone through their own legs too. But at once [?] they ran back to Peter, whose leg had been broken [?]. Instead of the boxes they laid Peter on the sled and pulled him with them into the cornfield lying before them.

On the highway the Russian units were [?] ... Escape by day was no longer to be thought of, so the three decided to go to the middle of the field and there await the fall of darkness. Here they came upon Sergeant Gert Berndt as well. He was from Breslau and was a good-natured man.

"Come, I'll help you pull, then we'll get on faster," he said, and bravely took hold of the rope.

S. 180 "Gert, let it be and go; Wiebe, you'd better go too, for we two must stay. Either we get through or we go into captivity together. It's truly kind of you not to want to leave us, but you can't help anymore either. Go — as healthy men you'll get through. It's only eight kilometers to our positions. We beg you, go," Siebert implored his friends. But they refused firmly: "We've been together the whole time, so why shouldn't we be now? Let's hope we get through all right," Wiebe concluded. Peter had rolled off the sled, and now his snowsuit was thrown over him [?]. On the highway the Russian machines were rolling; soldiers, cursing, hauled their heavy guns. The cornfield was being searched for German soldiers. The friends already believed themselves discovered, but as if led by an invisible hand, the searchers turned back just short of them.

Then it gradually grew quiet. Around midday someone crawled up to the four. At first they thought it was a Russian, but soon they recognized one of their own men from the company. He stayed with them. Now they were five men strong, only one of them wounded, so that toward evening the sled could be pulled forward easily.

Peter had only very slight pain in his right leg, which had two through-and-through wounds in the lower part. It could not be bandaged, for no one knew [?] how long they would be making use of this bed in the snow. So it was best not to touch it. Notwithstanding the four seasoned [?] men, Peter did not believe in an escape. He professed

S. 181 to sense that he would not live to see this evening.

These thoughts also seemed to have moved him to ask Siebert and Wiebe to pray with him. This was gladly granted him. Siebert and Wiebe moved somewhat closer to him and all laid their hands together on Peter's hands. Never had any of the three prayed as fervently and sincerely as in this hour. After each of them had thanked the Lord, the cares suddenly vanished; those that still remained seemed small and easily overcome. With confidence and calm they all looked into the near future, which such a short time before had looked so dark. Their faces had grown bright, their strength increased. How great is the power of a sincere prayer! How quickly can God hear the pleas that a despairing man directs to Him in his greatest need, and let them be fulfilled. Involuntarily Siebert thought of the Bible saying: "Where the need is greatest, God's help is nearest." He no longer doubted that God would help; only the way by which the help was to be carried to them was not known. To ponder over it would have been futile from the start. The future lay before them impenetrable, like a thick wall of fog. Fear had departed from them. The plan to escape captivity stood firm: at four in the afternoon they wanted to set out under cover of the fog and slip through the Russian posts. Whether Peter, after his heavy loss of blood, would still be in a condition to survive these exertions too? This question moved Siebert and Wiebe most of all.

Gradually a dense fog began to wrap the snow-covered

S. 182 earth. It swallowed everything all around. Carefully the friends laid Peter on the little sled, bedded his shot-through leg as well as they could, and then began the journey into the unknown. No one noticed the load on the sled, for the worry over bare life drove out all other worries. Heavily they stamped through the deep snow, past many familiar faces who had found their death here. The wide field was sown with corpses from the company in which Siebert served. Here lay the comrades. In the morning they had all still been glad and full of hope. They believed they would see all their loved ones again. Who would now at least tell them [sic] the place of the grave — if there would be any grave at all. The weeping mother, the grieving wife would perhaps one fine day receive a letter briefly and officially notifying them of the death of the husband or the son. It would read: "He fell for Führer, Volk, and Fatherland." That was all. Then it would say: "The Fatherland's gratitude is assured you." With these words of comfort the German soldiers were sent to the front; these words were said to them in the pocket of Stalingrad, of Kishinev, and of Budapest. These words were spoken solemnly at the graves of the fallen. They were spoken so often that later they became a mockery, for when the German Fatherland lay utterly shattered on the ground, when millions of German soldiers languished in Russian captivity, men still called out to one another: "Hold out! The Fatherland's gratitude is assured you."

The many dead of February 3, 1945 the Fatherland has not remembered. Only the surviving relatives are still searching today for a trace of these peo-

S. 183 ple. How many tears may already have flowed for their sake?!

The four men pulled their sled onward nevertheless. Peter began to groan, for the pain had become considerably greater. Only for a moment did they halt and look out in all directions for the enemy. What luck! The Russian main battle line lay behind them. They were in no-man's-land.

"Peter, we've made it! We're getting through! The Russians are already behind us!"

The wounded man was swept up by the joy of the others. He summoned his last strength to bear the pain a short while longer. Into the middle of this joyful mood whistled several submachine-gun bursts over the hopeful little band. As if knocked over by a mighty hand, the four healthy men threw themselves into the snow beside the sled. Peter had thrown himself off the sled; a bullet had wounded his right foot [?]: his shattered heel prevented him from walking. Wiebe was wounded in the right foot [?]. No one knew what was happening. Could the Russians have shot their weapons on ahead? [?] Perhaps they were even Germans? That would be wonderful! Then Peter and Wiebe could be helped. And the healthy ones? Oh, they wanted to rest from these terrible days.

There was no time for building castles in the air. All stayed down. Berndt and Siebert each took the line in one hand and, crawling, they now pulled the sled. They had barely crawled a few meters in the fog when another burst swept very low over them. This time it had done no harm. Siebert

S. 184 urged the others to hurry. Haste! Haste! Only haste can let the five men vanish in the fog. But in the same moment they find themselves surrounded by six Russians. Their weapons were aimed threateningly at the men lying there.

"Fritzes! Get up! Hands up!"

This turn of events left the Germans speechless. Was this stage of their lives to end like this? Was everything now to have been for nothing? So much effort, so much labor. Time — indeed their youth — they had sacrificed for a cause that seemed worth it to them, for in the end they were, after all, defending their fatherland against the enemy. Was this now to be the reward for it? Siebert's brain was ransacked in that moment by thoughts of this kind. In doing so he delayed carrying out the order [?]. A jab in the ribs with a rough boot and a vigorous "Davai" ("Move!" / "Come on!"), accompanied by a long string of hearty curses, made him get up quickly. At once he stretched his hands high.

"Hands up!" Two short words. And how simple and harmless they seem! Yet infinitely deep is their meaning. Grave their consequences. In the moment when one must obey this command, one loses everything, everything. It would still be comparatively easy if one only lost one's material goods, but these two little words take from a soldier the most precious thing — freedom. Freedom! For how many people on this wide earth is it something taken for granted! Yes, and it is not only freedom one loses in that moment! One becomes an outlaw. One is delivered up to the mercy and displeasure of the enemy. If they are good, they take the trouble [?] and lead you into the hinterland. Then you are the slave of the

S. 185 enemy. If they are bad, they make short work of you: a bullet finds you with dead certainty and you have become a corpse, without being able to resist, to defend yourself. How bitter! For on the battlefield one is forever young. There one knows how to value life, because one is always looking death in the face. One wants to live! There are still so many things to be done. The Russian soldiers sang a song that goes: "Умирать нам еще рановато, есть у нас еще дома дела" ("It is still too early for us to die; we still have things to do at home"). "At home!" This concept too becomes like a stretchable rubber band when one raises one's hands before the enemy. Like a distant star in the sky is this "at home." You see your home, but it cannot be reached. And yet one raises one's hands, for failure to obey this command would entitle the enemy to act at once; he would immediately make use of his weapon.

Siebert now stood with raised hands, without saying a word, beside the sled on which his brother-in-law lay. A Russian stepped up to him. In his right hand he held a pistol with the safety off, ready to fire at any moment; with his left he felt through Siebert's pockets for weapons. They found weapons on none of them, for they had laid them down before beginning their march. Peter lay motionless on the sled; only his groaning made itself heard again and again [?].

Then suddenly he looked up: "Heinz, go now, for you cannot and may not help me any longer." He had barely spoken these words when the Russians drove the four standing men on. Siebert went slowly past the sled.

S. 186 For the last time he looked at the dear man who had gone with him. They had shared everything: joy and sorrow. They belonged together. They had vowed not to leave one another. And now he was going, and Peter remained alone with his distress. How hard is fate! Inexorable!

"Auf Wiedersehen, Peter" — more Siebert could not manage to say. At the same moment the weapon of a Russian who had stayed behind barked several times. As if he himself had been hit, Siebert looked around. The shots had been meant for Peter. His head now hung limply in the snow. He was released from all cares, all pain. The sight of his dead friend paralyzed every feeling in Siebert's soul. How could human beings be so wicked? Did these people who had captured them have any human feelings at all? Or had they gone astray, become beasts of prey? Siebert quickened his steps and walked ahead of the other three comrades. He thought of nothing anymore. What was there left to think? Had he even tried to think, it would not have been possible for him. He heard only the spiteful laughing and mocking of the Russians, and when they were ordered to halt in a tall cornfield, he came to himself again. Here they were searched thoroughly once more. But now the search was no longer for weapons, but for everything a soldier has on him: combs, watches, pipes, mirrors, pocketknives, fountain pens, pencils, wallets, rings, nail scissors and files, cigarettes and tobacco were sought-after items. Good pieces of clothing — leather jackets and boots — had to be taken off at once. In their place the prisoners were given ragged

S. 187 things. When this procedure was finished, the order was to move on. But now Siebert began to speak in fluent Russian, for he wanted to ask permission to carry his wounded friend Wiebe. The wound was still bleeding heavily and Wiebe's strength was fading more and more. Although Wiebe also spoke Russian, they had agreed that very morning that Siebert should speak Russian if they fell into captivity. Peter and Wiebe would not speak. Perhaps the people could be softened if he addressed them in their mother tongue. At first they made astonished faces at this German's good command of the language, but then they conferred over Siebert's request. A short "Davai" signified that Wiebe might be carried. Wiebe slung his arms around Berndt's and Siebert's shoulders, and now they went silently through the cornfields, through knee-deep snow. This arduous march lasted several hours.

At last, in the evening hours, they arrived exhausted at the battalion staff. One of the Russian soldiers reported the arrival of the German prisoners to a Soviet officer. This man poured himself out in endless cursing and sent the soldiers back to the front, where they had come from. What the point of this back-and-forth game was, no one could fathom. So there was nothing for it but to take the weakened Wiebe onto their shoulders again and set out. Gerhard groaned more and more, for Siebert's and Berndt's strength was also gradually failing, and so they could no longer carry him gently. They moved forward very slowly. Night had already fallen when, dead tired, they arrived at the

S. 188 company. It was the same cornfield again. A fierce battle was now raging here. German shells were striking constantly. Russian mortars fired their rounds at the German positions as if from an assembly line.

Then suddenly German assault guns roared into the Russian line. Their coupled machine guns fired their destroying lead into the area, bringing death and ruin. Mighty panic seized the Soviet soldiers. They could not believe that the Germans had already recovered from the heavy blows of the last days. In fact it was only a feint, for the assault guns turned around again and vanished just as suddenly as they had come. Siebert and his friends had already been rejoicing at their liberation — but alas, in vain.

Through the sudden mock attack the rage and spite of the Soviets had only increased. The Russian soldiers who had brought them forward drove them on. What was to happen now? Do they mean to shoot them, to be rid of them? But no! Siebert was told that Wiebe had to stay here. A wagon would pick him up in half an hour. The promise seemed rather unbelievable to Siebert, and he asked them to be allowed to take Wiebe along. But they refused it firmly, on the grounds that they themselves would have to carry him further. For better or worse they set Wiebe down by a pile of straw and took their leave of him. "Stay strong, lad, and follow us soon," they comforted him. Then they went on alone into the steppe. Long Soviet artillery columns were breaking their

S. 189 way through the snow. Those passing by laughed and railed at the Germans. Had Wiebe not understood their language, it would have been easier for him to bear the mockery, but as it was he understood every single word. He had to let everything pass over him, even the worst [?]. How long he suffered like this, no one could learn, for however long his friends waited for him, he never came. When he did not come the next day either, they gave him up, in the certain assumption that he had been shot down — either out of pity, or, what was more likely, out of spite and lust for killing. [?]

"You Are a Russian."

It was already growing dark when Siebert, Berndt, and the Viennese arrived at the divisional staff of a Soviet tank division. The little Hungarian village was swarming with soldiers. There seemed to be no civilians [?]. At last they were allowed to sit down. Tired and hungry, they settled into the roadside ditch, indifferent to what would become of them. Russian soldiers passed by hooting and called to the guard: "Shoot them, the dogs! I wouldn't lead them any further. Haven't you got the nerve? Come here, I still have cartridges for these mangy [sic] Germans. Eighty-seven I've laid low with this pistol; add these three and it makes ninety." As the speaker grew more and more insistent, an old soldier shouted at him: "If you feel like shooting, go to the front — there you'll have the chance. In the rear

S. 190 one doesn't shoot, and besides, the men are unarmed."

The words of the bearded Russian drew laughter from many voices, but they had enough effect that the crowd, shamed, dispersed. The prisoners would gladly have fallen on the old man's neck out of gratitude, had this been permitted them and had their pride not forbidden it.

After this incident an officer came and fetched Berndt into the house.

Berndt was a sturdy young fellow in his early twenties. He himself was from Breslau. For him it was the highest duty to defend his fatherland. As to all other Germans, Hitler had declared that Germany had been attacked and that they should defend it with honor before the enemy. That Germany had attacked the other nations was impossible to make clear to him. And he loved his homeland as every other person loves his. For its sake he sacrificed all his ability, his knowledge, indeed all his strength. His tunic was adorned with numerous decorations, which he still wore even now. In short, the Russians believed they had an officer in him, and therefore he was interrogated first. And he never returned.

After a good while Siebert was fetched into a room that had a few sofas along the walls. In the middle of it stood a large table, at one end of which sat an officer with the rank of captain. As Siebert entered the room, the man asked quite amiably:

"Well, Fritz, is the war over for you?" "Yes, thank God," the man addressed answered in Russian,

S. 191 for the fact that he spoke Russian he could no longer conceal, because he had been handed over here as a Russian-speaker. As such he stood here before this man, his back leaning against the wall. [?]

"Well, if you're glad the war is over for you — and it really is — then we can get right down to business."

Siebert trembled in his whole body at these words, for he had no idea what he could possibly have to negotiate with this man [?]. Nothing connected him with the man there behind the table, with the broad golden-yellow shoulder boards and the wild shock of hair on his forehead. [?]

"First of all, tell me: how many Russians have you shot?"

Siebert said nothing at all to this question, for it was posed in order to find, by Soviet notions, a criminal on the German side. What among the Soviets was called the highest patriotism, they wanted, on the other hand, to punish among the Germans as a crime. No one who knew the purpose of the question would ever answer it. If one had in fact shot defenseless Russian soldiers, one had to beware of telling the truth. In the German Wehrmacht one did not boast of having shot numerous Russians. One counted the tanks knocked out, but never the Soviet soldiers shot.

Furthermore, the war was a fight in which one did not see one's opponent, and when one did see him, it was only from a great distance, and one never knew whether the opponent was hit or not. If he was hit, one could never say with certainty who had hit him.

S. 192 "Well now, you have a bad conscience, don't you? Why don't you answer, you obstinate fascist?" the captain snapped at him. "I don't know, Herr Hauptmann," Siebert now answered hesitantly.

"You seem to have a bad memory. I ask once more: how many Russians have you shot?"

"I don't know, Herr Hauptmann."

"You've told me that already, but I want to know how many Russians you have killed. Out with it!" Of the officer's initial friendliness nothing remained. From his eyes flashed glowing hatred and terrifying callousness. His uncontrolled behavior brought Siebert back into balance. He recognized in time what spirit the captain was made of and how he had to conduct himself. Here a hard fight had to be fought out, with everything staked on one card.

Siebert now answered briefly and firmly: "What I had to answer to this question, I have told you."

There followed a short pause. The Russian looked darkly at the map lying before him.

"Fine, if you won't answer my first question, then answer the following one. Where have your tanks gone? Where were they to make their next attack, and how many are there? Have you understood the question?" A fixed stare was directed at Siebert.

"Herr Hauptmann, I have understood the question well, but unfortunately I cannot answer it, for we were infantrymen and had no tanks. When we attacked, our commander requested tanks from a tank unit. These supported us

S. 193 in the attack, and when it was called off, they withdrew again in some way unknown to us, which was completely immaterial to us."

"Man, that is the wildest fairy tale I have ever heard," the Russian bellowed.

"I ask now once more: where have your tanks moved off to? Answer!"

"I don't know, Herr Hauptmann, where the tanks of others drove! We ourselves had none," said Siebert, his eyes fixed on the officer.

"We shall see whether we can't refresh your memory," hissed the captain, and approached Siebert. Then he stood so close before him that Siebert could smell his breath, reeking of makhorka (cheap Russian tobacco).

"I ask you once more: where are your tanks?" He put his hands behind his back, and Siebert noticed how he was rubbing his hands in rage.

"We had no tanks, Herr Hauptmann," Siebert could barely say, and then the Russian's right fist flew into his face so that his head struck the wall.

The same question, the same answer, and again the fist shot forward, only from the other side. Again and again the same questions and answers. After every answer the captain struck Siebert. Soon the blood was flowing from Siebert's mouth.

"How many Russians have you shot, you dog?"

Siebert opened his mouth with difficulty to give his answer, when a powerful, well-aimed blow with the heels of both hands struck him under the chin.

Siebert still felt the blow, but then he crumpled and lay unconscious. When Siebert opened his eyes he was soaking wet, his hair

S. 194 hanging in wet strands over his face.

"Get up!" bellowed the captain, beside whom stood a soldier with a bucket of water.

Siebert gathered his strength and stood up. His whole face burned. His tongue was swollen and failed him when he tried to speak.

"You do look charming, Fritz" (this is what all Germans were called, because they always addressed the Russians as Ivan) "— like a milked-out cow. Do you know now where your tanks are and how many Russians you have shot?"

Since Siebert could no longer speak, he only shook his head. Right away another blow struck him and threw him to the floor.

"Get up!" grated the voice, coarse from alcohol. Siebert struggled painfully to his feet. This savage business went on repeating itself for a long time yet. Bathed in sweat, he stood before the officer, red with rage. [?] When Siebert had entered the room, the large clock on the wall showed eight in the morning. Now it had become twelve noon. For four long hours, which seemed to Siebert like an eternity, the two questions had been put to him again and again. Will-less, he leaned against the wall. The Russian noticed this, whereupon he roared at him:

"Hey, don't dirty our wall! Stand as a soldier is supposed to stand!"

Siebert straightened up and tried to stand on his own.

"Mikulenok, come in here," the captain called through the door. At this call a man appeared with a tall white cook's cap and snapped smartly to attention in the doorframe: "At your orders, Comrade Captain!"

S. 195 "Take the Fritz with you and give him something decent to eat."

"At your orders, Comrade Captain!" Again he clicked his heels. Then he turned to Siebert: "Come — very hungry?"

Siebert nodded.

The kitchen of the divisional staff was in a small farmhouse kitchen in the same building. In the little room stood a stove, a table, and two chairs. The cook, a friendly older Russian, good-natured as one could find them everywhere in Russia, pulled the chair up to the table and bade Siebert take a seat. On the table there already stood half a liter of wine (Hungarian wine) [sic], a plate of steaming mashed potatoes, and a good piece of pork. Siebert had not eaten a warm meal in a long time. His mouth watered. Seductively the red wine sparkled in the glass. Siebert would only too gladly have drunk it — but then there was the possibility of drunkenness. Who knows what more they wanted from him. He must keep his head as clear as possible in order to find the right answers. These answers were being weighed with the utmost care. No, he must not drink the wine under any circumstances. All too often he had read in Russian periodicals of foreign spies who had made their henchmen — indeed even the strongest men — compliant with the help of wine. The proverb came to his mind: drunkards and children speak the truth. The wine could become his undoing here, for many Russian members of the German Wehrmacht dangled from the telegraph poles and trees, or lay shot in the roadside ditches like so much fair game. But perhaps the

S. 196 officer had ordered that he drink the wine. So that the glass would be empty, Siebert asked the cook whether he would drink the wine. The cook quickly set the glass to his lips and emptied it in eager draughts. When this worry was removed, Siebert took up his fork and ate the food set before him. He was already full and yet he ate on, for first, the food tasted good, and second, no one knew when he would get something to eat again. So the rule was simply: eat when you have something, and if possible for the next few days as well. Well sated, he rose from the table and thanked the cook, who had stood at the stove the whole time watching the German eat with pitying eyes.

Now Siebert felt strengthened again. The pain in his face and mouth had eased. The captain from the morning reappeared and fetched him into the room again. This time, however, the captain was not alone: six more officers filled the room. Siebert looked at them with a critical eye and found them, at first glance, very friendly, peaceable, and intelligent. A major now did the talking. The incident of the morning no longer interested him at all. The major sat at the head of the table and asked Siebert, in a tone that betrayed nothing bad, in broken German:

"What is your name?"

"Heinz Siebert," the man answered.

"Good! Do you speak Russian?"

Siebert could not deny this question, for the captain already knew of his language skills.

"Yes, I speak Russian."

"Well, well. Then you will also tell us where you learned the Russian language, won't you?" The

S. 197 major propped his chin expectantly on his fist, stretching his head and upper body far over the table. He assumed a threatening posture, while the other officers kept quiet.

How was Siebert to answer this question? To tell the truth would cost the life that had brought him safe this far. [?] To lie? — Could he reconcile that with his conscience? Was it not a sin to lie? And what should he say so that these people would believe it? He had never thought about this question before. Inside him it raged and churned. What should he tell them? Then an idea came into his mind, as if it had been whispered to him by some voice. Was it God's guardian angel, for whom he had always prayed? "A white lie does no harm," [sic] his inner voice told him. Siebert turned his gaze to the major.

"First, I was born in East Prussia, where one very often encounters the Russian language. Second, I studied at the University of Königsberg. I wanted to become a teacher of Slavic languages. Later, from 1940 on, I lived in Poland, where I had opportunity to cultivate and deepen my knowledge of Russian."

The major had evidently expected a different answer: "Where do you claim to have been born?"

"In East Prussia, in the district of Königsberg. My parents had a farm there."

Now the officer sprang up, while the others let out a scornful laugh. A deep red colored his face:

"To the devil! There you're lying again, you miserable dog! This morning you told us fairy tales such as Münchhausen never invented, but now you reach

S. 198 the peak. You miserable fascist, I will tell you who you are and where you come from. You are a traitor to your fatherland, who bartered away his socialist homeland to the German fascists. And then, so that you know it: you do not come from East Prussia, but from Russia. Admit that at once or you die here on the spot!" He reached to his left side, pulled a pistol from its holster, and threw it crashing onto the table.

This fit of rage had a calming effect on Siebert, for now it was a matter of being hard, as in the morning. Trust in this man, and softness, were out of place here. Here one had to be hard and stand by what had been said before [?]. Silently Siebert prayed to God and pleaded for His strength as he turned again to the major and looked him steadily in the eye, for he knew that one must look at a man sharply if one wants to convince him of the truth of a thing.

"Do you want to hear the truth, Herr Major?"

"Of course! Why do you even ask!" shouted the major, who had long since forgotten the polite "Sie."

"What you ordered me to admit is a lie, and I do not wish to lie," Siebert dissembled with inner revulsion: "I was born in East Prussia. . ."

"Shut your cursed snout, you miserable beast. I'll make a pancake out of you right now. I'll beat you soft as a rag if you don't admit that you're a Russian." Now the question sounded quite different, for whether Siebert really came from Russia was no longer being asked. [?] So he did not need to lie, for he was a German.

S. 199 "I am a German and not a Russian, Herr Major."

Siebert had barely spoken the words when the major was standing beside him, working over his face with both fists until a kick of the boot into his body threw Siebert to the floor. After a short pause the furious officer was about to fall on him again, but was held back by another officer:

"Comrade Major, one moment! Let us try it differently for once." The man addressed went back to his place with clenched fists, and the other took up the word:

"The fellow said earlier that he is a teacher. Then he must also be able to tell us something about the German school system. Tell me, how did you manage in the German school to raise so many criminals?"

Siebert heard only the words "raise criminals" ringing in his ears. Never had he raised criminals. No — the reverse: he had always striven to raise decent human beings who were to serve the good, and now he was being accused of having raised criminals. Against such a slander his innermost being rose up.

"I have always raised human beings only as the curriculum prescribed."

"All right, you won't admit that anyway. Can you tell us something about Schiller and his work?"

Siebert gave a detailed answer to this question. Then followed further questions from all present. Each asked about whatever he knew a question to ask: about methodology, pedagogy, psychology, physics, chemistry,

S. 200 algebra, trigonometry, stereometry [sic] and so forth [sic]. The questions were posed in a wild jumble. There followed questions about the geographical conditions of Russia and the other states, about Russian writers such as Pushkin, Lermontov, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Nekrasov, and others. From time to time the major broke in with the short question: "In which city in Russia did you study?" or "Where did you live in Russia?" To these questions Siebert answered the same thing again and again: "I am a German, and did not live in Russia." The other questions he answered elaborately and at length, in order to gain time to think. Siebert himself did not know where the knowledge for the many answers came from. He had never believed that he possessed such extensive knowledge. Perhaps he did not possess it at all? Perhaps his answers were even wrong — only the Russians did not notice that he was answering at random. In any case he passed the examination to the satisfaction of the officers, who received answers to all their questions, for one of them finally said:

"The man is a teacher. Whether a German or a Russian one is hard to say, since his speech often resembles the Russian language of the schools."

"We've been speaking Russian with the fellow the whole time and don't even know whether he speaks German. Hey, Mikulyonok, send in the German-speaking Bulgarian!" the major called to the cook in the kitchen.

The door opened and in its frame appeared a man with black hair and a trimmed mustache, in Hungarian uniform.

"Interpreter Komaroff, present as ordered, Comrade Major," the Bulgarian reported.

S. 201 "Komaroff, converse with this man about the crimes of the Germans, and pay attention to his knowledge of German."

Now the Bulgarian recited a series of atrocities that German soldiers were alleged to have committed. He could tell Siebert nothing new, for these atrocities were known to him well enough from the German newspapers, which claimed they had been committed by Russians. In part Siebert had also seen with his own eyes how the corpses of German soldiers had been desecrated — their skulls kicked in, their ears and genitals cut off. Wounded men had been doused with water in winter and carried outside to freeze.

Siebert had neither experienced nor seen such things on the German side, but nevertheless could not contradict the truth [as it stood] [?]. But then the Russians had no right to reproach him over these things. The conversation with the Bulgarian lasted a good while. The officers listened intently. Did they understand any of it? —

"Komaroff, what do you make of the prisoner's German?" asked the major.

"His speech is flawless and free of errors, Comrade Major," declared Komaroff, rising.

"Damn it all — we've been tormenting ourselves with this German swine since eight in the morning. Now it's already eight in the evening; that's twelve hours, and we could establish nothing. Take him to the quarters of the reconnaissance men. I'm sick of it. Perhaps those fellows will manage him. Of course they won't deal with him too humanely."

One of the officers went to the telephone and requested

S. 202 two armed soldiers, who appeared a few minutes later and took Siebert away.

Tired, bathed in sweat, Siebert went through the snow across the street toward the quarters of the reconnaissance men. From here one could hear the noise in the house. The door was pushed open and a mixture of makhorka smoke and vodka fumes struck Siebert in the face. For a moment there was quiet as the horde caught sight of Siebert, but then the noise began all the louder:

"Hey, here comes one of our friends. Is he for us, Stepan? Is he supposed to learn to talk? We'll give it to him all right."

"Stepan, stand him over there at the door — I'll shoot a hole through his ear!"

"Ah, go to the devil, Vanka. I have a Finnish dagger — I'll throw it right past his snout." These people truly did not lack for ideas; the overwhelming majority of them were seventeen-year-old lads. They stood around Siebert like a wild mob and deliberated on what would now be best for their entertainment.

Thick drops of sweat stood on Siebert's forehead. His thoughts had long since left this room. Now he was at home with his dear wife and daughter, who had perhaps endured the same things as he; now again with [sic] his dear mother and his brothers and sisters. His hands folded behind his back, he prayed to God to receive him into His kingdom. He had finished with life — after all, the German press had already predicted this fate for every soldier. Often it had been called propaganda, but what Siebert had seen so far had, in his case, turned the propa-

S. 203 ganda into reality. He only could not grasp why he was being tried so severely by fate. Had he sinned so greatly? Why did he have to be punished so severely? If only it would come to an end! Siebert envied Peter, who had had a shorter way out of this world. But then he told himself again that the Almighty determines the way for each individual. This way — however high the cliffs may be — everyone must walk, the way God has chosen for him. Now it would surely not last much longer, for his strength was fading with every moment.

Now the door flies open with a crash and a starshina (Soviet senior sergeant) bursts into the house. His dark hair hangs in his eyes, which had recognized at one glance what was happening here. The same thing seemed [to have occurred more than once] among these people [?].

Then he turns to Siebert, looks at him wide-eyed with his blue eyes. Then he throws himself on him, seizes him by the scruff of the neck with a strong hand, and with the other tears open the door. A long curse rings out, and Siebert is already flying into the snow in front of the house. From behind the door Siebert hears the starshina's voice: "You cowards! Go to the front, shoot down the Fritzes there, as many as come before your guns. You're like jackals — you get drunk and then fall on disarmed men." Then the starshina stood beside him and ordered him to walk. He brought Siebert into the cellar of the divisional staff. The cellar was a dark hole with many empty barrels. Quiet at last! How good that felt. Only then did Siebert think over the last minutes. How gracious God is. In the greatest need, He is nearest to man. How great

S. 204 is this realization! Aloud Siebert's lips spoke: Great God, I thank Thee!

Now it also occurred to Siebert that he was still carrying his paybook in the waistband of his underpants. For in the paybook his place of birth and home address were entered. If it were found on him, no further proof would need to be sought. Quickly he pulled it out, tore it up, and stuffed the scraps of paper under one of the barrels. He had just pushed the barrel back into its place when someone came clattering down the cellar stairs. It was the cook from the divisional staff, who was to bring Siebert to the staff. With an anxious heart Siebert climbed the stairs. Was the interrogation now to continue? When he entered the room, he found it exactly as before, only that now there were even more officers present. The same major stepped up to him and asked:

"Did you recognize the man outside in front of the door?"

Siebert looked at him in astonishment, for he had seen no one.

"No, I saw no one known to me, Herr Major," he answered.

"He's sitting behind the door. Take a look at him," the officer commanded.

Siebert opened the door, and indeed, there sat a huddled figure, head propped in his hands. He stepped up to the man. The man now raised his head and looked at Siebert. How was it possible? Gabusch here? He was supposed to be with the few living comrades who had had the luck to escape. How had he come here? And how he looked, the boy! Had the Russians worked him over so terribly? Siebert and Gabusch knew each other well. They had become acquainted in Hammerstein and had been together ever

S. 205 since. On the day of their capture they had run a good stretch of the way together. Gabusch came from Czechoslovakia, but was German by birth. He knew Siebert's origins, for they had often spoken of it. What might he have said in his statement? Had he betrayed Siebert? Then everything was now over. Perhaps that was why the many officers had all gathered? It would truly be a pleasure for them to watch how they broke this German down.

"Gabusch, you here?!" cried [sic] Siebert in astonishment. "I thought you had gotten away."

"As you see, they caught me too. But you were supposed to be dead — that's what Jangen reported when he arrived at the company, that is, at the Russians, as the first man. How are you? About myself I hardly need to tell you anything, for my appearance says it all." Gabusch's voice was quiet and tired.

"Hey, don't stand there talking nonsense — come in, Siebert." The major was growing impatient. Crushed, almost without hope, Siebert entered the room.

"Listen here, Fritz: in this moment your fate is being decided. If you tell the truth now, you are saved. Pay attention: if you are a Russian — you stay alive; if you are a German — you will be shot at once."

Truly, this time it was a matter of the naked truth; this time the truth would help — for Siebert was not so naive as to have believed those words. Without hesitation he answered:

"Then you will have to shoot now, Herr Major, for I am a German by birth." Siebert spoke calmly and convincingly.

The waiting faces of the officers relaxed. Here and there a smile flitted across their lips.

[S. 206 — unpaginated]

The major's eyes lit up in a friendly way as he calmly stepped up to Siebert, clapped him on the shoulder with his right hand, and said:

"You're a good one, my boy. You have saved your own life. If you were a Russian, you would already be dangling from that tree over there with your tongue out." Siebert did not know what was happening to him. Was it reality or a dream? Could such a swift turn have come about? Would they not shoot him? How unpredictable the Russian is: first he drives his fists into your face, and a few minutes later he is your friend — or first he is well-disposed toward you, and in the very same moment he can knock your teeth in. How strange!

Siebert made no reply at all to the major's declaration. That he was supposed to have saved his own life, he did not believe, for he had long since seen no way out. For him everything had long seemed lost. What happened here now he received as a great mercy of the Lord. God had led him to the very edge of the abyss — indeed, one foot had already left solid ground, his eye was gazing into a yawning depth — and then the guardian angel of the Lord appeared once more and whispered to him the answer that was needed. God's hand had come at the right time here as well. Unsearchable, incomprehensible are God's ways. How magnificently these words of Holy Scripture proved true here!

End of Part One.

Publisher's Announcement

Dear Readers!

The second part of the present book is expected to appear at the end of 1950, once the publishing costs of the first part have been covered.

The second part of "Give Honor to the Truth" will take you into the Soviet Russia of the postwar period. It is to tell you of the hardships and cares of the Soviet peoples, but quite especially of the fear and longing of the prisoners of war, of the conditions in the Soviet prisoner-of-war camps, and of the numerous crimes of the Soviets and their accomplices.

You will learn of this in the following chapters:

1. "You Are Guilty." 2. The Slaveholders. 3. The Fateful Questionnaire. 4. The Great Lie. 5. The First Weeks in Skorokhodovo. 6. Lieutenant Colonel Rodin. 7. Unlimited Rule, Free of Cost. [?] 8. MVD Informers. 9. The Bible. 10. The Murderer of Jassy. 11. The Great Search. 12. The Red Himmler. 13. Penal Camp 7149/2.

Karl Fast · Experiences from Russia's Recent Past Second Part · 1951 · Published by the author · North Kildonan, Manitoba, Canada

All rights reserved. Printed by J. Regehr, 326 McKay Ave., Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.

"Every injustice cries out to God against the one who commits it and for the one who must endure it." — Rev. P. P. Tschetter.

S. 5

"Sergant [sic] Nikitin, here — take this letter for Captain Ostrovsky and bring the two prisoners to the division trains. Captain Ostrovsky is to sign the letter acknowledging receipt of the two. You answer with your life for the lives of the Germans. The soldier Shishkov goes with you," ordered the major.

Siebert thought he could not have heard correctly. Could it really be true that they were not going to put an end to his life here after all? Nikitin pushed him out the door, where they picked up Gabusch as well.

Then they walked through the nighttime streets of the town. Not a soul far and wide. The noise of the front could hardly be heard here. The prisoners walked in front, while Nikitin and Shishkov walked behind them. At first no one spoke a word, until Nikitin suddenly broke the silence: "Fritzes, have you got tobacco?"

The prisoners handed him what he wanted. Gabusch had listened in silence to Siebert's experiences. Now he began: "You know, after we parted that morning, all the comrades fell except for 18 men, and I was among them. We pulled back to the nearest puszta (a Hungarian estate farm) and set up a defense. At nightfall I went to the manor house, meaning to withdraw further under cover of darkness. To my great dismay it was empty. The comrades had set out before the appointed time and had forgotten me. What to do? I was still pondering which direction they might have driven when suddenly the Russians drove into the yard and took me prisoner. Now a cruel game began. They stood me against a tree and fired at me several times, until I toppled over from fear. When I

S. 6

came to again, I had to take off my shoes and lay aside my coat and jacket. I thought, now they'll practice the shot to the back of the neck. But nothing of the kind. I was allowed to dress again, whereupon two soldiers led me away. These two repeated the game twice more, only with the difference that I did not put my own shoes back on, but their torn boots instead. By the time I arrived here I had only my own underwear left; everything else had been traded off my back. Then, after the interrogation — where they also asked about you, by the way — they took me to the reconnaissance men's quarters. I had barely crossed the threshold when porcelain plates and jugs came flying at my head. Once everything had been smashed to pieces, they let me go. What a brutish people!"

"Gabusch, please don't confuse the Russian people with these men, for these people are held only by brutishness [sic], raised by a regime. The people in and of themselves are good-natured. They are ordered about this way by the communist leadership, and those fellows know only hatred and ruthlessness; feelings of humanity are foreign to them. The people are left no choice but to watch these goings-on, or indeed to take part in them. These soldiers are representatives of the young generation, of whom the Bolsheviks claim that it has overcome all capitalist prejudices. That claim is true to a certain degree. For I know a great many young Russians who stand for the majority of Russian youth [?], who are untouched [?] by the existing order and long for freedom and humanity. But we'll talk about that later. The captivity

S. 7

will last a long time, and we'll have time enough for such problems. If we come through everything all right, they will surely have to release us soon after the war's end, if they abide by international law. Two little years — we'll have to make our peace with that. The main thing is that they don't haul us too deep into Russia. Ah, but here I am talking about things that aren't even worth discussing today. For now, all that matters is that we are alive. What interests me now is: what did you say about me in your statement?"

"They asked me whether I knew you, which I affirmed, for I assumed you were dead — the company had reported that you had shot yourself so as not to go into captivity, and that your brother-in-law Penner had been shot by Russian tanks. That is what your wife was told as well. Further, I was asked where you were born. I told them I could not say with certainty. Supposedly you were from the east of Germany and had gone to school there too. By profession you were said to be a language teacher. With that the interrogation was over [?]."

"Then our statements matched splendidly, for I had passed myself off as an East Prussian. Should we be questioned in the future, stick to your statement. Agreed?" Gabusch promised he would.

The Russians walked along behind them, chatting. As morning dawned they reached a larger town, where the division trains and Captain Ostrovsky were supposed to be. Let there be some rest here at last, for over forty-eight hours the Germans' strength had shrunk to a bare minimum.

Captain Ostrovsky took receipt of the let-

S. 8

ter. After he had read it, he studied the prisoners for a long time with narrowed eyes. In broken German with a Jewish accent he addressed them:

"So this is what you Germans look like. I had imagined you quite differently. I thought you would all resemble the devil, but it's not so bad after all. Only your culture has abandoned you [?]. A fine culture you have. Far it has gotten you," he jeered. Why the word culture was woven in here, Gabusch and Siebert could not understand. In the course of the further conversation he used it again and again.

"Now listen! You have survived everything that could have cost you your lives — provided, of course, that you are sensible in the future. You are to stay with me and work here. If you feel like it, you'll have it good here. You will eat and sleep with my soldiers. Don't even think of trying to escape. I have a sergant who shoots dead-sure with a pistol at 200 meters. I'll show him to you right away. You are under his command as well."

The business with the two hundred meters seemed somewhat exaggerated, but the Sergant Madzharov, a Tajik from Central Asia, did in fact exist. From his belt hung two pistols and several hand grenades, which lent him a rather pugnacious appearance. But he wore no decorations. Probably he had never been in combat, like his superior [?], for his chest itself bore no medal [sic]. Madzharov squinted at the two Germans out of half-opened slit eyes and ordered them to walk.

"Davai, you cursed fascists!"

On the other side of the yard was a large gasoline depot.

S. 9

"Petro, these two Germans here want to help you. Give them work. But see to it that they don't run off on you. Have you got your pistol here?" With that, Madzharov withdrew.

Petro was not so bad at all. The work they had to do here consisted of loading and unloading gasoline drums. At short intervals trucks drove up, now empty, now full. But Petro had nothing to smoke, and so he became dependent on his German helpers, for he loved smoking more than life itself. With every cigarette there was a pause, which Gabusch and Siebert used to catch their breath. Their strength was so slight that only with great effort could they roll a 200-liter drum onto the truck. At last it was noon. The food they were brought was good [?]. The soldiers paid no attention to the Germans, for Petro had introduced them as good fellows.

In the afternoon the work went on, with a pause from time to time. At 8 in the evening Siebert and Gabusch lay down after a good supper and slept until eight in the morning. Petro led them to work again. Today he had no light work for them [?]. But then it occurred to him that the captain had no wood for his stove. So — sawing wood. This work was quickly done, and so they sat down in a shed and chatted. Petro wanted very much to hear about Germany and listened attentively to the Germans' stories.

"What the devil are you doing there?" cried Captain Ostrovsky. "Why aren't the Germans working, Petro?" "Have no work for them, Comrade Captain," answered Petro. "Have no work." — "What is that supposed to

S. 10

mean? There is work enough. Germans must work from morning till night. They are not to have a single free minute. Do you see all the latrines standing around here? They are all full. Is that work or isn't it?" "At your orders, Comrade Captain, the prisoners will work," stammered Petro. The captain waddled like a duck through the mud toward the house.

"He's a Jew and can't stand to see other people not working — especially he can't stand the sight of the Germans. But he shouldn't act as though he invented work either. Come on, go empty the latrines, or he'll punish me yet." Siebert and Gabusch went to work with bowed heads. When one of them ran out of air from the sheer stench, the other sprang in so that the first could gasp for fresh air, for inside the latrine itself one could not breathe — one ran the risk of keeling over. Over this dreadful work it had finally become evening. As Petro was about to lead the prisoners away, a first lieutenant appeared and ordered him: "Wait a moment. I'm taking the Russian-speaking German with me." Siebert flinched. What did this one want now? Another interrogation?

The first lieutenant led him through a dark corridor into a room that was evidently meant to be his office. Siebert had to take a seat on a stool while the officer remained standing at the table. "Do you know where you are right now?" he asked.

"No, no idea, Herr First Lieutenant."

"Have you ever heard of the G.P.U.?"

Siebert knew this institution in the Soviet lands very well indeed. When one heard these words at home or anywhere else, [...] [?] But he had never come into closer contact with this specter. He

S. 11

also knew that this agency, which holds the peoples of Russia in check, was today designated by the letters NKVD. Fearfully he answered: "Yes, I have read about it, Herr First Lieutenant." The word "Herr" seemed to flatter the first lieutenant, for it was something different from the eternal "Comrade," when the person one was addressing had long since ceased to be any comrade of one's own. But the first lieutenant seemed to have nothing in particular in mind with Siebert, for after an hour Siebert was allowed to go. Petro and Gabusch were still sitting in the shed waiting for him.

"Did he do anything to you? Those are dangerous people — better not to go near them," said Petro. When Siebert said no, they stood up and headed for their quarters.

The next morning Ostrovsky was waiting for the prisoners: "Come here, you men of culture. We are moving on westward today. Soon we'll be in Budapest, then comes Vienna's turn, and finally Berlin — and you don't want to go there anyway, since you're possessed by the drive to the East. Besides, we can't use you there. In Russia there's work enough for you. First you'll rebuild what the war destroyed, and then we have vast expanses in Siberia. You'll have a long while yet before you need think about going home. Here's roasted bread for you for the next few days. This truck will take you to Zsoskut. You'll still have a good stretch to go on foot. Petro, take them away!"

Now two more Germans and four Hungarians joined them. Last came the Bulgarian who had examined Siebert at the division staff. He no longer looked so confi-

S. 12

dently into the future, for he had hoped to escape deportation to Russia. As bothersome baggage he was being shipped off to Russia.

The nine prisoners filled their bread bags with the black roasted bread. Then began the journey through Hungary. Everywhere desolate villages, for the population had fled from the violent deeds of the Russians. Only slowly did the inhabitants come out of their hiding places, for they could not stay hidden forever. They surrendered themselves to fate for better or worse. The first day the journey was made by truck. The second day they marched along the mud-choked roads. Spring was gradually coming. Nature awoke to new life. The first buds adorned the trees. Here and there on the slopes of the Carpathians one saw the first green. In the face of this awakening life the prisoners grew sad and despondent. Weary, with no known destination before their eyes, they walked on toward uncertainty, until by evening they had covered the 37 kilometers to Zsoskut.

Outside the town lay a puszta that had been set up as a prisoner-of-war transit camp. A high barbed-wire fence enclosed the whole camp. Inside the camp the muck stood knee-deep, a mixture of manure and clay, for before the prisoners were brought here the estate owner had kept his large herd of cattle on the spot. The only buildings were big stables, partly laid out with straw, which however held only a third of the prisoners. The remaining two thirds spent their nights in the open. Six thousand men had been herded together here, the majority of them Hungarians.

S. 13

The Hungarian troops were approaching their final collapse, for the war was now raging directly in their homeland, which until then had scarcely felt it. They had to watch their villages and towns being razed to the ground; they saw that the war had long been lost for Hungary, and they deserted in droves to the Soviets, in the hope that these would release them immediately after their capture. But how bitter was their disappointment when they were treated exactly like the Germans — against whom they now displayed a burning hatred. Wherever they had the least opportunity — for they were in the majority and the Germans could not defend themselves — often by night or by day the Hungarians fell upon the little band of Germans, which Siebert too had joined, plundering and beating them. The Russian soldiers or their officers supported them in this. Whatever valuables the prisoners still had were taken from them and haggled off to Soviet enlisted men and officers.

For rations there was pea soup three times a day and a piece of bread. People told themselves: if the prisoners are fed like this the whole time, they can pull through.

More and more prisoners came into the camp. Now it was overcrowded even by Soviet standards, and march columns of 2000 men each were formed and sent on their way toward Kiskunfélegyháza, a small town. The columns left at one-day intervals, and on the march each column stretched out over 2 km. In the first two days progress was fairly brisk, but then strength gradually failed. Provisioning on the march was a matter of chance, i.e.

S. 14

one ate whatever the Hungarians brought out to the roadside whenever a village was passed. This frequently led to wild brawls in the column when a loaf of bread or anything else was thrown into the crowd. Men tore the bread out of each other's hands, it broke apart, and finally it lay in the road filth under their feet. Then they looked at one another in utter disappointment, wiped the sweat from their brows, and trudged hungrily on down the torturous road.

Such a fight over bread might still pass off well enough, but as soon as a Russian noticed that the prisoners were brawling over a loaf, he waded into the crowd. His submachine gun then created order. Afterward the column moved on and the men who had been hit stayed behind on the field of battle. The last guard saw to it that no living man remained behind. To make sure of this, he put a bullet through each man's skull. With that he had done his duty as a soldier of an army of liberation, as the Bolsheviks called it, which brought the Hungarian people its "freedom."

Siebert marched in the column with a few other Germans, though half of them passed themselves off as Frenchmen. Gabusch had stayed behind in Zsoskut for reasons of health. His only friend was a German from Westphalia. Ulrich had been taken prisoner the same day as he, and now walked on into the unknown.

When they set out from Zsoskut, the cry was: "Germans to the front!" Even if one was forever taking blows there, it had the advantage that a morsel was more likely to come one's way at the head of the column than anywhere else. The Hungarians therefore envied them and demanded that the Germans march at the rear. So they marched at the rear.

S. 15

Often the crowd of givers was very large. The submachine guns had to establish order and quiet among the women as well. Only when the column was nearly past did they try to get their gifts to the men. Again the Germans had the advantage, which the Hungarians did not care to see. They lodged a protest, and a Soviet officer ordered: "Germans to the middle!"

Now the fourteen men were well taken care of, for not a scrap of bread reached them anymore.

By the second day, thirst had become a tormenting burden: there was nothing to drink. Water was only in the roadside ditch, and there the men flung themselves down [sic] [?]. Greedily they gulped the dark slurry. Others fetched snow from the wayside and ate it. No one was surprised when, the next day, the first men collapsed: dysentery had seized them [?]. The Russian at the rear performed the usual procedure on the fallen.

In constant fear of falling ill as well, evening finally came — but without night quarters. The guards had the column halt somewhere in a meadow. Snow and mud let no one come to rest. The moment morning broke, the march went on. But it was not only human beings who were despised and desecrated; even before churches and houses of God there was no halting.

One evening word went around: tonight we sleep under a roof. And indeed, at nightfall the column came to a village that had a fairly large church spared by the war. The column halted in the street in front of the church. Several guards forced their way in and came out after some twenty minutes with two full sacks. The church had been plundered. Normally it held 300–400 persons. Now

S. 16

it housed for one night almost 2000 men behind bolted doors. The single room was packed to bursting; even on the pulpit 17 men had settled in for the night. Lying down was out of the question; one could barely sit hunched together. Every man had to relieve himself where he sat, with the result that after a few hours the air no longer sufficed, but filled the room with a dreadful stench. How it must have pained the population the next day, when they saw their desecrated church again!

The cases of sickness grew ever more frequent. At ever shorter intervals came the shots at the rear of the column. The march through Hungary had now lasted ten days. On the eleventh day Siebert could raise himself only with the greatest effort. To sit down meant to remain sitting [?]. So as not to fall, he took a stick and held it against his legs, pressing the upper end to his chest [?]. By means of this prop he kept himself upright. Slowly it went forward. Involuntarily one was reminded of a gigantic funeral procession. And in fact it was a true funeral procession: the armed forces of Germany and Hungary were being carried to their grave here, only with the difference that the men were escorting one another.

On one of the last days of the march, the officer of the column approached the German prisoners and pulled out Master Sergeant Ostmann. He suspected him of being an officer.

"Frieze [sic], are you an officer?" Ostmann said no.

"Good, you are free and may go," declared the Soviet officer.

Ostmann's face showed astonishment. He was to be free? To go? Impossible!

S. 17

"You don't believe me, do you? Then I order you to walk in that direction," he said, pointing toward a village lying off to the side. Ostmann seemed to sense that this was meant to be a trap and did not stir from the spot.

"Now go at last, you man of little faith," the Russian scolded, and leveled his pistol at the German. Ostmann recognized his perilous position: either he runs and gets through — but if the Russian shoots in time and shoots well, he hits him. If he stays put, however, he is a child of death one way or the other.—

Suddenly Ostmann runs as fast as his legs will carry him. In his mortal fear he seemed to have superhuman strength. Already he was 50 meters away. All eyes watched this tragedy. Now he has covered 75 meters — then the officer raises his submachine gun to his shoulder, aims, and fires. Ostmann falls on his face and lies still. Thereupon an interpreter had to step forward, and the officer had the following words translated:

"So it will go with every one of you who tries to escape. That man there was trying to escape." What mockery, this declaration by an officer of the Soviet army!

"M-a-a-rch!"

Slowly the prisoners trotted on. But what is going on up there now? Siebert stepped to the side to see better. The head of the column had reached a village. Many women stood along the road, searching the ranks with sorrowful eyes. One mother had discovered her son and burst through the line of guards [?]. The woman wept loudly on her child's neck. The guards cursed and swore at her savagely. Slowly the column pushed past the two, until two Russians seized the woman by the arms and

S. 18

flung her into the ditch. The Hungarian stepped back into the ranks and walked through his home village, past his parents' house. How long may he have walked? Did he halt before reaching the Siberian wastes? That the misery-road of captivity would take them so far — scarcely one of the prisoners believed it.

After 14 long days they came at last to Kiskunfélegyháza. Here the men were quartered in a large barracks that had once housed a Hungarian hussar regiment. Now the prisoners lay in its rooms; they lay everywhere: in the cellar and in the attic, which was covered with a layer of dust. Idle and hungry, the men lay about here, bitten raw by lice and plagued by bedbugs, for the weakened men could no longer muster the strength to fight them off. The men lay in the courtyard (they were too weak to go into the building) and cried: "Help me, comrades, the lice are killing me! Help me, for God's sake! Be so good!" No one could help, for the man soon had white patches on his body where the lice had not gained a foothold [?]. Eyebrows and eyelids, moustache and beard teemed with lice. And who was there to help, when every man was intent on preserving his own life? When Siebert saw this picture of horror, he resolved [...] to delouse himself every day in the open air [?], at the risk of catching cold.

Day after day new march columns arrived. When Budapest fell on February 12, the first columns of German prisoners came into the camp, which was already filled to the brim as it was. Pressed close together, the men sat in the cellar rooms, on the floors above, and in the attic. Contagious diseases spread, since

S. 19

there were practically no hygienic facilities. Indeed, even the simplest washing facilities and latrines were lacking. As latrines they used holes 2 meters wide, 4 meters long, and three meters deep, over which narrow boards had been laid. The utterly exhausted dysentery patients dragged themselves onto the boards, and at the slightest sway they fell into the pit, which was usually already three-quarters full. No one dared to help. They died the most wretched of deaths. Such cases were reported almost daily. The Soviet camp administration looked calmly on at it all.

From time to time the Soviet soldiers appeared in the camp to plunder the prisoners. The most gruesome of all the scenes Siebert observed was surely the following:

He was sitting on one of the crossbeams of the attic. Darkness had long since wrapped everything in an impenetrable veil. Then footsteps rang on the stairs, drowning out the monotonous snoring of the many weary men. The door bangs open. "Who can that be?"— runs through the prisoners' minds. Surely some Russians again, still short of a watch, rings, mirrors, combs, or the like. The flash of a flashlight confirmed the suspicion. An interpreter translated: "Whoever possesses a watch or a gold ring is to surrender it to the sergant at once. If a watch or a ring is found during a search, the owner will be shot!"

Not a single man came forward, for most were already rid of their watches, and whoever still had one believed he had a safe hiding place. Thereupon the searching began. The flashlights flared up now here, now there. "Ivan, here's a ring," said a black-haired

S. 20

Caucasian in poor Russian. He had found a sleeping German who, unsuspecting, still wore the ring on his finger.

"Hand over the ring!" the Bessarabian translated. "I can't get the ring off my finger; a wound to my index finger led to a thickened joint," said the German with a trembling voice. "What is the swine lying about?" cried the Caucasian. "We'll have it off in a moment." Whereupon the Caucasian seized the German's arm and Ivan pulled at the ring with all his might. The prisoner must have felt terrible pain, for a blood-curdling scream made everyone listen tensely. Siebert sat quite near the prisoner and saw his terrified, pain-contorted face. He kept on screaming. There — now the soldier had the ring in his fingers, from which blood was dripping. The metal had torn open the wound on the finger [?]. What doctors could not manage, a coarse Caucasian accomplished quite simply with brute force. Smiling, the soldiers moved on, holding the sparkling ring in their hands. A blow of the fist indicated from time to time that they were still searching for bright and shiny objects. The more colorful and glittering the things were, the more desirable they seemed to be. Chromed and nickel-plated articles were taken along, while silver cigarette cases were tossed aside unheeded. They didn't shine, after all.

Siebert had now been living more than eight days in this dreadful camp in Hungary, where mostly only [...] [?]. Time crept slowly by — days seemed to become eternities. He awoke with thoughts of hunger and waited impatiently for the

S. 21

food, which was doled out twice a day. Every meal distribution was a veritable torture, for the entire camp, whose roster now numbered 5700 men, had to fall in at the same time. A pack of so-called interpreters directed the procedure. Their knowledge of German very often failed them, for they were either Poles, Yugoslavs, or Russians who had served in the German Wehrmacht as volunteer auxiliaries (called Hiwis). Whenever they could not explain a matter with words, a heavy cudgel helped them straighten the business out. After three hours of torment one had at last received one's maize or barley kaltsch [?] and was then driven back to quarters. Although the food was without any taste, apart from its musty smell, one devoured it in ravenous hunger.

At ten in the evening the counting roll call took place amid savage curses. Here too the interpreters reigned again. These men were for the most part from the Slavic countries and had survived the first stage of captivity only by the skin of their teeth. They were now credulous enough [?] to believe that they could make good their offenses against their homeland. Brutality seemed the suitable means of currying favor with the Russians. Siebert hated these men because they betrayed and abused their comrades, with whom they had stood together in battle. He told himself that under such circumstances he would never be an interpreter. He saw only too well that so much was twisted in translation; indeed, the interpreter was often in a position to twist and turn a case already lost in such a way that the prisoners always drew the short straw [?]. No, he had not acquired his knowledge of languages for the ruin of others, but the reverse: what

S. 22

he had learned should serve the good. He tried to conceal his knowledge of the language. If he wanted something from a Russian, he had his request translated [?]. In general Siebert kept to himself. His casual acquaintances were Ulrich and Ostmann. The latter had not been fatally hit on the march that day; an invisible hand had saved him from certain death. When the shots rang out, he threw himself into the snow as if dead and lay still. Only one bullet had struck his ear. Even so, he did not dare stand up. Toward evening a vehicle stopped on the road. A woman in Russian uniform climbed out and walked up to him. A kick in the loins prompted Ostmann to raise his head. "How do you come to be here?" the woman asked. Ostmann told her what had happened.

"Stand up and come with me."

Ostmann stood up and went with her. The woman delivered him to the next march column, which arrived in Kiskunfélegyháza a day later. Ulrich was a young man from Westphalia, with an honest face and indestructible endurance [sic]. These three men stuck together to make life a little easier for themselves. Alone it was scarcely possible to get through, if one did not want to lose one's last miserable belongings. The Hungarians stole whatever the Russians had not already taken. If an object could not be stolen, force was used to take from the Germans whatever was needed, for the Soviet camp administration had entitled them [to it] [?]. It had given the Hungarians the order to equip themselves for the communist divisions [?]. To deceive them thoroughly [?], the Hungarians were mustered. Only quite strong men were considered, and these were at once

S. 23

transferred to a nearby school. A few days later they were loaded into freight cars. Once the doors were locked, they were sheathed with iron fittings. The trains rolled by night. But not, as promised, to the west — rather to the east, into distant Russia. How great was the Hungarians' disappointment now! The Russians had promised to give them a two-week furlough, after which they were to be committed to the front against the Germans. This prospect was not exactly appealing, but still better than being a prisoner and one day perishing miserably. Not a single one of these deceived Hungarians reached the front; they all ended up in Russia. The Hungarian communist leader Rákosi Mátyás had not made the slightest effort to keep the men in their homeland. Soon all the Hungarians, even the weakest among the prisoners [?], had been found fit for "military service" and shipped off.

Now it was the Germans' turn. Every day 1000 men marched to the railway station. Depending on the size of the car, the men crouched forty or eighty to a wagon; the cars were opened twice a day. From time to time, entirely at the whim of the guard detail, individual cars were torn open and two or three Russians searched car and men for weapons. Everything they found in the way of private belongings was taken. These "friskings," as the searches were called, never passed off without beatings, for among the guards it counted as a special feat of heroism to have bashed in a German's skull.

After a nine-day journey the train stopped once again. Along the train a clamor arose. One after another the doors were torn open and the men were or-

S. 24

dered to climb out. Many lacked the strength to climb out. Their comrades took them under the arms. But once they stood in the fresh air, they collapsed all the same. Their emaciated bodies could hold out no longer. They had to be shot "attempting escape," in order to conceal from the population that the prisoners were being left to starve.

When "mercy" had thus been shown to the weak, the column slowly set itself in motion, whirling up a mighty cloud of dust.

A huge sign in Russian and Romanian revealed to the prisoners the name of the place: Râmnicul-Sărat — Romania.

In Romania too warm spring weather prevailed. The trees were greening. It was the end of March. In Râmnicul-Sărat as well the prisoners were quartered in a large barracks. Many thousands came together here, to set out from here on the road to Russia. All peoples met here: Germans, Hungarians, Romanians, Poles, Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Belgians, Yugoslavs, Bulgarians, Russians, Ukrainians, Finns, and Spaniards.

One day the Soviet camp commandant, a senior officer, inspected the camp. It struck him that the prisoners went about tired and dejected and saluted sluggishly. Their gait was anything but soldierly. The following day the officer ordered drill. All [...] [?]. Each was assigned a group of prisoners with whom the parade march was practiced [?]. After a good hour the camp chief came with his staff and reviewed the individual groups, which he now had march past him in parade step. It must have been a special pleasure for him to have several thousand

S. 25

soldiers salute him with eyes-right as they marched past. For this occupation he now had time every day. When the prisoners began shirking the drill in droves, the hour over midday was chosen for it. The meal had to be taken on the great square. Whoever had stayed in the barrack [sic] simply got no food. In this manner a one-hundred-percent participation of all camp inmates was guaranteed.

The majority of the prisoners had gone into captivity at Budapest. They lacked the experience needed to keep themselves alive. Their whole way of living had changed overnight. Important things had become pointless and meaningless, while trifles had gained in value [sic]. What had formerly been right and good was now wrong and bad.

An abrupt change came with the prisoners brought into the camp from Focşani. They were already old plennys (derived from the Russian word for prisoner). The men from Budapest looked up with respect to these hardened figures, who had after all borne the hard lot of a plenny for more than six months. They were truly toughened, for a winter in the harbor of Constanţa had sent all the weak to their graves. They had passed through the pockets of Kishinev and Bucharest. Clad only in their underwear (the Russians had taken everything else from them), they had to walk through towns and villages. In this getup the propaganda march through Romania went on for eleven days, by which the Russians wanted to convince the Romanians of the total impotence of the Germans. They loaded the many Russian ships with every kind of Romanian goods, beginning with the scrap metal of the cities and ending with the rails of the Romanian railway. They

S. 26

dismantled streetcar lines and loaded them as war booty onto Russian freighters, which then made for Odessa. In short: they had to haul out of Romania all the plunder that the Soviets scraped together. The Romanian people paid dearly for their so-called liberation. The men from Focşani had already been washed in all the waters of captivity. They already knew the MVD — as the former NKVD, or the one-time GPU, was now called — and its methods of interrogating people. They knew the Soviet quota system. These men also knew of the possibility of betrayal from one's own ranks. What was especially important was the fact that the Focşani men knew that the main thing was the preservation of one's health. For that one needed sufficient food and clothing. The newcomers had no experience, to be sure, but their clothing was still far better than that of the old hands. So the latter bought the good articles of clothing for a scrap of bread or a few cigarettes. An almost new pullover, for example, cost only three cigarettes. The least self-controlled sold their entire clothing, only to freeze to death a few days later on the journey to Russia, or to catch their death of cold.

Siebert still had felt boots on his feet and a fur on his back. Sooner or later these things would be taken from him. So it was better to trade them for summer clothes [?].

In Râmnicul-Sărat he came to know a new man, who at first sight struck him as likable. Franke, Heinz, was a musician by profession. He lived in his music until he came to know the world from its other side. He could least of all com-

S. 27

prehend that a Reich like Germany would collapse — everything had been so well thought out and organized. He and his people had not lived badly either. And all of that was to be lost, indeed trampled into the ground by the enemy? Young Heinz never got to the true cause of this colossal catastrophe. In his reflections he was forever groping in the dark. Franke took life truly seriously. He wanted to fathom it down to its foundations. This very earnestness often kept Franke from recognizing the heart of the matter. Moreover he lacked any inner anchor. He tried, following Nietzsche, [...] [?] given to him for the captivity [?]. And the greatest master and helper, Jesus Christ, he knew only from the childhood stories of his mother.

Siebert conversed with him a short while and they became friends. Siebert had grown so trusting that one evening [he began] to tell Franke and Ulrich of his origins. He believed fully and completely that they were his sincere friends, especially since they had talked for hours about friendship and comradeship. They had agreed to stick together always. Franke and Ulrich were honest and upright men and knew how to keep Siebert's secret. Yet a carelessness in his stories about Russia to Franke and Ulrich nearly became his undoing. On the neighboring bunks lay an ethnic German from Bessarabia, Eduard Lang, and a Hungarian German, Kreischer János. They had not heard everything of the conversation, but enough to know that Siebert came from Russia; they attached no particular importance to it, however. But Siebert's origins were no longer a secret, for a secret is a secret only so long

S. 28

as one person alone knows it. If a second person learns of it, the secret has vanished. Besides Siebert, five men now knew it. Would they keep it to themselves, or would they betray him one day? From that day on, this question weighed on him constantly. Again and again he asked himself: "Will they betray me?"

How often he regretted having acted so unwisely — and yet nothing could be undone. Nothing remained for him but to rely on the good sense and comradeship of his friends. Whenever he was alone, however, he searched for a way out — some way of getting among strangers. Just such an opportunity was soon to present itself.

Easter 1945. The first of April. The fruit trees in Râmnicul-Sărat are in full bloom. The emaciated prisoners lie in the sun, browning their bodies. Then someone bursts into the yard and calls out in an anxious voice:

"Comrades, today they've begun transferring our camp to Russia. In the coming days it will be our barrack's turn. We won't be going home soon now. You can believe me. If I could only see my bride once more." The speaker began to sob loudly.

"Hey, you milksop. Think you'll be traveling to Russia all by yourself? We'll keep you company. Blubbering is no use. Holding out is the watchword, now more than ever. So enough of your bawling, and don't drive us mad. If the Russian drags us off into his steppes, there's nothing we can do about it anyway. We've gotten ourselves into this soup, so let's spoon it up like men. We need only stick together — then it will surely be easier."

The Slaveholders.

S. 29

When another transport was dispatched on Easter Monday, Siebert went into the barrack designated for the transport. There he would be completely unknown. As it happened, more wagons than usual had been made ready that day, and Siebert's friends had to go along too. His attempt to reach Russia as an unknown had failed. Ulrich and Franke were loaded into the same wagon with him. Once more the doors were locked fast. Searchlights from the locomotive lit up the whole train.

For eight days and nights, with a few interruptions, the train rolled eastward. In the very first days it turned miserably cold. The prisoners froze and starved. Each wagon did have a stove, but there was neither wood nor coal. Huddled together, pressed close against one another, the prisoners crouched in the ice-covered cars. Men frozen to death were no rarity. In the morning they were simply thrown down through the opening, food for the ravens.

Where would the train take them? A crack in the wagon wall gave the prisoners the chance to make out the names of the stations. —Kremenchug.— They were still in southern Russia.

It was April 10 when the train halted forty kilometers west of Poltava.

"Everybody out!" called the interpreter Lang. His coarse and burly figure, his brutal behavior toward the prisoners, appealed to the Russians. For that reason they had appointed him kitchen chief in the camp [?]. His speech betrayed at once that he was a Balkan German. His features betrayed a bad character. Lang had already shown in Hungary and Ro-

S. 30

mania that he was capable of anything. Anyone who displeased him was treated to blows. He was constantly entangled in quarrels. Lang was a native of Bessarabia, from near the town of Akkerman. When the Germans there were offered emigration to Germany in 1940, Lang was one of the first to turn his back on Romania. In the Warthegau he was allotted a farmstead and 18 hectares of land. To him the Poles were mere subhumans, from whom he could take whatever he wanted. If one of them did not bend to his will, Lang procured what he coveted under the protection of his gleaming S.A. uniform. In this way Lang had in three years amassed a considerable fortune, for which he now trembled.

As is usual with creatures of this kind, they tried [to make up for] their crimes — for one could call their conduct nothing else — by their ostentatiously displayed positive attitude toward the Soviet Union [?]. What weighed on him still more was the fact that in 1943 he had fought in Russia with the 22nd Cavalry Division. This division was an SS division, which was in ill repute with the Russians in any case and had moreover destroyed several villages. In this Lang, like every other soldier, had followed the orders of his superiors. But what did the MVD care about that? What was decisive was that he had been with that unit.

Cowardice, baseness, lack of character, and egoism were Lang's driving motives. To them he was wholly given over [sic]. Cowardice was the softest spot he possessed. As soon as he was intimidated, he could not reach a decision for a long time and was somehow paralyzed in his ac-

S. 31

tions. Then he went about the camp with head ducked, like a thief caught in the act. If one came upon him alone, he usually sat in a corner, tears streaming from his black eyes.

The type of this man was unfortunately all too common among the prisoners, and it was precisely they who caused much mischief.

But now Lang stood with a group of Soviet officers on the ramp and translated their orders.

From Siebert's wagon, of all places, 16 men had to stay behind to unload the supply wagons. With the provisions they had dealt very "economically": during the entire journey the prisoners had been given soup once a day. The foodstuffs for the remaining meals had been embezzled. Among the sixteen men staying behind was Siebert. Eagerly they set about hauling the precious supply sacks out of the wagons. It was late in the evening by the time they finished. Then off to the camp.

From far off they saw the brightly lit barbed-wire fence. The camp proper came into view only in the morning. Inside the fence stood a gigantic hall, roofed over to the halfway point; [the rest] had been stripped by the population and used for other purposes. In the hall itself there was nothing, only a partition wall every twenty meters. Only a day later, when a makeshift kitchen had been set up, were the prisoners given their first soup, consisting of sauerkraut, cucumbers, and a few beans.

The Soviet camp administration also ordered bunks to be built. For this purpose old boards

S. 32

were carted in, from which a second ceiling was drawn into the hall. The gap from one board to the next was about 6–8 centimeters. On these bunks 1250 prisoners now rested every night without mattress, pillow, or blanket; not even straw was provided. This state of affairs changed only in mid-1946. And this in a country in which man is the most precious living creature in the world. So reads the text of the Stalin constitution. Unfortunately in this case, as in so many other articles of this "most democratic" constitution, there is no guarantee that the law will be realized when it is supposed to serve the good of mankind.

On the second day the Soviet camp administration introduced itself to the prisoners. First came the camp chief — the nachalnik — Captain Kostenko, in his early thirties. By trade he was a tractor driver. During the war he had risen through his bravery to the aforesaid rank. As a tank commander he had been wounded in the face, and his leg still tormented him to this day. He limped slightly. He lacked any elementary education whatsoever. The only knowledge he could be credited with was his familiarity with the history of the Communist Party of Russia. Kostenko was a fanatical communist, without being able to snatch any personal advantages thereby. For the sake of such advantages any means were acceptable to him. He shrank neither from slandering his comrades nor from fraud. Ruthlessness and merciless harshness were betrayed by his eyes alone, to say nothing of his deeds. As a communist [...] he paid no heed to its laws [?]. This could be observed in Kostenko, for he swindled and che-

S. 33

ated it [the state] wherever an opportunity offered itself.

He confronted the prisoners of war with implacable hatred. He hated them not only because they were his enemies — no, of decisive influence on his behavior toward them were his inferiority complexes, which never left him. Wherever he possibly could, he harassed the prisoners. He expressly designated them as his property, which for the most part indeed corresponded to the truth. Although the Soviet government had, for appearance's sake, issued uniform directives on the treatment of prisoners, Kostenko could do with his prisoners whatever he pleased. He had the official right to punish a prisoner with twenty days' intensified arrest. That meant spending twenty days in a dark and wet [?] hole in the earth, in grim cold or scorching heat. The rations of the punished consisted of 400 grams of gluey bread and water. Every other day half a liter of cabbage soup was brought to the punishment cell. Several times a day those under arrest were interrogated, which as a matter of principle was done by the officers of the MVD.

Kostenko punished only with intensified arrest. Every act was punishable. It was enough to collapse from exhaustion on the worksite in icy cold, and Kostenko punished the weaklings with 5 days in the cell. One needed only to pass him with a friendly expression, and the person in question was locked up, for he immediately believed he was being laughed at. The notion of smiling at someone was unknown to him.

To become better acquainted with Kostenko, let the following examples be mentioned.

One Friday he appeared in the camp, his cap

S. 34

pulled deep down over his brow, and gave First Lieutenant Kohler the order to prepare a concert for Sunday. Kohler stood there at a loss. No musical instruments. The men tired and careworn — and now a concert.—

With much pleading Kohler managed to bring together a group of prisoners in order to rehearse a few songs with them. At last they were ready. The songs went well. The first were of a cheerful character, followed by the old, ever-beautiful folk song "Am Brunnen vor dem Tore." They had barely sung the first measures when Kostenko, who was sitting in the first row, rose snorting with rage, ran up to Kohler, and screamed at him: "Hey, you fascist, what are you singing there?! Want to peep out chorales for us here! We don't need that. I'll show you how to prepare a concert. Five days' intensified arrest — that will give you time to think it over."

Long before the first of May 1946 there was talk of the grand celebration of this workers' day in the Soviet Union. The prisoner of war Kleen worked feverishly at rehearsing a comical puppet dance. On the first of May he came onto the stage with his puppet. He had a good success. All the officers, too, were heartily delighted with Kleen's puppet.

After the performance Kleen stood in the camp yard and performed a few bars of his swing. The officers watched the merry group. Kostenko's cap sank deep over his dark eyes [?]. As if rushing to put out a fire, the officers stormed into the camp. "Kleen, where did you get the vodka?" shouted Kostenko. The man addressed did not know what was happening to him. Vodka? No — where would he have gotten the stuff? He hadn't a single kopeck. He had not drunk a drop of schnapps;

S. 35

he was merely in good spirits. Laughing and being cheerful were, after all, not forbidden.

"I have drunk no vodka, Herr Captain."

"You're lying, you dog! Say where you got the vodka," bellowed the captain, beside himself.

Kleen denied it.

"March to the infirmary!"

Kleen went to the infirmary accompanied by Siebert.

"Doctor Kuntze, examine Kleen and determine what the fellow smells of," ordered Kostenko.

"Herr Captain, Kleen smells of makhorka. He is a heavy smoker," declared Dr. Kuntze.

"That is a lie! Kleen, I punish you for unauthorized consumption of alcohol [sic] with five days' intensified arrest." Kleen wandered off into the hole, followed by many pitying eyes.

Kostenko could decide entirely at his own pleasure over the distribution of rations. He had the right to withhold from the prisoners their already miserable food. If a piece of work had not turned out to his satisfaction, those concerned got no food. Kostenko had prisoners sentenced by the war tribunal according to his own whim. The slightest accusation sufficed to turn the most harmless man into a criminal.

But he not only hated the prisoners of war, no matter what nationality they belonged to — he treated them like slaves whose labor could be sold at a high price. He enriched himself on the work of these rightless men. For days on end, fifty or more men labored on some construction site or in a kolkhoz for Kostenko, and the proceeds for the work

S. 36

performed flowed exclusively into his own pocket.

It is fortunate that the Kostenko type is not too often represented among the Ukrainian people, for were there many of that sort, one might come to doubt the goodness of the Ukrainian people.

After Kostenko had introduced himself as nachalnik, he named First Lieutenant Demyanenko. This man had once been a pedagogue. The war had torn him abruptly from his profession and put him into a uniform, which he wore with great reluctance. In conversations with prisoners of war he said one day, under the influence of alcohol: "I know that your situation is misrable [sic]. You are prisoners behind barbed wire and envy me my freedom [sic]. If you knew my situation better, believe me, you would not envy me. I too am a prisoner, only with the difference that you know quite exactly that you are unfree. But I live outside the barbed wire of our state. You cannot understand that, but it is true. For you the captivity will one day come to an end, but I remain a prisoner."

He did not belong to the CPSU; he seemed to stand quite far from it, for one could notice a mocking smile in his features every time he spoke of the communist party. Toward the prisoners he behaved impeccably, for which all knew how to thank him. The rations and clothing depot was under his charge. As an officer and deputy nachalnik he took the greatest pains to satisfy the prisoners. This endeavor, however, brought him much trouble, since he constantly had to battle the other officers of the camp administration.

Major Kortschagin was the next whom Kostenko

S. 37

introduced. He was the NKVD potentate of the camp. Kortschagin was a man before whose gaze every Soviet officer trembled. Even Kostenko's face changed color when the name Kortschagin was mentioned, to say nothing of the prisoners [?]. To characterize Kortschagin, let just the remark of one prisoner be briefly cited here: "He has the typical face of a wanted poster." A broad scar across his flat forehead strengthened this impression still further. Despite his advanced age he still possessed a good deal of energy at his work. He hunted day and night for war criminals and traitors to the country. He had exercised this function for 25 years already and had acquired a great deal of routine in this cruel occupation. No prisoner ever saw this man laugh [sic]; even a friendly expression was a stranger to his face.

Then followed two labor inspectors: First Lieutenant Twerdochleb and Lieutenant Litwinenko. They had to see to the labor deployment of the prisoners.

Next came Lieutenant Rossenko. He was the instructor for antifascist work. His task consisted of schooling the prisoners of war in the communist spirit. In daily assemblies he preached the communist doctrine. Attendance at these assemblies was compulsory. Whoever stayed away from them counted as a fascist.

First Lieutenant Schewtschenko handled economic affairs.

Lieutenant Rosin and his wife kept the prisoner-of-war card index. Lieutenant Maljuk and Lieutenant Twerdowski were assigned as guard officers at the main gate. The doctor Lewit and the nurses Demidenko and Nikolajewa staffed the infirmary. A further nine soldiers had various functions in the camp.

S. 38

Next to the camp was quartered a garrison of 60 men, which led the individual brigades to work and guarded them there. The garrison also manned the watchtowers along the barbed wire.

When Kostenko had introduced all these persons, he began his address:

"You have lost the war, although Hitler with his fascist army believed he would overrun the Soviet Union. He is still fighting today, when his situation is completely hopeless. You have destroyed all of Europe; the greatest damage has been suffered by our socialist homeland. The S. U. wanted no war and is already working again today for its lasting peace [?] and for the liberation of all working people. Over Bucharest, Warsaw, Budapest, and Vienna waves our victorious flag, hoisted by our heroic soldiers. Over Berlin it will wave shortly. If in Western Europe and beyond the Atlantic Ocean the working people should need it for their liberation [?], we are gladly prepared to help them, for the Soviet Union is strong enough to deal the capitalist world the annihilating blow.

You are in the most freedom-loving and peace-loving country in the world. You will be treated well, if you,

first: hand over the war criminals who are to be found in your ranks;

second: if you report to us our traitors to the country;

third: if you will work well [sic];

fourth: if you show that you are forgetting the Nazi ideas;

S. 39

"fifth: if you show that you have learned to love the Soviet Union as your friend;

sixth: if you recognize that communism is the only worldview that wills the good of mankind.

There followed a further long series of conditions for good treatment.

"You have no right to withdraw yourselves from making reparation [sic], for you are working not only for Russia, but for the entire progressive world. Through your labor in the Soviet Union you strengthen the democratic camp and weaken the capitalist one, at whose head stand the U. S. A. And not least, your work here is work for Germany, whose honor you can win back through your reparation labors. Moreover, the strengthening of the S. U. also benefits the German people, and thus you yourselves, since Germany will shortly be a Union republic, i.e. a constituent part of the S. U. But what you must never forget is the fact that the German Wehrmacht destroyed the S. U., and you are the ones who will rebuild what was destroyed. You will not go home sooner.

So that you know how life in the camp will proceed, note the following:

You are here to work [sic]. How, where, and how long — we determine that. Whoever does not fulfill his quota will be punished: either he goes into the punishment cell or he gets no food. I will make every single man, or the whole brigade if need be — yes, the whole camp — work until the daily quota is fulfilled. Don't even try to work below 125 percent of the daily quota. 100 percent is not enough and will

S. 40

be punished with withdrawal of food. We want to fulfill our Stalinist Five-Year Plan in four years, and for that, work must exceed the quota.

Whoever lays hands on socialist property will be sentenced. Our courts judge severely, and the major, Comrade Kortschagin, finds every thief. He has experience in that.

Good discipline is to be maintained in the camp. Every Soviet officer and soldier is to be saluted as often as he enters the camp. You are still soldiers, and the duties of the soldier are taken from no one. Whoever tries to evade this duty will be punished with arrest in the cells.

Do not try to escape, for that would cost the fugitive his life, and the rest must reckon with sharp measures being taken against them. If you notice that someone intends to flee, report it to me or to Major Kortschagin. We will prevent any escape. Mark this well, for none of you will get away. Even if one or another should succeed in getting out of the camp or away from the worksite, he will be caught all the same, for our people are vigilant and let no fascist run free unpunished.

The organization of the camp roster remains as it was in the German Wehrmacht. The squad, platoon, company, and batallion [sic] leaders will yet be determined. These men are answerable for peace and order in the camp [sic]. They are to be saluted by each of you, for they carry out the functions of the officers. All their directives are issued in my name and are law for you.

My right hand in the camp, from your side,

S. 41

is the camp commandant. He is to be obeyed without contradiction.

Rodler! Corporal Rodler, step forward!"

Rodler — Ludwig, as he was called — stepped before the assembled men. In the Wehrmacht he had been a corporal in the Luftwaffe. His home was Vienna. He stood there with a friendly gaze. His homely, honest face betrayed the typical Austrian.

"This will be your camp commandant. Everything further you will learn through him. His deputy is Dudek, Erwin — Master Sergeant Dudek. The interpreter, a Pole, is in question [?] [...]. Have you understood me?" A faint, timid "Jawohl" ran through the ranks.

After the officers had left the camp, the prisoners set about carrying out the ordered organization. Rodler and Dudek strove to introduce a definite order as quickly as possible.

The Fateful Questionnaire.

The next days were for the time being still free of work, for the Soviet camp administration had not yet concluded labor contracts with the management of the destroyed sugar factory, and secondly, like it or not, the weary prisoners, who had not yet recovered from the journey, had to be given the necessary rest. Now began a long and difficult registration of the prisoners, although they had already been recorded on lists many times over. One thousand three hundred were questioned.

For this purpose the following questionnaire had been drawn up, bearing at the top right the notation "Top Secret."

S. 42

1. Family name? 2. Given name? 3. Patronymic? 4. Year of birth? 5. Place of birth? 6. Place of residence? 7. Religious confession? 8. Mother tongue? Nationality? Citizenship? 9. Knowledge of foreign languages? 10. Profession? 11. Schooling? 12. What special schools have you attended? 13. In which armed forces did you serve? 14. When were you conscripted? 15. Branch of service? 16. Your last unit? 17. Identity-disc number? 18. Rank? 19. Duty position? 20. Did you join the armed forces voluntarily, or were you compelled? 21. What decorations for bravery do you hold? 22. When and where were you taken prisoner? 23. Single or married? 24. Name, date of birth, profession, and place of residence of your wife? 25. The same for your children? 26. The same for your parents? 27. How many siblings do you have? 28. Their place of residence and their occupation?

S. 43

29. To which party did you belong? 30. From when to when? 31. Your social origin? 32. Your social position? 33. How large was your parents' property? 34. Do you possess property? 35. Do you have prior convictions? 36. If so, for what, and what was the sentence? 37. Where did you serve your sentence? 38. Did you formerly reside in Russia? 39. Do you have relatives in Russia? 40. Are you in contact with your relatives? 41. Where were you during the war? In which countries? This question concerns Russia quite especially. 42. Your exact civilian and military career.

That was the complex of questions that every prisoner of war had to answer. Filling them out took several weeks, since only rarely did anyone understand Russian. Every question had to be translated with the utmost precision. On the correctness of the translation the fate of the individual men depended in many cases.

On the first day of this great operation something quite extraordinary occurred in Siebert's life as a prisoner, something that in later years was to prove of decisive importance.

In the early morning hours of the said day, the German camp commandant Rodler approached Siebert:

"Siebert, I have learned that you speak Russian. You will be astonished, but I know it for certain. S. 44 The Pole Wladek gave you away to me. Let's keep the matter short: I need an interpreter at once. Do you agree?"

"No, for various reasons I do not wish to be an interpreter," Siebert answered.

"Can you name them for me?"

"Why not? Listen, Ludwig. I have seen interpreters aplenty who translated not with words but with a walking stick. It is a bottomless outrage, what these gentlemen have permitted themselves. On the strength of their knowledge of Russian they grant themselves rights that no man gave them. Against these scoundrels — mostly they are Poles, Yugoslavs, or Czechs — no prisoner can defend himself.

The interpreter, after all, exists for the comrades, and not the comrades for the interpreter. He should help his fellow prisoners, and indeed he must step in wherever his knowledge of the language can do some good. But what do these fellows do? They stand always on the Russian side. The prisoner has no defender; he has only duties and no rights.

That is one of the reasons that do not permit me to grant your request."

But Siebert had yet another reason that forbade him to speak Russian: as soon as his speech was heard, it might under certain circumstances be established that he commanded Russian perfectly. Interrogations would relieve one another and chase each other's heels. Traitors, informers of the MVD, would be on his trail! He truly feared these interrogations above all [?]. But how had this Pole come to know that he spoke Russian?

Siebert racked his brains over where he might have given S. 45 himself away. Had Ulrich and Franke not promised to keep silent? Could they have sold him out after all? But no — they were decent, good men.

Then he remembered an incident. It was on the rail journey from Hungary to Romania. Russian guards forced their way into the wagon in which Siebert and the Pole Wladek were also riding, and searched as always for shiny objects, among other things for pocketknives. The whole wagon was searched and nowhere was the sought-for item found. The Russians snorted with rage. Suddenly cursing and swearing: in the wallet of a German from Danzig they had found a small nail knife.

"You miserable lice-ridden fascist — so you still have a knife! Planning to murder someone, are you? You'll regret it bitterly this instant, you dog. You ought to be shot on the spot." The prisoner trembled in every limb. Had he suspected that a nail knife also fell under the heading of — weapons — he would certainly have surrendered it, but now it was too late. Quick as lightning, well-aimed blows with a slender bamboo cane rained down on his head. At the second blow he fell to the floor with a split skull.

"Don't beat him any further! He is dying as it is. Have mercy," Siebert addressed the Russians in their mother tongue. The ruffians were taken aback: "What do you want, then? Feel like tasting the stick yourself? Let the dog croak. Nichevo! We have plenty more of that sort." Cursing loudly, they withdrew despite their rage. Outside one could hear them quarreling over the "weapon" they had found.

The man had been spared dreadful torments, S. 46 but Siebert had given away his secret for the second time.

Wladek had been in the same wagon and had made note of the incident. What excuse should Siebert invent to be rid of the impatient commandant? Then Siebert hit on the idea of setting conditions. Perhaps Rodler would then drop his plan? But if he accepted them — well and good.

"Ludwig, I am willing to grant your request only if you will represent the interests of the prisoners. As a matter of principle I will stand only on the side of the many comrades. The moment you violate this principle, or abandon it altogether, you must reckon with my turning the whole camp against you. We must help the men under all circumstances. If we can direct our actions toward that end, then we may do this. The men will support us. If you agree to this condition, I am your interpreter at once," Siebert concluded, his gaze fixed on Rodler.

The latter reflected a moment before answering Siebert's words: "I accept, for it is my endeavor too to help the men, as far as we are in a position to do so [?]. Come, give me your hand on good cooperation. There — and now let's go and see how far they've gotten over there with filling out the questionnaires. You can hardly imagine the mismanagement that reigns there. Yesterday they rounded up some women from the village who could write, and they filled out the questionnaires with the help of an interpreter. Today — you won't believe it — they've brought in a class from the local elementary school. The children can barely write, let alone difine [sic] the com- S. 47 plicated answers. What is to come of it all!"

With these words the two had arrived at the little house of the MVD. And indeed, a crowd of small boys and girls stood there around a table, listening intently to the explanations of Lieutenant Filipov. Filipov himself supplied the answers to the individual questions.

"Up to question 7 everything should be clear. No difficulties ought to arise there. Religious confession! Rubbish anyway, but we'll write it down all the same. There you simply write either Catholic, Protestant, or Evangelical-Lutheran, or some other humbug. But pay close attention, for the Fritzes will lie to you — then write down whatever you consider correct.

Question twelve concerns schooling. What is important is that all the technical professions be recorded, for these fellows are to rebuild our industry. When you answer question thirteen, you enter the armed forces in which the prisoner served: German, Hungarian, Romanian, Italian, or whatever else. Look at these pitiful figures. That one over there, for example, is an Italian. They all wanted to experience Russia. They will have opportunity enough," Filipov mocked, to the delight of the children.

"Up to question twenty everything is simple again. Volunteered or conscripted into the armed forces? We absolutely must know, for the volunteers are the biggest fascists. They all had high decorations too. Their chests were resplendent with Iron Crosses first and second class. A pity — they should all have received the birch cross. (A plain cross of birch- S. 48 wood was the sole ornament of a German soldier's grave.) Many a one will earn it here yet," laughed Filipov.

"Far more difficult is question thirty-two. You know that capitalist conditions prevailed in Germany. There are a great many capitalists there, all of whom we want to destroy — and will. The Germans will of course claim that they are workers or peasants. In these cases, first ask about their property. If they own something — a house, a factory, or land — then they are not workers but capitalists or estate owners. Thus they belong to a class that must disappear.

The questions from 39 onward exist in order to find Russian citizens who fled Russia in 1917 and later, but who during the war fought with the German occupiers against our beloved homeland. They shall pay for it! There — that should be the essentials. Now get to work," Filipov ordered the children, who thereupon took their places at the tables.

The prisoners had fallen in in long rows, though none of them suspected what was to happen here.

"Commandant! Come here!" called Filipov.

Ludwig and Siebert had listened in silence to the officer's explanations. How would the men answer the many questions? Ah, if only one could explain everything to them! But there was no more time for that, for Filipov was already calling again for the commandant.

"Herr Lieutenant, you wish?" Ludwig asked the furious officer. Siebert translated.

"First of all I wish that you appear at once S. 49 when I call you. Further, I need twenty interpreters immediately. Understood?" After Siebert had interpreted the answer, Rodler said: "Jawohl, Comrade Lieutenant." He thought that with the word "Comrade" he would put the officer in a somewhat friendlier mood, but achieved the opposite, for now the man addressed shot up from his chair and bellowed at the commandant:

"You dog, you call me Comrade? A fine comrade I've found in you. Mark this well: you are and remain my eternal enemy, and only our humane laws forbid me to gun you down on the spot like a mangy dog. Where are the interpreters? Get them here, even if you have to stamp them out of the earth. Fa-scist!!"

There followed a long string of vile curses as Siebert and Rodler withdrew.

Interpreters — there were plenty in the camp. Whoever knew a few scraps of Russian was an interpreter. The lack of words was simply made up for with the cudgel. Interpreters of this kind very often turned out to be the ethnic Germans from the Polish territories, who in 1940 had moved from Bessarabia to the Warthegau and who now passed themselves off as Bessarabians or Poles. It was not so long ago that they had cried at the top of their lungs: "We want home into the Reich!" or had striven convulsively to be entered in the notorious "Volksliste 3."

To "Volksliste 3" belonged Poles who let themselves be Germanized [?] and who, for the duration of Hitler's 1000-year Reich, counted as also-Germans — as long as things went well for them. When Hitler's Reich was cracking in all its joints, they changed their color in an instant from brown to red and wanted to be regarded as representatives S. 50 of the peace-loving nations, as persecuted by Nazism (as they so prettily styled themselves).

That they had fought under the German flag against communism was something they could no longer undo. So they believed they could make good this crime against the "people's democracies" through cruelty toward the Germans. In the first months of captivity they were the sole masters in the prisoner camps. But then the Russian saw through them, and one after another wandered out of the camp in an unknown direction, never to appear on the scene again — for just as they were behaving toward the Germans at that moment, exactly so had they treated the Russian prisoners not so long before, because they wanted to be worthy representatives of "Volksliste 3."

Ludwig had drummed up these interpreters and presented them to Filipov. They took their seats beside the scribes, and the endless questioning began.

"You are the commandant's interpreter?" Filipov asked Siebert.

"Jawohl, Herr Lieutenant."

"Fine, you stay here. Do you write Russian?"

"A little, Herr Lieutenant," Siebert answered, embarrassed.

"Sit down here. You will fill out questionnaires yourself."

The Great Lie.

I believe you overheard the explanations just now. Here are forms — now begin."

S. 51 Now Siebert sat there and saw himself placed directly before the task of writing out his own arrest warrant — or of composing a lie of the greatest magnitude.

The first four questions were answered, more or less correctly. Everything was accurate except the first name, for that had already been changed in 1942, when the German civil administration took over the governance of the occupied territories. The district commissars decreed that all persons who bore a Jewish name were to adopt an Aryan, ancient Germanic one. Nothing, not even a first name, was to recall the Jews. On this occasion Siebert chose the Germanic name Heinz. It was as such that his comrades knew him. Abram Siebert existed now only for his loved ones at home, and it was this name that he entered in his questionnaire.

Cold sweat stood on his brow when he was to state his place of residence. Could he anchor a lie in writing? Indeed, was he permitted to lie at all? Was it not a great sin to deny everything merely to save his bare life? In his despair he folded his hands in prayer. Would the Almighty stand by him in this anxious hour as well? If only he could receive a single counsel from Him, even just a hint. It seemed as though his inner voice, which he had heard so often before, spoke to him quite distinctly: "Stay strong." Was it truly no sin to lie? Here lay the sole possibility of saving his life, of preserving his mother and siblings from further hardship and persecution — solely and S. 52 alone in the great white lie of necessity. Siebert thought no further, for he had decided on the lie of necessity.

Hunched over, he bent above the paper and wrote:

"Heinz Siebert, born 1921, in Ebenfelde, district of Königsberg, East Prussia, residing in Osmolin 22, district of Schieratz, Warthegau (Poland). Religious confession — Protestant. Mother tongue — German; citizenship — German. Knowledge of foreign languages — Russian, Polish, Czech. Profession: teacher of Slavic languages. Served in the German Wehrmacht, conscripted on the fourth of July 1944 into the 11th Panzergrenadier Division 'Nordland,' Regiment 'Danmark,' 1st Battalion, 1st Company. Rank — Gefreiter (lance corporal); duty position — squad leader. Without decorations. Taken prisoner on the third of February 1945 near Kapolnaschnek [?]."

Then followed the particulars concerning wife and daughter. The father was deceased; the mother — ? Yes, what to enter here? She was, after all, still living. They might conceivably search for his mother. At first, so long as he was not recognized, they would search for her in East Prussia and never find her. But if one day they did recognize him, she too would be called to account. No — he decided to declare her dead [?], for the dead are long since left in peace in Soviet Russia, where the inviolability of the person is guaranteed on the basis of the Stalin constitution. She was not to suffer hardship on his account; the same applied to his siblings, who still had the good fortune to be at liberty. At home they would have to assume, concerning his whereabouts, that he had fallen as a faithful son of the "socialist" homeland of all working people. It would cost them dearly if it should suddenly become known that S. 53 they had a traitor to the country for a brother. No — never, never would he do that to them.

With trembling hand he wrote on:

"Mother died of tuberculosis in 1937. Siblings none; himself without party affiliation. Both parents of farming stock. Social position — teacher. The parents' property — 35 hectares of land, four horses, six cows, a dwelling house and stables. He could not be allowed to come from a poor family, for how in that case could he have studied? But neither could it be too rich, or he would be the offspring of an estate owner; so, keep to the golden middle way.

"Previous convictions — none; never resident in Russia and no relatives there. Did not fight in Russia during the war."

Upon this followed a curriculum vitae fitted to the above particulars, which was signed together with the questionnaire.

In theory the lie was finished. Would it withstand the storms to come? — Even when Siebert would be assailed with a thousand questions in interrogations lasting hours on end? —

An uncanny fear seized him at the mere thought that he might betray himself, or be caught and sold by informers of the MVD. To sustain himself, his own strength did not suffice. Alone, without God's help, he would not stand.

Furtively he had drawn his diary from his pocket and entered the following verses, which he had recently read:

God's hands carry the wide world. God's hands hold the tent of stars.

S. 54 God's hands lead the smallest child. God's hands are over destiny. God's hands are my confidence; through all darkness they lead yet to light. Sheltered in peace, storm-tossed in battle, in Thy hands, Lord, I am consoled.

In Him alone Siebert would trust in the future, undertaking nothing without His counsel, for he had recognized that man is powerless and weak when God is not with him.

Here at the table, where the disposition toward him was anything but kind, he remembered the long-forgotten words of his friend:

"And do you believe it is your own merit that your life was preserved?"

In those days Siebert did not yet know the stream of God's grace, from which he had always drawn so abundantly. Today he knew that everything that had befallen him was grace from God alone. God's arm of grace reached everywhere, even into the most distant prison camps, surrounded by multiple barbed-wire fences. Of this Siebert was rock-firmly convinced.

Now Lieutenant Filipov stepped up to him: "Well, are you getting finished?"

Siebert started: "Jawohl, Herr Lieutenant, I am finished with my questionnaire. Is it all right like this?"

Filipov took the questionnaire and studied it a long while: "You write good Russian, almost without mistakes. It is good. Keep writing." Then he disappeared through the door of the little MVD house in which Major Kartschagin conducted his cruel regime.

S. 55 Why straight in there? Had they been waiting especially for his questionnaire? Siebert tried to remain calm, but it was almost impossible for him, for he would be called for questioning at any moment [sic]. What was to come of all this?

We Are Not Germans.

Siebert called one of the prisoners over and began filling out his questionnaire. He came from Bavaria and was named Emil Kellermann. He claimed to be an Austrian citizen, yet as his nationality he gave German. Siebert doubted the correctness of this answer, for the man might have misspoken, which could one day prove his undoing. Either he was a German or an Austrian. So he turned to Kellermann:

"Do you want it entered the way you just said it?"

"But of course — what are you thinking? I am an Austrian citizen; I have nothing more to do with you Germans. Austria is my homeland."

Siebert let him have his way. Then came the question of party membership.

"I belonged to the Communist Party of Germany from 1927 to 1933. Do you know the KPD?" Kellermann answered.

"Have you any previous convictions?"

"Jawohl — sentenced to three years' penitentiary for distributing communist leaflets. Of those three years I served a quarter-year in Berlin-Moabit, after which I was released."

S. 56 Siebert was glad to have dispatched him. When he stopped for the evening, he had processed only a few Germans; indeed, it seemed as though there were no Germans left in the camp at all. They were Austrians, Alsace-Lorrainers, Hungarians, Poles, Romanians, Italians, or Czechs. The really clever ones claimed they were Saxons or Swabians, but not Germans.

Only some years later did the consequences of this distortion of the facts make themselves felt, for the advantage most of them hoped to gain by it never came. To the Soviet it was a matter of complete indifference whether the prisoner was an Austrian, a Hungarian, or anything else. They did not give a fig for former party membership. And not only was it a matter of indifference to them — these former German communists were subjected to far-reaching difficulties. At the beginning of captivity the prisoners had believed they would thereby come to release sooner. But when they noticed that the Germans were treated exactly as well and as badly as the other nationalities, and released just as quickly or slowly as the others, they hit on the idea of correcting their earlier statements so as to be sent directly home. Now, however, the Russian no longer believed them, and they had to submit to long interrogations, which nevertheless remained without result [?]. Again and again they were held back at the releases, even when they were nothing but skeletons [?]. Then it was always said: "Now only Austrians with Austrian citizenship are going." Another time: "Germans with German citizenship are going. You must wait until your questionnaire is corrected." It was already 1949, and these poor people were still waiting in vain for the correction of their per- S. 57 sonal particulars. The MVD thus had cheap prey. How often, in the later years, did Siebert translate the petitions of these naive comrades.

Kellermann too came to Siebert one day and pleaded: "Look, Heinz, by now most of the Austrians of our camp are home, and I am still here. Five times I have been to the MVD. Five times they promised me to change my Austrian citizenship to German. Yesterday I was there again, and they ask me why I gave different information in 1945 [?]. Easy for them to ask. Back then I was too afraid of being shot if I said I was a German. And home I do not get either. It is enough to drive one to despair. Four long years I have been sitting behind barbed wire now. On top of that I was a member of the KPD. I should never have told anyone that; nor will I ever do it again. What do you think — yesterday the MVD officer said the following to me:

"'Kellermann, if you were a member of the KPD and later of the KPÖ, then it must surely be all the same to you where you work, at home or in the U.S.S.R. Don't you agree?'

"Imagine — they say that to me, a fifty-one-year-old man. That is some outlook. Never again will I side with the communists.

"Heinz, can you give me any advice on how to set my personal particulars in order?"

Siebert thought of those days when Kellermann had shouted at him: "I want nothing more to do with you Germans." Nevertheless he felt sorry for him:

"Look, Emil, the only thing you can undertake is to address a petition to the camp nachalnik. S. 58 Whether it is of any worth I do not know, but perhaps it will work."

Emil nevertheless remained, as a German with Austrian citizenship, a Russian plenny.

Others did in fact come to be released. They were sent to Czechia, to Romania, and to Hungary. Arrived there, they were immediately arrested and kept under lock and key. Their families had been expelled to Germany as early as 1945–46, since they were known to the authorities as "Volksbund men" and as such were no longer tolerated in the new people's democracies. Ruthlessly they were driven with their children across the border. But the men lived on, long after their release from Soviet captivity, in the prisons of their former homeland. Only after many hardships did some succeed in fleeing to their families in Germany. A large portion, however, remained missing. These men fell victim to their homeland with its people's-democratic order.

To Kartschagin for Interrogation.

At eight o'clock in the morning Kartschagin's errand boy came to Siebert: "You are to come to the major." Siebert's face lost its color. If only everything would go well! Quickly he buttoned up his uniform and, with pounding heart, made his way to the little house in the yard, before which every man had a holy terror. Now he stood before the low door in the clay hut in which, for years, human destinies had been played out. He knocked.

S. 59 "Come in!" commanded a deep bass voice. For a moment Siebert hesitated; then he stood in the small room, directly opposite the major. In one corner sat the camp interpreter Fiera Bloch — a twenty-two-year-old Jewess. She spoke a comparatively fluent German. Her deep-black hair lent her face a striking pallor. Her restless eyes betrayed an insurmountable hatred toward the prisoners. Her mouth seemed to have been sealed shut by the thickly applied make-up with its garish red seam [?].

Kartschagin and Fräulein Bloch looked at the man entering in silence. If only they would speak at last, thought Siebert. This silence was unbearable.

Finally the interpreter broke the stillness:

"Your name?"

"Heinz Siebert."

Slowly she wrote the name down. "What was your father's name?" "Abram," Siebert answered.

"Ask him whether he speaks Russian, Fiera," the major interposed. She translated the major's question, pressing the words out between her teeth.

"Jawohl, I speak Russian."

"Were you born in Russia?" the major asked in a friendly manner. But his brutal face with the broad scar across the forehead said that it was an artificial friendliness.

"No, Herr Major, I am a native of East Prussia, near Königsberg."

"So one of ours after all, for Königsberg belongs to us for all time. But if you were born in Königsberg, how then do you come to know Russian?" he asked further.

"May I tell you that story, Herr S. 60 Major?" Siebert wanted to avoid the many questions, and it was decidedly better if he were allowed to tell it himself. From the moment he entered the room he had put on an innocent expression, thereby creating the appearance that a helpless young lad stood before the two of them [?]. Above all, display no pride or self-assurance. The MVD potentates wanted to see the prisoners broken. For one thing, they had set themselves the task of breaking the pride of the Germans; for another, because of their inferiority complexes they could not endure any self-assurance in the prisoners. Siebert had seen this in good time and acted accordingly.

"Certainly, tell it. But first sit down here on the stool."

Siebert sat down, and then he began to tell his tale: "My father was himself a teacher before he took over the parental farm. In the course of the years he had been able to enlarge it somewhat, so that he had a considerable property. But he never wanted me to become a farmer as well [?]. When I had attended school for some years, he brought me to a well-known Slavicist. Under this professor I studied the Slavic languages [in order to become a teacher of Slavic languages]. In 1923 my father died and my mother remained alone on the farm. It fell into neglect and debt [?]. When my mother died in 1937, the farm was sold by my guardian. With the proceeds he covered the debts; the remainder he set aside for my further studies. At the college I then again attended the lectures in the Russian language, in order to deepen my knowledge. In 1940 I was finished with my studies and was engaged by the Ministry of Edu- S. 61 cation as a teacher in the then newly annexed Warthegau. There I had opportunity to broaden my knowledge of languages — the Poles spoke Polish to me, I spoke Russian to them [?]. It went fairly well. That is how I learned the Russian language," Siebert concluded, looking the major — who had listened attentively the whole time — straight in the eye. Kartschagin and Fräulein Bloch looked at each other questioningly. No one said a word. At last the major asked: "And where, and for how long, did you serve in the German espionage department?"

"Never, Herr Major, for since I belonged to no party, I was not permitted to hold any high government post," Siebert explained. That he would be suspected in such a matter he had naturally not expected.

"But you do know the German Abwehr department," Kartschagin asked, throwing Bloch a quick glance.

"Certainly, I know of that institution from hearsay. But that is all."

"In which concentration camp or prisoner-of-war camp in Germany were you an interpreter?" the major probed further.

"I already told you that I was a teacher until my conscription into the Wehrmacht. So I cannot have been an interpreter," Siebert answered calmly, relying, as always, on the major's decency [?].

"What you have told so far were fairy tales, lies from beginning to end. Where did you live in Russia? Leave East Prussia and Königsberg aside and tell the truth." The major's tone had become considerably harsher.

S. 62 "I have just told you the truth, Herr Major." The interpreter laughed scornfully. Suddenly the officer's face twisted into a friendly grimace: "Come closer, boy. Here, please, a papirossa (Russian cigarette), and then come sit on my lap. Perhaps you would like to confide your birthplace to me."

Faugh! Sit on the knee of this repulsive man? What could he be up to now?

"Well, what are you still deliberating? Come here!" grinned the major. Siebert went toward him hesitantly. He had only the one wish — to be able to master himself. Then he stood beside the major, who laid his broad hand with its knobby fingers on his shoulder and pressed him down onto his knee. Now he sat on the knees of this monster, distinctly feeling the man's right arm at his back. Siebert still made not a sound. The major grew restless:

"Now talk. I have little time."

"I have told you the truth; with the best will in the world I can report nothing more to you." Siebert sensed that things would now come to a hard reckoning. Now, of all times, he must on no account grow soft.

"You obdurate fascist, will you finally give me an answer? If you do not speak at once, I will gun you down on the spot. Speak, or you will not live to see the evening!" screamed the man, red with rage. The veins on his forehead, thrown into still greater relief by the scar, swelled more and more. His eyes rolled fierily in their deep sockets, at whose rims bushy brows hung down. Behind his back Siebert felt a rapid movement of the major's hand, and in the same instant the man struck the tabletop with the S. 63 gleaming pistol so that the inkwell tipped over. Siebert kept a stubborn silence, but remained sitting on the knees of the raging man. Come what might, he would speak no more.

Kartschagin toyed with the pistol, which he had aimed at Siebert.

During the last minutes Fiera Bloch had sat in silence, her head buried in her hands. But now she no longer trusted her superior, and already she stood at his table:

"Comrade Major, stay calm; make an end with the fellow for today. We can always fetch him." At that he shoved Siebert away from himself into the middle of the room:

"Good, enough for today. But mark the following, bandit: I will find out who you are and where you come from. Know this: as long as the sun rises and sets, you stay in Russia, until your bones have rotted. Not a word is to be spoken about what has happened here. Out!" And already Siebert stood in the yard. What a relieving feeling, to see this sadist no more. How long would it be until the next interrogation? What would they do with him at all? The accusations were grave enough to convict even a prisoner of war, who is not subject to Soviet law. For a Soviet citizen such an accusation sufficed amply to be condemned to death. Oh, he knew the laws and the methods of their application too well to entertain any illusions. As long as they had no proofs in their hands it was still all right, but one day they would be able to convict him. What then? — Siebert saw the end with dread. He at- S. 64 tempted to enumerate his offenses against this state of violence: he had deserted from the Red Army, for that [?] is undoubtedly how his departure from the ranks of the Red Army would be designated; he had not joined the partisans and fought against the Germans, but had worked together with them and was, in their eyes, a collaborator of the greatest magnitude, for whom there was no mercy; he had fled the country in which he had grown up. Traitors to the country are punished with death!

He had taken active part in the fight against the Soviet state. How was such a step to be justified?

The most recent crime was the falsification of documents committed the day before with the filling out of the questionnaire.

It was already a cardinal crime to have a Nazi [?] tinge — and by Soviet notions that meant everyone who did not agree with communism. These people counted either as fascists or, at the very least, as Trotskyites, who were to be made shorter by a head.

In this way the list of crimes could be continued endlessly. How many paragraphs would the indictment enumerate in the event of his conviction? And the sentence would run briefly: In the name of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the accused Abram (alias Heinz) Siebert is sentenced to death for crimes against the Soviet homeland pursuant to paragraphs ... His relatives — the mother, Katharina Siebert, and his siblings Gerhard, Hans, Peter, and Katharina Siebert — are sentenced to five years' confinement in the labor S. 65 and re-education camps. Their property is confiscated with immediate effect. The sentence of the war tribunal enters into force immediately. Petitions for clemency will not be accepted.

Chairman of the tribunal: 1st and 2nd assessors:

In his mind's eye Siebert saw his mother and siblings leave the house with a few belongings and, guarded by MVD sentries with dogs, march along the great road of misery. How long would his weakened mother endure the hardships? Finally to lie down by the wayside, until they buried her in the earth without song or sound. No — this disgrace he could not inflict on her. No: rather die himself, but such a sentence the world would never hear.

To die! How easily it is said. He had often heard people utter this great word with composure; but when they were actually to carry it out, they shrank back in cowardice, for to depart this life voluntarily costs a good deal of self-conquest, which not everyone can summon. The step is harder still when one is young and full of the joy of life. It would be harder still for him, for somewhere a wife and child were waiting for him, who needed him urgently. A coward he did not want to be. He wanted to fight against all powers as long as one small spark of hope of success remained. God would help him. Involuntarily he thought of Goethe's words:

In defiance of all powers to maintain oneself, never to bow, to show oneself strong, summons the arms of the gods.

S. 66 And if he should nevertheless succumb? Yes, even then he wanted to be brave and accept his fate without grumbling.

In silence he went to his sleeping place and took from his bag an unused razor blade, which he carefully sewed into his trousers. The hiding place was good; even in the most thorough search it would not be found. By means of this sharp steel he intended, in the event of an arrest, to open his artery and take the secret of his origin with him. No other way out remained to him. Having laid out the plan of his further conduct, he at last gave himself over to rest. His diary bore, on that day, the brief entry: "Great God, be merciful to me."

The First Six Weeks in Skorokhodovo.

When the filling out of the questionnaires was finished, the assembling of the work brigades began. These consisted of 30–40 men each, who were brought to the work site under heavy guard. At midday and in the evening they were convoyed back into the camp. Until now the camp population had had peace, for the careworn men had not yet recovered from the days of hunger and the marches. At the sight of the resting prisoners Captain Kostenko could scarcely contain himself, but [without authorization he was not permitted to send them to work [?]]; instead he saw to it that there was work enough inside the fence. Three times daily he had the camp population fall in to be counted. This procedure took over an hour each time. Snow or rain, cold S. 67 or heat — the men stood in long ranks of five in the yard. While the duty officer counted the ranks again and again without arriving at any correct result, Kostenko, his cap pulled down over his eyes, his hands buried to the elbows in his pockets, hobbled along the front of the prisoners.

How important the little captain felt, seeing himself as ruler over 1,300 prisoners, when before he had been only an insignificant tank commander. He had not the slightest notion of how to treat human beings; he did not know the elementary rules of decency. What he knew was this one thing: I am a representative of the victor people. Despite the four weeks the prisoners had spent in the Skorokhodovo camp, he had not been in a position to procure the most necessary installations, to have the elementary [?] facilities set up. No cobbler's or tailor's shop mended the footwear in need of repair or the tattered articles of clothing, although enough craftsmen were available in the camp. On the other hand he soon conducted a so-called clothing roll call practically every day. This roll call served to fault the broken-down clothing. Above all, however, the roll call was designed for counting the articles of clothing. The coats and trousers, caps and belts, indeed even foot-wrappings and towel-like constructions were subjected to an exact count. If something was missing, the counting went on and on, for in the first months the clothing inventory had to tally [?], [even if the men] stood in nothing but rags [?], although the Soviet state had not yet spent a kopeck on it. If a prisoner possessed a good coat, a good jacket or S. 68 trousers, these things were taken from their owner without any argument, and a few days later they were to be seen on the body of some officer or soldier.

But a true harassment came only with the frequent "friskings" — searches of the baggage and clothing of the prisoners of war. For this purpose the entire camp population was made to fall in — including the sick and the physicians. Once all stood rank and file in the yard, the officers and soldiers came into the camp and pounced on the defenseless men. The soldiers searched the quarters, while the officers took charge of the men themselves. Each prisoner opened his rucksack or bread bag, unbuttoned jacket and trousers. Then he was ready for inspection. Now the officers approached, Major Kartschagin and Captain Kostenko at their head. Their eyes glittered and hunted through the bags. Their hands trembled with greed. Untiringly, as though searching for a hidden treasure that would make them rich men, they rummaged in the sacks. Every object became important to them and was confiscated. The prisoners stood by in amazement — how was it possible that a major, a captain, would lower themselves so far? A grin passed through the ranks of the prisoners.

"Kostenko, come here quick and see what I have found on this fascist!" Kartschagin called across the yard. In his hands he held a checkered [sic] colorful kerchief that the prisoner used as a scarf. For a long while he examined the cloth; then he put it around his neck and went on "frisking." His pockets filled: nail files and nail knives, mirrors, fountain pens and S. 69 mechanical pencils, wallets, photographs, and much else. Yes, he even pocketed needles and thread. The other officers glanced from time to time at their MVD potentate [and assured] themselves that he was plundering the prisoners exactly as they were, only to seize the next rucksack at once.

In time a huge mountain of frisked-out belongings had piled up. Suddenly Schewitschenko [?] called out: "Comrade Major, please come here — here is a book. Probably the Fritz has dragged Hitler's 'Mein Kampf' along. It could look like it." Kartschagin looked up furiously, for now he had to interrupt the plundering and would thus fall behind the others. Nevertheless he went over to the speaker, who handed him the book. "What that be, Fritz? Fascist book?" stammered the major, for his interpreter was at the other end of the rank.

"That is a Bible, Herr Major, a Bible," the prisoner tried to explain to him.

"Bible, Bible," the major mocked, "what be Bible? Propaganda? Hail Gietler?"

"No, it is a Bible, God's Word, Herr Major — you understand, it is a Bible that my mother gave me for the road. I have carried it in my pocket for many years. Give it back to me, I beg you kindly," the man said.

"Bloch, come to me," the major commanded gruffly. She came hurrying over, stretching her dirty hands far out from her body so as not to soil her dress. She too had been rummaging in the prisoners' belongings. "Faugh, for shame, such a hussy!" someone in the rearmost rank spat.

S. 70 Fräulein Bloch took the book and examined it a long while from all sides. Then she explained something to the major in Russian until he burst out laughing. The other officers laughed foolishly along. But then he declared to the owner of the Bible, clapping him on the shoulder: "So you pray? With the Bible in your hand you shot our soldiers, you accursed dog! Well, here you have finally come to the right place. No Bible, no God, no prayer will help you with us. You can drop this nonsense. If anyone here can help you, it is we. But we shall take good care not to help a monster like you. The only thing you can get from us is promotion into the hereafter. Ha — and you want to pray! Would you like your Bible back?" asked the MVD scoundrel. The prisoner stretched out his hand toward the treasured book:

"I beg you kindly for it, Herr Major."

"Ah, you swine, you still reach for it!" — and in the same instant the [major] knocked the prisoner to the ground with a powerful blow of his fist against the chest. The Bible flew into a heap of old rags and mess kits. The wind played gently among its pages. The Evil One wished, for once, to make amends [?]. During this scene not one of the prisoners had said a word. One of the men beside Siebert said only, quite softly: "So that's how the wind blows here," and busied himself with his rucksack.

Greedily the "gentlemen" searched on. In all this time a considerable stack of photographs had accumulated. The last family pictures, the sole remembrance of the loved ones at home, were carelessly [sic] tossed aside and never again came S. 71 into the hands of the men, in whose eyes the tears were standing. The officers laughed at these feelings of the prisoners.

"Why so sad, Fritz? Crying for your wife and children? Don't worry, we have those here too, in rough plenty. We will marry you off again, never fear. But beware of raising fascists. Then you die a hero's death with them, but without a birch cross. Mark that." Lieutenant Twerdochleb had here apparently expressed his own personal opinion, for he and his colleagues had no understanding of a sensible family life and human feelings. They were governed by animal feelings — or rather, instincts. The word "love" did not exist in their vocabulary. It was replaced by brutality and ruthlessness.

At last, when everything had been taken from the prisoners down to spoon and mess kit, the men were allowed back to their quarters — after five long hours.

These "friskings" repeated themselves at regular intervals, year after year. The Soviet officer gentlemen always got their due out of them. To be sure, they could no longer plunder German articles, on which they were so keen, but that did not matter either, for one got Russian knives, lighters, and razors free of charge [sic]. At the bazaar everything could be sold for money.

Exactly six weeks on, the word suddenly came: starting tomorrow there will be work. The men rejoiced at this news, because they believed that now the daily roll calls and harassments [would] cease.

Lieutenant Colonel Rodin.

S. 72 On the following Monday, when the columns from the camp set out on their first march to work, everyone noticed a new face among the officers who wished to witness this solemn act. Whenever the man with the two large stars on the broad golden-yellow shoulder boards addressed one of the officers, they stood still and, at every fresh answer, raised a hand to the cap in salute. "Seems to be a big man. I mean in spirit, for his face is very primitive," remarked Rodler.

When all the prisoners had left the camp, Kostenko went up to the stranger and reported, standing rigidly at attention before him:

"Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, I report that the camp population has moved out to work." "Very well," replied Lieutenant Colonel Rodin, "only you have a frightful pigsty here. Why do the prisoners not march in step and with singing? I have been standing here a good half hour, and it occurred to not one of the brigade leaders to have his brigade march past at attention. From tomorrow that will change, or I will chase them through the guard gates at the double [?]. A disgrace, such a thing!" Rodin stormed through the camp snorting with rage [?]. Slamming the doors behind him, his cap pressed deep onto his forehead, his coat wide open, he stood there as though waiting for something [?]. Rodler caught sight of him:

"Ca-a-mp, attention!" he bellowed across the yard and ran toward the stranger [?]. "The camp, occupied by 1,294 men, in order. No special occurrences," Rodler reported, as he had learned it in the German Wehrmacht.

S. 73 "Whether it is in order or not, I shall determine presently. Who are you?" Rodin inquired, and began his tour through the camp.

"The commandant, Herr Lieutenant Colonel."

"And that one there?"

"My interpreter, Herr Lieutenant Colonel."

During the camp inspection Rodin found fault with everything that crossed his path. Here he found a coat not folded neatly enough; there the plank beds were not properly swept; in another place lay straw, not a brick [?]. Nothing pleased him. But he turned truly vicious only when a few of the especially weak men did not rise at his appearance.

"You call that order? That is supposed to be discipline? You are soldiers! As long as you are with us, you will remain soldiers, and as such you are to conduct yourselves. Your own officers you saluted, and smartly at that. So it shall be with our people [?]: every Soviet officer and soldier in the camp is to be saluted. The gate sentry is to call 'Attention' when one enters the camp. Every negligence I will punish with the punishment cell. Should that not help, I will have the rations of the entire camp cut. Understood? I will show you what order means with us." Then he left the camp sullenly.

"You know, with that fellow we are in for evil days," Siebert said to Rodler. Indeed, Lieutenant Colonel Rodin was known as a feared camp commandant. Since 1944 he had conducted a strict regime in Zaporozhye, in Camp 7100. Now he had been sent here by the prisoner-of-war administration, to Skorokhodovo, into Camp 7136, to introduce the same order here. Together with him, his S. 74 wife, Captain Katya Romanova, had also been sent to the region of Poltava. As a physician she had been in many prisoner-of-war camps and distinguished herself quite especially by her sensible conduct. She took her duty truly seriously. Many a prisoner owes this energetic woman his life. From morning to evening she saw to things in the camp. She even took the trouble to travel to other camps and inspect the state of the prisoners' health and cleanliness. Through her mildness and kindness she had quickly become greatly beloved among all the prisoners, and was exceedingly proud of her byname, "the Angel of Poltava."

Unfortunately the officers, quite especially her husband, made this woman's work a hell. That she exerted herself for the welfare of the prisoners by no means escaped these people. Their endeavor was to degrade the Germans, while this woman [wanted] the opposite [?]. Often she collided with the men. [With every means [?] ... — passage partly obscured; the sense:] Fear this woman seemed not to know. With visible [?] respect she procured for herself the necessary respect [?]:

"Comrade Lieutenant, when I order that this man is to have bed rest, then he gets it. And how are you standing there, anyway? Show me respect, for I am a woman. If I am a stranger to you, you are still obliged to give honor to my uniform." Similar altercations were almost daily occurrences in the early period.

Rodin now began to unfold an extensive building activity [?] in the camp. In the evenings, when the men came back into the camp after eight hours of heavy labor, S. 75 he was already standing at the gate, assigning the brigades to work. Naturally these measures had their good sides too, but the way and manner in which the improvement of the camp was undertaken was so exaggerated and inhuman that one often doubted whether the men could hold out, for they now had to work 12–13 hours daily. The men wasted away visibly.

What particularly bewildered the men was the fact that no uniform orders and instructions were given. Hardly had one officer gone when another came and issued his new directives, which were to be carried out at once.

In one of the halls a camp infirmary was to be set up. Romanova had handed her plans over to Rodler and supervised their execution herself. The walls were all already standing. Then one day, late in the evening, her husband appeared and ordered the entire masonry torn down and raised up again that same night according to his plans [?]. The sense of this order no one could grasp, but it had to be carried out. Seventy men toiled without pause the whole night. In the morning the walls stood again. Whether the men [were] tired, or whether they were hungry [?] — as long as a man was on his feet, he had to work. Rodin did not ask about that [?]. Rodin knew only the one word, "norm," where work was concerned. That a human being must also have a norm in eating and in rest seemed foreign to him.

When his wife came into the camp to view the work on the infirmary, she found a completely altered picture, on whose completion [?] work was still proceeding feverishly. Her otherwise so beautiful face S. 76 contorted and turned dark red:

"Who ordered this alteration?" she snapped at Siebert.

"The Herr Lieutenant Colonel," he answered quietly, for at the same moment Rodin appeared in the doorway.

"Ivan Petrovich, how often have I told you already that you are not to meddle in my affairs? What you do with your officers is neither here nor there to me, but I do what I hold to be right. Tomorrow I will complain to Lieutenant Colonel Sudakov [?]. You may believe me. I will show you how the directives of the main administration are to be carried out!" At these words she had straightened her upper body and thrown her head back defiantly.

"Moderate yourself, Katya. You can complain as much as you like. Here I am nachalnik and no one else. It is pointless for you to complain to him about me. I act according to his intent, on that you may rely," Rodin declared.

"That is not true. At the last conference he expressly emphasized that we are to concern ourselves with the welfare of the prisoners," Captain Katya retorted.

"You are right, he emphasized it — while you were all still present. Afterward, however, he gave us special instructions intended only for the camp nachalniks. The fascists are to have had their fill of an orderly camp regime [?]. If you make further difficulties for me, I will speak with Major Kartschagin about it." His wife flinched when she heard the name S. 77 of the scarred man. It had not disturbed the two of them in the least that Siebert stood nearby and overheard every word. Katya left her husband standing and walked with taut [?] steps to the guardhouse. Rodin, however, grinned to himself.

"You see, Siebert, that is how our women are. That is what we call the equality of woman. They have a say in everything. But let them — we men know well enough what [we] have to do. Tell Rodler he is to have the infirmary finished by this evening."

Nothing further seemed to have happened, except that toward ten o'clock in the evening Siebert and Rodler had to come to the guardhouse, where they received the order to fetch an iron bedstead from the shed and to carry the same into Rodin's dwelling. The room in which the two lived contained a large marriage bed, in which he was already lying when the two prisoners entered. Katya stood at the window, staring into the darkness. The bed was placed against the wall, and Katya hastily made it up, for after the preceding quarrel she was evidently not inclined to share the bed with her spouse.

"Ludwig, does this cat-and-dog scuffling happen often with those two?" Siebert asked.

"Almost every day they are at each other's hair over camp affairs. Yesterday they quarreled with the kitchen over the poor rations [?]. She accused him of consuming too much of the provisions with his colleagues [?]. He in turn thought she should select the kitchen personnel more carefully and supervise the preparation of the meals better. It was quite a scene. A mad life those two lead; one can only grasp [?] that with their honesty one does not get S. 78 through in such a society; uprightness is simply of no use, and that is that. I fear we will not have the 'Angel' here long. In contrast to his wife, the 'Old Man' has a board in front of his skull."

Indeed, Katya had the pleasure of being in the camp only a few days after the quarrel with her husband, for suddenly she was transferred to Poltava, where she did not come into contact with the prisoners. Only from time to time did she appear, when she made her quiet inspection journeys through the fifteen camp sections of Camp 7136.

Rodin remained several weeks longer, until by ruthless deployment of the prisoners he had succeeded in fundamentally transforming the outward appearance of the camp. Day and night he raced through the camp, as though he could earn his spurs by the expansion of this prisoner-of-war camp. He fancied himself a proper field commander. He had divided the population into battalions, platoons, and squads, appointed superiors, quite as in the German Wehrmacht. These men all wore white armbands onto which the initial letter of their "rank" was sewn. It gave him true joy when he could receive the reports of the nightly counting roll calls from the company leaders. At that hour his whole face beamed. The prisoners called Rodin "our Napoleon." When he had fulfilled his mission in Skorokhodovo, he too was transferred to Poltava, and Kostenko again took over the office of nachalnik. Gradually calm returned to the camp, for Kostenko was not so good a master builder as his predecessor. The concepts "norma" and "rabota" (work) sat in his very limbs. His conversations revolved around these things.

Kostenko's Unlimited Rule.

S. 79 The prisoners of war in Skorokhodovo, as in the other camp sections, had the difficult task of rebuilding the enterprises in the Soviet Union destroyed by the war. Apart from Germany, Russia had the greatest war damage to show. Whole regions had been leveled to the ground. A large part was on the account of the Red Army; the other part had been destroyed by the German troops on their retreat in 1943–44. Neither had spared anything in the destruction, insofar as the war demanded it.

The sugar and spirits factory in Skorokhodovo, which had once belonged to the estate owner Skorokhodov, had been destroyed by the Soviet troops [in 1941]. The officers naturally maintained that it had been blown up by the fascist occupiers, and charged the 1,300 prisoners with the task of rebuilding it.

The camp administration had concluded a contract with the factory management stipulating that the camp administration was to supply the necessary labor.

The factory management undertook the housing of the prisoners and the payment of the work performed according to the norms and the official wage tariffs. By this arrangement the camp leadership earned enormous sums, which amounted to far more than the upkeep of the prisoners cost. The prisoners were told that the surplus money would go to the per- S. 80 sonal giro account of the earner, and upon eventual release to the homeland it was to be handed over to him. This promise, like so many others, was not kept. Years later they resorted to another explanation: the earnings [?] of the money earned by the prisoners of war would be credited to Germany as reparations. Whether this will ever happen? — Were the Soviets to keep this promise, Germany would have many millions of rubles less to pay, and the labor of hundreds of thousands of prisoners of war would not have been entirely in vain.

The Soviet camp leadership saw in the labor of the prisoners a sure source of income for the state and, not least, for their own pockets.

And even then [?] any means was acceptable. For example, one day they began holding people back in the camp. After a few days there were already about a hundred men in the camp. This gap naturally attracted notice at the works, and inquiries were made of the camp leadership as to the whereabouts of this labor force. Kostenko and the labor inspector Twerdochleb had evasive answers, until the factory directorate [?] realized what the "gentlemen" were actually after. The director pressed a tidy little sum of bribe money into their hands, and the men marched into the factory grounds that same hour. Kostenko did the same from time to time thereafter — as often as he needed money. Further, he hit on the idea of hiring the men out [?]. The adjoining estate had formerly supplied the sugar factory with the necessary raw material. Since the factory was completely destroyed, the beets from an area of 18,000 ha (1 hectare = 2.471 acres) had to be loaded and hauled to other regions. For this, however, the S. 81 necessary labor was lacking. For this reason the estate administration turned to Kostenko with the request that he furnish the prisoners for this work. He did not deliberate long and agreed. But he could not dissolve the contract with the factory, and therefore the many tons of beets had to be loaded after the regular working hours. The pay for it Kostenko pocketed with his accomplices. All winter long, night after night, some 150 prisoners worked at the railway station — in streaming rain in autumn, in icy cold and grim snowstorms in winter, and in knee-deep mud in spring — to the point of complete exhaustion. And still several thousand tons of beets lay in the open on the station grounds when the spring sun robbed the clamps, several meters high, of their only protective covering, the blanket of snow. Together with the snow-water a brown, stinking ooze now flowed through the camp. One would have thought oneself in the vicinity of a spirits distillery: the beets had thawed and were dissolving into their component parts. As it gradually grew dry, the beet mountain dried too — before which a few women with a long carbine still stood guard, lest any civilian fetch himself a couple of beets to still his own and his family's hunger!

Of this incidental labor of the prisoners no one learned anything. Kostenko reported to his superiors in Poltava that in his camp the eight-hour working day was most exactly observed and four rest days a month were guaranteed to the prisoners, although from May 1945 to July 1946 these had not had a single Sunday or rest day. Even Christ-

S. 82

…mas 1945, when the entire camp population was gathered around the Christmas tree, the duty officer came and called out a hundred men for beet loading. The prisoners had hoped to have peace at least on this holy feast — if not by day, then at least at night. But nothing of the kind.

When the men did not go at once, a troop of Soviet soldiers equipped with cudgels came into the quarters and struck blindly into the mass until a hundred men had fallen in before the camp gate.

"Peace on earth, and goodwill toward men," it sounded softly, like a longed-for wish, from the breasts beneath the coats.

Kostenko's greed for money stopped at nothing and shrank from no means, however cruel, of filling his pockets.

The establishment of a cobbler's and a tailor's shop had become an urgent necessity in view of the poor clothing and the tattered footwear. The main administration therefore ordered that the same be set up, so that the prisoners' things could be mended. Kostenko set five tailors and just as many cobblers to work. If the men believed at first that they would now have better clothing again, they had deceived themselves miserably, for these workshops had to [work] almost exclusively for Soviet officers and civilians from whom Kostenko had accepted orders. The proceeds of this work likewise flowed, with very few exceptions, into his pocket.

What was especially productive for him was a cooperage. Two excellent coopers performed veritable feats of magic here. Every day two solid

S. 83

oak barrels rolled to the guardhouse, and were sold by the nachalnik at 150 rubles per barrel. He thus earned 150 rubles on every barrel, for the wood he had stolen every night in the nearby forest, and for the labor he paid not a penny anyway.

All the craftsmen — watchmakers and precision mechanics, among others — were withdrawn from the factory's work process and labored in the camp for Kostenko. Even if he had interest and time for nothing else, for driving these men on he found time enough. "Norma, norma! Davai, fulfill your norm or there is nothing to eat," was his morning and evening greeting when he strode, here [?], with rolling eyes through the camp. And the men toiled untiringly, for they were hungry, and hunger hurts.

One day he called Siebert to him and gave him the order to fetch a pair of German over-trousers from the clothing depot, have them washed, and bring them to the tailor's shop, so that a pair of riding breeches for the winter might be made from them for him there.

Siebert ran to the master tailor Gregor and summoned him to the captain to take measurements.

"Tomorrow noon the trousers are to be finished," Kostenko ordered curtly and went out of the office [?].

When Gregor and Siebert arrived at the workshop, the tailor discovered that they had no thread. Moreover, paper for a pattern was lacking. These things could not possibly be scared up in the camp, and Siebert went at once to look for the captain so that he would procure the rare articles. Unfortunately he had gone away, and Siebert turned to Kostenko's wife with the request that she help him.

When he entered the captain's dwelling,

S. 84

the captain's lady looked at him in utter bewilderment, as though she wished to ask what he, a prisoner, had to seek in her home.

"If my husband ordered something from you, then let him also see to the procurement of the materials. I am giving you nothing. Go!" Frau Kostenko snapped at him.

Siebert had to go back into the camp with nothing accomplished. The trousers simply could not be made. At twelve o'clock sharp — Kostenko had never been so punctual — he came into the camp the next day and went straight to the tailor's shop. Siebert happened to be there and had to answer to him at once.

"Well, where are my trousers?"

"They could not be made, Herr Captain, because…" Siebert began to explain.

"What, not made? I said expressly tomorrow noon."

"Herr Captain, we had no…" Siebert began to speak again.

"Silence! You did not want to make the trousers. Come along to the guardhouse. I will show you how one makes trousers for a nachalnik!" Then the door crashed into its lock. Siebert and Gregor followed him to the guardhouse.

"Twerdowski, the tailor Gregor is punished with five days' intensified arrest and Siebert with three days' intensified arrest. Lock the two up at once," he ordered the officer on watch.

The latter reached for the bunch of keys and led the two away.

"So we are locked up after all, Ernst, and for such a laughable affair. At bottom, it amuses

S. 85

me. If the fleas in the hole are not too active, perhaps we can rest. We have long since earned the rest anyway," Siebert said to Gregor, who growled something unintelligible into his pitch-black beard.

The officer busied himself with the small iron door. When he had opened it, the punished men crawled in and sat down in the corner. Neither Gregor nor Siebert had ever been punished before. With examining eyes they studied the walls.

The punishment cell lay in the middle of the camp yard. If one did not look closely, one could not make it out at all, for it was sunk into the earth. The hole was 70 centimeters wide (one cm — not quite two-fifths of an inch), just as high, and 200 cm long. Kostenko managed to lock up as many as 15 men in this hole. Whoever could not get in was literally kicked in. With such overcrowding, after an hour one heard the pleas of those locked in that they might be let out. But to such pleas no one listens in Soviet Russia. Finally the men cried out for air. In such cases the German camp commandant immediately reported to the Soviet duty officer.

"Nichevo (never mind), they won't run out of breath," was in most cases the laconic answer. Gradually it grew quite still in the dark, stinking hole; only a soft and weary death-rattle could be heard in passing [?].

The camp population of Skorokhodovo was, with few exceptions, a sworn community: if someone sat in the hole through no fault of his own, he could count on the help of his comrades. He needed neither

S. 86

to hunger nor to freeze. He was supplied from outside by illegal means. To bring this help to the man more easily, the plenny master builders had left an opening in the ceiling through which, at nightfall, the most varied things traveled — beginning with the necessary provisions and warming blankets and coats, and ending with books and chessboards. But if one was inside who had spoiled things for himself with the camp population, he passed evil days there.

Not 45 minutes had gone by since the locking up of Gregor and Siebert when someone pounded on the door from outside. One heard quite distinctly the rattling of the great punishment-cell key. A violent boot heel kicked the door open, and in its frame one saw Kostenko's boots, recently manufactured from Lippmann's leather jacket [?].

"Hey, bandits, come out!" he called into the hole. "Well, how are you doing down there? Will you make the trousers for me now?" he asked, grinning, when Siebert and Gregor stood before him.

"It is halfway tolerable down there, Herr 'Captain,'" Siebert answered, so as not to show this sadist who had hurt him, for in that he would have taken his bright delight. "And we will make the trousers today just as gladly as yesterday, if you will only give us paper and thread."

"All right then, come along. I will give you the stuff."

At the guardhouse he gave them what they required, and the next day he walked proudly through the camp in his new trousers — which were later to cause him a great deal of worry yet.

Kostenko, who boasted of being a communist of the first

S. 87

order, not only exploited the prisoners mercilessly — despite his many declarations that in Soviet Russia the exploitation of man by man had been abolished for all time — but also stole from them wherever it was at all possible. His entire provisions he drew from the camp kitchen [?]. Once it was dark, he went to Lang, who served under him as kitchen chief, and picked out the best of the prisoners of war's foodstuffs for himself. Then Lang packed everything into a basket, camouflaged the provisions with a few sticks of firewood laid on top, and thus the stolen goods traveled to his dwelling. From the camp bakery Kostenko drew, on a monthly average, 165 kilograms of bread for his family of three (1 kg = 2.204 pounds). The missing bread the baker had to make up by raising the water content of the loaves. The effects of this extensive racketeering fell back exclusively on the prisoners — until a sudden end was put to these doings.

At the end of May 1946 the MVD car of the main administration from Poltava suddenly drove up to the camp. Two officers went directly into Kostenko's dwelling and arrested him — the seemingly untouchable ruler of Skorokhodovo — on the spot. The whole day and the following night they rummaged through the staff quarters and the provision stores, counting and weighing the goods not yet stolen [?]. After this exact audit was finished — and had turned out extremely negatively for the "Tovarishch Nachalnik" — they took the officer's shoulder boards from Kostenko's uniform, removed his decorations and officer's belt, in order to bring him to Poltava. Here he landed in the city prison, which was overpopulated even without him. Most regrettably,

S. 88

most of the inmates were, by any sensible notion, no criminals like Kostenko. He may well have been one of the few among the prison inmates who had really committed a crime and belonged before the bar of the court.

The prisoners breathed freely when they saw their nachalnik led away. At last this tormentor of theirs was removed!

Kostenko's wife screamed at the top of her lungs across the whole yard. Not one of the officers who only yesterday had been subordinate to her husband found a word of comfort for the woman. On the contrary: hardly had the car disappeared when First Lieutenant Schewtschenko and Major Kartschagin, with several other officers, forced their way into the weeping woman's dwelling and declared to her:

"Here we have an exact list of the objects your husband pilfered in the camp or had manufactured. He recorded the things himself and signed beneath. In accordance with this list we are confiscating everything. You, however, are to vacate the dwelling this very day — at once!"

The woman collapsed without saying a word. The officers [carried] all the objects they found recorded on the list — and that was literally everything in the room — into the middle [?]. The captain's riding breeches also came to light here again [?]. When everything had been found, the dwelling was empty, and Frau Kostenko flew onto the street with a bundle and her child. Officers who had watched her related that she had walked on foot, into the late night, toward Dnepro-petrovsk [?].

S. 89

Many of the officers had a rather bad conscience and now tried to shift everything onto Kostenko: everything that had disappeared in the camp went onto his account. The occasion of his arrest was the following: In the spring the other camp sections came, on orders of the main administration, to fetch potatoes from Skorokhodovo, for allegedly 90 tons were stored here. The cellar keeper looked in astonishment at the many receipt authorizations and showed his friends the empty cellars.

As now came to light, Kostenko had received the commission, and the money, to purchase a quantity of potatoes. He reported the order carried out, for with a few rubles he had procured himself the necessary receipts concerning the whereabouts of the money. The great sum of money wandered, as so often before, into his bottomless pocket. In the name of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics he was sentenced to eight years' labor and re-education camp.

But the Kostenko affair was no isolated case, for with Kostenko went eight more camp nachalniks, at whose head marched the nachalnik of the main administration. This great man, to whom 18,000 prisoners of war were subject for better or worse, had embezzled a sum of no less than 100,000 rubles.

These "gentlemen" were very soon forgotten by their colleagues; in the memory of the prisoners, however, they clung for a long time yet, for again and again the men spoke of those days when, instead of potato soup, there was only nettle soup. How many prisoners in those days acquired, through malnutrition, infirmities that they will never in their lives be rid of again.

S. 90

MVD Informers.

When Siebert was still a free Soviet citizen, he had never been able to observe so well how the many millions of people in that vast Russia were actually kept in check. He had, to be sure, received a small foretaste in the Red Army, but what he saw and experienced here far surpassed what had gone before. Kartschagin raged with an arbitrariness never seen before. The interrogations seldom broke off. From morning until late into the night the men were hauled out of their sleep and driven to despair by having count[less] "crimes" laid to their charge [?].

Kartschagin had recruited himself a whole army of informers, who called on him regularly and made their reports [?]. From this scum of humanity no one in the camp was safe. The informers were carefully selected and tested.

In every people there is a category of men distinguished above all by brutality, unscrupulousness, and other base traits of character [?]. One recognizes them easily at first glance. Their eyes are always somber, their laughter forced. These men are so heavily burdened by their conscience that they scarcely dare to look an honest man in the eye. Thin, colorless lips seal the mouth hermetically, and the flat forehead betrays not so much wisdom as a baseness, meanness, and stupidity that becomes the undoing of themselves — but first of many others.

These criminals [in the original: "Verbrechering" (sic?)] were let loose upon the prison-

S. 91

ers. If things did not go quite right with them, they were served a mess-tin full of nettle soup or a sticky piece of black bread, and the denunciations came pouring in to Kartschagin again as if on a conveyor belt.

Siebert had never believed that there could be German men who would lend themselves to such a Judas-service. But sadly, that too existed! Sadly!

To his great good fortune, he very soon came to know the MVD Leiterrat [? — possibly "the MVD informer apparatus"] personally. The interpreter Sacharowa helped him to this, she having been installed in place of the previous interpreter, Bloch. Sacharowa did speak some German, but not nearly enough to translate written work. To keep her well-paid post she had to conceal her ignorance. But she could do that only with Siebert's help, for he alone in the camp was capable of translating the documents.

It was already fairly late one evening when she called him to her and laid several sheets before him:

"Can you translate this for me? The handwriting is terribly illegible. I don't want to say anything [about it] to anyone. Can you keep silent?"

"Well, let's have a look at what you've got there; perhaps it can be done. And to set your mind at rest: I am silent as the grave," Siebert answered with quick resolve. With this arrangement, two flies were to be struck with one blow. First, he now held a strong trump card against this dangerous woman, with which he could always silence her in case of need. She could undertake nothing against him, for in such a case she would have to reckon with his giving away the secret of his access [?] to the secret documents

S. 92

of the MVD. That would be chalked up against her as a grave crime, for Siebert was after all an enemy of the Soviet Union, and his relationship to the MVD was worse still.

Second, he thereby had the best opportunity to learn everything that went on in that little house. That was of the utmost importance not only for him personally, but also for the many comrades whom he so gladly wished to help.

Silently he began to read the documents lying before him. They were reports from the individual informers and their written pledges to work for the MVD. In these reports, these soul-sellers — as they were called in captivity — wrote in cynical [?] lines the most frightful fairy tales about individual persons. Beneath the reports stood not the signatures of the informers, but only their cover names. Cowards they were — yes, too cowardly even to sign their own reports. These almost never contained the truth, for these scoundrels received the assignment to spy on a given person, which they [did without] further ado, resorting [also] to the vilest slanders so as not to fall out of favor with the MVD officer. [Reading of this sentence uncertain]

One of the worst informers was the East Prussian Fritz Roll. Roll had a large family at home, which he had [sic] struggled through life to support. In 1934 he joined the National Socialist German Workers' Party (NSDAP) and rose to the rank of cell leader. When he came into Soviet captivity [?], fear seized him, for he had often [taken part] in persecutions of Jews and in marches [?]. He had [also] given the Polish population much to suffer [reading uncertain].

S. 93

The Poles were, after all, no Aryans — and Roll at that time was one from crown to sole. That, at least, is what he believed [then]. — Now he had suddenly become [in the original: "gewesen" (?)] a member of the MVD, and as such he professed to have hated Nazism from the very beginning. He was one of the first informers in the camp. Scarcely any other of the numerous slanderers has as many human lives on his conscience as Roll.

Siebert became absorbed in a document with the following content:

Report to the MVD Major Herr Kartschagin.

>

Concerning the prisoner of war Heinrich Waldmüller I have been able to learn that in the period from 1941 (August) to 1942 he was deployed in the Donets Basin near Krasnodon in anti-partisan operations, and that in this period he shot 18 partisans — defenseless men and women — with his own hand. One woman he personally hanged [?]. Waldmüller is a fascist.

>

Signature: "Masuren."

Without date, without proofs, without any witnesses, these meager words accused a man. Who had seen Waldmüller commit these crimes? But it sufficed that this report existed to strike Waldmüller from the list of the living. He was still alive — indeed, he did not suspect that he had been made into a criminal. It would never be reported to him as such. No — one day, after he has been tormented and tortured for weeks in the punishment cell, [he will] vanish from the camp and be shipped off as one condemned to death [?] to Siberia, to the remote silence-camps. Never will any human being be able to report what became of

S. 94

this man.

Reading this slip of paper, Siebert nearly lost his breath. Who was the author of the report? "Masuren"? — Aha, it is a region in East Prussia. Did not Roll live in that area? Yes — he came from West Masuria [?]. It could only be the work of that scoundrel. The remaining documents were of a more trivial kind: the prisoner of war Herbert Räther belonged to the N.S.D.A.P., Fritz Andlinger, senior sergeant of the flak, was a member of the SA, and so forth. Translating the reports, Siebert went hot and cold by turns. At last he was finished.

"May I go now, Frau Interpreter?" he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Go, but keep your mouth shut. Above all, you will do the translating for me. You [know] to do the translating for me. I will copy it out at once, so that it is written in my hand" [reading of this sentence uncertain]. And Siebert was already gone.

Keep silent? No, under no circumstances, for danger threatened these men — the utmost danger. Even if he could not help them, he wanted at least to warn them of the calamity.

That very evening he went to Waldmüller, who worked as a baker in the camp bakery. They met in a dark corner and Siebert told him what he had learned. Waldmüller listened calmly. When Siebert had finished, the man concerned said:

"Listen, Heinz, I'll tell you what happened. In 1939 I was called up to the military and served the entire time in a bakery company. Until the end of 1941 we lay on the west coast of France. At the beginning of 1942 we came to Russia, to the northern sector. Dur-

S. 95

ing the eastern campaign I never fired a single shot, let alone took part in any anti-partisan operation. All I did in the war was bake bread. As for membership in the NSDAP, I can only say that I come from Bavaria and from a strictly Catholic family. NSDAP and Catholicism do not get along well.

As far as I can remember the Wehrmacht communiqués, in July our troops were not yet anywhere near Krasnodon; they were [only just] fighting at the Dnieper. How am I supposed to have been there? And second, at the time stated I was lying in France. Heinz, it is a vile slander. And I'll tell you right away where it comes from and why it was invented.

Since I've been in the camp I've worked as a baker. Working together with me was Fritz Roll. You know him, don't you? One of the two of us was to leave the bakery. Since he is a mason by trade and I am a trained baker, they let him go. I stayed. Yesterday he came to me and demanded [of me] that I give up my place to him, for he had a wife and eight children at home. He had to get home healthy, one way or another [?]. Outside at hard labor he would be ruined, and he could not afford that. Naturally I refused — for why does he believe he has more of a right to stay alive [?], for why [illegible — reading of the end of the sentence uncertain]. As he left, he said to me flatly, straight to my face, in front of all the others:

'Just you wait — you'll get to know me, you brown Nazi. I'll show you who stays in the bakery. Don't be surprised if you suddenly find yourself in the punishment cell.'

That was all Roll said to me. I took it as a cowardly threat, but I was conscious of this [sic],

S. 96

that I had committed no crime. You see — now he has kept his word. I am sold. Do you think they'll believe the slander? — They're not crazy; surely it can only turn out all right!" —

"Heinrich, what you can do is precious little. You cannot even prove the contrary of this swindle. They will not confront you with Roll. He signed it 'Masuren' — now go and find this man, who never existed [?]. When will the arm of justice ever reach into this vast land, where one injustice chases the other? When they interrogate you, Heinrich, stay strong. Never admit that you did any such thing. The moment you do, you have lost this world. May God help you. You do believe in God?"

"Oh yes! He will help me. I thank you for the warning. I hope I can still sleep tonight."

With these words the two took their leave of each other.

The next morning Waldmüller sat in the punishment cell and Roll had become a baker. The investigative custody — if one can call that custody such — lasted several weeks in his case. Of Waldmüller only skin and bones remained. His face showed many blue bruises: they had beaten him badly. When Siebert happened to have to pass by the punishment cell, he asked him:

"Heinrich, have you confessed anything?"

"No, never! I have committed no crime, and therefore have nothing to confess," answered a weak voice from the dark hole. Siebert walked on, for it must not attract attention that he was speaking with a "war criminal."

After a few days Waldmüller had vanished from the

S. 97

camp. In spite of everything they had sentenced him to 25 years of forced camp labor. Where, in that hour, was the much-vaunted Soviet Justitia?

A few days after Waldmüller's sentencing there came once again a knock at Siebert's door, when the whole camp had long since gone to rest.

"Heinz, to the interpreter at once," called the errand boy from the MVD. Wearily he rubbed his eyes awake. To her — now? It is already past midnight. When will this woman ever have the goodness to leave him in peace? Nevertheless he got up and went to her.

"There you are," said Sacharowa, relieved.

"I have a few things here that I cannot read for the life of me. Help me, please."

Without a word he [sat down at the] table and began to translate. But had he seen correctly? That was his own name, was it not?

—The prisoner Heinz Siebert, in filling out the questionnaire, gave a false rank. In the Wehrmacht he was not a Gefreiter but a Hauptmann (captain).— Signature: von Lütje.

What impudence! Here the soul-seller "Lütje" had simply grasped at thin air and lied something together. "Lütje"? Can only be a Hamburger, plying his dirty trade here. Lankow, the chairman of the committee "Free Germany," had to be behind this report. Siebert dealt with Lankow daily. He wrote his advisory articles [? — possibly "lecture articles"] for him, advised him on his talks, and so on, for Lankow himself was not capable of it. He simply lacked the necessary knowledge.

When Siebert had finished the translation, he turned to Sacharowa:

S. 98

"What do you make of it, Frau Interpreter?"

"We-ell, we shall look into the matter. The reporter will surely know. Or do you mean to say that you stated the truth?" said the woman when she had read the sheet through.

"Now don't you go making unnecessary difficulties for me. You will be so good as to arrange for the Major to question me in this matter. I have witnesses who knew me as a Gefreiter. If you do not help me, I shall turn to the Major myself — but then I must tell him how I know of the report. You don't want that, do you?"

Siebert knew that this demand was blackmail, but how else was he to answer this crude slander? Sacharowa promised to do her utmost. It was plainly visible that she regretted having been taken in by a prisoner of war. But for her there was no longer any way back. A few days later the matter of the alleged captain was settled.

Lankow, however, carried on his 'mischief.' The worst deed this swindler committed consisted of a great list on which over three hundred prisoners were recorded. On the front of the list one could read: List of the prisoners of war of Camp 7136/2, Skorokhodovo, who on account of their fascist convictions are not to be released to the homeland.

Signature: Committee "Free Germany" Hans Lankow, Hamburg Jonny Kleen, Bleichenrode/Harz [?] Paul Wegener, Wuppertal.

Over three hundred men were, in the opinion of these persons, not to come home, because they had not

S. 99

accepted Communism already in the first year of captivity. An impudence and meanness of the greatest magnitude had here come to light, for the writers of this list were themselves anything but communist in outlook. Lankow and Kleen were active SA men; Wegener belonged to the NSDAP. When one spoke with these men, one heard their unclean conscience speaking distinctly. To the good fortune of all the comrades this list enumerated, this wholesale trade in souls was not trusted without reservation, for such a thing was exaggerated even for the MVD. Many of these men, however, suffered heavily under the accusation. Some of them went to the notorious punishment camps; for others the journey home was delayed by 2–3 years. The MVD removed [?] the informers as soon as the prisoners had learned of their activity. As replacements, colleagues of this breed would then arrive from another camp. One day the same fate overtook the grim Fritz Roll as well. Even the Soviets loved and cultivated the well-known saying: I love the treason, but I hate the traitor.

But it was far [?] from enough to slander the men; they were frequently also provoked into some statement or remark, which was immediately carried to the MVD officer. These provocations were mostly practiced by marked [?] men who could be accused of no crime. The smallest remark concerning Soviet conditions sufficed to earn, in one's personal file, the notation "anti-Soviet," which

S. 100

in turn was grounds for a longer captivity.

In the spring days of 1946 Siebert stood in the yard watching the airplanes making their training flights over Skorokhodovo. Suddenly the camp's well-known informer Hermann Lehe from Dessau stood beside him: "Heinz, I believe these airplanes were made in Germany. The engines hum exactly like our Messerschmitt. The Russians have stolen everything from us. Now they fly proudly with our machines. One day that will be bitterly avenged. What do you say to that?"

Once again a good friend, thought Siebert. Lehe otherwise spoke little with him [?] — now suddenly so confidential? Who would dare to say such a thing out loud in the yard? Something here was not genuine.

"Hermann, I have no idea about airplanes. They don't interest me either. The Russians have their own aircraft industry and don't need foreign models. And now kindly leave me in peace," said Siebert deliberately loudly, so that the bystanders heard his words and Lehe could not pass off his own words as Siebert's. Out of sorts, Lehe withdrew. But he was far from satisfied with one attempt. When he came to Siebert once again to provoke him, the latter turned to Lehe with a resolute expression:

"Hermann, what do you actually want from me? What interests you about me? I [?] would gladly be of help to you. Tell me openly what you are supposed to find out about me. Everyone already knows what spirit's child you are. You can confess it quite calmly."

S. 101

Lehe lowered his gaze and played nervously with his fingers:

"Heinz, I will tell you everything, but you mustn't be angry with me. I am indeed signed over to the MVD with skin and hair. When I came into the camp in 1945, I signed a pledge to work for the Soviets as an informer. I signed, for they promised [?] to release me that very year. I wanted to go home — dearly, so dearly — for at home a wife and two children are waiting for me. I myself am 48 years old. I shall not live much longer — I am old." At these words a man's tears [?] stood in Lehe's eyes. Where other men's lives were at stake, these scoundrels did not bat a single eyelash. But should so much as a hair of their own be harmed, they shed the bitterest tears. O cowardice, how pitiable you are, and yet how dangerous!

"That's nicely thought out. Do you suppose we don't want to go home? Our wives and children are waiting for us just as much as yours," Siebert returned to the weeping man.

"That I know well, but any means is acceptable to me to keep my back to the wall. But now I have already worked over a year as an informer and I am still here. It is enough to drive one to despair! Now I am at the end. When I have to go to him and have nothing to report, he rages outright like a lion. Now he is going to send me to another camp. And I am not allowed to go with the next homeward transport either. At my last visit he gave me the assignment to spy on you. I am to report whether you were in the Party and where you were during the

S. 102

war. How am I to find that out?"

"Quite simply, Hermann — I will gladly tell you everything you desire to know. You can do the same with your other assignments. But mark one thing: you have here betrayed to me a secret, and your discontent. The moment you tell an untruth — no matter about whom — you are hopelessly done for, for in that case I shall hang up a placard with your secret: 'Beware of Lehe!' That will suffice. Someone of your sort will soon carry the latest news of the day to the Major. Consider your future reports very carefully, or a calamity will occur. You cannot with impunity sell countless comrades merely because you want to get to your family faster." After this explanation Siebert wrote out for him the particulars desired about himself, and Lehe went with them to the Major.

What a pitiable creature, this old man! Afterwards Siebert felt sorry for having given him such a fright. But there was no other way to force these men to reason. One had to reach at once for the most effective means: to lay the noose around their necks and pull on it from time to time, so that they kept to the truth. Silence them one could not; one could only force them to a measured truth.

From that day on, Lehe came twice a month to Siebert for information, and Siebert handed him the particulars from the questionnaire. Lehe was unfortunately not the only one whom the Major had let loose on Siebert. The informers Lang, Eduard, and Klein, Alfred, occupied themselves with him quite intensively. They likewise appeared at regular intervals and questioned him, in order then to bring

S. 103

the Major the particulars already known. The worse of the latter two was Lang. Once again he had fetched himself information from Siebert, and yet he remained sitting there as if he wanted to ask something more. Siebert noticed it and helped him along:

"Was there something else you wanted to know, Eduard?"

Slowly and stammering, his counterpart brought out:

"I have long wanted to ask you how it is that you [?] are always friendly to everyone [?]. You treat everyone with the same friendliness despite your heavy [?] work and great worries. Where do you get the strength? Forgive me — the question is rather intimate."

"It is not so [?] intimate as it is far-reaching. Whether you will understand my answer I do not know, but I will tell you all the same. I trust in our heavenly Father. He is my never-failing source of strength. Does that mean anything to you?" Siebert looked at him sharply.

"Yes — I too once believed in God; today, however, no longer. I can no longer find the way to Him." His eyes closed, and between the lids heavy tears welled forth. "So that is the kind of man you are. — I would not have believed it." Then he made to go. As he gave Siebert his hand, he said in parting:

"My attitude you may betray to the Major without hesitation. I will gladly answer for it."

Through all the years of their shared captivity Lang came more and more often to Siebert and poured out his sorrows to him. He understood masterfully how to feign a friendly side and at the same time to plot the vilest tricks.

It was his work when suddenly the rumor went around

S. 104

the camp that Siebert allegedly came from Russia — or at the very least that his wife was a German woman from Krivoy Rog. Siebert's friends, who did not know his true origin, came to him indignant over Lang's meanness and reported on that [sic] which Lang was telling around the camp. Siebert discussed the matter with his best comrade, Hermann Meyer. Because of his case, Siebert himself was not allowed [?] to go to Lang and ask him to stop spreading the rumor. That would only have given Lang the certainty that he had heard correctly, back then, on the plank bunk in Romania [?]. This difficult task was undertaken by Meyer. He was to admonish Lang to reason and hold before his eyes the consequences of a slander. Meyer did indeed succeed in moving Lang to speak no further of it in the future. But from that time on Siebert no longer had a quiet minute, for one could not prevent this characterless man from going to the MVD and making his grave statements there. That would then have been the end of Siebert. In those days he brought out his hidden razor blade again and again. Every time he had been outside the camp for any length of time, he believed that his arrest warrant already lay ready, and that the moment he passed the guard post he would be seized. The terrible feeling of dread did not leave him even when Lang had long since been in Camp 7280 near Mariopol [sic]. He could, after all, still make his declaration from [?] there. He stopped at nothing and no one. On his filthy conscience there also weighs the conviction of the prisoner Johannes Wildkrupp. The latter had been a medical orderly during the war and as such had never taken part in fighting. But he was naive enough to tell of the

S. 105

battles of his unit, which was frequently deployed against partisans.

Of this, too, Lang learned — and without a second thought he made Wildkrupp into a war criminal. Wildkrupp was already under investigation, and Lang went on selling him, mercilessly!

When Wildkrupp had been presented with the official arrest warrant, he came to Siebert and lamented:

"Until now I had firmly believed that Lang was my best friend. He gave me bread and soup, supposedly shared his last with me. Now I demanded a confrontation with the witness against me — and whom did I see as chief witness [sic]? Eduard Lang, my 'best friend.' Fool that I am, I believed him!"

For a long time Wildkrupp fought against this slander of the cruelest kind. For months he was interrogated 3 to 4 times daily, never getting away without a beating, until at last he could endure the torment no longer and signed everything laid before him, only to have his peace at last. A hundred murders were laid to his charge; 67 persons he was said to have hanged with his own hand. He was said to have plundered great quantities of Soviet goods and set a great number of houses on fire. Twenty-five years of forced labor camp — so ran the verdict of the Poltava war tribunal. As a completely broken man who could no longer walk unaided, he was led by Soviet soldiers before the bar of the Soviet "people's" court.

He will not long have atoned for his "guilt." But his family waits still for his homecoming. And this the Soviets — read: Communism — call humanity and human dignity!

S. 106

A special case for all the camps was the Lorant affair. Lorant was a Hungarian Jew. In 1942 he was sent by the Gestapo into a labor battalion. There, until 1945, he did entrenchment work in Budapest, where at the end he fell into captivity. Before the war he had been the editor of a Hungarian newspaper. As one of the most gifted men, he became head of the anti-fascist Aktiv. He remained [?] in this post until suddenly he was locked into the standing cell of the MVD bunker. Lorant defended himself with every means at his disposal. No beatings, no hunger could force him to sign the protocol laid before him, in which he was accused of having conducted fascist propaganda — as a Jew! He was also alleged to have been a secret agent of the Gestapo. With admirable endurance and energy he protested and demanded proofs. As a sign of his protest he went on hunger strike. Seven days he held out. Unconscious, he was brought to the prisoner-of-war hospital Wossoki [?]. From there he addressed himself, by illegal channels, in a letter to the Plenipotentiary for Matters of Prisoners of War and Internees, General Filipow. Thereupon [?] a commission investigated the conditions and established that Lorant was innocent.

Lorant's courage instilled respect in the officers, and he was left in peace. But he did not come home until 1949, as the last Jew of the camp.

It is impossible to enumerate the horrors of the MVD in the prisoner camps. But it was a [sic?] mockery to sit in judgment at the Nuremberg trial over crimes against humanity, when the judge Pawlenko [?] was after all a representative of the Soviet Union, on whose

S. 107

territory crimes against humanity were committed that would suffice to stage three Nuremberg trials.

Criminals sat in judgment over German injustice! Injustice must not be atoned for by injustice!

The Soviet government had, namely, impressed upon the Soviet people again and again: the German people will pay for everything that happened in the war. But since in Germany a friendly and humane mask had been put on, it was the prisoners of war who had to bear the brunt. The whole burden of the so-called "atonement" of 80 millions lay on the shoulders of a scant million prisoners who had remained alive. How often the strength of these men failed! Every time it came to that [?], the political officers shouted to the men:

"You are guilty of everything. Purchase your honor and your people's honor through honest labor in the rebuilding of the socialist homeland of the working people of all the world."

And an army of labor slaves set itself in motion, driven on by loud cries of "Davai" and blows of rifle butts. Day after day, year upon year, without a Sunday, at an 8-to-14-hour working day, the men "atoned," until they collapsed from [?] exhaustion in the camp or on the construction site. Then they were dragged to the infirmary. Well for them if they got into the sick ward; but mostly they were accused of [?] sabotage of the "democratic" world camp.

"Whoever does not bring his strength to full exertion in the U.S.S.R. strengthens the front of the world powers [?] and is an enemy of progress!" These and similar words were screamed into the weary masses. Were these men at

S. 108

fault for the war? Were they justly punished? To this question the following example shall give the answer.

First Lieutenant Funke commanded during the war a Nebelwerfer (rocket-mortar) company, to which belonged, among others, the first sergeant Karl Götze, the kitchen driver Opitz, and the head cook Fritz Krohne from Celle near Hanover. The company pushed deep into Russia in the formation of its division. During the great encirclement battle at Cherkassy the provisions ran out, and First Lieutenant Funke saw himself forced to find a way out, for on empty stomachs his men could not withstand the exertions. He therefore ordered some soldiers to look for cows and pigs in the collective farms and to deliver them to the cook Krohne. Since the latter was a butcher by trade, he had the order to slaughter the livestock as it arrived. He carried out the order. The troops were fed. What officer would not have acted exactly as Funke did? What soldier would have refused this order? An English or an American first lieutenant, perhaps? An English or an American soldier, perhaps? Of a Soviet officer or soldier there is no need to speak here at all, for these raged badly enough among their own population — to say nothing of their skirmishing [printed "Scharmetzeln," sic] among the population in enemy country. Where is there an army that would rather starve than procure itself food in enemy territory?

The first sergeant Götze, Opitz and Krohne were taken prisoner at the capitulation of the German troops before Berlin and landed [printed "landeteten," sic] in the summer of 1945 in Camp 7136. Since some comrades from the same company were still in the camp, these events soon became known there, and the MVD seized its chance.

S. 109

Nine members of the Nebelwerfer company were arrested. They were accused of plunder. The court proceedings took place under summary procedure on January 9, 1948, in the courtroom of the Poltava war tribunal. The court sentenced all nine defendants to fifteen years each in the penitentiary, because on the orders of First Lieutenant Funke they had slaughtered six cows and four pigs and distributed them to the soldiers.

First Lieutenant Funke, however, had been home since the end of the war and lived free of care in the British occupation zone of Germany. From time to time he inquired after Krohne's welfare and wished him a speedy homecoming. He did not suspect that the latter had been sentenced [printed "verureilt," sic] to fifteen [printed "fünzehn," sic] dreadful years in the penitentiary for carrying out his order.

Krohne was the only son of his parents, who owned a large butcher shop in Celle. How gladly the father would have given everything to pay many times over the cost of the slaughtered livestock. But he did not even know of his dear son's plight, for two days before his arrest Fritz had still written his parents that he was doing very well — for without this [printed "ohne diesem," sic] "very well" the MVD would not let the card through the censorship. When the indictment had been presented to him, he came to Siebert and asked him to take a letter for his parents and his fiancée and to deliver it there in the event of an eventual release. It was the last attempt to send his parents a greeting and his fiancée the dissolution of their engagement. Three years the girl had waited for him — and now fifteen more? He could not ask that of her.

One last sign of life reached Siebert from the prison in Poltava:

S. 110

"Dear Heinz!

We suffer innocently. Greet the homeland. We shall never see it again and yet shall never forget it.

Your Fritz."

Those were the few words that could be read on the piece of wrapping paper.

All those years he had reckoned with a trial, for the many interrogations clearly pointed to one. But he had never reckoned with a conviction, since he had, after all, committed no crime. And even if his deed was regarded as a crime, it had been done on the orders of his company commander. In the worst case, that man should have been called to account. But he was not to be had — so they took the soldier Krohne.

Let one picture the following relation:

The great men of the Third Reich were sentenced to death or to lifelong imprisonment for their numerous crimes (for so their deeds during their years in power were designated by the Nuremberg trial). Often the sentence was even milder. On their orders millions of human beings were killed in the cruelest manner. Towns and villages, indeed whole countries, were laid in rubble and ashes at their behest; millions of human beings were shot into cripples. They were in many cases sentenced to 15 and 20 years in the penitentiary.

As the contrast comes the soldier Krohne. On orders he slaughtered six cows and four pigs! This "criminal" is sentenced in the name of Soviet justice to fifteen years in the penitentiary. Where, by Soviet notions, does a crime begin, and where does a crime end?

S. 111

Any human being can be made into the greatest of criminals by the Soviet courts if he can be put to use as a labor slave in the numerous forced-labor camps of the Soviet Union. The dreaded Ministry of the Interior — Ministerstwo Wnutrenich Djel — the MVD sees to that.

The Bible.

The life of the prisoners of war in the years 1945, '46, up to and including '47, may be compared to a ship on the high seas, fighting with all its strength against the raging surf. It groans [printed "ächst," sic] and cracks in every joint. The pilot tries to save it from going under, but again and again the waves tear the rudder from him and threaten to hurl it onto rocky cliffs. Man's strength and reason are at the point of failing. The rudder breaks, and the ship drifts masterless on the waves, surrendered unconditionally to fate.

In these years three groups of men could be found in the prisoner-of-war camps.

To the first group belonged the most ruthless men, with the motto: I will live. Any means is right for me to get out of this misery. If all perish — I will live.

In the belief that fate could still be fought, they felt strong. Since they acted on the principle "My own shirt is nearest to me," they not seldom did great harm to the community, and the individual prisoners suffered from it even more. They were the minority in the camps, which in no way prevented them, in many camps, from snatching the power to them-

S. 112

selves. For to them any means was acceptable, which was not the case with the majority. This circumstance made it impossible for the majority to proceed against this group of egoists. This group of men knew, in fact, only their own selves. The lot of the great mass was to them an irrelevant side issue.

To the second group belonged the majority of the prisoners. These had recognized that they themselves could no longer hold the rudder of their life's little ship, and they laid it in God's hands.

"We have a God who helps us so long as we hold to the good, and that we undoubtedly do. With God's help we shall come through this great storm."

These men bore the lot of captivity most easily. In their features an immense patience was mirrored. Their inner equilibrium could be shaken by nothing. They were mostly friendly to one another and helped each other, even if it was often only a brief word of comfort that they could give their comrades. They resigned themselves willingly to every situation, knowing as they did that God was leading them on safe paths. What strengthened them especially was the power of prayer. They were not allowed to pray together — no, somewhere all alone, unseen by any human eye, they knelt down and prayed. Often a quiet dialogue with God took place under the filthy coat on the plank bed. And the heavenly Father comforted and strengthened them according to the riches of His grace.

When Siebert had gone through work and difficulties in the course of the day and fell onto his bunk long after midnight, he folded his hands and directed his last words before falling asleep to his Savior; then he would feel quite light at heart, as if

S. 113

an invisible figure were whispering to him: "Be comforted, I am with you. Trust me completely." Thereupon the shadow of care vanished. Confident, he went back to work in the morning. When he was summoned to the MVD, he waited to enter until this good voice said to him again: "I am here." If God is for me, who can harm me?

It was a rarity for two men to speak about this question, for anyone who had been recognized as a believer was considered a reactionary. Trust in God was kept like a great secret. One did not need to possess much knowledge of human nature — one only had to have been in the camp for a longer time — to recognize clearly who belonged to this second group.

To the third group belonged a large part of the prisoners. They believed all was lost. They had indeed seen that they were powerless to steer their fate, but they could find no way out. How they had built on their own strength and their own will! And now their hope lay like a glass bowl in shards on the floor. Not a spark of hope, no inner support! They lacked any faith in God. Yes, many of them had once known Him, but need and misery had driven them to despair. Characteristic [printed "Charkteristisch," sic] of them was the following: "I believe in nothing anymore — in no God, in no justice. We shall never get home anyway. As far as I am concerned, let happen whatever will. Nothing is left to us in the end but death."

This group of men let themselves go. In a short time they were completely neglected and became the first victims that death claimed, for whoever gives up hope gives himself up.

The second group pitied the last one greatly,

S. 114

for here help was needed, while the first carried on its shameful business at their expense. Often the men of the first group were the authors of the boundless despair of the last, for they made life in the camp a hell for them. From the midst of the despondent came also the many suicides. They threw themselves from the upper tiers, hanged themselves in the barracks [printed "Baraken," sic], or — what was simpler still — they ran against the barbed-wire fence and were mercilessly shot "attempting to escape" by the Soviet soldiers. To render the state of mind of these men lies scarcely within the realm of the possible.

The camp had once again been frisked. A great mountain of "Klamotten" (so the soldiers called their personal belongings) lay in the yard. By chance Siebert passed by and caught sight of a little book under some old rubbish. With his foot he pushed it heedlessly aside and walked on. When he had already gone a few steps, he turned briefly around and picked it up. A pocket Bible he held in his hands. Anxiously he looked around on all sides. Not a soul nearby. And already the precious little book disappeared into his pocket. It became his constant companion. At night it lay under his head-bolster; by day he carried it in his pocket. In the long years he found comfort in the Bible again and again. As often as he grew disheartened, he brought it out in some hidden corner and read God's Word. If — which did not happen often — he had forgotten to pocket it, it seemed to him as if something were missing, and he found peace again only when he felt the heavy leather case in his pocket [printed "Tachse," sic]. After some time he acquired from a comrade, for good payment, an evangelical hymnal as well. Thus he was

S. 115

one of the few who possessed this precious treasure.

However much he strove to conceal the existence of the two books, it failed nonetheless. More and more often comrades came and asked to be allowed to read in the books. He could not refuse them this request, for God's Word is there for all who wish to read or hear it.

The antifascist Aktiv, too, had learned of Siebert's convictions, and to his great astonishment the Aktiv leader Lankow came to him one day with the strange request:

"Heinz, as far as I have been able to determine, the desire for Sunday services keeps growing. The Aktiv has resolved to approach the Soviet camp administration on the matter. But you are the only one who could take on this task. Are you prepared to preach God's Word?" As he said it, Lankow grinned from ear to ear. Siebert thought he had not heard right. The Aktiv, which otherwise takes so energetic a stand against religion, now comes out for the introduction of Sunday services? Something dirty is afoot here. Do they need material for propaganda speeches, perhaps? Do they want to learn the men's convictions, perhaps, so as then to brand them as reactionaries? Siebert had soon forgotten that Lankow was still waiting for an answer:

"Listen, Hans — to hold divine services one must be a pastor. My abilities don't reach that far. Excuse me, but I cannot fulfill your request."

"Don't make jokes — you can do it well enough. And you don't have to do it all the time. Only once or twice. I only want to show the people that the anti-

S. 116

fascist Aktiv strives in this respect too to do justice to the claims of all strata. If this maneuver succeeds, then those people will support us who until now have not done so because of their religious convictions," the Aktiv leader declared, twisting his face into an ugly grimace.

"No, Hans, I am not in a position to do it. I beg you, leave me in peace now." After this declaration Lankow went off to his room annoyed. He tried three more times to move Siebert to this abuse of the Christian faith. Again and again he refused Lankow — for how could he preach God's Word for so dirty a cause? No — better, then, to keep silent. Lankow later did leave him in peace, until shortly before Christmas 1946.

The Aktiv had once again scheduled a meeting and dangled before the prisoners the tale of their great guilt toward the Soviet Union. At the close of the meeting Lankow put to the men the question of how they wished to celebrate Christmas. One brave man asked aloud:

"Is it not possible to hold a divine service?"

"Possible it would be. It is only a question of who conducts it. Siebert would no doubt be in a position to, but he does not want to," Lankow explained to the questioner.

Siebert was sitting next to the then MVD lieutenant Jegorow and translated the man's question for him. Jegorow gave his consent and turned to Siebert: "If you want to, you may conduct the service. I permit it. But I must know exactly what you intend to say."

Lankow hastened to convey Jegorow's words to the

S. 117

people. Many pleading eyes rested on Siebert, and he did not have the courage to refuse now. If there were so many who wished to hear God's Word, then it was worth taking on the difficult task. He agreed.

Never in his life had he spoken before an assembly on this subject. Indeed — what was more difficult still — the men belonged to different religious confessions. Would he be able to do justice to them all? Nevertheless he set about working out his Christmas address.

Christmas Day came quickly. The camp commandant of that time (as the German camp leader was called), Herbert Räther, had after a long search managed to procure a fir tree. The former sailor Ulrich Sager fashioned candles out of cartridge casings. In short, on Christmas Eve the tree stood there decorated. Many hands had worked on it, for each believed he was preparing the tree for his loved ones at home. O Christmas, you wonderfully beautiful festival of the family! In this Christmas season, however, millions of family fathers still dwelt behind fourfold barbed wire in Russia's wide expanses, in England, in Poland, in Yugoslavia, in France and in Czechoslovakia.

In the afternoon Siebert went to Lieutenant Jegorow and asked him to give written permission, on the completed address itself, for it to be read aloud. Silently the officer [printed "Offinzier," sic] read it through.

"Khorosho! You don't want to say anything further?"

"No, nothing else," answered Siebert.

Jegorow set his name under the notation "Approved"; Siebert could go.

The antifascist Aktiv, however, had, besides the

S. 118

divine service, scheduled a counter-meeting at which propaganda was made against Christmas. The men practically had to be driven there. Could they not be spared, today of all days, the many odious propaganda speeches? Everyone was glad to be able to pursue his own thoughts. To be wholly at home in spirit was the prisoners' only wish. Annoyed, the men came into the hall. Lankow wanted to speak. He indulged in vile prattle that degenerated into mockery of Christmas. In worse spirits than they had come, the men went to supper.

Siebert had asked leave to conduct the service after the meal — and without any compulsion. Only those should come who sincerely wanted to. Lankow agreed, hoping as he did that only a very few would appear.

Nine o'clock in the evening. Quietly and reverently the men enter the hall in which, two hours earlier, they had been told of the falsity of the Christian teaching. The petroleum candles made from cartridge casings, from which the deadly lead had once sprayed, burned very dimly. And yet they proclaimed: "Peace on earth, good will toward men!" But sadly the world had not let itself be moved to peace. How could there be talk of peace when millions of human beings groaned under the consequences of the cruelest of all wars?

Last of all appeared Lankow. He flinched noticeably at the sight of the filled hall. He had actually wanted to see who had appeared for the service, but it seemed more advisable to look out for those who had not appeared. With a grim face he took a seat in the front row.

Now Siebert had the floor. Somewhat self-conscious,

S. 119

he stood before the tree. Would his words fall on good ground? That was the only question that moved him.

"We shall sing first: O du fröhliche, o du selige, gnadenbringende Weihnachtszeit [O how joyfully, O how blessedly, comes the grace-bringing Christmastime]. Standing, please," Siebert called on the assembly.

One thousand three hundred men stand reverently as in church, ready to give expression in the song to their most secret wishes, their anxious longing. Lankow, who until now had kept his cap on his head, laid it on the bench and rose. Meyer, who had borrowed an accordion from an officer of the Soviet camp administration, struck up the note, and more than a thousand throats sang like one mighty voice the song they had sung as children and that their wives and children, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters would today be singing again at home. Yes, even the weakest sang out heartily. Lankow seemed to wonder at the good and heartfelt singing, for these men never sang the Internationale like that.

"Christmas, the feast of all holy feasts, has come to us as well, dear comrades. Unto you the Savior is born this day. This wonderful tiding it wishes to bring us," Siebert began. Would they take it amiss if he now read them the Christmas story from the Bible? No matter — today he wanted to praise and laud the Lord. Whomever it disturbed might leave. Many an astonished glance rested on Siebert as he drew a Bible from his breast pocket. It was a rare thing in captivity. His words penetrated the men's ears. No one left the room. Everyone listened attentively, as though hearing the familiar story for the first time in his life.

S. 120

"See, dear friends — the shepherds turned their steps in haste toward Bethlehem, to see Christ and to praise him. Shall we do the same today? Shall we too all direct our gaze today to the star over Bethlehem? God give us the strength to follow Christ and to trust him, for he appeared to the world as its Redeemer. Why should he not have appeared for each one of us as well? If outward circumstances separate us far from our loved ones — indeed, many a man does not even know whether they are still alive — we can still always find comfort in Jesus Christ. In him alone let us trust, for he orders all things well," Siebert closed.

"Let us rise for prayer," came hesitantly and shyly over his lips. But his fear vanished at once as all rose quietly and folded their hands. Lankow too, with his cronies, rose slowly, after he had looked them over one by one. What feelings may have moved the man? Two hours earlier he had stood before this same tree and shouted:

"The Christian teaching is a tool for the stultification of the peoples" — and now he was already following the call to rise for prayer? One could visibly observe this man's inner struggle. This situation he could no longer master, for his exceedingly strong capacity for hypocrisy had failed. His usual insolence did not suffice. But Lankow stood. Had he not risen, the praying mass would have thrown him out without mercy. In this assembly a man prayed who otherwise never did.

Siebert had never yet prayed before so large an assembly. It was the first time that he made a confession of faith before so many people. Yet he no longer felt any self-consciousness. He had only

S. 121

the one great need: to praise the heavenly Father with and for his many comrades:

"Thou great almighty God, we come to Thee in this hour to bring Thee laud, praise and thanks for Thy great grace, that Thou hast given us the possibility of gathering here in Thy name. Lord, we thank Thee that Thou didst send us Thine only-begotten Son to redeem the world from its sins. To Thy goodness we owe it that through Jesus Christ we may one day attain eternal life. Loving Savior, we owe Thee also unending thanks that Thou hast until now led us so safely and kept us alive.

But we come to Thee also with great petitions. Lord in heaven and on earth, forgive us our sins and lead us not into temptation. Guide us on Thy ways as it pleases Thee. Grant that we do no one any evil, and that no evil befall us. Lord, let us find our families, and lead us, if it be Thy holy will, home right soon. Give our loved ones in the homeland their daily bread.

But to the leading men of the world mayest Thou grant wisdom enough that they may provide for a long peace in this world and preserve mankind from a new war. Heavenly Father, we beseech Thee, hear our supplication and be gracious unto us.

Amen."

"Amen" resounded from the hall as if spoken from one mouth.

Calm and serene sounded the song: Silent night, holy night. When the melody had died away, Siebert read from the hymnal the text: Whoso but suffers

S. 122

…God to guide him, and hopeth in Him all his days, him He will wondrously preserve…

At these words there appeared in the doorway Captain Kostenko, followed by several officers. He laughed contentedly to himself and placed himself beside Siebert, who after the reading of the hymn dissolved the gathering.

"Nu kak — well, how did you celebrate?" he asked Lankow, who answered the question in the affirmative.

"Meyer, then play a waltz, a polka, or a mazurka — davai!" he called to the musician.

Naturally no one had expected that, and so most of the men hurriedly left the hall, so as not to lose the exalted Christmas mood through some piece of foolishness from this man.

This disappearing of the prisoners struck the captain, and he turned to Lankow:

"Why are the people running off? Don't they want to dance? I believe you have a holiday."

Now First Lieutenant Schewtschenko interposed:

"Comrade Captain, they are celebrating Christmas, a religious festival — the Fritzes don't dance then."

"Aha. Well, fine — tomorrow, then," growled the captain. But Meyer had already vanished with the accordion and left the officers sitting there [?].

The prisoners were still living on the impressions of Christmas when Lankow wound up for his blow against Siebert. At an Aktiv meeting Lankow brought in the proposal to exclude Siebert — on the grounds that he was a fanatical fascist — from the Aktiv, in which he functioned as interpreter. None of the other Aktiv members would ever have thought of excluding Siebert, but if Lankow wished it so, they had to vote for it at

S. 123

the "democratic" ballot.

"Yes — and besides, you saw for yourselves at Christmas what spirit's child Siebert is. He wore his attitude openly for show. Such a man can be no [?] anti-fascist. Siebert, you may leave the room."

Was that the reward for all the work, which had long since gone beyond mere duty? If it only remained at exclusion from the Aktiv, he would count himself lucky — but what if the Aktiv passed its resolution on to the MVD? — What then? How was he to explain this case to Jegorow? But Lankow had prudently kept silent, for he had staged the exclusion from the Aktiv only in order to eliminate Siebert from public camp life, because the latter had won the general sympathy of the prisoners and Lankow feared losing influence. When Siebert learned of the true reason for his dismissal, he was content, for it had long since ceased to please him to be in the Aktiv. It was precisely through this activity that one lost influence. Siebert could exert himself for his comrades quite sufficiently outside the Aktiv as well.

The Murderer of Jassy.

Siebert went about his usual work, trying wherever he could to lighten the hard lot of his fellow prisoners. At times this seemed almost no longer possible, for conditions had visibly worsened. Daily the men came into camp with frozen hands and feet. According to regulation, at a temperature of 25 degrees Celsius below zero no

S. 124

work was to be done in the open. Only rarely was this observed. Then the weak, poorly clothed men stood before their heap of bricks, cleaning them of mortar. Eight hours standing in one spot in grim cold! Eight hours of desperate teeth-chattering! It was a hard trial. Already on the march out to the work site the first men collapsed. The blood had congealed in their veins from cold and hunger. Only several hours later did they recover in the warmth of the infirmary, whereupon they were immediately sent back to work. The colder it grew, the more frequent the cases of collapse. The Soviet camp administration did not ask after the real causes of this weakness, which were to be sought above all in the bad rations and the miserable clothing. It invented the following explanation: all who suffer a collapse in the morning or at the work site are saboteurs and want to evade their "duty of reparation" in the Soviet Union. Punishments were threatened. To the horror of the prisoners, the threats were put into action as soon as the unconscious man had come to himself again. Now one asked oneself whether there were really no human stirrings left in these "guardians of humanity." But what did human lives count for in Russia anyway? They did not spare even their own people — why should mildness prevail toward the prisoners? —

The mass dying had begun in the first days of captivity and seemed unwilling to end. Everywhere in Russia the prisoner-of-war cemeteries sprang up — smaller and larger ones, on lonely hills and in abandoned ravines.

Deaths became the order of the day in Camp SkoroS. 125chodowo (Camp 7136/2) as well. The strongest men wasted away. Two weeks ago one had still seen them strong and healthy. Now only skeletons remained. Hunger and the moral burden did their part.

It was in the winter of 1946/47. Unrelenting it was, with its grim cold. Worse still, with its demands, was the Soviet camp administration. "Norm, norma! Plan fulfillment!" Those were the most frequent words to be heard everywhere. The prisoners of war were squeezed to the uttermost.

Siebert had never known what real hunger edema looked like. The men first became quite thin. Skin and bones seemed to be the only components of their bodies. Then the legs grew thick, glassy, and yellow. This swelling climbed gradually higher until it had permeated the whole body. Watery and translucent became the facial skin of the poor wretches. This condition changed the men beyond recognition. The eye sockets became deep and blue. Laboriously the men dragged themselves along until they could walk no more. Then the water had attacked the inner organs as well. A general weakness of the heart bound them to their beds. In the infirmary the exhausted men were given only very little fluid, and slowly the water disappeared — which was by no means a recovery. The body consumed its last reserves of its own, and with them the remainder of precious life. This process continued until the report came to the infirmary:

"One died in the night. Another lies at his last gasp." Unknown were the dead; unnoticed they departed this ruthless world.

In the cold November days of 1946 the S. 126 German camp commandant, Fritz Engenfoort, came to Siebert:

"Heinz, last night the prisoner Engerer died. He was quite a young fellow. Starved to death, he is. In the morning the Russian doctor appeared in the infirmary and ordered Dr. Thierse to dissect the dead man. So they cut open the belly of the starved man and then formally establish that he died of stomach cancer, TB, or some other incurable disease. Starvation it must not be, for in Russia, after all, no human being is allowed to starve. — But that is not really why I came. I wanted to ask you to bury the dead man. You know yourself that the dead may only be buried in the evening. No one must see that people die in the camp at all. And I would not have come to you if I could find anyone willing to bury him. Will you do it?"

Siebert had done many a thing in captivity, but he had never yet buried a dead man. Why should he of all people do it? Would no one make the last journey for Engerer? He had a right to it, after all, and had earned it too — to be buried. But even the last rest of a human being was not taken very seriously in Russia, for when one walked through Skorokhodovo one had to take care not to stumble over the bones of fallen soldiers.

Along the road, in spring, a dense avenue of maple trees grew green. They took up half the width of the road, and only very little room was left for vehicles [?]. When in the spring of 1945 the sun melted the snow, small hollows appeared at regular intervals along one side of the way. The prisoners assumed S. 127 that they were former rifle pits. When later automobiles and other vehicles rolled over the road, it became clear that one was driving over corpses here: some 20–30 men had found their death here. It could not be established whether they were Russians or Germans who had been bedded here like dogs, half a meter deep in the earth. Boots and leg bones, skulls and hands came to light, without any authority taking any measures whatever. One day Siebert walked past this spot with Lieutenant Twerdochleb. When the officer noticed the bones, he said quite casually:

"You see, Siebert — here too there was war."

No — Engerer was not to be buried like that. The cemetery for prisoners of war lay far out in the fields, on the slope of a deep ravine. No path led there. Small wonder that the weary comrades did not volunteer. Siebert resolved to make this last journey for Engerer.

"Good, Fritz, I will go," said Siebert.

Darkness had taken the camp into its arms when the camp sledge halted before the infirmary. The driver, prisoner of war van Höckelum, had thrown some straw onto the sledge in which the dead man could be bedded. Siebert went to the Russian nurse on duty, Nikolajewa, and asked her to release the dead man to him. One had to carry him onto the sledge quite carefully [?], for the cobbler's thread [?] with which chest and belly had been sewn together after the dissection held only barely. At the gate, the soldier Dudeck and Lieutenant Krosin awaited the prisoners.

"Well, off to bury the fascist?" asked S. 128 the lieutenant. Siebert signed the slip with the death protocol, and slowly the sledge set itself in motion. An icy wind swept enormous masses of snow across the dead steppe. Van Höckelum had all he could do to keep the horses going. Laboriously they pulled the sledge forward.

"Wh-o-a." The horses stopped. "We can drive no farther. The road is at an end. This is as far as I ever drive anyway," van Höckelum explained.

"What's the matter, Siebert?" asked Dudeck, who had the four prisoners to guard.

"We cannot drive any farther. Now we must go on foot."

"Why did the cursed fascist have to die anyway? Now, because of him, I have to root around here in the snow and freeze," grumbled the Russian, and slung his carbine over his shoulder. Restlessly the horses stamped in the snow. They were freezing every bit as much as the prisoners and their guard Dudeck.

Siebert's comrades, whom he had asked to come along, lifted the stiffened body from the sledge and walked into the night. The wind pulled and tore at the bundle as if it wanted to hurl the bearers into the valley. Knee-deep snow prevented it. Bathed in sweat, Siebert struggled forward. But suddenly the wind seized him and threw him into the snow. It howled and whistled as if from a thousand pipes. It tore at every stalk that Siebert convulsively tried to hold fast — for the straw was Engerer's shroud, his pall, and his coffin. He must not give it to the wind! Where had the comrades with the corpse got to? The storm had knocked them down too and rolled them down the slope. The corpse lay halfway down the S. 129 hillside. Siebert looked around for the Russian, who had covered his face with both hands and stood up on the ridge of the hill. He had forgotten his duty. Against such a wind his sense of duty could not prevail; his feelings of pity had long since frozen, or he would have helped the weary prisoners. At last, after a good hour, they reached the so-called cemetery. The grave was supposed to have been dug already. But where was it? After a longer search they found a hole 70 centimeters deep. In such a pit one could not bury a human being. Pickaxes struck into the frozen earth. The men were already quite spent when the grave had been dug deep enough. Carefully they laid the dead man in.

"Hey, Fritzes, have you lost your minds? Nikolaewa [sic — per the errata: Nikolajewa] wants the sheet back. Lay him in naked!" bellowed Dudeck, stamping his feet with cold. The cloth was unrolled, and the corpse lay in the snow with slit-open belly and eyes wide open. None of the prisoners dared say a word at the sight of this cruel picture. Where does inhumanity end? Or is there no end at all to this unfathomable misery? When the Russian saw that the prisoners hesitated to lay the dead man into the hole, he took his carbine from his shoulder and planted himself threateningly astride [?].

The straw did not suffice to make a bed; one could only cover the corpse with it. When this had been done, Siebert took his Russian cap from his head, folded his hands, and stood in silence. The comrades too bared their heads. But Siebert still stood waiting. Dudeck looked at the prisoners and S. 130 slowly raised his hand to his cap, took it off, and gazed with a grim face at the star on his cap, as if he had never seen it before.

"Comrades," said Siebert, "let us bury the departed with honor. We never want to have to reproach ourselves for not having given him a fitting escort [?]. Let us pray." Did the men pray at all? Yes — and there stands the Russian still. Will he not curse? But nothing of the kind. Only the wind howled its monotonous song without pause — a song that was in truth very like a funeral hymn.

"Great heavenly Father, we stand here at the grave of this comrade who has gone home, and we beseech Thee: receive him graciously. He suffered heavily here, which in truth did not happen without Thy will. Mayest Thou be gracious unto him.

But we pray also for his loved ones in the far distance. Comfort them, and hold Thy protecting hand over their heads. Give them strength to bear this heavy loss.

But us, O Lord, lead further as it pleases Thee. And if it be Thy holy will, preserve us from such a fate and lead us home to our loved ones. Lord, be with us — be with us all! Amen."

Every single word the wind had snatched up and carried into the distance, accompanied by loud roaring and howling. With the word "Amen" it rushed away with tenfold force and bore it through the valley, out over the wide steppe, driving it ever before itself.

Now the first frozen clods of earth were laid into the grave, and slowly a mound grew up out of the yawning hole. Finally the Russian took the spade S. 131 and drove a plaque into the fresh earth, bearing the following inscription: Square No. 1 (1st square: the first fifty square meters of the cemetery), grave number 28, 1946.

No name, no date will the iron plaque ever betray. He was one of the many unknown human beings who died in Russia — and who are dying there still, in the very same way.

Now they could go back to the camp.

"Richard, if only it may not go with us as with this man. At home in my Rhineland we do not bury even a dog like that. Raw and cruel is nature here, and just as raw and unrelenting are the conditions here — or more correctly, the leading men of this state. Surely such a thing can only come about here," said one of the prisoners when they had reached the sledge.

"Ah, you mean the burial? I could tell you quite different things yet. Then you'll be amazed. I was seven months in the camp at Jassy in Romania. What took place [?] there, the world has not yet heard."

"Willy, you must tell me that too, for I have already heard much of a certain Murderer of Jassy. Does your story have anything to do with him?" asked Siebert.

The sledge halted before the camp gate. Out of the guardroom came Lieutenant Twerdowsky and asked:

"Have you cleared away the bandit? There's one darmoyed (freeloader) the less. He won't be the last to rest in this earth [?]. The devil take him. And you — get yourselves into the camp, march!"

S. 132

Those were the parting words that were sent along into the grave with the prisoners from the Soviet side.

The next day Siebert sought out Willy, and the latter told him his experiences from Jassy.

When in August 1944 the German front in Romania collapsed, the survivors of the German Wehrmacht went into Soviet captivity. The lot of these men was hard, tragic, and harrowing. They had to defend themselves at one and the same time against the rapacity of the Romanians and against the mercilessness of the Soviet troops. Defend would still have been well and good — but their sole power of defense consisted in having to let everything, even the worst, pass over them in silence. They were herded together into mass camps at Focşani, Bucharest, Constanza, and Jassy. Jassy was one of the largest prisoner-of-war camps on Romanian soil. A whole quarter of the city was surrounded with the high barbed wire. This camp differed from the others chiefly in that here it had only sick prisoners [sic — probably: in that it held only sick prisoners]. If healthy men came into the camp, they simply became sick. Only those remained alive whose body and spirit could endure and overcome the dysentery, typhus, and the many other diseases. The camp housed, in the period from August to December 1944, some 6,000 prisoners — men and women. From the beginning, contagious diseases ruled the camp [?]. Within the camp itself the prisoners had the administration in their own hands. The Russians never came into the camp. It did not interest them in the slightest what went on there. After a short time the whole city quarter became one great hospital, in which the German doctors under the direction of Professor Schou labored in vain over their numerous patients, for there S. 133 were no medicines, no rations for the sick. Rations there were, to be sure — but they did not reach the men; they were shunted off to the left and to the right, without a thought that on those rations hung the lives of most of the prisoners.

Chief Paymaster Helmut Eckardt ran the supply room. He had the task of receiving the foodstuffs for the 6,000 persons from the Russians and then distributing them. Eckardt was a man of 45 years. By profession he was a teacher in Thuringia. Most strongly developed in him were the qualities of dishonesty, selfishness, and greed. With a downright sadistic indifference he could watch men die. And this man was to distribute the prisoners' rations justly. Distribute them he did!

Every week he celebrated, at the expense of the camp's population, great and costly orgies with his cronies. To these he invited some 40–50 friends, along with many [?] nurses and signals auxiliaries. The most valuable articles of nourishment — fat, fruit, sugar, and so on — were devoured here or bartered away for wines and tobacco. Thousands of men were waiting for nourishment on which they could recover their health, for the chief cause of their sickness was hunger. Nothing happened. And then the mass dying began. Daily 60–70 men died. The highest death figure was 118 men. 118 out of 6,000 in a single day! Anyone could count on his fingers approximately when his own turn would come, if he held out to the end. A miracle would have to happen! Everyone trembled for his life — and Eckardt calmly carried on his mischief.

Every morning the orderlies went through the barracks and collected the dead. In the evening the S. 134 man had still spoken, and in the morning he never rose again — that is, he no longer opened his eyes, for as to rising, only the fewest could do that in any case. The corpses were stripped at once, insofar as they had not already been robbed of their clothing. Misery had certainly reached its peak here. Human reason had long since been carried to its grave here in Jassy.

The sick were still alive when their shoes were pulled off, when the wallet with the treasured photographs of their loved ones was stolen, when the rings — if any were still there — were slipped from their bony fingers and in the same instant bartered away for a piece of bread. Often the dying lay beside their pot of thin soup. They were too weak to eat unaided and looked out yearningly for a helping hand. But all in vain; nothing stirred. No — on the contrary. Dozens of pairs of eyes gazed with a dehumanized expression at the pot and at the breathing of its owner. "Oh, if only he were dead already," said these eyes. Now he has apparently drawn his last breath — and already several men hurled themselves upon the pot and wallow [sic] beside the dead man. The dying rob the dead of their last meal! And tomorrow? Yes — tomorrow it is their turn. Yes, tomorrow they will be thrown onto a cart as if one were hauling rubble to the refuse pit.

In Jassy too the burials had to be carried out in the evening. Every evening several wagons full of corpses left the camp. Innocent victims of a double crime of the "civilized and humane" 20th century! O injustice crying to heaven — whither have you [?] banished justice!

Once Hitler sent them to a hero's death. They stayed alive — only to fall into the hands of the S. 135 Soviets. Here there was no escaping; here victims were demanded — victims unto death. Here one did not die the hero's death, but a death that until now had had no name: death in Soviet captivity.

For the burials a detail of 25 men was assigned, whose members were mostly the most characterless of men. When the wagons halted before the mass graves, there now [?] began the cruelest of all procedures. One has often heard of the desecration of corpses, but scarcely any case has surpassed this corpse-plundering. The burial detail — themselves candidates of death — searched every corpse for gold teeth, which were broken out by means of crowbars. Before the detail returned to the camp, these had been converted into foodstuffs and consumed [?]. Finally the corpses were thrown into the pits, one upon the other, as if they were stones — the corpses, the gravediggers, and the masters of Jassy [?].

Then the day's layer was covered with earth, and tomorrow the next followed, until the hole was full. It held 300–350 corpses. In the period from the end of August to mid-December 1944 there died in Jassy — in Jassy alone — 3,600 men the death in Soviet captivity.

And who bore the guilt for it?

The Murderer of Jassy!!!

Was Helmut Eckardt the thousandfold murderer? This seemingly harmless chief paymaster? He was labeled as such, but he was only a will-less and characterless tool in the hands of the times, a man turned beast, an accomplice of an annihilating system.

The real murderers of Jassy were many S. 136 other subjects. They bore the guilt for the murders of Jassy.

The war began the murdering without measure. What it did not complete, the Soviets attended to — the Soviets, who seemingly wanted nothing to do with it, but calmly and composedly watched as one pit after another was filled. Yes — and what did it matter to them if under their supervision 3,600 men more or less died? The beads of their famous counting machine reacted only at ten thousand, and then only with [?] […].

The Murderer of Jassy wielded his scepter in Romania, Yugoslavia, Poland, Czechoslovakia, and East Prussia. He raged in the Soviet cities of Sumy and Kobelyaki, in the regions of the Donbass and of the Urals, at Chelyabinsk, in Central Asia and Siberia, at Archangelsk and in Karelia — everywhere, the Murderer of Jassy. Ah, how long he had already plied his cruel trade! Very, very long already. Since 1917 he had been murdering. Blood flowed in streams. In 1939 he, the murderer, reached record heights. He began with the murder of the Poles of the western Ukraine, whom he banished for this purpose to Archangelsk. They numbered 400,000, and only a few thousand returned in 1945.

In 1941 began the murdering of the German colonists in Russia. Who can name the number of Volga Germans still living? In 1941 they numbered 800,000. Then came the war. The Murderer of Jassy reaped a rich harvest. In 1945 began the murder of the many refugees and of those carried off into the expanses of Siberia — the murder of well over a million prisoners of war. His lust for murder has no end.

He murdered even while he sat at Nuremberg S. 137 in judgment over the murderer of Dachau, Sachsenhausen, Monthausen [sic — Mauthausen], and Auschwitz. He judged sharply, in order to cover his own crimes. And with him at the judges' table sat the whole world, and did not dare to condemn both murderers — National Socialism and Bolshevism — at one and the same time! Was mankind struck with blindness? Or was the measure of the crime not yet full enough? Or does one profit by the death of these millions of human beings? The proceeds must surely be blood-red!"

While Willy was telling Siebert this terrible story, he had covered his face with his hands and stared at the floor.

"Ah — why did I tell you this at all? Help you cannot, after all. But I wanted the whole world to learn of it — for everyone to know who the Murderer of Jassy is. If you ever have the opportunity, Heinz, cry it into the winds, so that all may come to know him and guard themselves against him."

Some months later the news spread through the camp like wildfire:

"He is here — the Murderer of Jassy — and asks to be let in. Come, look at him."

Everyone streamed to the gate, where a small group of prisoners of war stood. There was shouting, and people pointed at an old, grayed man. Eckardt had aged by many years. Now it was his turn, too, to go the way of his comrades. One bowed [?] him was [?], … to lose [?] [line highly uncertain, see notes]. In earlier days he had never given it a thought when others died like flies — that did not touch him; now he trembled, for the Reaper Death had whetted his scythe for him. Wearily he stood there. His pointed beard moved very slightly.

S. 138

The crowd raged and shouted.

When the gate opened, they shrank quickly aside, as if a lion's cage had been opened. In the same instant a very young lad pressed forward and shouted with all his might:

"Eckardt — all guilt avenges itself on earth!"

And avenge itself it did — for when Eckardt sat down at a table to eat, all rose and left the hall. If he wanted to warm his weary body outside in the sun, all went silently away from him. If he went to work, he had to walk alone at the front or at the rear. No one stayed near him. One could scarcely have punished him harder. This state of affairs lasted for months.

One day Siebert was called to the infirmary. Eckardt had asked for it. They had never yet exchanged a word. What could he want — for a week now he had lain in the infirmary with a severe pneumonia.

"Comrade Siebert, forgive me for having had you called, but the matter is important and very urgent," Eckardt spoke in a low voice.

"I shall live only a few weeks more, perhaps less, and so I wanted to ask you to write down my last will and to send it to my wife. But I must first say in advance that since 1943 I have been divorced from [?] my first wife. Immediately after the divorce I married a nineteen-year-old girl. Both live in my house, which I wish to leave to the second wife. Everything belongs to her. The first may live wherever she pleases. Please write that down."

Siebert wrote everything down word for word, and Eckardt signed. The next day he was taken to

[unpaginated closing page]

Kobelyaki, where shortly thereafter, in one of the many mass graves of the Murderer of Jassy, he found his last rest.

"All guilt avenges itself on earth!"

End of the Second Part.

Errata for Part 2 of "Give Honor to the Truth"

| Page | As printed | Should read | Line | |---|---|---|---| | 55 | r | er | from bottom up, 16th | | 60 | Arbeitbrigaden | Arbeitsbrigaden | from bottom up [?] | | 66 | Wanne [?] | Manne | from bottom up, 6th | | 78 | Schulle | Schule | from bottom up, 12th | | 129 | Nikolaewa | Nikolajewa | from bottom up, 17th |

(Translator's note: these misprints occur in the German original and do not affect the English text, except the S. 129 entry, which is marked [sic] at the corresponding place above. "v. u. n. o." in the original = counting lines from bottom to top.)

Publisher's Announcement (inside of the back cover)

Dear Readers.

Through your energetic support in the distribution of Part 1 of "Give Honor to the Truth," the publishing costs were covered, and thus the precondition for the publication of Part 2 was also created. For this I should like to take the opportunity to express my heartfelt thanks to all.

As soon as the publishing costs of the second part are covered, the third part of the book will appear. It treats in a quite particular way the following chapters:

The Great Search. The Red Himmler. The Punishment Camp 7149/2. (These three chapters could not, for technical reasons, be included in Part 2.) Soviet Propaganda. The Releases to the Homeland. The Fate of the Prisoners Left Behind. Women as MVD Informers. Labor Battalion 1551. Russian Germans and East Prussians Are Moved to Siberia. The Marriage of the Prisoners of War. The Factory "Serp i Molot" in Kharkov. The Flight from Poland. The Russians' Request. Homeward.

July, 1950, North Kildonan.

The Author.

[Transcription gap, Part Two, pp. 108–121 — resolved, July 2026:] Photographs of the missing seven leaves were located and the pages were transcribed against the physical copy. As anticipated, the range contains the end of the Krohne case, the close of "MWD-Spitzel," and chapter 9, "Die Bibel" ("The Bible"), running up to the Christmas 1946 service that resumes at S. 122. The German and English editions now carry the full text in place; the page sequence of Part Two is complete.

Karl Fast · Experiences from Russia's Recent Past Third Part · 1952 · Published by the author · North Kildonan, Manitoba, Canada

All rights reserved. Printed by J. Regehr, 326 McKay Ave., North Kildonan, Manitoba, Canada.

"If you believe you carry an especially heavy cross, think of the lot of those who languish in Soviet exile." — The Author.

The Great Search

S. 5

When Siebert was home for the last time, in November 1944, the German eastern front stood teetering before Warsaw, 130 kilometers from his hometown. All preparations had been made for a possible flight, but — as so often before — it was undertaken too late. The last letter from Ella reached him in January 1945, two days after the start of the Russians' large-scale offensive in the great bend of the Vistula. At that time Ella and Lilli had still been in the Warthegau. But then all news ceased. The fate of their families remained, for all the soldiers, a mystery that was to torment them for years.

At his departure Siebert had urgently pressed Ella to flee as far west as possible — on no account to fall into the hands of the Russians.

But what good was all the urging and wishing when there was no means of transport? Even if one was lucky enough to catch a train or some other vehicle, everything could be stamped into the ground at a single blow by the now-mighty Soviet war machine.

Siebert feared for Ella and Lilli. Was their happiness to have been so short? Where would they end up in this hopeless misery? Again and again he pictured Russian soldiers forcing their way into their home, violating them, and finally dragging them off to Russia to perish wretchedly in the forests of Siberia or the desert sands of Central Asia. But he was not the only one moved by the question: "Where are our loved S. 6 ones?" Everyone bore the heavy burden of uncertainty. One might, of course, have made inquiries at home, but that was no simple matter given the poor postal connections in the Soviet Union. Added to this, prisoners of war in Russia were not permitted to write letters.

Siebert had occasion to come to the Skorokhodovo railway station and to observe there the many transports of Germans hauled back from Ukraine, of "homeward-bound" forced laborers from Germany, and of the many deportees from the eastern territories of Germany. At every transport he looked longingly for Ella. In vain he tried to make out a familiar face behind the barred doors and windows. To speak with the people was impossible, for Soviet soldiers, accompanied by tracking dogs, had orders to convey these human beings into the interior of Russia. They were all traitors to their country and collaborators who by law were to be banished. On and on rolled these transports of misery; day after day they passed through the Skorokhodovo station. The people stood behind the bolted doors and gazed mournfully into the future. They had been rounded up in Germany and were being brought to Russia. Their few belongings were packed in wooden trunks and sacks. From time to time they were given something to eat. The small children cried and screamed in the overcrowded wagons. But here, as everywhere in Russia, there was no mercy. The freight cars with their living cargo rolled on toward their still unknown destination.

In those weeks several brigades of prisoners of war had work to do at the station. As soon as a trans- S. 7 port of deportees pulled in, the prisoners were hailed, for to the people in the wagons they represented a world in which they were free.

Every prisoner from eastern Germany would then, like Siebert, search the windows and doors for his own family until the train moved on.

"Give our greetings to the dear homeland, if you ever get home. We are never coming back," were the last words one heard from these poor souls.

Disappointed and dejected, the prisoners went back to their work. Where would they find their loved ones again? They, the men, were held prisoner here, while the women and children were taken somewhere else.

A large portion of the men had had no news from home since mid-1944. What might have happened in the past year? Perhaps their city had been reduced to rubble and ashes by American bombs? Or had Soviet troops laid waste their homeland? No one knew the fate of the fatherland.

The tormenting feeling of uncertainty spared no one. From the first days in Russia, the demand for a postal connection with home was constantly pressed upon the Russians. These, however, persistently kept silent about it, or declared the Geneva Convention invalid, since the Soviet Union had not joined that international organization. Hitler, so the prisoners were told, had not allowed the Soviet prisoners to write either — so why should the Soviet side, of all people, be so generous? The Soviet prisoners had indeed never written from German captivity.

S. 8

But whose fault was that?

Right at the outbreak of the war the Soviets spread the propaganda rumor that all Russian prisoners were being murdered by the Germans — no one is left alive. On the German side the Russians were permitted to enter into postal contact with their families, but Moscow refused to accept the mail, because it would not allow itself to be given the lie: the prisoners had, after all, been declared dead by Soviet propaganda. Thus every connection with home was cut off for these people. This right was long withheld from the prisoners in Russia as well, until finally, at the end of 1945, Moscow was pressed to give the prisoners the opportunity to write Red Cross cards.

Around this time the officers appeared in the camp one evening and ordered the entire camp complement to fall in. Captain Kostenko had a parcel clamped under his arm and looked grinning at the waiting prisoners. The other Soviet officers whispered among themselves as though there were a matter of the utmost importance to announce. Then Kostenko pushed his red-banded cap back on his neck and declared:

"Prisoners of war! I have to inform you that our Soviet government has taken the magnanimous decision to permit prisoners of war to enter into postal contact with their families at home. You may write anything you wish — only about your work here, about your whereabouts, and about your fellow prisoners you may write nothing. The mail must be of a purely personal character. Of course, if you wish to report that you like it in the Soviet Union, or how prosperously our people live, that is per- S. 9 mitted — with that you strike capitalist propaganda in the face.

"Only the Red Cross cards issued by us are to be used, and only once a month. Each card may contain no more than twenty-five words. These must be written in ink and legibly. Do you see how generously the Soviet government treats you? Hitler would never have done that." Questioningly he looked into the beaming faces of the prisoners, for they no longer heard the Russian's boastful words; in their ears rang only: "You may write home."

This message set off great joy — but on the other hand also a fear of the first answer, for what would it contain?

Kostenko's further words had the effect of a cold shower: "For the moment, however, not everyone may write, for we have cards for only a third of the camp complement. Only the best workers will write, that is, only those who have fulfilled their work norm above 125 percent. Mail may be sent only to Germany, Hungary, Romania, and Austria. From the remaining countries we no longer have any prisoners."

What a base lie! Full of horror, the Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Spaniards, Poles, Czechs, Yugoslavs, Bulgarians, and the Germans from the territories severed from Germany stared at him. Were these many men to be hushed up as though dead?

When they came forward with their questions, he explained to them with a sneer:

"You are all fascists, and for such people we have no paper. You may not write! Understood?"

The following day the few post- S. 10 cards were distributed and written. Almost all of them contained sentences like these:

"Dear ones! Am healthy, in Russian captivity since 1944. Have enough to eat. How are you? Treatment good. Greetings, Hans."

Little as the card contained, it was nonetheless a sign of life, one that had been so long awaited at home. Once the cards had been written, they were collected. Now the interpreter began the censoring. She truly had no easy task, for in the first place she could not read the handwriting, and in the second place she scented an espionage report behind every word. She spent many nights on the censorship. But since she could not possibly finish, she threw the entire mail into the stove. Naturally, no prisoner ever received an answer to it. Not until August 1946 did the first reply cards arrive in the camp. Great was the joy of some, and greater still the hopelessness of the others.

After the first mail delivery the prisoner Walter Malzer, his eyes moist, came to Siebert utterly bewildered and handed him his card, on which could be read, among other things: "Your family and all the relatives perished in the last air raid on Cologne. Do not despair. Just come home first."

Malzer was a man of forty-eight. The long war years with their inhuman hardships had made him old.

"Look, Heinz, this is my first mail. No one is left alive. The card was written by my friend who works at the post office. We were fifty-four persons in our family, and I alone have S. 11 reported myself so far. What is to become of it all? My wife and our five children lie buried under the ruins of our house. What have I left to expect from life? Is there still any sense in bearing the lot of captivity? If only the Russian would release us soon — I won't hold out much longer in any case. What am I to do, Heinz?"

Here good counsel was truly precious — how was one to comfort the man? Was any human being even capable of it? And after all, he was not the only one to whom this had happened. Countless men and women in Germany and in captivity bore the same lot. Siebert likewise knew nothing of the whereabouts of his family. But he always comforted himself with his firm trust in God, who had guardian angels enough to protect his loved ones. Would this comfort hold true for the despondent comrade Malzer as well? He went up to him, laid his hand on his shoulder, and said:

"Walter, I am heartily sorry for your unspeakable misfortune. Stay strong, for you still have many tasks to fulfill in your life. Anyone can despair; the art of living consists in not despairing even in the hardest hours. Let us only get home — then much will come right again. I too have had no news from home. I realized long ago that it does me no good to grieve myself away. I take things as they come, for I know that they are for my best. That is hard — but still easier than quarreling with fate."

In the months that followed, Malzer went about as though ill. S. 12 His eyes crept [?] deep into their sockets, his face grew yellow and gaunt, until one day he landed sick in the infirmary. After his recovery he slowly came to himself again. Only when one spoke with him did one notice that a great sorrow weighed on this man's soul. He found forgetfulness and distraction in work. Wherever there was work, Malzer was there. But the Russians, too, did not mean well by him. Since he was always quiet and still, the MVD informers suspected in him a man with an unclean conscience. They spied on him from all sides, and suddenly Malzer had become an SS man. This slander became his undoing: as a political suspect he had to remain in Russia until September 1949. God often leads men in strange ways! — But Malzer bore his burden calmly and serenely; of the initial despair there had long been no trace.

When the first cards were distributed, Siebert was not allotted one, for he lived on Polish territory, and from there, according to the Soviet explanation, there were no prisoners. Not until May 1946 was he permitted to write his first card. He wanted to search everywhere [?], however hopeless it might be — he did not want to have to reproach himself later with not having tried everything. From Poland no answer came. If Ella had remained there, she had long since been taken to Russia, or she had been killed by the enraged Poles, for they hated everything German, because too much wrong had been done them by the Germans. When there was no success in the search here, Siebert wrote at random to S. 13 acquaintances in Germany. But there too his family was not to be found. Meanwhile almost the whole camp had been able to establish contact with their families — that is, they knew whether these were alive, dead, or deported.

Then Siebert remembered the address of Prof. Dr. B. H. Unruh. He would write to him as well; perhaps he could help. An anxious time of waiting passed until at last a card arrived from there. What joy! They are alive! Prof. Dr. Unruh informed him that Ella and Lilli were living in West Germany. So God had truly sent a strong guardian angel for them. He had heard his many prayers.

Ella and Lilli were in safety, for in West Germany the Soviets could not run riot as unhindered as in the territories they occupied. How long would it be before he now had a direct connection? Again it meant waiting and being patient, until a card posted in Russia had found its way to Moscow, from there to Germany, and back again to Moscow, to Poltava, and finally to the little place Skorokhodovo! Then at last Ella had written — after an interruption of almost three years. Countless questions now arose, all of which, however, had to remain unanswered for the moment, until the Soviet government should later release him. But with the glad news from Ella there had also arrived the danger of being betrayed through the mail.

How easily his wife might commit some carelessness in writing, and with that all his efforts would have been in vain. The censorship needed only to conceive the slightest suspicion, and his hope of seeing his wife and S. 14 daughter again would vanish forever. Too terrible, to be betrayed to the Russians through his own wife's mail. A single thoughtless word and his sentence was passed. If only he could warn Ella once to be careful — but that too was an impossibility, for the warning to caution would make the MVD cautious as well [?]. He would have to do it quite inconspicuously.

The officers of the MVD exploited the mail extensively for their own purposes. A card needed only to mention denazification in Germany and the recipient was already politically suspect: he might, after all, have been a Nazi, or perhaps have sympathized with them. So that every card could be studied, a complicated censorship system had been set up. All cards ran to one address — Moscow. From there they were distributed to the camps. In the administrations the mail was read by a mail handler and everything undesirable was removed. If, for example, someone wrote anything positive from the western zones of Germany, the card wandered into the wastebasket. But if the writer expressed himself negatively about conditions there, the card went up on the "notice board" as a means of propaganda, so that everyone could convince himself of the "abuses" under the capitalist regime. With cards from the Soviet occupation zone it was the other way around.

The cumbersome censorship procedure had the consequence that letters were handed over to the prisoners of war with great delay. Mountains of mail from home and to home piled up in the censorship offices. To rid themselves of this great labor, the interpreters resorted to the simple expedient: they burned the mail, and many hundreds of thousands of mothers and wives waited in vain for those few S. 15 lines. It is scarcely possible to imagine how hard it is to wait for mail from a beloved person who is in constant danger. Although the war with its millionfold death was long over, the same danger still persisted in the camps. By the time a card reached home it was already three to four weeks old — and what might not have happened in that time? And then the mail suddenly fails to come for three or four months. A dreadful waiting! And the interpreters? They found it not in the least contemptible. Oh, they threw the unread cards into the fire with a smile, as though they were heartless and without feeling. A typical female of this sort was Sara Katjko — a Jewish spinster who had never felt in her heart the longing for beloved people, who did not know what it means to worry about a person. To say that she did not concern herself with people is perhaps saying a little too much, for her sole concern with people consisted in making them suspect, and then collecting and inventing slanders about them in order to "patch some war crime onto them," as she herself put it.

Katjko was a woman in her mid-thirties. Throughout all those years she was seen only in a green women's uniform of the Soviet army, consisting of blouse and skirt. Her feet were stuck in far-too-large men's boots of coarse canvas with thick rubber soles. As her uniform and boots were, so too seemed the inner Katjko to be. Her hands were always dark gray with dirt, and at short, irregular intervals they searched her hair for uninvited fellow lodgers. Her pitch-black hair fell in long sticky strands onto her shoulders. From S. 16 her eyes there fairly sprayed hatred and icy sadism. Cold shudders rolled down one's spine when she held in her hands a card written by a loving woman's hand. Again and again she drew her thick colored pencil from her left [?] breast pocket and struck out the lines.

When Siebert once again wanted to collect the mail, she said to him crossly:

"What you want? Maybe pick up this cheap mail? German woman being very spoiled and worth nothing. Always only talking of longing and love. That being quite unnecessary. Na, here you see Austrian parcel. Why wrap so pretty? It tasting just as good anyway. No, German woman being stupid. You believe me that, Siebert?"

What was he to say to this woman? Nothing remained for him but to bestow on her a pitying smile, for against stupidity no grass had yet grown, even in Russia.

Sara Katjko administered her office until the beginning of 1949. At that time a representative of the Ministry of the Interior from Kiev came unexpectedly to the camp and inquired directly of the prisoners about their postal connections with their families at home. From that time on, Katjko was no longer mail handler in the camp — to the overwhelming joy of all the prisoners.

The mail was now the responsibility of Mrs. Anna Chudokormova, who took the matter considerably more seriously, for particular importance was now attached to satisfying the prisoners in this regard, because more and more prisoners were being released, and their accounts of conditions in Soviet captivity turned out to be by no means favorable to the Soviet Union.

S. 17

In the camps that had not been transformed into silence camps in 1946 — something the Soviets always hotly denied and today deny more strongly still — they were compelled to give all prisoners the opportunity to write. No one could now reproach them with not having created orderly postal arrangements for the prisoners of war. Of the silence camps, in any case, no one ever gladly reported anything [?] — but they existed. Naturally, not in Ukraine or in central Russia, but in Central Asia. From there no imploring cry penetrated to the human world. There one kept silent; and if one would not, then silence was taught to every man with brutal force. The Soviet teachers of silence had ample experience in their work.

At the end of 1946 Siebert, while putting the card index in order in the camp staff office, happened to witness the following conversation between the MVD Lieutenant Yegorov and Captain Kostenko.

"Comrade Captain, I have just received the order to transfer all politically suspect prisoners to a punishment camp. Here is the directive, signed by Major Yagodkin," said Yegorov to the scowling Kostenko.

"Well then, transfer them — what are you waiting for? Away with the bandits, always. Let them build up our cities."

Yegorov scratched his shaven head, out of which two cunning slit-eyes flickered restlessly, forever peering furtively into the world.

"But Comrade Captain, up to now I haven't found a single politically suspect prisoner — I've only been in the camp a short time, and Kartschagin sent them S. 18 all away. What am I to do? If Yagodkin learns that I have tracked down no criminals, he'll chase me off like an old dog," Yegorov explained.

Kostenko looked at him in utter astonishment:

"And you really don't know what to do? Don't make me laugh! It is, to be sure, not my business to occupy myself with the uncovering of war criminals, but I'll gladly help you, for it is after all my duty as a longtime member of the Bolshevik Party."

Yegorov's eyes shone with joy, and his trembling hands quickly fetched out notebook and pencil to note down what was necessary.

"I thank you for your help, Comrade Captain. I knew that as a patriot of our socialist homeland you would gladly assist me."

Kostenko too had become quite friendly over his successful stroke — earning himself a good mark with his MVD potentate, one he meant to invoke later on, for it was a special honor to have taken part in the "unmasking" of war criminals.

"Nothing is simpler than picking out people for such a transfer. With me, all Fritzes are politically suspect. Take, for instance, the master tailor Ernst Gregor. Until now he wore a long full beard. Yesterday he cut it off. The man is suspect, for who knows what he may be plotting tomorrow? And why shouldn't he have been a Nazi? He has a rough voice like a lion. Him you can safely send to a punishment camp. Actually a bit of a pity, for he is a perfect tailor. Then take Ser- S. 19 geant Fritz Andlinger — perhaps you've already noticed him, he has rather red hair. Otherwise a quiet fellow and works well, but when he stands before his company I always believe I have a German officer in front of me. Naturally he was no Nazi, for he was a regular soldier since 1935 and those men were not allowed to belong to any party — but you can send the redhead along all the same.

"Ah yes, I nearly forgot the young shoemaker Maderich, Helmut. He comes from Czechoslovakia. Just imagine, this fellow was recently supposed to sole my boots by five o'clock. And do you know when he brought them? Not until half past five. A disgrace, this unpunctuality. Otherwise the Fritzes are very punctual, but this one, in my opinion, did it on purpose. Send him along so that he learns punctuality."

Yegorov had written down the names of the prisoners. He needed eleven men, and Kostenko dictated them to him. Of several he knew only the name — which, however, changed nothing in the matter. In the evening the eleven men stood before the gate and waited for their transport. Everything had been taken from them and a strict guard ordered, for they had to be conveyed to Poltava as dangerous criminals.

In reality not one of them was conscious of any guilt. Ernst Gregor had been a company tailor throughout the entire war. Never had he used his rifle, let alone shot Russians. With needle and thread he went into Russian captivity at Budapest.

Fritz Andlinger, who came from a small Bavarian town, was a sergeant in an anti-aircraft S. 20 unit in Romania. There he was taken prisoner in 1944. He had indeed fired at enemy aircraft, but that could not be regarded as a war crime.

Helmut Maderich was barely nineteen years old. At seventeen he became a soldier. He had never been in Russia before his captivity. Quiet and still, always diligent, he did his work. Now he stood with his comrades before the gate as a war criminal, to set out on the road into one of the many silence camps and to disappear there forever.

At first it was believed in the camp that the men would merely be transferred to another camp to do some urgent work. But when their families inquired after their whereabouts a few months later, it became clear to everyone that the eleven men had disappeared. After half a year Gregor's daughters in Dessau were still searching for their father; Mrs. Andlinger too wrote despairing letters to the camp administration. Of the men there was no trace. After a full year the families were still asking after them. When Siebert came upon the pleading letters, he went to the MVD and asked what was to be done with them.

"What, the women are still writing? They certainly have great endurance. How ridiculous. Let them get themselves other husbands, if they want to see somebody [?], for their husbands they will not see again. Those we have put away safely, as one puts away war criminals in the Soviet Union. With us, everyone is awarded his deserved punishment by democratic courts. You may go, Siebert."

What mockery! Any reasonable man's tongue would have stiffened at such bottomless inhumanity — S. 21 and this scoundrel said it smiling to himself, as though he had wished someone "good night."

Men of this kind were gathered together from all the camp sections and sent off from Poltava in a transport of 115 men. How great the number of men in these silence camps (in Russian, read — punishment camps) [?] was, one can only gauge by multiplying 115 by roughly 400, for that is about how many camps there were in the Soviet Union at that time. If the Russian side today denies the existence of these camps, the Soviets may well be in the right, for in these camps things went hard, and it was extremely difficult to stay alive in those inhuman conditions. One must today, unfortunately, assume that the silence camps dissolved of their own accord, for they could no longer be replenished, because a year later almost all prisoners of war were registered in the many prisoner-of-war card indexes in Germany.

Often and energetically did Germany protest against the silence camps. The Soviet government persistently hushed them to death — indeed, it even had the impudence to declare that these many men had never been in Soviet captivity.

The Red Himmler

"Brückner, Kurt Brückner, the Red Himmler of Poltava is here," it was whispered in the camp one day. From man to man ran this piece of news. After about fifteen minutes curious faces could be seen peering around every corner; no one quite dared to come openly S. 22 into the yard. What had actually happened? To very few in Skorokhodovo did the name Kurt Brückner mean anything. The man was unknown. And suddenly, as though fallen from the clouds, he was here.

Siebert too had heard the news of Brückner's appearance, which at first left him completely indifferent. But more and more comrades came to him with the wildest reports.

"Heinz, he just came through the camp gate in gleaming leather boots and riding breeches with leather trim — he's even equipped with a necktie. And the expression he has put on, as though the whole world lay at his feet. Heinz, watch out for that fellow, he's dangerous. Senior Lieutenant Tschernousow is accompanying him. They say the Russians have furnished Brückner with extraordinary powers. He has already sold out many a comrade. Let's hope somebody breaks his neck. I know him from Poltava. Nineteen hundred men tremble before him there. Careful, Heinz — I want to warn you, because you are always so open-hearted, and with this soul-seller that is out of place."

When Kühne [?] had gone, Siebert went out into the yard, where men usually sat about. Where were they today? They were sitting on their bunks: Brückner was in the camp, so it was better not to be seen.

Siebert was standing directly opposite the room of the Anti-Fascist Aktiv when Lankow opened its door and Brückner appeared in the doorframe. He was tall of stature, his hair combed back as though glued down. At the temples it was slightly gray. He was only thirty-six years old. His face betrayed nothing but icy coldness. The thin, pale lips were pressed firmly together. His expressionless eyes sat S. 23 behind large horn-rimmed spectacles and stared stolidly about. Now Siebert stood directly before the two men, and Lankow introduced Brückner:

"Comrade Kurt Brückner, the leader of the Antifa for the district of Poltava, has already done a great deal for the prisoners and for making good the war damage in the Soviet Union."

"Heinz Siebert, camp interpreter and member of the Antifa."

"Ah, so you are Siebert?" asked Brückner. "Have heard a great deal about you already; we shall speak further. I am going to inspect your camp and determine what is not in order — and at first glance that appears to me to be quite a lot. A new wind must blow through here. With you, it seems, the brown Nazis still rule. They were the masters of yesterday; today it is our turn, the anti-fascists'. Come, Lankow, where is your kitchen?"

Such language had never been spoken in Skorokhodovo. What Brückner said there was laid on rather thick. What would he yet get up to?

Slowly the work brigades filed back into the camp. Right at the gate stood Lankow, sending them into the assembly room, where Brückner intended to speak to the men. Now more than 900 men stood pressed together, awaiting whatever was to come, for a full half hour, until finally Senior Lieutenant Tschernousow and several other officers appeared. Behind them came Brückner and Lankow.

"Camp, attention!" bellowed Fritz Mengensort [?], who as camp commandant made the report:

"Herr Senior Lieutenant, the camp has assembled for an anti-fascist meeting."

"Very well, Commandant, the men may stand S. 24 at ease," ordered Tschernousow.

"Camp, at ease!"

The officers took their places behind the red-covered table, on which a smoking oil lamp stood. On the same bench sat down Lankow and Brückner. Lankow rose heavily and set about opening the assembly:

"Comrades anti-fascists! I hereby open our anti-fascist assembly of today. But first I extend the warmest greetings to our dear guests from Poltava, Senior Lieutenant Tschernousow and our Kurt Brückner. On the agenda stands only one question: an address by Kurt Brückner on the meaning and purpose of war captivity and our task in the Soviet Union. At the close of the address you may ask questions. I now give the floor to Kurt Brückner."

Brückner rose slowly, winked smilingly at the senior lieutenant, and went to the speaker's lectern, which was likewise draped with red cloth. For a long while he stood there, indifferently surveying the tired and hungry men. Then he began, in a strongly Saxon-tinged dialect:

"I have come to tell you why we are in captivity." He spoke slowly, each word drawn out and loud. "We attacked the Soviet Union, laid waste its land, and sought to rob the Soviet people of its freedom. It is up to us prisoners to restore the honor of the German people. But we can do that only by rebuilding what was destroyed. Only when this task is accomplished will we be released. But let no one believe that all will be released. No — not all, by a long way. All fascists remain here. S. 25 To these belong all members of the SS, members of the NSDAP and its formations, all men of bourgeois outlook — unless they change their views — all who are hostile to the Soviet Union, who work against the East German democracy, all war criminals small and great, and all those who work badly and conduct themselves without discipline. Only friends of the Soviet Union will be released."

Like whiplashes these words struck the prisoners. They had, to be sure, been spoken by a German who gave himself as a cheap tool to the Russians — but in fact they were the opinion of the Soviet camp administration. Brückner spoke on for a long time, but no one listened to him. Each man thought only of which category of those remaining in Russia he himself might belong to. At last Brückner was finished. Lankow rose:

"Comrades, in your name I thank our dear Kurt Brückner for his stirring words, and at the same time I call upon the assembly to sing the Internationale, standing." That was the high point of the vile political violation. Prisoners of war forced to sing the Internationale, elevated to the party hymn of the CPSU! With revulsion the men stood up. Not singing was not an option, for that could earn a man the notation "politically unreliable." Lankow and Brückner struck up the song. [Two lines of the "Internationale" follow.]

At last the song was over. The men were allowed to go to their evening meal. In the days that followed, the talk was of nothing but Brückner's speech, for it had stirred their minds deeply. With bowed heads they went to work, and tired, as though broken on the wheel, they returned in the eve- S. 26 ning.

In the forenoon Lankow's errand boy came to Siebert and asked him to the Antifa room. There sat Lankow behind large lists of the prisoners of war.

"Heinz, you are to go to Brückner in the MVD room. The senior lieutenant is there too," said Lankow. Siebert crossed the camp yard to the MVD room. In the dreaded interrogation room sat Brückner, legs crossed, in the seat where the MVD officer usually sat. In the corner of the room the senior lieutenant had taken a seat and was gazing indifferently out the window.

"Take a seat, Siebert," said Brückner, pointing to a stool that stood before the table. Siebert sat down and looked at the senior lieutenant, who now surveyed him from head to foot.

"I want nothing from you; it is Brückner who wishes to put some questions," explained Tschernoussow.

What did Brückner actually want? Was he not a prisoner exactly like all the others? Who had given this man the right to interrogate his fellow prisoners?

"Yes, that astonishes you, eh? I want democratic conditions introduced in this camp, and for that many chips will yet have to fall. But that in passing. First of all I want to know who you are. Your name is Heinz Siebert?"

"Yes, Heinz Siebert," answered the man questioned. Brückner went on to inquire after Siebert's general particulars, whereupon Siebert gave him the desired answers.

"Tell me, from when to when were you in the NSDAP?" was Brückner's next question.

"First, I am astonished at this questioning, for I S. 27 did not know how you come to be interrogating me. Second, I will answer you: I was neither in the Hitler Youth nor in the NSDAP," said Siebert curtly.

Brückner turned crab-red; his eyes darted restlessly back and forth behind their lenses; his pointed nose lifted slightly.

"I have a right to interrogate you, because I have been appointed by the Main Administration to examine the camp leaderships as to their political attitude and, still more, their political past. Undesirable elements will be removed without mercy [sic]. You too. I can tell you with certainty that you are a fanatical fascist and reactionary. I shall cut you down to size yet. It will happen quite soon, for shortly the anti-fascist movement will seize the camps, and people of your sort will be swept aside. With you I am finished. We shall speak again later. Out!"

Siebert rose without a word, saluted the senior lieutenant, and left the room. In this fashion Brückner interrogated the entire camp leadership. The result was shattering, for when Brückner left the camp the next day, his directives were put into effect by the Russian camp administration. Many men were relieved of their posts, and in their places came "anti-fascists" — they had to be friends of Lankow. He himself was triumphant, for he had been promised unlimited power in the camp.

Because Siebert belonged to the Anti-Fascist Aktiv as interpreter, Brückner had ordered that he be expelled from it at once as a fascist. As camp interpreter they had to keep him, since there was no one else left in the camp who spoke and wrote Russian.

S. 28

At Easter 1947 the band of the Poltava camp suddenly arrived in Skorokhodovo. For two and a half years no music had been heard, and so it was understandable that everyone rejoiced at this visit.

In recent months the camp at Skorokhodovo had been converted into a recuperation camp for worn-out and half-starved prisoners of war. The men were stripped of everything and left to go about the camp in their underwear — if they could still walk. Most had to stay on their bunks because of physical weakness.

After the arrival of the musicians, who had been joined by several propaganda speakers and by the nurse Thea Kugler, the camp was in a state of high excitement. At last some variety in the year-long monotony.

The whole camp complement gathered in the large room where a makeshift stage had been erected. The red-decked lectern stood there again too, and from it, on Easter Sunday, pro-communist speeches were delivered by Brückner and and [sic] his cronies. Last of all spoke Thea Kugler, a nurse, addressing the prisoners as a German woman. Then at last came the longed-for music with the old German melodies, which pressed like sounds of home into the yearning, weary hearts of the prisoners. The men's faces grew brighter; the yellow, in places ash-gray color vanished from their features. The band seemed to work miracles, for the usually apathetic men applauded without pause, as though they were at the opera in some German city. Three hours of recreation the band brought the prisoners. On that Easter day they had learned that S. 29 life was still worth living — for the music had raised their longing for home to its very peak. In gratitude the men had prepared many wreaths of flowers for the musicians, which were now to be presented to them after the last notes of the song "Muß ich denn zum Städtlein hinaus" ("Must I Then Leave the Little Town") had died away. But instead of thanking the musicians, Lankow went up to Brückner, gave him his hand — which he did not release until the end of his speech of flattery — and began to express his thanks personally to Brückner, who in truth had nothing whatever to do with the music, but had only come along to deliver his rabble-rousing speeches. For the actual performers he had not a single word of thanks to spare. He closed with the words:

"In gratitude for this afternoon we promise to devote all our strength to the rebuilding of the socialist homeland of the working people; on the construction sites we will produce not less than 125 percent of our work quota. Very special thanks we owe to you, dear Comrade Brückner." He sat down quickly, for he felt only too well the angry glances of the men. He had spoken anything but their mind. Brückner sat there smiling and let the homage pass calmly over him, without declining it as undeserved.

From all sides the flowers for the musicians were pushed toward Siebert:

"Go, Heinz, bring them our heartfelt thanks for the happy hours."

Nothing remained for Siebert but to comply with this request. Without asking anyone, he mounted the stage and thanked the musicians warmly.

The Red Himmler (continued)

Nothing remained for Siebert but to comply with this request. Without asking anyone, he mounted the stage and thanked the musicians warmly. S. 30 He gave voice to the feeling of the men — quite apart from the opinion of Brückner and Lankow. Those two sat snorting with rage in front of the stage and looked at each other questioningly.

Immediately after the concert an extraordinary session of the Aktiv was called, whose resolutions were of great consequence for Siebert. Furious, Brückner had put the question to Lankow:

"Who runs this camp — the Aktiv or Siebert? When are you finally going to neutralize this fascist? You seem to have no notion of the dictatorship of the proletariat! Apply it at every step; learn it here in the Soviet Union, for at home in Germany it will still be needed often and for a long time. If the mass of the prisoners is for him, then work so that they are turned against him. Washrags, the lot of you. Tomorrow you will see how such men are dealt with."

Brückner had kept his word, for already on Easter Monday the Russian nurse Voronkova came to Siebert in great agitation and reported that a transfer order had arrived for him.

"What on earth have you done, Siebert? You are to go to Poltava this very day, into the punishment platoon. You are accused of espionage among the civilian population. Is it true? If only I could help you. But tell no one of this matter. Get yourself ready at once."

Siebert did not know what was happening to him. Where was he supposed to have carried on espionage? For whose benefit? Why into the notorious punishment platoon of Poltava? No, it could not be true. Was this to be the thanks for his self-sacrificing work for the welfare of the prisoners S. 31? He knew at once that Brückner stood behind this dirty business.

"I thank you, Sister, for the news. I will keep silent. I have done nothing wrong at all. You know the man with the glasses who was here yesterday? He has slandered me in Poltava. Rest easy: honesty lasts longest."

Siebert went dejectedly to his room and packed his rucksack. What would become of him now? Endless interrogations, punishment platoon, aggravated arrest — all things designed to wear a man down and make him pliable. Worst of all was the punishment platoon, which existed in every main camp. There they lodged all those against whom no concrete offense could be charged. The treatment in the punishment platoon was brutal and ruthless, for as punishment-platoon commandant a criminal convict from the concentration camps of Germany was usually installed. These men knew the methods of human degradation intimately and were gladly prepared to pass on their experience. The punishment-platoon commandant was directly subordinate to the MVD officer and held from him unlimited power over the inmates of the platoon. It was his prerogative to beat any prisoner cruelly. No complaints ever arrived from there — it was forbidden. At the worksite the heaviest labor was performed at a running pace. The so-called "convicts" had to slave for 10 hours. Every camp duty — sweeping the yard, carrying sand, and so on — was done by them after work. These men received no mail from home and were not permitted to write during the period of their arrest. Worse still, they were strictly forbidden to speak with their comrades. When they were fin- S. 32 ally done with their work, the doors to the punishment platoon were locked. One had to be of exceptionally strong build to be equal to this torment. Rarely did anyone hold out there longer than six weeks. After that time the punished had become OK men (that is, in need of recuperation, by Soviet definitions). Even the strongest was worn down in the punishment platoon. For special cases, solitary cells had been fitted out. In their iron doors was the prison-style "cuckoo hole," the only opening through which daylight could penetrate. No bed, no chair was to be found here. Bare clay floor, swarming with fleas, served as bed and seat. So that the prisoner should never come to rest, a powerful light bulb was mounted on the ceiling, burning day and night. Mercilessly the light tormented the incarcerated man. The rations in the punishment platoon were considerably worse than those of the "free" prisoners, which were bad enough already. Added to this came the constant interrogations by the MVD officer.

Who was in a position to endure such conditions for long? The state of affairs in the Poltava camp was known to Siebert in exact detail. Despite the consciousness of his innocence, he dreaded coming into such surroundings.

By evening he had calmed himself somewhat about his situation, for his firm trust in God gave him strength and comfort. God, who had guided him through all the reefs of the past years, would lead him this time as well. Of that he was firmly convinced by morning.

Right after breakfast he was called to the guardhouse, and the duty officer explained to him that he had orders to withdraw immediately his pass for S. 33 free exit from the camp. From today he was permitted to perform his duties outside only in the company of a soldier. The reason he was not allowed to reveal; the camp nachalnik had so ordered. Siebert handed him the pass in silence.

Yesterday he had still been a person of whom nothing bad was suspected, and today he was no longer reliable enough to leave the camp for half an hour. Overnight everything had vanished that he had earned for himself over more than two years. For himself, the withdrawal of his pass was not so tragic — but through it he had been able to do so much for his fellow prisoners. The possibility of providing for them was hereby taken from him. If only it had ended there! Now the order to depart must surely come soon. Yet nothing further happened. He was not called again. Full of unrest he watched the camp gate whenever anyone entered. Any minute they might call him.

In the late afternoon nurse Voronkova called him to the infirmary again.

"Siebert, you are staying here. Lieutenant Sorokin has rescinded the order for your transfer because he needs you so badly in the camp. But you will be watched more closely. Be careful. Lankow had brought heavy accusations against you. Are you reassured now?" the nurse asked with shining eyes.

For the moment the threatening danger was averted — which was far from being grounds for reassurance, for as soon as Brückner learned that his instruction had not been carried out, he would resort to new slanders, which might be far worse than the first. To this man any means were acceptable to S. 34 reach his goal, however filthy and mean they might be.

The Easter incident never came up for discussion again. It had, supposedly, been allowed to grow over with grass. From that time on Brückner no longer showed himself in Skorokhodovo. He shifted his attention more to the other camps, where he likewise instigated nothing but mischief and disorder.

It was the 2nd of June 1947 when nurse Voronkova once more met Siebert and informed him:

"Tomorrow you must leave the camp. You are now going to Poltava for good. Nothing more can be done about it. But this time they have something different in mind for you. Now go, or it will go badly for me."

That same day Siebert received the order to hand over his duties to another prisoner and to prepare for the departure to Poltava. At three o'clock in the night the MVD officer would travel with him. So he was to be carried off under heavy guard, and in the dark of night at that. The circumstances were frightening, for under similar conditions many a prisoner had already disappeared. Yet there was truly nothing to be done. Siebert gave little thought to his further fate, for he acted according to the principle tested many times over: first let the inevitable draw within tangible reach, and then deal with it and see what you can do. If, after summoning all your strength, you can do nothing, then lay the matter in firm faith into God's hands; He sends it as is best for you.

In the night his comrades gathered to take leave of him. Then he went to the gate, where the officer was already waiting for him. During the S. 35 entire journey to Poltava the officer conversed with Siebert in friendly fashion, as though they were good friends — which was nothing everyday. His case, then, could not be so grave.

After three hours they arrived at the Poltava railway station, which had been completely destroyed by the war but by now had been rebuilt. Many prisoners of war, and still more convict laborers, had erected a station building that far surpassed the former one in beauty. Through the city, which was likewise heavily destroyed, they went on foot, for Poltava with its more than 100,000 inhabitants had neither bus nor streetcar service.

The main administration lay right in the city center. When they arrived there, the senior lieutenant told Siebert to wait outside. It was only eight in the morning, so he lay down in the grass to catch up on his missed sleep. Toward eleven he was called, and a soldier led him to the door of the office of Senior Lieutenant Chernousov.

"Well, Siebert, landed in Poltava too? Good. Come, sit down there in the armchair. Do you know why we brought you here?" asked Chernousov.

"Unfortunately, Lieutenant, no idea. To put me in the punishment platoon, perhaps?"

"The matter of the punishment platoon we have cleared up. Those were fairy tales from Lankow. He couldn't stand you and so he invented a few things. That is settled. But now to business. We want to set up here a course in the German language for the officers, and you are to run it. Do you have a mind to? Lieutenant Colonel Kuzmin, the new nachalnik, wishes it so."

S. 36

"Entirely as you order, Lieutenant," answered Siebert.

"Well, fine. It will be two weeks yet before we begin. Until then you can rest — you look rather worked to the bone. Where do you want to live, in the camp or here with the staff company?"

Such obligingness was completely new to Siebert. First he had not been allowed to leave the camp, and now they wanted to quarter him outside the wire fence. — Or was it perhaps only a trap by which they meant to catch him? How easily he could again fall under suspicion of espionage.

"Lieutenant, I would like to live in the camp. It is not so lonely there, among the comrades."

"Fine by me. Here is a note for Lieutenant Colonel Rodin — you know him, don't you? He is to quarter you. But you do not belong to the camp, otherwise you would have to start work at once." With that Siebert was dismissed and was taken to the camp on "Sovetskaya" 88. The first to receive him here was his good friend Müller, who was camp commandant here and took him into his own room. The camp was comparatively well appointed, but over everything hovered the evil spirit of Brückner, who dominated the whole of camp life from bottom to top.

Nothing was done here without his knowledge. In order to keep exact watch on everything, he had recruited a whole army of informers, who were to be found in every brigade, on all the construction sites. They were in the tailor shop, in the kitchen, and even in the punishment platoon they were not lacking. With the help of these unknown informers he had created an atmosphere in which one always felt oneself observed. Far greater than in any other camp was the dan- S. 37 ger here of being sold to the MVD. The informers came to Brückner daily under various pretexts and reported to him absolutely everything that had been said during the day, how the individual men had behaved at work, and so on and so forth. Brückner sat behind a large desk and noted down all the reports, which then, signed by him, landed half an hour later with the MVD. Through these reports — more accurately, slanders — he had worked his way up to a position of good trust with the MVD officer, Captain Kopkin, and could permit himself to attach his own proposals to the individual reports. He was thereby in a position to neutralize any man in the camp who did not fit into his game. In that period no one was capable of raising a voice against Brückner. He passed himself off as a radical communist, and as such he was regarded by the MVD. To furnish proof of it, he slandered countless comrades. He interrogated them himself, screamed and threatened prison — and very often it did not remain at the threat. In the whole district of Poltava there was not his equal among the prisoners of war.

When one prisoner found Brückner's doings too wild after all, he told people in the camp that he knew Brückner from home as an active Nazi. Naturally Brückner too learned of it, and now he set his entire informer apparatus in motion to track down the man who had dared to raise his voice against him. After a short time he had been discovered: it was indeed a countryman of Brückner's, Franz Piele [?] from the town of Greiz. His days in the camp were numbered; he disappeared into a punishment camp, where he never again had occasion to make a statement. Brück- S. 38 ner had made him into an arch-fascist.

The Red Himmler struck hard. If the wife of the prisoner Kiefe [?] is still waiting today for the return of her husband, then this outrage goes onto the bloody account of Brückner, who is to be sought in the small Thuringian town of Greiz — unless the same lot overtook him in the final period of captivity.

His collaborators in Poltava almost all resembled him. His right hand, outwardly, was the master tailor Kurt Schulz. One would have had to assume they were good friends. Far from it. They were mortal enemies the moment they were out of each other's sight. But when they stood on the stage before the men, they swore each other "eternal friendship and loyalty in the struggle for the cause of communism."

One day at an assembly they were once again, as so often, tearing into the officers of the German Wehrmacht. Schulz went so far in his vileness as to propose to the camp complement that a gallows be erected in the camp yard for the German officers. Brückner stood beside him and smiled, for he too used the officers as whipping boys. In the opinion of these gentlemen, they were to blame for everything, no matter what happened. After the aforementioned rabble-rousing speech Schulz said to the prisoner Wilhelm Mieke:

"Man, if I could, I'd strike Brückner dead on the spot." This utterance was the crowning glory of the friendship between these two men of the future "democratic" Germany. That is what they really imagined themselves to be.

Brückner had passed himself off as a member of the Social Democratic Party and the Communist Youth before 1933, and claimed to know well the aims of these bod- S. 39 ies — more than that, he made himself out to be a convinced champion of their ideas. The bad part, however, was that unfortunately he knew only little of any of it, and there Lieutenant Mieke was the suitable man to step into the breach. Mieke really had been a Social Democrat and possessed considerable knowledge. Brückner had recognized this quite soon. Because Mieke was an officer of the Wehrmacht, against whom the campaign was waged again and again, he could not be acknowledged as an opponent of fascism, although he truly was one — more so than Brückner and his colleagues. Brückner invited him in, and under threats brought him to the point where Mieke worked out for him all the lectures, which Brückner then rehearsed for hours on end and bellowed down at the men from the stage in a shrieking voice, often to the point of hoarseness.

Mieke had to put up with everything, for he was an officer whom the Russians did not trust — and yet Mieke was a man who always held to honesty. He had resisted participation in this dreadful work long enough, but finally he gave in; Brückner's threats, and the necessity of putting an end to this inhuman goings-on, were the occasion for it. He had lived through the development in Poltava from the first day and observed it well.

As he told it, Brückner had arrived one day at the beginning of 1946 from Brünn with a transport, as a sick man. At first he worked in a brigade, but only for a very short time; then his strength was used up. He stayed in the camp and had occasion to brood over his situation. After some time he was seen constantly running to the MVD room, where he lingered a long while each time. His first sales of souls must have been substantial, S. 40 for immediately afterward the commandant Alex Gripper received the order to fit out a room for Brückner opposite the MVD room. The future camp potentate, by grace of the Russians, moved into his quarters without fanfare. But not alone. At his side stood his batman Erich Maron, a stocky 19-year-old lad, and the storekeeper Adolf Lorenz. The latter counted as the strongest man in the camp, because he had the best rations. He was by profession an occasional boxer and otherwise a bouncer in the brothel of Frankfurt am Main. He was a well-known personality in the Frankfurt underworld. These three occupied a room in which eighteen men had previously found space. Here, from that time on, battle plans for the "conquest of power" were forged and slander-tales devised. In those days Brückner did not come out into the yard, for the camp complement had promised to strike him dead if he showed himself. Erich fetched him his food and Lorenz stood before the door as his bodyguard. Just as in Hitler's days of struggle for power in Germany, Brückner used to say. Within a few weeks the men most dangerous to him had been slandered and removed. When they were all in the lockup or the punishment platoon, Brückner appeared on the scene and began his "rule." One of his last opponents was Alex, the camp commandant. He had deployed every means against him, but they had always missed their mark. Between the two an embittered struggle unfolded. Alex tried the way of reason and honesty, while Brückner brought his base methods to bear. Finally, after a year, Alex was finished — and for good.

S. 41 In the camp there were two nurses, Thea Kugler and Liese Schneider. In the midst of over a thousand men it was a matter of course that their interests were extensively championed, and it likewise did not fail to happen that closer attachments arose. Alex and Thea had become engaged and wanted to marry after their release. Among the most eager admirers was, among others, Brückner — and no wonder that he became jealous of Alex. Out of the political opponent developed a personal enemy, against whom Brückner now proceeded ruthlessly. He did not shrink from breaking into Thea's room and stealing Alex's letters from her. After a thorough study of them he found passages in them that he could construe politically, once he had twisted them completely. Certain of victory, he went to Thea and made her the following declaration:

"Here — I have found Alex's letters to you in your room, and in reading them I have established that you two still belong to the worst fascists of our camp. If I wanted to act according to the law, the two of you, you and your Alex, would have to be branded as reactionaries before the whole camp community and handed over to the MVD. Alex is deposed and goes to the lockup. There he will receive his deserved punishment. You I am willing to help — on the condition that you keep to me, and want to belong to me alone, until we are released. I give you until eight o'clock tomorrow morning to think it over. Should you decide against me then, it will go with you as with Alex. In that case you will never see home again. Until tomorrow."

Thea deliberated back and forth. First she resolved to go at once to the MVD and report the matter. She was dismissed there with a smile. She had to take up the S. 42 struggle against Brückner alone. That very evening Thea had to recognize that Brückner was making good on his threats. Alex was punished with three months' confinement in the punishment platoon. Rarely had any of the prisoners endured that.

The following day, at the appointed time, Brückner came to Thea:

"Have you decided, darling? I'll wait five more minutes for your answer."

The woman stood weeping before him and implored him:

"Brückner, leave me in peace. I love Alex — we are engaged. You yourself have a wife and children at home. Do think it over. Be reasonable, I beg you. Oh, leave me in peace."

"What you say there doesn't interest me. I want you to love me, for I love you too, after all. Give me your love, Thea."

The nurse tried it in another tone:

"Such bottomless vileness! Were I strong enough, I would know how to help myself. I would thrash you out of here like a monster, you shameless scoundrel. Never, never will I love you. You can force me to be with you, but you cannot force me to love you. And you claim to be an anti-fascist who wants to make Germany free! Don't make me laugh in misery! Doesn't the mockery of your own words ring in your ears like the howling of witches, you heartless man?! Go, go! I'll call for help this instant!" Weeping, she fell onto her bed.

"Well, dear girl, you may call for help all you like. Not a living soul will hear you. I reckoned with that and had the corridor cleared. Lorenz is standing watch on the stairs. You know him — the strongest man in the camp? And as for love, the matter is S. 43 only half so bad; I shall have it, no matter how — in the extreme case I will win it by force. You love Alex. Good. You can help him. No criminal charge stands against him as yet. I will refrain from one, if you keep to me. Thea, you can help Alex," he said, while his eyes glittered with scorn. Not a single word of what he said was true. But Thea believed him.

In order to carry on his dirty game undisturbed, a room was fitted out, supposedly for Brückner's secretary, in which Thea had to meet Brückner every evening. As in the darkest days of the terrible Middle Ages, Brückner lorded it in camp 136/6 and later 2. — And Alex? He remained in the punishment platoon. He held out for a long time. Thea was even permitted to slip him food. But finally he broke down under the heavy burden. His legs, and later his whole body, swelled up. He was unrecognizable. So he suffered on, until a transport of suspects was shipped off to the coal pits of the Donets Basin, with which he too set out on the road into misery. Neither Thea nor anyone else ever heard anything of him again. He too goes onto Brückner's account of guilt, which he will never be able to settle. Of Brückner's outrages, which everyone in the camp knew, people had long since ceased to speak — there were too many of them. When they saw him, the comrades only said to themselves again and again:

"Every guilt avenges itself on earth."

Liese Schneider was overtaken by the same fate as her companion in suffering, Kugler. Through blackmail by Kurt Schulz she was received in the notorious secretary's room.

That such a thing was possible — and in S. 44 captivity at that, which brought misery enough as it was — Siebert would never have believed. Again and again one had to ask oneself whether there were no men who could do away with these dreadful abuses. But for the moment it seemed truly impossible, for Brückner and his accomplices sat too firmly in the saddle. To abolish these conditions, Brückner had to be removed. He had to go.

Siebert had had peace in the first weeks. At the end of July the order appeared according to which anti-fascist functionaries were to be installed in all camps, whose task was to school and supervise the prisoners in the communist sense.

Brückner was named chief of all the functionaries, and Siebert was assigned to them as interpreter. On the side, Siebert still had to run the course for the officers, which however lapsed after only two months, for the course participants showed little inclination to learn the language of their former enemies.

Once the anti-fascist functionaries had been appointed, Brückner began with their help a gigantic re-education campaign. All prisoners were to be re-schooled in the anti-fascist — read: communist — sense. To this end political training sessions were scheduled according to a grandly conceived plan.

Through his constant pressure on the prisoners Brückner was the sole ruler in the camp. In those days he was always in the habit of saying:

"I am learning to govern Germany. If I manage to run a state here in miniature, then at home too we shall be able to take the reins of the state in hand with only a few minor difficulties. First, however, the reaction" — as he termed his oppo- S. 45 nents — "must be eliminated. To solve this task we need a strong dictatorship, exactly such a one as the great leader of the world proletariat, Lenin, demanded after the October Revolution in Russia."

Brückner managed to erect the dictatorship in the camp. His strongly developed organizational talent rendered him the greatest services in the realization of his plan. In a short time he had shot the camp through so thoroughly with men devoted to him that not the slightest thing escaped him. Of all occurrences in and outside the camp he was informed in exact detail. No one was safe from the army of his informers. Any resistance on the part of the prisoners was ruthlessly suppressed by immediately turning the recalcitrant man into an arch-fascist and delivering him to the MVD. Brückner's standing with the MVD had risen so far that he did not hesitate to keep the Soviet officers themselves under surveillance and to file reports of every kind about them with his mighty employers. In all these doings he was extensively supported by the so-called Captain Kopkin. The latter, incidentally, was no captain at all, but an ordinary sergeant of the troops of the Ministry of the Interior. Before the war Kopkin had been active as a mathematics teacher at a secondary school. As a Jew he had a passable command of the German language, which procured him the post of an MVD interpreter. Like all his tribesmen [sic] he was disposed to lust for power, and on the strength of this trait he strove to be the sole spokesman in the camp.

As absurd as it may seem, the predominant part of the MVD potentates in the camps for prisoners of war — and perhaps this may also have been the case in the S. 46 other offices of the MVD — were men with a rather narrowly bounded horizon in every respect. They were penetrated by only the one goal: to hunt out as many "criminals" as possible and then to bring them before the bar of the war tribunal. In that they were veritable masters. To the MVD officials it was completely indifferent whether the accusations they brought forward were proven or baseless. It sufficed them if they could say: "I have unmasked an enemy of the 'people.'" Whoever among them could utter this sentence had one more plus-point with his superior, and at a favorable opportunity he could count on a reward for his "patriotic" activity.

The narrow-mindedness of these primitive men the Kopkins exploited in cunning fashion. If a prisoner, or a Russian soldier, or even an officer stood in their way, he was removed by the "quiet" route.

Brückner and Kopkin complemented each other splendidly — each used the other for his own ends.

At the end of 1947 Brückner came to the other functionaries and declared to them:

"Comrades, I have just come from Captain Kopkin. He explained to me that now, after more than two years of captivity, we have permission to go out. We may visit the cinema, the theater, and the parks, so that we may become acquainted with the Soviet man and his living conditions and then later, after our release — which is to follow soon — report on it at home. A wonderful task has thereby fallen to us prisoners. But what is especially S. 47 important for us: we can move about somewhat more freely. With all this, however, it remains forbidden to us, as before, to converse with civilians. Mark that. I want to hear no complaints about you in this regard. You may go now." All rose as if on command, for no one ever remained in Brückner's room unbidden.

"Siebert, you stay here!" Brückner ordered. When the others had gone, he invited Siebert to take a seat opposite him at the table and looked at him with greedy and yet almost expressionless eyes.

"Heinz, I want to discuss something with you, but you must promise me not to breathe a word of it. Agreed?"

"Of course, Kurt, I'll be silent as the grave," answered Siebert, though he did not know what it was about.

"At last, Heinz, I have what I need: we can go out. Do you know what that means? Infinitely much, at least for me. I can go wherever I like in Poltava. Ha, my boy, I shall be in the company of ladies! I shall enjoy life in full draughts. Only one thing I lack, and that is your Russian. So I ask you to go with me the first time, until I have found a girl or a woman. The work in the camp can lie where it is, or the others can do it — I am sick of it, this everlasting work. I want to rest. And you, Heinz, will help me in this. Tomorrow evening we go out for the first time. But we may go only in civilian clothes. You know, after all, that we have no right to enter into contact with the civilian population. So get yourself the necessary things, and tomorrow at eight o'clock we set off." Sly- S. 48 ly he squinted with his lifeless eyes through the thick lenses of his dark horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Kurt, if only this goes well. — You said yourself that it is forbidden to associate with civilians, and you want to be the first to transgress this prohibition? If we are caught, we will be punished, and they will take this limited freedom not only from us but from all the others as well. Above all we must think of the many comrades whom we can help. I draw your attention to these circumstances and urgently beg you to keep your reason. I will not take part in this."

Indignant at Siebert's misgivings, Brückner rose and paced up and down the room.

"You will take part, Heinz. We go out this very day. I order it. At seven o'clock we go to the main administration; by the time we are finished with the mail there, it will have grown dark and we can go into the city. Get yourself the suit I described. Go!"

Siebert went to his room, where he met his friend, the camp commandant Sepp Müller, to whom he at once reported Brückner's scheme. Sepp shook his head deliberately and admonished him to the greatest caution. When Siebert explained that he did not want to follow Brückner's order, Sepp said, embarrassed:

"Heinz, Brückner shrinks from no means in pushing through his will, and he will try everything with you too. Better go with him today, for it could cost you dearly if you anger him still further. You know even better than I that he is anything but well disposed toward you. Go along with the fellow. It is better, in fact, that we know his secret paths. Perhaps it will one day benefit the com- S. 49 munity. Should anything go wrong, I am always ready to help you. Now go, and be on your guard." Müller shook Siebert's hand and went out into the camp yard, while Siebert made himself ready for this repugnant errand with his superior.

At the appointed time Brückner and Siebert strode through the camp gate. The former had put on a black suit, while Siebert walked behind him in his field-gray uniform with polished buttons. Hardly had they passed the guard when Brückner began his lecture of reproof for Siebert:

"Man, have you gone mad? How can anyone go out in such a get-up without being recognized as a German? You're ruining everything for me today. Look how I am dressed. I take off the glasses, pull the cap deep over my ears, stick my arms into my trouser pockets up to the elbows, spit left and right — and then let any of the officers come along. They won't recognize me, I'll wager. And you they'll recognize at first glance, with your uniform and your parade step. On top of that your hobnailed shoes make an infernal racket. How can you be so mulish! I don't understand you." While Brückner delivered this wild sermon, Siebert had not spoken a word, but had walked mutely beside him. When Brückner noticed that his companion made no reply, he too thought it advisable to keep silent.

Arrived at the staff building, they quickly dealt with the mail they had brought from the camp and received the incoming post. Then Brückner excused himself to the officer present, and the prisoners pushed their way as quickly as possible through the door onto the street. Deep darkness wrapped "Komsomol- S. 50 skaya" Street in an impenetrable veil; only where the tiny street lamps glowed could one see a few paces ahead. At this hour there were only a very few passers-by on the sidewalks, past whom one had to slip.

Brückner struck out in a direction known to him alone and quickened his pace, Siebert's hobnails under his shoe soles leisurely beating time to every step. Their way led them through many streets and alleys, through parks and gardens. On this wandering through evening Poltava the time flew by, and before Siebert quite realized it, they had arrived at the railway station, which lay about seven kilometers from the camp. Seven kilometers of marching — and that without any definite goal. —

But Brückner wanted it so, he who so badly wanted his pleasure. How far he had sunk morally! Siebert pondered the question no longer, for nothing could be changed about it anyway. And besides, he was already, like it or not, on the hunt for a girl for Brückner. The latter had now turned into a completely dark street. Suddenly he stopped and whispered into Siebert's ear:

"There across the street, the house with the green shutters — that is my goal. Vera lives there, my sunshine in captivity." With these words he went up to one of the front windows and knocked.

"Heinz, if anyone comes now, you ask whether Vera is at home. Her parents will let us in then; they think rather highly of us Germans. Vera was employed with the Wehrmacht during the German occupation." Only after repeated knocking did a door creak in the back yard, and immediately afterward there appeared above S. 51 the high wooden fence a gray head and the long beard of the master of the house. Siebert asked him after his daughter. The old man was greatly astonished at the late visit. The information he gave was very disconsolate for Brückner, for Vera had gone away and was not expected back before morning.

Beaten, the prisoners went the long way back to the camp. Brückner at once began to forge plans for a further meeting with Vera; however, he had to go about their realization alone, for Siebert decidedly refused him his support.

With much effort Brückner had managed it even without him — but for Vera the happy hours with her so-called friend were very soon to bring grave consequences in their train.

Captain Kopkin, the interpreter of the MVD, had learned of Brückner's meetings with Vera from Brückner himself. At first he sanctioned it without the slightest objection. But then he drew his profit from it by giving Brückner the assignment of reporting further details about Vera's past to the MVD. Brückner was so entangled in Kopkin's tentacles, and so completely dependent, that he was incapable of refusing.

Vera's past was, from the standpoint of the MVD, rather dark, for during the occupation of Poltava by the Germans Vera had worked for them; later, after the withdrawal of the German troops, American airmen came to Poltava, and Vera had to associate with the capitalists again, because an elderly major lodged in her house. This harmless contact with foreigners was extremely suspicious, for in such a case one could hardly be a true patriot of the "socia- S. 52 list" homeland.

In fact, Vera's patriotism and devotion to the Soviet Union had suffered heavy damage. She detested communism with all her feelings, for she too belonged to the great army of those who had seen with their own eyes that there was still something better in the world than kolkhozes and Soviet enterprises; she had learned that people in the other countries live more freely and more cheerfully than in the Soviet Union. Of all these experiences she had made no secret to Brückner, but believed she had found in him, as a prisoner, a kindred spirit.

Brückner, who in this period embodied a fanatical fighter for the communist idea, suddenly saw in Vera an "enemy of the people" whom he wanted to "unmask"; he went so far in his utterances to Siebert as to declare that he would help the Soviet people to combat its enemies. To these great enemies now belonged, without doubt, Vera as well.

After Brückner had informed Siebert of his intention, the latter went to his friend Müller to arrange with him the necessary measures for warning Vera. They agreed to seek Vera out and warn her against Brückner, who meant to bring about her ruin.

Now Siebert and Müller crept through the sparsely lit streets of Poltava, just as Siebert had in his time learned it from Brückner. Fortunately they found Vera at home. Shyly she came to the gate in the garden fence and listened with bated breath to the prisoners' explanations.

"Never would I have believed that there are such bad people among you too. How bitter this dis- S. 53 appointment is, for everything that was in any way connected with Germany I held to be high and noble; the last thing I suspected in you was dishonesty and falseness. Ah well, nothing can be changed about it now; one grows wise through injury. I only wish Brückner has not yet filed his report on me with the MVD, for then I am in a bad way. How often those fellows have already hauled me in for interrogation! Always the same questions, the same cursing and raging. Now they have a willing witness. Dreadful to think that Kurt, to whom I gave my whole trust, became a traitor. But he will be mistaken, for I will not let myself be caught so easily. I will defend myself. Listen: I thank you both from my heart for your goodwill; many thanks for your warning at the last minute. This very day I leave Poltava. By the time my disappearance is discovered, I shall be in the blue mountains of the Caucasus. I have [sic] an uncle there who will gladly take me in. Besides, strict order has not yet been restored there since the war, and one can go underground in the crowd there without particular danger. Keep it to yourselves, and think always of me — driven from her parents' house, from her home. But it is not only I who fare so. Many, many of our people wander aimlessly through the vastness of Russia, where one is everywhere outside the law's protection, never safe from abuse and persecution. O great God, when will this misery come to an end? Good night, friends. Come home soon and in health to your loved ones. How I envy you! —" Then the gate fell shut, and with quick steps Vera ran to the house.

After a few days Brückner came to Siebert angry and agitated and reported that Vera had vanished with- S. 54 out a trace.

"Can you imagine what kind of face Captain Kopkin will show me when I report that to him? I could jump out of my skin — a few more days and Vera would have come before the war tribunal as an enemy of the people and a traitress, and I would have had immediate repatriation as my reward. But just wait — Kopkin will flush Vera out yet; she is certainly not out of Poltava. Then she is truly not to be envied."

But Vera was and remained vanished, and her former friend Brückner had been cheated of his earnings in the struggle against free-thinking human beings. In return he drew the reins ever tighter on the men in the camp. He had brought it to the point that he had to be greeted by every prisoner; when he appeared on the camp street, all fell silent, each man stepped back a pace, and one waited anxiously until Brückner had passed.

Slowly time moved on toward the autumn of 1947. Full of dread, everyone thought of the coming winter, of the illnesses and of the hunger that one feels far more keenly in the cold season than otherwise.

At this time there suddenly appeared in the Poltava camp the nachalnik of the prisoner-of-war hospital at Kobelyaki, Captain Pavlov. Siebert had several times rendered this man interpreter services, and so Pavlov knew him well. When he was finished with the selection of the sick, he came to Siebert and spoke to him while clapping him amiably on the shoulder:

"Siebert, if you have a mind to, I'll take you to Kobelyaki as interpreter. There you won't have such hard duty. Besides, from my hospital you will get home faster. I'll enter in your medical his- S. 55 tory the illness — tuberculosis — and then they'll let you travel. About the loss of your comrades here you needn't worry, for in a month the camp here will be dissolved and they will be scattered to all the winds. Do you want to?" Whereupon Pavlov looked around on all sides, for he feared someone might have heard him.

Siebert beamed at the mere thought of finally getting out of the witches' cauldron of Poltava; the joy over a possible journey home was beyond containing. Joyfully he answered the officer:

"Of course I will gladly go with you, Captain."

"Just as I thought — that you'd gladly come along. I'll speak to Lieutenant Colonel Rodin about it right away, and Major Yagodkin will surely agree with me when I explain that I need you urgently." With these words Pavlov went into the staff building, where the other officers were.

Shortly afterward there appeared in Brückner's room, to which Siebert had also been called, Captain Kopkin, who at once informed Brückner of Siebert's impending transfer. With glassy eyes Brückner looked at Siebert without moving so much as a muscle in his face. Finally he asked Siebert in a gruff tone to leave the room, for he had an important discussion with Captain Kopkin. Siebert left the room, sensing something evil. As he drew the door shut behind him, he heard Brückner's voice in the room, talking at Kopkin in considerable agitation:

"Captain, I protest against Siebert's transfer to Kobelyaki. From there he'll travel home. S. 56 I know it for certain. Have you perhaps forgotten that he was in the criminal SS?"

After these words it was clear to Siebert that his transfer and the early journey home were finally finished, for Brückner had once again done a thorough job.

On the following day Brückner handed over all his official duties to the prisoner Richard Hebding, with the explanation that he himself had to go to Kobelyaki for some time, to set up — or rather, to supervise — the hospital regime there.

Even if Siebert now remained in the camp, the whole camp had the advantage that Brückner was at last turning his back on it. As if freed from a heavy burden, all breathed again when Brückner, loaded with his rucksack, marched through the gate the following morning with the sick men. On that day Brückner saw the homeland beckoning from afar. He believed he had already drawn half the distance nearer to it. No one envied him, for everyone was simply glad to be rid of this tormenting spirit at last.

Arrived in Kobelyaki, Brückner at once began introducing his new order in the hospital. Among the dying and the sick he ran just as strict a regime as among the comparatively healthy prisoners in Poltava. Every orderly had to call "Attention" in his room as soon as the Red Himmler entered it. At this call every sick man had to greet Brückner with a turn of the eyes. In no army did such a regulation exist, but Brückner managed to enforce the veneration of his person. And the Russians? — They looked on calmly, for such a thing was water on their all-crushing mills, since through S. 57 these inhuman chicaneries on Brückner's part it was to be proven anew how ruthless Prussian militarism was — although in the German Wehrmacht any officer, any physician would have been locked up without further ado had he demanded such things of his subordinates.

To distinguish themselves especially, the agitators installed by Brückner conducted political training sessions in the sickrooms, as if the political administration of the prisoner-of-war camps had decreed that not a single prisoner might die without the so-called "political minimum." However, this schooling was pitched too high even for Soviet notions, for Brückner was compelled to discontinue the training hours.

At all these arrangements in Kobelyaki the Russian employees of the hospital grew incensed after a short time and lodged a complaint about Brückner with Captain Pavlov, so that the former shortly fell into great discredit with the Russians. But with that, his early return home also receded with giant strides. When he noticed the ill will of his Soviet superiors, he wanted to get out of this blind alley as quickly as possible, but without success. His so beautifully contrived career had gone so thoroughly off the rails that even the many slanders of his fellow prisoners could not help.

In those days Brückner's slander bureau worked at full speed, for here too he had immediately drummed together an army of informers.

The home transports in the late autumn of 1947 rolled in fairly quick succession toward the beloved homeland — but always without Brückner, for his friendly advo- S. 58 cates had dropped him and no longer set any store by releasing this scoundrel.

Rarely has a man had to suffer so keenly under such a great disappointment as Brückner, who had believed rock-solidly that he already held his release certificate in his hands. Here began the just punishment for a man who presumed to have the task of delivering dozens upon dozens of innocent men to the Soviet courts.

Despite the great disappointment — which showed Brückner quite plainly that he was only a cheap tool in the hands of the MVD — he did not desist from his countless slanders. On the contrary: still more ruthlessly and intensively he pursued his criminal work, which he now shifted for the greatest part onto the Russian population. Even Soviet officers were no longer safe from him. When these noticed on whose behalf he was operating, they soon laid a snare for him and sought to get him out of the way — which in the end, despite the many difficulties with the MVD, they succeeded in doing, for in mid-January he was sent with a small transport out of Kobelyaki, through storm and snow, to Poltava, where he had so long conducted his reign of terror.

The camp in Poltava had gone through great changes in Brückner's absence. From 1,800 men it had shrunk to 450 — the prisoners had been sent off to the Donbass and to other regions. First of all, Brückner's cronies and accomplices had been shaken off, so that the camp now counted only dependable men. Life since that time ran more peacefully and quietly. People were content, for with Brückner and his men the S. 59 unrest, and a great part of the constant fear, had also gone out of the camp. Hence no one was surprised when everyone, highly agitated and protesting, was discussing the arrival of Brückner — for someone claimed to have seen him at the camp gate.

One of the gate sentries came storming straight into Siebert's room and declared to him in great excitement:

"Heinz, the Himmler — Brückner is back! He asks that you come to the gate at once and let him in, for, as he claims, he is freezing miserably."

Siebert pulled on his coat and went out into the yard, which was wrapped by a heavy snow flurry in a milky veil. The wind howled up fiercely in the street of ruins each time it found an open hole in the crumbling walls.

Before the camp gate there stood, in fact, about fifty men in scanty clothing, waiting for the starshina who was to register their rags. Among these freezing men was Brückner. Joyfully he hurried to the iron grating in the gate and begged immediate admission for his own person. Of his comrades, who were far worse off, he thought — as always — not at all, even now. Siebert greeted him coolly and hastened to look for the starshina, whom he soon found. After the latter had counted the articles of clothing, the prisoners were allowed into the camp.

Like a terror, the news of Brückner's return spread through the camp. Oppressed and anxious, the people went about the camp.

Why had this man been brought back into the camp?

But chance was kindly disposed toward the men, for simultaneously with the transport a requisi- S. 60 tion for 150 men for the camp in Kharkov had also arrived. The camp nachalnik, Major Omelchenko, ordered that Brückner was to go along with the transport the next morning. At first the man concerned protested violently, but when he saw that the major was firmly resolved to transfer him as soon as possible, he fell silent. As he climbed onto the truck that was to take him and the other prisoners to the railway station, he shouted once more into the storm across the yard, where the prisoners who were staying behind stood:

"If in future you hear nothing of me, then I am in a bad way; but if you hear tell of me, then know that with me a new wind has moved into Kharkov. I'll show them there how one wages the fight for democracy. There too I will clean out the fascists." With these words the truck turned onto the street and was lost in the snow.

Hardly was Brückner gone again when calm returned to the camp. Brückner had soon been forgotten, when one day a prisoner brought the news that Brückner was once more chief functionary of camp administration 7149 in Kharkov. With dread everyone thought of a possible transfer to Kharkov, for no one wished to be near Brückner.

Rarely in captivity did one meet a man of whom people were so greatly afraid as precisely of Brückner.

Punishment Camp 7149/2

S. 61 The Soviet camp administration for all prisoner and internee camps in the Soviet Union invented many designations for different kinds of camps. There were education and training camps, in which the antifascists were schooled so that they could later be deployed as Communist functionaries in Germany. Then there were silence camps, in which people were registered who were never to see their homeland again. For the outside world these camps had no name. The Russians nevertheless spoke of them by naming certain far-remote cities of Russia.

Further, there were punishment camps, which in general bore a number like all the other camps. One recognized them at once by the composition of their inmates. Mostly these camps held SS men, members of the NSDAP and of other formations of National Socialist Germany. The Russians also called these camps "model camps," because a very strict camp regime had been introduced there. Such a camp was furnished with every means of coercion — bunker, karzer [punishment cell], and standing cell. Naturally the punishment detail was not lacking in the punishment camp either.

In Camp 7136, the camp section number three, situated near the airfield, was regarded as the generally acknowledged "model camp." The regime here was run by a former Russia-German from the region of Odessa. Malzahn had fled to Germany with the German troops in 1918 and had settled in Mainz. At that time he was a determined S. 62 counter-revolutionary; in the course of time he committed himself to the KPD [German Communist Party] and worked actively in that organization until Hitler put the Communist Party out of business. Characterless as Malzahn was, it cost him nothing at all to swing over at once to the Nazis and take on various services. For the longest time he served in the Security Service [SD] as an interpreter in the various concentration camps and later in the prisoner camps that held Soviet prisoners of war. Of all this no one knew anything, and thus it was possible for him to pass himself off as a fanatical adherent of the Communists.

Right at the beginning of captivity Malzahn impressed the Russians with his brutality toward his fellow prisoners. This quality was the first prerequisite for being equipped by the Russians with extraordinary powers and installed as camp commandant.

Malzahn came to Poltava with a larger transport and became commandant in the later "model camp." The camp was housed, like most camps in the Soviet Union, in a ruin. From the first days there began in Camp 3 the ceaseless drudgery on the construction sites and, after working hours, in the camp until late into the night. Malzahn was constantly in the yard with a few brigadiers of his own stamp, driving the overtired prisoners to work faster. Within a short time he had fitted out the prisoner camp in comparatively modern fashion.

Every evening Malzahn conducted a roll call in front of the camp. Roll calls were conducted in every camp, but in the "model camp" they were of a quite special kind. Here the roll call was for Malzahn, his accomplices S. 63 and for the Soviet officers a downright ceremonial affair.

At every roll call the Soviet officers stood somewhat apart before the front of the assembled prisoners, smiling and smoking their cigarettes. Only when the whole camp had fallen in did Malzahn come out of the house with a few of his men and pace the front with measured stride, inspecting the ranks of his subordinates. In a calm but inexorable voice he made remarks here and there, then went to his customary place before the front and received the full-strength reports of the company leaders. These reports seemed quite harmless, yet for Malzahn, the little king of Camp 3, they held a great deal.

Last to speak was the company leader of the eighth company:

"Herr Camp Leader, I report that the eighth company, at a strength of 69 men, has fallen in at full strength. As a special occurrence I have a theft to report. The prisoner Georg Grüneklee pilfered a red beet at the railway station while loading beets and consumed it during work. Permission to return to the ranks."

"Fall in!" commanded Malzahn. Dark furrows of rage showed on his brow.

"This Grüneklee. Barely still on his feet and he dares to steal, the scoundrel. Well, I'll cure him. One time will be enough for him," Malzahn muttered to himself.

"Grüneklee, step forward, on the double!" he said, calm and threatening. At these words the Soviet officers came somewhat closer and conversed more animat- S. 64 edly. Major Omelchenko sank both hands into his deep coat pockets so far that he had to make a great hunch of his back, and stared at Grüneklee, who stood at attention as best he was able, trembling, before the camp potentate, and awaited the things that were to come.

Really he had committed no crime. And yet: out of hunger he had devoured a frozen beet. Oh, what hunger he had —. He could eat and eat, eat forever. If only he had a few more beets with him! He would eat them at once.

"Hey, you old sack," Malzahn now bellowed, "what kind of way is that to stand? Attention, you brown Nazi! So you stole? Why?"

"I ate a beet because I was hungry. I did not steal it; the Russian overseer permitted it." Grüneklee got no further, for Malzahn's fat fist struck him in the face. Blood ran from his mouth. Wearily he spat a tooth out before Malzahn's feet. The latter stepped back a pace and turned to the men:

"Comrades, we are in the Soviet Union to make good our guilt toward the Soviet people. You all know that. This man here goes on committing crimes even now, by laying hands on the socialist property of the Soviet Union. We cannot tolerate that, and we ourselves want to punish criminals and thieves in our own ranks. We do not want to lock them in the karzer, for in that way they would only shirk work. We are introducing a new punishment, far more effective than the karzer penalty. Hubert, bring the long table from the orderly room, and you, Hartmann, fetch a wet towel from S. 65 the laundry." Quickly the ordered items were on hand.

"Grüneklee, let down your trousers. You will now receive your deserved punishment. For every stolen beet the thief will in future receive twenty-five belt strokes on the buttocks. Have you all understood that?" Then he turned back to Grüneklee, who was still gazing in astonishment now at the Soviet officers, now at Malzahn, then again at his comrades.

"Pull down your filthy trousers, I'm telling you for the second time," bellowed Mahlzahn [sic], but Grüneklee did not stir from the spot.

Snorting with rage, Mahlzahn [sic] went up to Grüneklee and tore the trousers from the body of the freezing man, who already counted more than fifty springs.

"There, now lay yourself belly-down on the table."

Grüneklee looked in wonder at the speaker, but nevertheless remained standing where he was, as though he had not heard him.

"Now this is getting to be too much for me. Four company leaders, the first four, step forward. Move, lay the rogue on the table and hold his hands and feet down firmly. Hartmann, lay the towel on his back. The next four company leaders, to me." Hesitantly the summoned men came forward.

"Take off your belts and lay into him until I give the signal to stop. At him, you fellows!" Not one of the company leaders reached for his belt, for that they were to thrash the old man, who was half starved, was something they could not comprehend.

"I see you have no real appetite for it. Good, I will demonstrate it once. Hold the fellow fast." At these words he took off his belt, laid his cap aside S. 66 and began to beat Grüneklee frightfully. At first the man lay there quietly, but after a few blows he began to scream, for Malzahn's strength, which had lost nothing in captivity, did thorough work. Although he had already struck more than twenty-five blows, he still kept on, though the sweat already sparkled in many beads upon his brow. At last he laid his belt aside. The tormented man lay motionless on the table. Only a very faint moaning could be heard in the ranks of five.

"So it will go for everyone who dares to take anything that belongs to the Soviet Union. Hubert, fetch water and bring this villain here back to consciousness. Then get him to his bunk. Camp, dismissed!"

The people, who the whole time had stared rigidly at the outrage, left the roll-call square with all haste, for in the first place everyone wanted to forget it all as quickly as possible, and in the second place the men were freezing over their whole bodies. The Soviet officers, however, laughed over this bestial punishment on account of a single beet, called Malzahn to them, and Major Omelchenko expressed his praise for the pains Malzahn took to keep peace and order in the camp. Almost daily he now carried out this punishment procedure, only with the difference that he now ordered people to do the beating and reached for the belt himself only when one of the men ordered to beat did not follow his command.

Quite especially praised by the Russians was the following deed of Malzahn's — indeed more: it was even recommended to the camp commandants of the other camp sections.

The prisoner Dreher had long occupied himself with thoughts of escape, and when he had thought the flight through S. 67 and prepared it down to the smallest details, he fled at an unobserved moment from the work site. Unfortunately he was caught by Russian activists and brought back into the camp. The Russians had beaten him horribly when Malzahn received him at the gate:

"Ha, you look friendly indeed. Many a deserved blow you've already got. One can see it on your snout. But you shall have one more blow from me," whereupon with full force he dealt Dreher a blow in the face that threw him to the ground like an empty sack.

When Dreher had regained his strength, Malzahn's adjutant brought a heavy crowbar, which he pressed into Dreher's hands, and ordered him to hold it with outstretched arms above his head. In this position Dreher stood as the work brigades returned home from their work sites. Whenever signs of fatigue overcame Dreher, he received from the gate sentry a blow in the small of the back and had to push his bar up high again. No man was permitted to go into the camp until all the brigades stood before the gate. Finally the camp in its entirety, more than eight hundred men, stood assembled, and Malzahn began his harangue:

"Comrades! Here you see a fellow who trod our honor as antifascists into the muck with his dirty feet: he attempted to flee from captivity and thereby to evade the duty of reparation. He is in my eyes a criminal who cannot be punished hard enough. Well, I have thought up a punishment of which half will be enough for him. He shall atone for it. Each of us shall contribute something to this S. 68 just punishment. Namely, Dreher will take up his post here at the gate, and everyone who goes into the camp gives him a hearty box on the ear or a clout on the mouth, but with emphasis. Whoever of you does not do his part well gets one dealt out by me. Have you understood that?"

Malzahn's adjutant pulled Dreher close to the gate while the company leaders lined their men up in a row. When this had been done, the company leaders and brigadiers stepped up and began the march past Dreher. Malzahn and his adjutant placed themselves at the head of this sorry procession, and already their fists were smacking into the face of Dreher, who still held his bar above his head.

By the time the men came up to Dreher he was already suffused with blood, and everyone shuddered at the mere thought of looking into that battered face, much more of striking into it; and so it was no wonder that the men did not raise their hand against Dreher but remained standing, heads bowed, before this man who had possessed the courage to dare escape from the terrible captivity. Indeed, was an escape from captivity a crime at all? No, it was and is the most inherent right of a prisoner to attempt flight, for otherwise he would not be a prisoner but a criminal condemned to punishment. No animal is held to account for regaining the freedom that man has robbed from it — and they, who would have done the same as Dreher had they possessed the courage or the opportunity, were to strike him? They would rather receive a blow from Malzahn. After some waiting, Malzahn, who had grown impatient, roared out:

S. 69 "Hey, you there, what are you waiting for? Don't you know where you may strike? Makes no difference — wherever you like. Hit him!"

No one stirred. Without saying a word, Malzahn stepped up to the man in front and struck him in the face with the flat of his hand, so that the stricken man stumbled sideways. In this manner Malzahn dispatched about ten men into the camp; then again several struck at Dreher, while yet others preferred to receive a blow from Malzahn in Dreher's stead. In this fashion it went on until all the men were in the camp. Dreher, who could no longer stand, was held up, and thus he received the blows until he was carried unconscious into the sick bay. On the following morning he was locked in the karzer.

Let no one believe that such crimes and others like them were done without the knowledge of the Russians.

During the "execution of the sentence" upon Dreher, the Soviet officers stood smiling to one side and could not conceal their amazement at the brutish Malzahn, who was here furnishing an example of medieval inhumanity. From time to time one heard a drawn-out "Vott" [there!] whenever someone from the ranks was soundly struck or received a heavy blow from Malzahn.

This incident, however, had not only broken Dreher's bones but also strongly undermined Malzahn's position, for the Russians logically asked themselves:

"If Malzahn carries on like this among his own countrymen, how much worse must he have raged among the foreign prisoners? He must be a criminal." A whole number of well-paid informers trailed after Malzahn from that day on, but S. 70 always in vain. Until at last, one day, chance put an end to it all.

The airfield situated not far from the camp possessed great halls filled with munitions and bombs still dating from the time of the war, when English and American aircraft bombed Germany from Poltava. The Russians attempted to bring order into the halls and cellars and in doing so, through carelessness, caused one of the shells to explode, and the entire munitions depot blew up with terrible crashing and thundering. Flames many meters high shot up; the blast wave shattered all the windowpanes within a radius of three kilometers, and several nearby houses caught fire — among others the "model camp" as well.

His face contorted with fear, Major Omelchenko, the Soviet camp nachalnik [commandant], ran across the heap of rubble that only a few hours before had constituted his prisoner camp, while the prisoners camped in the yard. Nothing remained but to transfer the camp inmates to Camp 2, in which Siebert too was housed.

By regulation, every prisoner who came into another camp had to pass through the bathing and delousing facility. Malzahn too went into the bath, which became his undoing, for while undressing he lost from his wallet a photograph that unmistakably identified him as an Oberfeldwebel [master sergeant] of the SD. It was found by one of his subordinates and handed in to the MVD officer. The investigations that followed brought a sudden end to all the tortures Malzahn had inflicted on his countrymen, for in that very hour he was locked up. Only after S. 71 a long time did he reappear, but he was kept strictly isolated in a great ruined house until from there he went the way into a captivity yet harder than the one he had prepared for his comrades. No word of condolence, no pity was granted to Malzahn; only the customary sentence droned after him:

"Every guilt avenges itself on earth!"

The Malzahn affair was soon forgotten when all the prisoners of war were to be pulled out of Poltava except for forty men, who remained behind for the complete dissolution of the camp. Among those remaining were also Lieutenant Müller, Karl Rückert, and Siebert.

Quietly the days flowed by. Rarely did any of the Russians concern himself with the prisoners, because the officers were all too much occupied with carrying off the camp furnishings. The days of quiet found a sudden end when a Captain Semyonov arrived from Kharkov to take over the provisions by weight and the not-yet-stolen articles of clothing by count. At the same time he ordered the immediate transfer of all prisoners to Kharkov.

In mid-February the forty men from Poltava arrived in Kharkov. An icy wind swept over the station grounds, on which the freezing men stood, guarded like dangerous criminals by many sentries and gaped at by curious civilians.

Then suddenly there appears in the door of the makeshift station building — Kurt Brückner.

No one trusted his eyes. How had he managed to play the great man here once again? In friendly fashion he came up to the men:

"Did you arrive safely? I hope you come S. 72 to us in Camp 1, for if you go to Camp 2, you are lost. There the 'gentlemen of yesterday' hold sway — I mean the fascists. With us, by contrast, the antifascists are at the helm. There everything runs like clockwork. But here comes your officer; he will certainly know where you are being sent. Siebert, ask him."

Siebert inquired after the destination and learned that all forty men were to go to Camp 2, which was situated on the grounds of the factory "Serp i Molot." Camp 2, then, was the men's destination — the one before which even Brückner had respect.

After much back and forth at the station, they set off at last in the direction of the camp. Second Lieutenant Yurchenko stopped a streetcar with great fuss, forced the passengers to get out, and put the prisoners in the empty car. With a great clatter they rode through the streets of Kharkov.

Kharkov had been badly battered by the war, for the city changed hands three times in the year 1943 alone, to say nothing of the heavy fighting of 1941. Almost all the government buildings and factories were destroyed, among them the great works such as the well-known tractor works Kh.T.Z., the agricultural machinery factory "Serp i Molot," and the "Kharkov Electromechanical Factory." The destruction was carried out by whichever occupier held the city as soon as he found himself forced to abandon it. Although the destruction was great, comparatively few human lives were to be mourned. The case was entirely different with the destruction of the municipal prison.

In 1941, as the German troops advanced on Kharkov, it was overfilled with "anti-Soviet" people. The withdrawal of the Soviets proceeded in such great haste S. 73 that they no longer had time to carry off the incarcerated. The Soviets therefore resolved to deal with the inmates by the process so often practiced by the Bolsheviks. They bolted the doors and gates fast and set fire to the prison, which comprised an entire city quarter. All the inmates had found death in the flames before the Germans reached the city.

The German occupation forces at once set about rebuilding the burned-out prison and now locked up those who were set against them. Once more the walls of this cage filled with human beings, with innocent and guilty.

In 1943 the Germans had to leave the city with surprising speed, when the entire German southern front was heaved off its hinges. What to do with the prisoners? The decision was made to blow up the building together with its inmates. Only a few survived the moment when the mighty human cage shuddered from its deep cellars up to the roof and collapsed upon itself, burying everything beneath stone and ash. At last the roller of war had passed over Kharkov and a comparative calm set in — but unfortunately not in the prison quarter, for here the Soviets, immediately upon their return, once more rounded up "anti-Soviet" elements and "war criminals" and forced them to rebuild the prison. It was the first great building to be restored in this city of a million.

Jolting, the unheated streetcar rode past the Ukrainian Museum, the House of the Red Army, and the City Soviet — all burned-out and crumbling ruins. The residential quarters had been more or less S. 74 spared. Cruelly had the war ravaged the city.

At last the streetcar stopped before a gate that led into the works grounds of the factory "Serp i Molot" — Hammer and Sickle.

"Everyone off! Fall in in rows of five!" commanded Yurchenko, and began counting the men from the front.

"Sorok! [Forty!] March!" Ponderously the wings of the gate were pushed apart by an old works militiaman. Behind the last of the men the gate crashed shut again, as though its wings would not soon let themselves be persuaded to open. Gaping, greasy figures stood along the factory streets and searched the little troop for familiar faces. Everywhere German was spoken. Here and there the men recognized one another from earlier camps and greeted each other briefly.

"Hans, how are things here, and what are you doing?"

"Eberhard, you here? Well, you've come to the right bone-mill. We build threshing machines here on the assembly line. Until tomorrow."

"Davai, Fritz!" the sentries shouted in between.

The men had already walked a rather long stretch when they caught sight of another great gate, behind which stood several thousand men clothed in padded wadding suits. Before the gate, on the outside, a man could be seen gesticulating animatedly. His words could not be understood, for his voice rasped very hoarsely from overexertion.

As the little transport drew nearer, one heard one of his helpers call his attention to the column.

"Emil, new people are coming."

S. 75 "I know, Brückner told me about it," said the man addressed as Emil.

"Who here is Müller, Rückert, and Siebert? Step forward! A very good evening. My name is Emil Dowideit; I am the camp commandant here. For quarters, apply to Jan van Doren. The others report to company leader Norbert Rencher. The two of them know what's what."

Müller, Siebert, and Rückert looked around in wonder, for the tone prevailing here alone betrayed nothing of mildness or sensible order. Still far less good was promised by the actual camp itself, which was surrounded by yet another fourfold barbed wire, although the whole factory grounds already had a wire entanglement. High watchtowers rose above the fence, on which German prisoners of war stood guard. These fellows, who had to guard their own countrymen, were called WK (Vspomogatelnaya Komanda — auxiliary detail). In the event of an escape attempt they had to alert the Russian sentries by the fastest route.

Müller, Rückert, and Siebert went to Jan van Doren, and he led them into a room in which the company leaders were quartered.

"There, here you will live until other space is found for you," said van Doren.

Tired from the exertions of the long journey, the three lay down on the bunks assigned to them and discussed their situation. They came to agreement on the point of saying nothing of their former position in Camp 7136, in order to be able to submerge more easily in the great mass of the prisoners, for to stand in a leading position in captivity meant also to stand constantly in the field of vision S. 76 of the MVD and to be perpetually sniffed at by its informers. They wished to ask their comrades likewise to betray nothing of their former position, which these willingly promised the next morning.

The camp at the factory "Serp i Molot" was one of the most feared camps of Ukraine, for it was rightly designated the punishment camp for those who had something on their record. More than 3,600 men had been assembled here who had served in the SS, had belonged to the NSDAP or to other National Socialist formations. Many of the camp inmates were here on account of base slanders by their "comrades." A large part of the camp consisted of Soviet citizens who had joined the German troops or had been carried off by them under compulsion.

In Camp 7149 the peoples of Europe met. The camp card index showed thirty-two different nationalities. Within the barbed wire far more than thirty-two languages were spoken. The general languages of intercourse were German and Russian, because they were the most-used languages in the camps. No wonder that in this motley mass unanimity was often lacking, while of envy and betrayal there was rich abundance.

Every rank from the most varied armies could be encountered here: from private soldier up to general. All walks of life were represented in the camp: university professors, engineers, diplomats, doctors of every field of science; every profession stood available in wide selection. It S. 77 would have been a small thing for the men who eked out their miserable existence behind barbed wire to furnish a sizable city with all the necessary officials and craftsmen. Yet the strength, the knowledge, and the ability of these men nowhere came into their own; the perpetually hammering Soviet propaganda saw to that, as did the camp commandant installed by the Russians and equipped with dictatorial powers, Emil Dowideit.

Dowideit ran the camp of 3,600 prisoners in every respect. As soon as he came to the edge of his narrowly bounded horizon, his physical "leadership" set in, which in most cases found its highest consummation in an unbridled beating. Emil, as the prisoners called him, possessed the fullest confidence of the Soviet officers. Where confidence left off, blackmail on Dowideit's part set in, for among the entire Soviet camp personnel there was not a single officer who had not been bribed by him.

Again and again one asked oneself how this man had managed to bring the officers into his trap. He had accomplished it — namely, through base bribery with foodstuffs and other articles of personal need.

Since his accomplices were all dependent on him, it was a trifle for Dowideit to remove from the camp kitchen all the valuable foodstuffs such as butter, meat, and sugar — bread apart — and to give the same to the officers. This was forbidden by government decree, and the courts punished offenses of this kind with severe penalties. When all the Russians who had any say in the camp had made ample use of Dowideit's

S. 78 …open hand, Emil was the unrestricted master in the camp. From that time on he commanded not only the prisoners from every land under the sun but also the victory-proud Russians. As soon as a Russian took a stand against him, Emil reminded him of the quantities of foodstuffs, of the articles of clothing and furniture he had received from him, and the Russian withdrew again, dejected, and did not dare to come out against Dowideit anymore. Many Russians regretted their dependence on Dowideit, but nothing could be changed about the fact any longer. They were content so long as he kept silent and did not put into action his threats to make public the pilfering of the many things. None of the officers knew of the thefts of the others, and therefore they were afraid of one another, each believing that he alone had committed this offense. This circumstance eased Dowideit's business enormously.

Emil was familiar with all the methods and wisdoms of criminal wrongdoing, for from his earliest youth he had devoted himself to crime and learned this "art." Born and also raised in Berlin, he had chosen that city as his field of operations. Many bank burglaries figured on his police warrant long before 1933. Several times the police succeeded in apprehending him, but again and again he got free and carried on his gruesome trade. Only Hitler's criminal police succeeded in rendering him harmless, by keeping Dowideit in custody from 1933 to 1944 in the various concentration camps. But a criminal of Dowideit's caliber could not be overthrown even by the conditions in the concentration camps. He remained strong S. 79 and healthy until National Socialism, after the complete exhaustion of its reserve of men, sent out the call to arms to all German concentration-camp inmates. Many volunteered (the rest were forced) for service in the Wehrmacht. All the concentration-camp men were gathered into special battalions and sent to the front. In this way Emil managed to get free — though not for long, for at the beginning of 1945 he fell into Soviet captivity, where he at once passed himself off as a violated victim of fascism and as a zealous Communist and friend of Ernst Thälmann.

After he became camp commandant, he began to bring out his experiences from concentration-camp life and to try them out once more on the prisoners of war. What other commandants achieved with the prisoners through much and lengthy talking and persuading, he accomplished casually with his heavy, knobby fist. If one of the prisoners wished to complain to him about the underweight of his daily bread ration, he simply knocked him to the ground with his fist; if someone passed him with a cigarette in his mouth, he admonished him to respect his person by means of a box on the ear. In short, Emil always had a cause to strike someone.

A quite "original" (origenelle [sic]) invention of Dowideit's was the karzer of the camp at "Serp i Molot."

In a corner of the wood and coal shed was a trapdoor through which one first reached a dark hole. The walls of this hole were lined with boards. Only when one stepped off the stairs could one turn on a light, and one stood directly before a thick iron door. With great noise this could be S. 80 opened by means of a crudely forged key. Behind the door was a room of 2 by 2 meters, whose walls, ceiling, and floor were of concrete. This room had only one opening, and that was the door to the standing cell, which was only just large enough that one could only stand in it. It was not even possible to assume a crouching position in the cell. Here the walls were smeared with blood-red paint to simulate traces of blood, which were meant to wear down the incarcerated man morally — and in most cases this succeeded. Into this cell, which recalled the torture chamber of the Middle Ages, Dowideit's victims came for the slightest transgressions. After a short time this annihilating karzer room was found good by the MVD as well, and the MVD officers made common cause with Dowideit in order to loosen the tongues of the prisoners to be interrogated. Everyone who was to be locked up first had to remove his clothing down to his underwear and was then put into the cold room, where after a very short time indeed he was made compliant in every respect. This karzer was used in the camp continuously from 1945 to 1947, when a commission from Moscow investigated the Lorant affair, of which mention has already been made, and forbade the further use of the concrete karzer.

Since Dowideit held the provisioning of the entire camp in his hands, he could do with it as suited his large-scale rackets. For this reason the provisions, already bad, grew ever worse, and the hard-laboring prisoners wasted visibly away without Emil so much as batting an eyelash. What did it matter to him? He had first-class food, his warm and modernly furnished room. His work S. 81 was light, for it consisted for the most part of several rounds through the camp, during which he harassed the prisoners.

The daily course of this man from the darkest underworld ran as follows:

At eight in the morning, when the work brigades had already marched out to work, Dowideit was awakened by his batman (servant) — which by no means meant that he now got up, for at once a barber entered the room and shaved and groomed him in bed and massaged his body thoroughly. After this procedure came the head cook with breakfast, which the commandant likewise took lying down. Only then did he rise, ease himself into his clothes, and step out onto the camp yard with great noise. During the day he was seen everywhere raging and cursing, until at last evening came and the day was closed with a drinking bout, while far more than 3,500 men lay tired and hungry on their filthy, bug-ridden bunks.

The more Dowideit exerted himself to strengthen his position, the more it was gradually weakened, for even the calmest men grew ever more embittered against him and took a stand against him. Through this he did become somewhat more moderate, but was far from being pushed back.

At this time Siebert and his comrades came into the camp. Despite the improvement, conditions were devastating and hopeless, although the antifascist Aktiv under the leadership of the prisoner Bruno Palm strove convulsively to wrest the leadership of the camp from the hands of this criminal and to take it over itself.

S. 82 Müller, Rückert, and Siebert were assigned, at their own wish, to an assembly brigade. The work of this group consisted in the transport and assembly of the machines imported from Germany as reparations goods, and it counted as one of the heaviest jobs in the camp. None of the three had ever performed physical labor for any length of time, and after six weeks they had sunk to work grade three. A prisoner was [assigned to] work group three when his physical condition showed the first signs of hunger edema. The prisoners of the third work grade were, whenever the MVD deemed it necessary, candidates for release to the homeland. In those days Müller, Rückert, and Siebert listened intently to every rumor of possible homeward transports and looked forward to the imminent fulfillment of their most fervent wish. But fate had determined otherwise, for Rückert, who was likewise badly worn down by the work, spoke unexpectedly of taking part in public camp life. Müller and Siebert urgently begged him to refrain from discussing this matter with the Aktiv leader Palm; however, he did not follow the advice and placed himself at the disposal of the Aktiv in order thereby to be relieved of the heavy work. In the course of his conversation with Palm he informed the latter of the activity of Siebert and Müller in Camp 7136. From those days on, the three were called ever more frequently to meetings, and when in May 1948 new elections of the Aktiv were held, the comrades elected Rückert and Siebert into this camp authority. With the election into the Aktiv there vanished also every hope of an early homecoming, since for intellectual work no work grade was required.

Siebert resigned himself to the inevitable and took up S. 83 the work in the Aktiv, resolved to begin at once the determined struggle against the camp tyrant Dowideit. First, however, the confidence of the comrades had to be won, which was possible only through a ruthless commitment to the improvement of their material situation.

In all the camp workshops, above all in the kitchen, controls were set up by the prisoners in order to rap Dowideit and his accomplices soundly on the knuckles in the event of thefts.

When Dowideit noticed these controls, he spewed the vilest slanders against the Aktiv, which for its part made energetic representations to the Soviet camp leadership regarding an immediate removal of Dowideit as camp commandant — but always without success, for Emil sat too firmly in his saddle, and for the time being there were no forces that could lift him out of it.

After long and vain efforts, chance came to the camp's aid, when Dowideit was with his friends at one of their customary carousals.

From one of the many camps in southern Russia the Romanian prisoner Tatjana, as she was generally called, had been transferred to Kharkov, and she was thus the only woman among 3,600 men. Already at home she had led anything but a moral life, and in captivity she fell all the more into immorality.

A young Romanian engineer took a liking to the woman, and soon the whole camp knew of their mutual relationship. Dowideit too learned of it, to his great sorrow, for despite his forty years he was apparently deeply in love with Tatjana. Regardless of this, he invited both, the engineer Petrescu S. 84 and Tatjana, to the carousal already mentioned — but with a quite particular intention. He had firmly resolved to teach Petrescu a thorough lesson once and for all.

By midnight the whole company had partaken rather freely of the wine and vodka — except Dowideit, who had drunk along only a few small glasses for the sake of deception.

Shortly before the revelers broke up, Petrescu and Tatjana withdrew to the dark yard to enjoy a little hour of love there. But they had made this plan without Dowideit, who knew their intention exactly and had been waiting for them in the yard for an hour.

As the two unsuspecting figures detached themselves from the doorframe, Emil barred their way with clenched fists:

"Ah, Petrescu, that looks like you. Tatjana is mine, do you understand!" Smack-smack — and already Petrescu was stumbling sideways from the well-aimed blows. But Tatjana had courage enough to throw herself upon Dowideit and to scratch and bite him. This threw Dowideit into a blind fury, and with it he lost self-control over his actions. With terrible force he hurled Tatjana onto the paving of the yard and trampled on her body with his hobnailed shoes. The woman cried loudly for help, which, however, by no means hindered her tormentor from treading upon her as though he wanted to stamp her into the ground.

At the woman's screaming, Dowideit's cronies came and dragged the raging man to his room, while Tatjana was carried to the infirmary. Only after several days did the German camp doctors succeed in stanching the woman's bleeding.

S. 85 Full of indignation, the camp learned of the bestial maltreatment of the woman and demanded that Dowideit be deposed and transferred out of the camp. In the face of this fact, nothing remained for the Russians but to relieve Dowideit of his post and transfer him to another camp.

With Dowideit the terrible conditions also vanished, since his friends one after another went the way of their ringleader and men of reason took their places. These now attempted by every means to create bearable conditions.

Gradually a humane tone in the treatment of the prisoners of war rose to the surface, so that one felt somewhat better.

Dowideit's successor, the prisoner Oberfeldwebel Heinz Schlupp, asserted himself in his endeavor to help the prisoners with an astonishing calm and doggedness toward the Russians. To him the camp inmates owed above all many alleviations in their heavy work in the factory. With cool deliberation he dared to ignore absurd orders of the Soviet camp leadership entirely, or at least to carry them out according to his own taste. Soon Schlupp's attitude caught the notice of Lieutenant Colonel Litvin, and he threatened punishment if Schlupp did not carry out his orders and directives exactly. Schlupp sought a way to shake off his difficult post, for he felt not the slightest desire to serve as a tool of the Russians in the harassment of his countrymen.

When one day Lieutenant Colonel Litvin once again made an inhuman demand of him, he feigned a nervous breakdown, fell into a faint, S. 86 and was taken to the hospital as ill, where he remained for a considerable time with the help of the German doctors. This incident, however, the Russians could not and would not ever quite forgive him, and as punishment he was transferred after his recovery to Camp 7149/1, with the instruction to use him there for the heaviest labor. This circumstance suited Schlupp very well. By background he was not accustomed to physical labor, so that after only eight weeks he was unfit for work and had to be released to the homeland with the sick transport that followed shortly after. Siebert accompanied the once healthy man on the march to the station. Schlupp, however, was entirely content with his fate, for like most prisoners he preferred to go home to his loved ones as a broken man rather than remain any longer in the claws of the MVD.

"You see, Heinz, I have managed it, even if I bring home only my bones and the good will to get well again. The main thing — I am going home. You come along soon after. Remain strong in faith in God and in the homeland. We will never forget you!" Then the freight transport into which the prisoners had been put set itself in motion and rolled toward the West, toward rest after long years of constant unrest, and toward freedom.

The Factory "Serp i Molot"

"Serp i Molot" (Siechel [sic] and Hammer) — or, as the Soviet workers called "their" factory, "Smert i Golod" (Death and Hunger) — was so closely bound up with S. 87 the life of the prisoners of Camp 7149/2 that one cannot pass by without devoting somewhat more attention to this giant enterprise.

Right at the beginning of captivity the first word of the Russians was "Rabota" — work — and in "Serp i Molot" there was opportunity enough to put the Russians' chief word — work — into practice. Here there was work in overflowing abundance, for the factory counted as one of the largest agricultural machine-building factories of the U.S.S.R.

Here there was so much work that the civilian population could not possibly cope with it. For this reason one was compelled to draw on prisoners of war and Soviet penal prisoners. Nor were the Soviet economic organs at all concerned to fill the empty workplaces with civilians, for with those one had more trouble, because one had to drive them like serfs in this factory if one wanted to fulfill the "plan." Only with the utmost exertion and ruthless compulsion could one come nearer the appointed goal — reach it, never, because the "plan" was treacherous and very elastic: there was no getting at it. As already said, in order to have undemanding labor, one chose prisoners of war and penal prisoners, whom one could put to any work at any time.

In the first years the factory had to be put back into working order, since everything had been neglected through the war. The prisoners were forced to the heaviest labor, with a twelve-hour working day and the most "miserable" (misrabelster [sic]) provisioning. The men wasted away here quickly, as everywhere in the S.U., and gave the name "Smert i Golod" its justification for existence.

At last production could begin of the threshing machines "CM," S. 88 known far and wide in Russia.

The manner of manufacturing the machine was unthinkably primitive. Worst harnessed of all were the men in the foundry. Here they slaved as in an iron foundry of the previous century. The glowing metal was hauled by the weak men through coal dust and gas fumes from morning to evening and from evening again to morning, without interruption. In those days it was a special feat if one of the men held out three weeks in the foundry with his pitiful strength.

And yet prisoners set the factory back on its feet, so that already in 1948 forty threshing machines could be produced daily. On these forty threshing machines 6,000 workers labored in three shifts: of these, 3,600 were prisoners of war, 800 penal prisoners, and the rest were supplied by the civilian population.

The entire deployment of labor in the camp was directed by Major Raphael Naumovich Ekkermann, who had decidedly good experience in this work. He understood especially well how to spur on the prisoners of war and to sell their strength dearly to the factory management.

Until 1948, alongside harsh punishments, the best means of incitement was a piece of bread of 200 grams. If the prisoner had fulfilled his "norm" of work, he received in the evening one slice of bread more; if the "norm" was not fulfilled, he simply had to watch while his table neighbor — if that one had had luck — ate his soup with bread. For such a slice of bread a hungry man works very gladly! Major Ekkermann knew that best of all and struck great profits out of the hunger of the prisoners.

S. 89 At the beginning of 1948 the Soviet government issued the order to hand out money to the prisoners of war for the work they performed. Even if it was not much, it sufficed nonetheless to maintain the health of the prisoners — if it was still there to maintain. With this great news Ekkermann came storming into the camp, beaming with joy:

"Siebert, tell the prisoners that from now on they will receive money for their work, with which they may buy everything that will be available in the camp canteen. Payment proceeds as follows: the first 456 rubles that the prisoner earns go to cover living costs, including clothing and lodging. Of the money above 456 rubles, 70 percent is paid out for light work, but not more than 150 rubles; for heavy work 85 percent, but not more than 200 rubles monthly. So everyone can receive money if he works well — that is, fulfills the norm set for him and is disciplined. The nachalnik and I are authorized to withhold the money from anyone as soon as he does not meet the demands made of him."

From this time on all the prisoners strove to earn as much as possible in order to come into the enjoyment of the money, on which alone their health depended, for with hard rubles one could buy fat and meat — indeed, even bread could be bought, which in most cases was stolen by the Soviet officers. But what was most important to the camp administration in the whole affair was the fact that through the money it had a means in its hands to spur the prisoners on to unprecedented record performances.

In "Serp i Molot" only piecework was done, S. 90 and payment was by individual output. At first the prices for the machine parts remained the old ones; when the prisoners outdid their earlier performances and earned more money, the prices were lowered — less to the disadvantage of the prisoners than of the Russian civilian workers. The prisoners, in order to receive their 200 or 150 rubles respectively, had to earn 700 rubles or 680 rubles. With their enormous output this was comparatively easy for them, while the Russians since the price reduction had to work considerably more to come up to their former wage, which on average fluctuated between 500 and 650 rubles. The average earnings of the prisoners hovered between 750 and 900 rubles. With such a relation the Russian workers were logically not content, and they grumbled at the prisoners, because these bore the blame for the price reduction.

"You see," said a Russian to the prisoners, "now you drive the norms up to make a better life for yourselves. But sooner or later you will go home after all, and we can then plague ourselves with the norms. We do not want to work so much, for it will not be paid anyway."

But Ekkermann did not trouble himself over the worries of the Russians. For him the sole deciding factor was that the prisoners gave their utmost, even if his own countrymen groaned heavily in their yoke. The Party demanded of him the raising of output at any price, for the fantastic Stalinist Five-Year Plan was to be fulfilled in four years. But what was most important to him were the high bonuses awarded to him for his "good" work among the prisoners of war. For good money, Ekkermann was a good Com- S. 91 munist:

In spurring on the prisoners, the Antifascist Aktiv and the Antifascist Committee had to render him extensive help, in that these two bodies of the prisoners in the camp had to organize antifascist labor competitions on the model of the "socialist" competitions in the S.U.

Daily the top performances of the men were published on great placards in order to fire the mass to emulation. In screaming slogans the prisoners were promised, year after year, their early release to the homeland for good work. Every piece of wall showed in great letters slogans of roughly the following kind:

"Every prisoner a hero of the reparation of war damages in the Soviet Union!"

"Through increased output we strengthen the anti-imperialist camp in the struggle against world imperialism!"

"Your work in the factory shows whether you have broken with fascism!"

"Every antifascist a best-worker!"

Cleverly devised slave-driver words. No one wanted to lag behind here. Everyone wanted to be regarded as a good antifascist, for only men with an antifascist attitude were to see Germany again.

"If you do not work well and turn your back on fascism at last, you will not go home."

At these words the strength of the prisoners tautened, and the tired hands gripped harder, giving their utmost. Who did not want to go home? — Oh, how gladly everyone would long, long since have been at home. — But the men were still in a condition to produce some- S. 92 thing, and therefore the word was: still not worked well enough, work better still.

To spur the people on yet more, from time to time a few healthy "antifascist" best-workers were sent home. Envious, and yet glad that at least ten or fifteen men had escaped the Soviet hell, the men remaining behind gazed after the little band. The great mass worked on; they worked for their lives, to get home.

And Ekkermann? He stood with a broad grin before the almost despairing prisoners and repeated his great word: "Rabota. We need threshing machines! The Stalinist Five-Year Plan will be fulfilled by the Soviet people in four years instead of five, and you are to help with all your strength. Show that you are good friends of the Soviet Union and you will return to Germany."

The prisoners could not grasp where the insolence came from to hold up one and the same thing to them year after year. By this the Soviets intended to make of every prisoner a friend of the Soviet Union, but they took from the men every desire and every cause for friendship — for even a dog becomes unfaithful to its master if he beats it continually; how much more will a human being become an enemy of his tormentor and deceiver!

Nevertheless the prisoners created enormous values. In wages alone, the prisoners of war brought more than a million rubles a month into the camp's coffers — something the civilians never accomplished. These worked, in the majority, at the tempo of a corvée laborer. Already in 1947 German foremen were installed in all the shops. S. 93 In some shops even the shop management lay in the hands of German engineers. Over these conditions the civilians naturally grumbled greatly, but without success, for this humiliation had to be brought as a sacrifice in the interest of the Five-Year Plan. The takeover of shop management by the prisoners had the result that already in 1949 the factory ran at full speed and produced more than fifty threshing machines daily.

The prisoners were never once given a word of praise for their exertions. The Soviets regarded the self-sacrificing work of the prisoners as a self-evident duty, for the men from every land under the sun were atoning here for the "crime" of having gone to war as soldiers of their fatherland.

But let no one believe that only the prisoners of war had to slave in the factory behind barbed wire. No — the army of the enserfed was enlarged by another eight hundred penal prisoners. These were men of all ages from the midst of the Soviet people. (When the Soviet people are spoken of here, all the peoples of Soviet Russia are meant.) The lot of the penal prisoners was far worse than that of the prisoners of war. According to a directive of the Ministry of the Interior, all convicts with a sentence of up to ten years of forced-labor camp could be put to work in the interior of the country. For coping with the work in Siberia, in the far north, and in the many other regions of banishment, there were convicts enough who had been sentenced to fifteen and more years of exile.

In the vernacular these poorest of the poor were called simply "Zaklyuchennye" (the incarcerated). They had to rise as early as 5 o'clock in the morning and then run a few S. 94 rounds in the prison yard. Afterward there was for them a watery soup to spoon out of a tin plate and a small piece of sticky bread to eat. After this so-called breakfast, which never satisfied a working man, they fell in in the yard, linked arms with one another, and, surrounded by a pack of heavily armed soldiers and yapping dogs, moved off in continuous column toward the workplace. The column was continually circled by several MVD officers on motorcycles. Thus the "Zaklyuchennye" dragged themselves wearily through the city to the factory, where without pause they had to perform eight hours of heavy construction work, only to go dead-tired in the evening back into the cells of the dark prison. The facial features of the prisoners of war were sorrowful in truth, but far from being as sorrowful as those of the "Zaklyuchennye." Their life was gone, wholly bereft of any hope of betterment. They were outright slaves of that state which claims of itself that within its borders it has only free human beings. Free they were — but only insofar as they had been freed from all laws of humane treatment; they had nothing left but their clanking chains.

Soviet Propaganda

S. 94 Daily the prisoners had dealings with the civilians in the factory and, as well as the linguistic circumstances allowed, let themselves be told about the life of the peoples of Russia. Indeed, for that matter, one did not need to be enlightened at length about the conditions in the first place, for the facts lay plainly at hand, speaking for themselves. When a Russian asked a prisoner for a S. 95 piece of bread, or wanted to buy an old coat and, in the event of a refusal, stole the same, then one knew well enough that the Russian was in great need, for one does not do such things for pleasure.

A case like that — some prisoner should have held it up to the political officer! At once the latter would have launched [sic: "vom Stappel"] a propaganda wave as high as a house in order to bring every doubter to "insight."

With Communist propaganda they were somewhat cautious at the beginning of the captivity. Even later, this violation of the mind was never called by its right name; instead one spoke everywhere of an eradication of fascist thinking. This task the Soviets intended to accomplish by holding up every conceivable atrocity that the Germans were alleged to have committed throughout the world, and quite especially in the Soviet Union. But the method mentioned achieved precisely the opposite and hardened the hearts of the prisoners more and more. When the officers noticed that their "re-education" showed little or no success, they reached for another, more effective means. First they installed German, Hungarian, and other antifascist functionaries, who were to direct the propaganda. The functionaries in the camps had, at the behest of the political administration, to hold political training courses in which the history of the Communist Party of the Bolsheviks was expounded to the prisoners. Furthermore, lectures of all kinds, for the greatest part of political content, were read.

But in order to awaken the interest of the prisoners here, all the events and stages of development from the history of the CPSU were transferred onto German conditions, and thus the attempt was made to prepare the prisoners for the S. 96 takeover of political and economic power in Germany. The Russians said to the prisoners again and again:

"What you learn with us will one day, after your release, stand you in good stead in Germany, for in order to establish the Communist social order there is only one way, and that is solely the way of armed insurrection under the leadership of the proletariat with its unrestricted dictatorship. This task the CPSU has solved brilliantly, and you may confidently take everything over from her."

For a long time the prisoners listened to this inexhaustible [sic: "unversiechbaren"] torrent of speech, but then attention slackened, and finally no one came to the political lectures any more.

The passivity very soon struck the officers, and the functionaries were made responsible for the active participation of all camp inmates. They were removed as reactionaries, hirelings of capitalism, and in their place came other men, who began to set the bogged-down vehicle of propaganda back on the right track. Unimaginable difficulties arose in the way here, because most of the prisoners were fed up with the perpetual talk of the enormous successes of the October Revolution of 1917 in Russia, of the NEP (New Economic [sic: "Ökonomomische"] Policy), of the "successful and epoch-making" Stalinist Five-Year Plans, of the land reform in Germany, and so on. Often assemblies were staged at which only a tenth of the camp complement was present. Scolding, the officers ran to and fro in the camp and sought the "obdurate" fascists. In this searching, someone or other was picked out and he was declared politically S. 97 unreliable. Treacherous elements from the midst of the prisoners gladly performed Judas services in these actions and slandered their comrades.

Nevertheless the political activity was not raised; on the contrary, it grew ever smaller. But the officers of the political directorate maintained ever more stiffly that the prisoners were still in the majority fascists, incorrigible Nazis, and far from ripe for a release to the homeland.

Such, roughly, was how the political conditions looked in almost all camps. But far worse were the conditions in Camp 7149/2, since here there were only "politically incriminated" men, to whom no hope of an early homecoming had yet been given.

Under these circumstances Siebert took over, in May 1948, the propaganda section of the Antifascist Committee, which at that time was led by the prisoner Bruno Palm. Palm took the greatest pains to maintain order among the many men and to satisfy the hard demands of the Russians. However, it was no longer possible to move the prisoners to any political activity, which the Russians for their part unconditionally demanded. Now only skillful maneuvering would help — and deceiving the Russians.

Palm, Siebert, and Dr. Heinrich, who held the post of culture director on the committee, came to an agreement to frame all political events with music. Thus concerts were produced on a running basis, and before the concerts the lectures were read. Since the prisoners gladly attended the entertainment concerts, they put up with the preceding lecture, although no one listened — which in the end S. 98 was not so important either. The main thing was that Siebert could report every morning to Senior Lieutenant Lashchenko that the latest lecture had been attended by eight hundred men and more. The latter rejoiced enormously over the lively participation of the prisoners in the events he had ordered, but did not think in the remotest that he was here being deceived over a very sore point. It also interested him less, for he was much too glad that the "fascists" were listening to the songs of praise about the Soviet Union and its institutions.

The Russians attempted to influence the prisoners of war in a Communist direction as far as possible. To this end many political schools were set up in the camps, and the Communist ideas were taught there. Not content with introducing these schools in the camps — no, special training camps were created in which future Communist functionaries for Germany were educated. Schools of this kind existed in Kiev, Riga, and near Moscow. The training period in the schools was three and six months. During this time the attempt was made to convince the prisoners of the correctness of Communism. Since the Russians had in many cases recognized that the prisoners did not like Soviet-Russian Communism, the men were told that a Communist regime in Germany, attuned to German conditions, would look entirely different. German functionaries went so far astray in their explanations that they even asserted there could be a German, a Hungarian, and a Russian Communism. Whether this assertion can be converted into reality or not shall not be settled here; one thing, however, stands fast: that the Soviets will never S. 99 and nevermore consent to even the smallest deviation from their Leninist-Stalinist line. A clear example of this is Tito and his attempt to realize a Yugoslav Communism. Stalin's doctrine does indeed state that the Soviet methods are not applicable to other peoples, but asserts that there is only one way to Communism, and that solely the way of the "Socialist" October Revolution in Russia.

All politicians in thrall to the Soviets — I recall Wilhelm Pieck, Grotewohl, Rakosi, Grocza, Gottwald, Reimann — assert the same. Let no one believe that Communism in another state would look different than in Russia. Every reasonable, clear-thinking person with a bit of feeling for honor and freedom resists the realization of this idea so contrary to humanity.

Thus, for example, the dictatorship of the proletariat, which in Russia was originally created immediately after the victory of the October Revolution for the suppression of the overthrown classes, must be created and retained in every other state, even when the social classes hostile to Communism have long since disappeared. One needs it, the dictatorship, above all against the justified demands of the proletariat, which according to Stalin's declarations at the Eighth Extraordinary All-Union Congress of Soviets is supposed to exist no longer in the Soviet Union. Despite this boastful declaration there is in Russia a proletariat in the truest sense of the word.

For what does the working mass of Russia possess beyond its tired, callused working hands?

S. 100 These conditions are the inevitable consequences everywhere that the formation of a Communist state is undertaken.

Furthermore, the attempt was made to make clear to the prisoners the future classless state, without organs of power. A social order was propagated in which there would be no court, no police, indeed not even a parliament.

In all the propaganda speeches very great weight was laid on the two basic principles of the Communist social order: from each according to his abilities and to each according to his performance — the basic principle of Socialism — and from each according to his abilities and to each according to his needs — the basic principle of the Communist social order.

What enticing principles for him who continually suffers want and does not know the effects of the realization of these principles! —

Most of all, however, the Soviets stoked the feeling of hatred against everything that was not Soviet.

Continuous lectures and training sessions on these and other themes were to educate the prisoners in the Communist sense and to form them for a time when their country would be Communist-oriented.

For four years now the monotonous propagandistic drumfire had lasted, until the prisoners were completely fed up with it. At the beginning of 1949 only a very few still went to the concerts with the political lectures. Because of this increasing passivity, the political instructor Senior Lieutenant Lashchenko began to conduct investigations. He asserted that the grounds for these conditions lay in the seditious activity of some fascist organization in the camp.

S. 101 A great fear came over Siebert and his comrades when they learned of Lashchenko's activity, for many prisoners would again receive the notation "politically unreliable" in their files. At all costs a remedy had to be created here. But such a measure could only be discussed in the closest circle of comrades, for otherwise the Russians would discover that the Aktiv and the functionaries they had installed intended to deceive the Soviet officers about a state of affairs untenable for them. It was decided to combine the political events with film showings. But where were the films and the necessary apparatus to be procured? This question could not be taken into consideration. It had to happen, in the interest of the community, for the mass of the prisoners was too near to giving themselves up for one to hesitate any longer. Negative political utterances about the Soviet Union became ever more frequent. The men no longer watched themselves at all in their utterances, because one way or the other they no longer believed in a release to the homeland.

Under the pressure of these shattering conditions, Palm, Dr. Heinrich, and Siebert resolved to drive into the city and at all costs procure films, and with them to entertain the prisoners and veil the rising discontent.

After long searching they succeeded, by means of great bribes to the film projectionists of a film-distribution cooperative, in obtaining the rescuing films. From that time on, up to three films weekly were shown in the camp. Since the Soviets imported a great many films from Germany, it was comparatively easy to choose tasteful films.

S. 102 The prisoners attended the films very gladly and therefore had nothing to object to in the lectures before the beginning of the showing. And Senior Lieutenant Lashchenko? Well, he was satisfied with the sudden turnabout of political life in the camp and immediately called off his investigations, without having wrought any great mischief.

In order to give the camp a positive political face, Siebert had several sign-painters released from work in the plant so that they would have time to draw slogans and posters. All the walls and fences were hung with pictures of Stalin and similar stuff.

When the Soviet officers entered the camp, they could not suppress their characteristic "Vot!" at such a grand political display, and walked with proud heads past the long row of Politburo heads.

Only MVD Captain Fyedorov was not satisfied with this antifascist attitude, for if all the prisoners were antifascists, then he no longer needed to look for fascists.

If in this time a slackening in the interrogation and processing of new "crimes" was to be noticed, let no one believe that this was to be attributed to the artificial political attitude of the prisoners. The cause of this slackening was an order from the Main Administration of the Ministry of the Interior to bring the pending cases of the "war criminals" to a conclusion with all speed.

While in the rooms innocent men were being forced to untrue confessions, the propaganda machine of the Antifascist Aktiv in the camp ran at full speed and praised the Soviet Union, the "lib- S. 103 erator of all peoples." In this twilight — on the one side collective condemnations of the prisoners, on the other side ceaseless swollen clumsy propaganda speeches from the red-draped lectern — the months passed until late autumn 1949.

Women as Informers

In all prisoner-of-war camps of the Soviet Union, Soviet women were employed in the camp administration. Some worked as nurses, some in the offices, and as interpreters in the MVD rooms. Most of these women were better disposed toward the prisoners than the men were. The explanation of this goodwill is to be found chiefly in the relation of the feminine to the masculine.

The MVD officers tried by every means to prevent closer relations between the Russian women and the prisoners, until one day they hit upon an idea that suited them: to make use of the women's affection for the prisoners. The women were calmly allowed to establish contact with the men, until the step taken could no longer be undone. Only then was the woman summoned by the officers for interrogation and accused of treason. From this accusation the "traitress" was freed only if she promised to sound out the prisoner and then denounce him to the MVD.

Cases of this kind occurred in almost all camps in the most varied variations. If no "war crime" could be proven against the man who had become involved with a Russian woman, he was still always S. 104 suspect of espionage and was arrested as such and put into the penitentiary. An exceedingly easy prey for the MVD patriot!

An exemplary case was the affair of Dr. Kuntze. Dr. Kuntze had held the direction of the camp infirmary in his hand since 1945 and, as an ever-helpful man, was very popular with all the prisoners. Even the Russians conducted themselves very obligingly toward Dr. Kuntze.

But a particular liking for Dr. Kuntze was taken by the unkempt, seldom-coiffed Sakharova. In her conversations with Siebert she came to speak of him ever more frequently. Siebert soon noticed her affection for Kuntze, but never believed her feelings were returned by Dr. Kuntze.

After some time Sakharova once again addressed Siebert in this matter and asked him, seemingly quite in passing:

"What do you think, Heinz — who is really to blame when a free woman and a prisoner fall in love with one another? I would all too gladly have known [sic: "gewüßt"] your opinion."

Siebert did not know exactly where the woman was heading with her question, for with her one always had to reckon with a certain cunning in order not to walk into her trap. After some reflection he answered her:

"You see, Frau Sakharova, I take the standpoint here that in this case the woman bears the blame, for she, as a free person, leads on the man, who for his part cannot come to meet her. You will now assert that the man could restrain himself. You are right — but suppose the case that the man loves the woman. Then in many cases there can no longer be any talk of re- S. 105 straint, for love is too human for it to make a human being act superhumanly." At these words Sakharova had visibly turned red, and with effort she brought out:

"Oh, then I am heavily laden with guilt indeed, for according to your view I have led a man into crime. I say crime, because with us it is strictly forbidden — indeed very strictly forbidden — to love a prisoner. I will confess to you quite openly: I love Dr. Kuntze."

"What? And Dr. Kuntze returns your love? Impossible! What is to come of it? How have you imagined it? Surely you are not of the opinion that you will be able to keep this relationship under wraps for long? That would be very naive of you."

"Yes, but listen, Heinz — even if Kuntze should not love me, I will stake everything on winning his love. That I have in part succeeded, these letters here prove to you — real love letters! How glad I am! Now you ask, moreover, what I think of the whole affair. Nothing — I think nothing of it, nothing at all. I do not want even to be reminded of the dangers. In this case too, the pitcher goes to the well until it breaks. What comes after that is all the same to me. For the present, only you and Dr. Kuntze know of our relationship. You will keep silent. Should one of you not hold your tongue, you will bitterly regret it later — believe me that, Siebert."

"Well, let us just wait and see what comes of the affair; in any case, this much I will tell you at once: nothing good. Good-bye."

When Siebert had left the interpreter's S. 106 room, he went directly to the doctors in their quarters, where he found Dr. Köster and Dr. Kuntze alone.

"Ha, good that you come, Siebert, for we are just now in the brightest state of alarm over the frequent visits of the interpreter to our room. A dreadful female, this Frau Sakharova. Imagine — yesterday after twelve o'clock at night she comes to us — we were already asleep — and pours water into our beds. That really is the summit of impudence. We are just now considering how we can prevent these nocturnal ladies' visits, for if it goes on like this, in the next few days we shall have the MVD lieutenant on our necks, which will be far more uncomfortable still than the cold water in bed. We must find a way to get Sakharova out of the camp. That, in my opinion, is the best means of finally getting peace. The only question is how, and what we can undertake."

Dr. Kuntze sat silent on his bed and stared before him. Apparently the same question weighed heavily on him too.

"Please listen here, gentlemen. I have just come from Frau Sakharova. A quite fantastic story the lady told me. It concerns in the main you, Herr Kuntze. If you permit, I will gladly make my standpoint clear to you."

"Go right ahead, Siebert. I know what you were hinting at before. Sakharova imagines I love her. Rubbish, such a thing! Or do you credit me with such nonsense?"

"No — but what then are the flaming love letters that you wrote to Sakharova supposed to mean? Those are inescapable witnesses against you, Herr S. 107 Doktor."

"You know that too? So much the better. Then I can explain everything to you at once," said Kuntze in a low voice, for he feared he might be heard in the next room.

"You see, it is already some months ago that the errand boy from the MVD called me to interrogation. The clock already showed long past midnight. Slowly I went across the yard to the MVD house, for I feared a bad business. As a precaution I tried to look through the window into the interior of the house, but alas — a large 'Pravda' in front of it prevented any view. With pounding heart I stepped toward the door, which was quietly opened from within. Sakharova received me personally and asked me kindly to take a seat. The usual interrogation questioning began. After she had taken down my particulars, she suddenly put to me the question whether I had also treated Russian prisoners and civilians during the war. When I affirmed this, she asked me whether cases were known to me in which medical experiments were performed on Soviet soldiers. At this question I must probably have lost the last of my facial color, for only now did I grasp that I was to be entangled in a great 'criminal affair.' At first I said not a word. My agitation had not escaped Sakharova, and casually she pushed paper and pencil aside, leaned far over the table, propped her chin on the flat of her hand, and began to talk at me:

"'Yes, yes, Doctor, many kinds of atrocities the Germans have committed. Whether you too took part in them, we do not know. But enough of that. Let us S. 108 rather speak of something else.'

"Now my heart grew lighter, for Sakharova began to talk quite trivial stuff. She told me of her unhappy marriage with her husband, who is doing his service somewhere as a major, spoke of loneliness and longing for dear people. You will scarcely believe it — she, who otherwise seems to be hard as stone, even wept. Only at three o'clock in the morning was I permitted to leave the room again. Since that evening I had to go to her every night for 'interrogation.' If I showed myself less talkative, she became official and began again to speak of those alleged medical experiments. Dreadful to listen to. At the close of one of these visits she handed me a letter and pushed me out the door. It was the first love letter, if one may call the scrap that, in which she wrote to me of her great love. I considered for a long time what was to be done, and resolved to write such letters to her likewise, in order to have my peace. I did not suspect what consequences this 'love' would have. I have kept all the letters and can always prove that Sakharova instigated the wicked game. But how do we make an end of it? What would you advise me, gentlemen?"

Dr. Köster and Siebert were silent. How could the man be helped? For to proceed against the MVD interpreter of the camp was no small matter, and the undertaking could end with a hefty counterblow from her side against the doctor. If something was to be undertaken at all, then a complete success had to be guaranteed.

"In my judgment, you yourself, Herr Doktor, will have to set the matter rolling. For that it is ne- S. 109 cessary that you report the whole story with Sakharova in writing to Major Omelchenko. On no account may the document reach the hands of the MVD lieutenant first, for he would defend the interpreter and we should all be done for. I am gladly prepared to translate your report. Enclose Sakharova's letters with your document; if everything should miscarry, the letters will still suffice to unseat Sakharova."

"Well thought out, Siebert. I will enclose with Dr. Kuntze's document a protest note an ell long besides. The Major's eyes shall be opened about his interpreter. I am already looking forward to giving this woman one in the eye. Let us hope she then no longer hunts war criminals."

Dr. Köster was always a merry fellow, and this affair positively stimulated him, the more so as he promised himself a little adventure from it. At once he took a sheet of paper and composed a bill of indictment against the interpreter. Dr. Kuntze also set to work, though not with the cheerfulness of his colleague.

When Major Omelchenko came into the infirmary the next morning, Siebert handed him the official reports in German and Russian. He willingly accepted Siebert's explanations and hurried quickly out of the camp. A short time afterward Sakharova was interrogated. Smiling, the Major held her own letters before her face.

"For shame — and you want to be an interpreter of the MVD? A post of trust such as yours our Party does not give to friends of fascists. You shake your head, Vera Petrovna, but all the same it is sad that you abused our trust. I as Na- S. 110 chalnik [commandant] do not tolerate such a thing. I shall immediately complain [sic: "beschwerden"] about you to Major Yagodkin and demand your immediate dismissal from the services of the MVD," declared Omelchenko indignantly.

"Now let me too say something in my defense, comrades. It is true that I wrote the letters to Kuntze; it is also true that I often made visits to the infirmary at a late hour. But you must also ask why I did it. I have never forgotten my duty as an employee [sic: "Angstellte"] of the meritorious MVD. I wanted at all costs to learn something from the doctors about their past. No one believes that Kuntze was not involved in crimes against humanity. And about Dr. Köster we need not even speak. The fascist gentlemen belong before the war tribunal, and you want to suspect and accuse me here of not having acted as a faithful member of our glorious Party. I too shall complain [sic: "beschwerden"] to Yagodkin." Sakharova could speak no further, for violent sobbing choked her torrent of words.

Her open confession of guilt [sic: "Schuldbekenntis"] and her explanation of the purpose of her alleged love for Kuntze had availed nothing at all with the officers, for these were glad finally to have discovered a "traitor" in their own ranks, and thereby to consolidate their standing in the eyes of their superiors in Poltava. With bowed head the interpreter, followed by the officers of the camp, left the enclosure. From that hour she was not seen in the camp again. She had, however, not been detained, which gave her the opportunity to get in touch with Major Yagodkin — in which, to be sure, Omelchenko had forestalled her.

S. 111 The next day Siebert met Sakharova in front of the staff building, where she sat idly in the sun warming herself. When she caught sight of Siebert, she sprang up and came toward him:

"Good that you come at last. How is Kuntze? Is he in the karzer, the poor man? You know, I do love him, even if he is a criminal. Now everything is pointless anyway, for tomorrow he goes to a punishment camp in the interior of Russia. If only he had stood by me!" One could read from the woman's contorted features that she was waging a hard struggle with herself, for on the one hand she loved Kuntze, on the other this love was on the point of transforming itself into a blazing hatred, which set everything in motion to avenge itself for the rejected love.

"And you translated everything that Kuntze and Köster wrote down. Why did you not bring the reports to me? I would have handled everything quite differently, and everything would have remained as of old. Tomorrow I and Kuntze go to Poltava for interrogation. It will be a hard fight, from which either I or the doctor will emerge victor. Heavy accusations speak against Kuntze. Tell him he should prepare himself for the worst. And now good-bye."

It was still dark and quiet in the camp when Siebert was awakened in the morning to process Kuntze for a transfer out of the camp. Half an hour later Kuntze, Köster, and Siebert stood at the camp gate:

"A pity, Herr Doktor, that the story had to end this way; let us hope you do not go too far away. Defend yourself as well as you can — you do command that much Russian. All the best. Come home very soon." Siebert warmly pressed the hand S. 112 of the hard-stricken man.

"Hey, where is Sakharova's admirer?" the sentry called through the door.

"Go on, Gert, and keep your chin up. Don't let that woman get you down. Come home in good health. Don't forget us!" said Köster, and pushed his friend through the door.

On the evening of the same day, Nurse Voronkova came to Siebert and reported the outcome of the interrogation in Poltava:

"Didn't the doctor defend himself well, though! And what Russian he spoke — astonishing! When he had spoken, Sakharova was not allowed to say another word. She was dismissed in disgrace from the services of the MVD and expelled from Skorokhodovo. Kuntze, however, is being sent as head physician to another camp. Rest easy — he is in good hands."

Such and similar cases were no rarity in the camps. If this case turned out still tolerably favorably for the prisoner, the cases in which the women were commissioned with a "love affair" were far more dangerous, for there was then no escape left for the prisoner; he had to acknowledge his "guilt" as an espionage suspect, even without any evidence whatsoever. The woman was simply induced to make statements that stamped the man concerned as a spy for the benefit of the Western powers. When this provocation — more correctly said, slander — was held to be complete, the "spy" was arrested in the camp and immediately brought before the bar of the war tribunal, which condemned him mercilessly.

Every prisoner from Kharkov still remembers the construction engineer Miesler, who counted as the oldest pris- S. 113 oner in the camp, for he had been behind Soviet barbed wire since 1942. All the sad times — the days of the terrible death march through the ruins of Stalingrad across the Volga toward the east, the long roads in the snow and ice of the Kirghiz steppe, through the sand of Central Asia to Karaganda and the same way back again to Kharkov — he had, as if by a miracle, survived whole and healthy. In "Serp i Molot" he applied his ability unsparingly for the good of the works: he worked soon day and night, until one day he received the bitter news of the marriage of his wife.

From that day it went rapidly downhill with Miesler in a moral respect. This change was noticed by the MVD officers too, and several informers prowled around the man, who was near despair — but always without any success. Now the Russians engaged [sic: "angagierten"] a young girl, who undertook constant advances until Miesler took up with the woman. Strikingly, this relationship was by no means kept secret. The Soviet officers watched these goings-on with a smirk.

In the spring of 1949 Miesler had been given leave into the city, where he met the girl mentioned at a previously agreed place. However, his confidante had informed the officers of this rendezvous, and he was arrested in the city park together with the girl and brought into the camp.

The Russians raised heavy accusations against Miesler: he was said to have conducted espionage among the Soviet people for the benefit of the capitalist countries. As the sole witness against Miesler the girl appeared. (Whether she was S. 114 conscious of her deed shall be left open.) Nevertheless charges were brought against Miesler, and with all haste the man who had shown that he could be useful in the industry of the Soviet Union was condemned to fifteen years of forced labor in an "education camp."

"Crimes" of this kind were very often provoked by the MVD officers in the last years, for the chosen victims walked too easily into the young women's trap — a conditioned weakness of a prisoner of many years. In this way many specialists were secured who were urgently needed in the Soviet Union. This criminal "recruiting procedure" was applied only in the Soviet Union. When these "spies" will one day see the homeland again, one will not be able to learn for a long time — perhaps never.

Black Sea Germans and East Prussians Go to Siberia

When on January 12, 1945, the great offensive of the Russians set in, all the Russia Germans (designated by the German authorities as Black Sea Germans, SMD) were still in the Warthegau or in the eastern territories of Germany. Although plans for the evacuation of the German population had already been drawn up in the autumn of 1944 by the district commissioners, these unfortunately did not come to execution, for the tanks of the Soviets had rolled across the Vistula faster than had been assumed on the German side. Everyone who still had time for it set out on the hopeless flight. If the flight of 1943 out of Russia to Poland had already brought with it superhuman exer- S. 115 tions and privations, unspeakable terrors, dangers, and distress, the flight out of Poland through devastated eastern Germany into bombed-out western Germany far surpassed the former.

The immense stream of refugees became entangled in the columns of the withdrawing German troops, which only increased the misery. In the end the weary refugees moved on alone again; the troops had overtaken them, and the mass of women and children very soon stood before the muzzles of the Soviet artillery.

Mercilessly the great tanks drove into the mass of people and crushed everything that came under their heavy tracks.

One part of the Russia Germans moved onward toward the west in the midst of the frightful fury of war. The greatest part was overtaken by the storming Russians and halted. For these people, the long road of flight from Russia's wide expanses to Germany had suddenly come to an end. But this end of the flight was far from being the end of their road of misery, for that was now only truly to begin.

Those who had reached Germany were herded together into camps and had there to await further developments, while those who had been overtaken on Polish territory were brought back to their former dwelling places in the Warthegau. However, these were not allowed back into their homes, but were distributed as hired men and maids on Polish farms. If one can imagine the hatred of the Polish population, one is approximately in a position to form a picture of the inhuman treatment of the Russia Germans at the hands of the Poles.

About these events much has already been written S. 116 in the postwar years, and the views on them are very diverse. Nor shall a decision be made at this point about the why and wherefore; rather, only individual examples shall here illuminate more closely this time of the greatest cruelties. Whether the Poles or Russians, Czechs or Yugoslavs had a right to retribution or not shall be left to each individual to judge for himself. One thing, however, must nevertheless be established: the inhumanities that were carried out here by the representatives of "freedom" cast everything hitherto far into the shadows.

The Peters family, who were living temporarily in Warthbrücken, were overtaken by the Soviets and brought back to Warthbrücken. After they had arrived there — the mother with her daughter and her son Herbert — the barely sixteen-year-old boy, together with several other children, was taken; they dressed them in SA uniforms, placed them in a row before the Poles who had gathered, and ordered them to sing the Deutschland song, in doing which they had to raise the right hand in the German salute. Although the boys sensed evil, they carried out the order. Scarcely had they raised their hands when blows of cudgels and riding whips rained down upon them. Again and again the children had to sing, and again and again they were beaten, the tormentors screaming and cursing frightfully all the while. Only when the Poles were at the end of their strength were the tortured ones led away in an unknown direction, and none of them has ever been seen again.

Frau Peters and her daughter were sent to a farm to be put to work there. Naturally the Poles wanted to have nothing in common with them. They were not even allowed into the house; instead they were assigned S. 117 as their dwelling the place behind the cows in the stable. There the two women lived for several months, until they were sent to Germany disguised as Reich Germans.

Far worse off was the wife of a German soldier. She had set out on the arduous road with her four children and her old mother and got as far as eastern Germany, where she lived with several other women and children in a schoolroom. Frau Dückmann still looked comparatively well and had therefore by day particularly caught the notice of some Russian soldiers. (It did not take much, by the way, for a woman to catch a Russian's notice.)

At midnight there was suddenly a very energetic pounding at the door. None of the women wanted to open, for the bestial behavior of the Russians toward women was known far and wide. When the intruders noticed that they would not be opened to, they raised a loud cursing: [Note: In the printing these two lines are transposed; reproduced here in corrected order.]

"Hey, you pretty ones, open the door at once, or we break it in. Do you hear?"

None of the women opened. Then they began from outside to ram the door with rifle butts until it fell crashing into the room.

With greedy looks the Russians searched the faces of the women with a flashlight. These lay under their few belongings and trembled with fear.

Finally the Russians had found Frau Dückman [sic] and tore the blanket from her body, tore the clothes from her limbs before the eyes of her own children.

A rape such as is spoken of in the civi- S. 118 lized [?] world with abhorrence, but never understood in its whole criminality and baseness, because one simply does not believe in such vileness in the present day, was committed here — such as one can never observe even among animals.

When the Russians left, the violated woman lay unconscious beside her children, and only a soft moaning betrayed that she still lived.

Again and again the Russians came and committed these appalling outrages.

One day the women resolved on defense by barricading the door. For a long time the Russians pounded, but this time without success. Cursing, they withdrew, only to stop once more at the window. Full of horror, the women heard the words:

"Vasili, I want to show this fascist brood what it means to cheat a Soviet soldier of his pleasure."

Quickly he detached a hand grenade from his belt, armed it, and hurled it into the room. Since the women were all lying on the floor, the effect of the grenade was comparatively slight; however, Frau Dückmann's son lost an eye and her daughter's arm was broken.

The series of such cruelties could be continued quite at will, for the Soviet troops, in this respect, carried on in the first weeks after their entry into Germany worse than the maddest barbarians of the dark Middle Ages.

Whoever survived the time of the first weeks was then, as a traitor to the fatherland, brought with the many East Prussians into the Siberian forests and into the Kirghiz desert, where they endured again and again the same dangers, S. 119 plus the heavy bodily labor in the mines and forests. Only a few brought back any tidings of the fate of these poorest of the poor. No human being can render them help; only almighty God, the Creator of heaven and earth, sees and knows of the heavy lot of these people. Did one not know that He is the friend of all the enslaved, one would truly have to despair at so much misery and distress!

Cruelties such as were mentioned above, however, were carried out not only by the Poles and Russians. No — they were far from being the worst evildoers. They were far surpassed by the Czechs and the peoples of Yugoslavia.

A particular pleasure of the population of Czechoslovakia was to lead captured German soldiers, civilians, women, and children barefoot through the asphalted streets, which had been strewn with broken glass. The torments of these people are not to be described, for any description would be only a pitiful fraction of what these people had to endure.

In Prague the Czech militia led a column over the broken glass to the Prague sports ground. A large part of the victims remained lying in the street and were mercilessly beaten to death, for which cudgels, stones, and more were used. The strongest reached the stadium, and among them also a sixty-year-old woman. The militia had been watching her the whole time, for they looked forward especially to the moment when this woman, who walked with proudly raised head at the front of the column, would collapse. With no skin left under her feet, she still strode on bravely, gathering her last strength. In the gate of the stadium she sank to her knees and fell to the ground. No one was permitted S. 120 to offer her an arm; she had to remain lying until the Czechs had lined up the column along the racetrack. Then the "guardians of humanity" turned to the unconscious woman, tore the clothes from her body down to the barest necessity, and tied a rope around her feet. Now they went down the rows of the Germans and pulled out two boys of 14–15 years. To these they tied the end of the rope around the shoulders and ordered them to drag the woman onto the racetrack. The children hesitated, but at once several militiamen struck at them until the children pulled the rope taut, dragging the woman along behind them. An end was made to this gruesome game when the woman, completely disfigured, had entered into eternal rest.

Fates of this kind were no rarity in the eastern states, and we, who by God's grace were preserved from these terrors, ask ourselves: How could such a thing happen? Was God's eye in that time not directed upon the earth? Did God mean to give free rein to men in their mania of destruction?

We seek and find the most varied answers to the many questions. We persuade ourselves that it was feelings of revenge of those peoples toward the Germans, because they had been subjugated by the Germans for a considerable time. Often we also assert that the root of all those terrors is to be sought in the lowest instincts of the peoples. Whether it is actually so shall be left open. Nor have the true answers to the questions raised been given here; rather, what has been recounted is intended only to inform the readers of the conditions of those days.

Many readers will perhaps want to hold up to me the crimes committed by the Germans. To that, S. 121 however, I have only one reply: injustice is not atoned for by still greater injustice.

The treatment of the Russia Germans on German soil was in general not so harsh. One was already sure of them; moreover, for appearance's sake, the much-sung freedom in the Soviet land had to be preserved. To chastise these people, time enough was to be found later. En masse they were loaded into freight cars and brought back to Russia, where today, insofar as they still live, partly in camps, partly scattered over all of Russia, they eke out the most wretched existence.

When one day the measure of trial of those many deported ones will be full lies in God's hands, as it also stands within His power to reward the innocent in their time and to punish the guilty.

The Marriage of the Prisoners of War

Goethe says in one place: "Love, to bring human happiness, draws a noble pair together." In fact, we human beings believe that through marriage we can attain the fulfillment of our whole earthly happiness. At any rate, most people take the step into marriage with a great hope in their hearts. Here too our wishes pass over into reality only insofar as we walk with God in the marriage — indeed, insofar as we let ourselves be led by His wise hand.

It seems to me that it is precisely in marriage that a human being has to pass the greatest tests of his quality.

S. 122 The firmness of the marriage bond shows itself with particular clarity in times of distress, such as war brings with it in an exceptionally pronounced way.

No wonder, then, that the problem of marriage stood always in the foreground throughout the whole time of the captivity.

The men's worry about their marital happiness was by no means unjustified. The long separation of the spouses in many cases made the bonds of marriage rather loose, or even dissolved them entirely.

At first the men were very confident regarding the unconditional faithfulness of their wives; each was wont to say:

"I would put my hand in the fire for my wife — she is keeping faith with me."

So the first years of the captivity passed, until the longed-for mail from home arrived. Right with the first delivery of mail came also the disappointing news of the breach of faith of some wives. This news spread quickly among all the prisoners and awakened in many the anxious question:

"And what will my wife do?"

Shortly before the war, and still more during the war, a great many soldiers entered into the so-called war marriage. The partners became fleetingly acquainted by chance in a tavern, on the street, or somewhere else on occasion, took a liking to one another, and became engaged in all haste, for the soldier's leave reached no further. When the soldier had then arrived back at his unit, a marriage by proxy was initiated by him and his bride, and without the marriage-minded pair noticing it, they had become hus- S. 123 band and wife. The young man perhaps never came home again, or at best went into captivity, where he had to remain several years. To him, as to his wife, there remained only the constant trembling for the happiness that their bond had scarcely handed them. Far more stable were the marriages in which both, husband and wife, knew each other mutually — which could by no means be asserted of a marriage founded by proxy and never lived. No wonder if most war marriages were the first to go to pieces. The disappointment on both sides was in such a case comparatively slight.

Much harder were the cases with those who were properly married, where firm family bonds had formed and no one believed that these bonds would ever be torn apart or disappear.

Unfortunately, many a man had to convince himself of a loosening of his family circumstances.

In the main, the war with its distress and its privations, and the long separation of the spouses, contributed to an estrangement. The wife, who before the war had relied entirely on her husband in all things, was compelled to master life in its hardest form. She had to cope, without any help, with the provision and upbringing of the children. She had to get through the long nights of bombing, in fear and terror, alone with the little ones. And she got through and mastered everything — even without the husband. Naturally, in most cases the longing for an ordered family life remained, but in many cases the wife came to the realization that she was no longer dependent on her husband, that she could also walk her further path of life alone.

S. 124 Wives with a similar realization wrote to their husbands quite bluntly that they wished to be free of any former marital ties — indeed, not only wished this, but even demanded it. Where the husband's consent failed to come, the wives acted independently.

Letters with these demands arrived in the camps very frequently over the course of the years, as the homecoming dragged on further and further, and had an extremely demoralizing effect on the men.

The prisoner Werner Schulenburg received, shortly before his release, the following letter:

Dear Werner!

For some time now you have been writing more and more often of an early homecoming. I wish it for you from my heart, for you have now been away so long. Come home to the homeland in good health.

Since you mean to come soon, I will no longer withhold from you the following secret, although I had intended to tell it to you only after your return, for I did not want to make your lot harder.

So listen, please: I do not want you to return to me; I want us never to see each other again. You will ask — and that is your right — why I wish such a thing. That too I will tell you.

When you became a soldier, we had been married just one year. Our little boy was then a babe in swaddling clothes. Rolf is today nine years old.

And I? I have grown much, much older. Then I was young and unripe for life. Today I am experienced and completely independent. I manage everything alone. I do what pleases me. No one reproaches me over any inclinations, and so on. In S. 125 short, Werner, I am free and want to remain free. I am not angry with you. No — you have become indifferent and foreign to me. Often it seems to me as if our being together had been only a dream, never reality.

Rolf I will keep until you come. Then the court will decide on the further custody of the child, if you so wish. The petition for divorce my lawyer has already filed, and I would advise you to undertake nothing against it, but abide by the decision I have made.

Do not, please, be angry with me, and enjoy [recover ("genese") ?] very soon. Come home safely!

Elfriede.

Schulenburg read his wife's letter again and again and could not believe that his wife, who once, long years ago, had been so good and dear to him, now wanted a divorce. And yet in the end he had to believe it, for he knew Elfriede too well to be able to hope for a change in her decision.

But other causes too led to the ruin of many marriages. Above all it was the great need in the first postwar years. Characteristic was the letter to Franz Dankowski from his wife Erna.

The Dankowski family lived until the advance of the Russians in East Prussia. Overnight their home, their farm, which had fed them all along, had vanished. Erna fled with her seven children to Bavaria, and Franz went eastward into the long Soviet captivity.

Until Dankowski had found his wife and children in Bavaria, several years passed. With his first letter he came immediately to Siebert with the following words:

S. 126 "Heinz, for over three years I searched for my family. A long time! And now? Look, here is a letter from my wife. What am I to do?" The man spoke no further, for grief and sorrow choked off his words. He handed Siebert the letter, the first, long-yearned-for sign of life from his family. With suspense Siebert began to read.

Dear Franzl! Dear Papa!

You are alive! How glad we are. We waited long, and you never sent word. It was very hard. The children froze and hungered. I no longer knew which way to turn. In this time I became acquainted with a man. He good-naturedly offered me his support. He gave us money and food. The children recovered again and were preserved to us.

But now comes the saddest part; I can hardly tell it to you. Forgive me, Franz. I did it for our dear children, for they were to be preserved for us, for you. I have a child by that man. It is already over a year old. Its father is gone, without leaving a trace behind. Can you forgive me?

I know it is hard for you, but nevertheless I beg you, come to us — also to the child that is a stranger to you. Come, Franz, we wait for you and love you.

Your forgiveness-begging Erna and children.

The disappointment was great for Dankowski; he could summon no understanding for his wife. At every fitting and unfitting opportunity he railed against the faithlessness of his wife, against the self-seeking man, and against the stranger's brat, as he was accustomed to express himself about the child. He wrote his wife a long letter, which contained only punitive sermons and moralizing S. 127 and the assurance that he would not come to her. Nevertheless his wife wrote again and again. When he no longer answered her letters, the children began to plead for their mother. Gradually he began to think of forgiveness. When Dankowski set out on the way home in 1949, he assured Siebert — who had constantly urged him to love his wife even despite the stranger's child — that he would go to his family. From Germany he later reported that he had adopted the child and was living in happiness and peace with his family.

It went similarly with many men, and only seldom would the "lords of creation" comprehend the difficult situation of their wives, which was far harder than their own. Most of the men demanded of the wives unconditional faithfulness, while in this respect they claimed all sorts of rights for themselves, which had permitted them, during the war, when they were still free, victorious soldiers, not always to keep faith with their wives. They therefore seldom felt any stronger pangs of conscience. Now, behind barbed wire, they boastfully beat their breasts and made a show of exemplary faithfulness, but completely forgot that they had no opportunity for unfaithfulness — for the Soviets saw to that superbly. Had this not been the case, the number of "faithful husbands" in the camps would most probably have been considerably smaller.

But the number of divorces only began to climb in earnest when the prisoners of war returned home in masses. When the men went off to war, they were strong and healthy; they could support a family with ease. Many a one was rich and respected — add to that the many decorations and officers' salaries and more besides — all this raised the worth of the man.

S. 128 And now? Careworn, swollen over the whole body from hunger, perhaps a cripple, for a long time unfit to earn and in need of help, destitute and without any standing, ragged, the former blond or dark locks having given way to gray ones or even to a bald head. So he stands there, the man who once was loved, and expects that he will be loved again, as once he was.

Great had to be the love of the wife to tie on again here, where the war had made the great cut — indeed, the wife had to love even if she herself was not loved in return, for in many cases the man had grown dulled in his feelings and unmannerly in his behavior. The wife had in many cases to have a truly womanly patience with her husband if she wished to restore the great happiness of the family, for only she was able, through her self-sacrificing love, to clear away every obstacle that lay in the way of that happiness.

Labor Battalion 1551

The distress among the male prisoners of war Siebert had himself felt for several years now, and in his many fellow prisoners he had been able to observe its consequences amply. The steady physical and, still more, the spiritual decline of the men took on catastrophic proportions. Only in the years 1948–49 did the men pull themselves together again, and their former condition was gradually restored, insofar as the process of disintegration had not already advanced too far.

Siebert tried to find the true cause of the general S. 129 symptoms of decline in the men's poor nourishment, in the great longing for their loved ones, and not least in the constant interrogations of the MVD. What contributed above all to hastening the decay of all their powers was the sheer duration of the captivity. The men's indifference toward all things and appearances rose from day to day. Tired and worn out, they trotted off to work in the morning, and more tired still they returned to the barracks in the evening.

How the men in captivity scraped through life under the most primitive conditions — that the men knew. But how women endured it was a riddle to everyone. How should it be possible that the "weaker sex" could stay alive in such wretched circumstances?

To observe this, Siebert was soon enough to have opportunity.

One Saturday, Palm and Siebert had escorted a transport of homebound men to the railway and, after the train with their fortunate comrades had steamed off in the direction of home, stood alone at the station. Go back to the camp? Endure the everlasting monotony again? No — they wanted to go somewhere, anywhere. Just for once to have a short change. Since Siebert had not long been permitted to go out freely in Kharkov and knew the city little, Palm made him the proposal to go for once to Labor Battalion 1551 and visit the inmates there. By means of their anti-fascist identity card they intended to gain admission. After a good half hour's walk they came before a dark ruin. No path, no light betrayed the presence of a human dwell- S. 130 ing in which some 250 persons, women and men, were said to live.

The whole ruin was encircled by a high barbed-wire fence. At the single gate stood a small woman in greasy quilted trousers and a jacket of the same, armed with a long carbine. The two visitors stepped up to the rifle-woman [Flintenweib] and presented their request for admission. At first she voiced some misgivings, but then she called the camp commandant and ordered him to lead the two men into the camp.

Janos Wunsch, as the camp commandant was called, now led them into a cold cellar room and from there into the living quarters of the camp, which were all housed in the basement story of the former university building. When Janos, who by the way was already close to sixty years old, opened yet another low door, Palm and Siebert started in alarm, for a rather brisk dance music struck their ears. They could hardly believe their hearing, for who would have suspected music in this ruin — and, on top of that, an exuberantly merry dance music! With these thoughts, the door was opened onto a brightly lit hall. What Palm and Siebert beheld here seemed to them a wonder. Above all, there were cheerful people, dancing and laughing. The dance floor was crowded with those eager to dance. Strangely enough, the dancers were only women. There were a few men in the room, but they sat tiredly in the corners and looked darkly at the laughing women.

Palm and Siebert took a seat on a bench beside the commandant and had to satisfy themselves once more that everything they saw and heard was really fact.

S. 131 "Things go on here with you as at a wedding. Is it always like this?" Siebert asked Wunsch, when he had recovered from his astonishment.

"Not always, but every Saturday there is dancing from seven in the evening until three in the morning. Yet you must not believe that these women are really so unrestrained. Nor are they as exuberantly merry as it appears to you at first glance; rather, they dance and dance for their bit of life. They romp in order to forget their distress and longing, their great sorrow. But what am I telling you of it. You have enough, after all, of your own misery." Wearily the old man gazed into the dancing crowd.

"No, tell on, Herr Wunsch, for we would so much like to know how they live here, where they come from, and when they will at last be allowed out of this cellar," Palm begged.

Thereupon Wunsch began to relate:

"You see, gentlemen, we all come from the Banat, from the Yugoslav part. As it happens, we are almost without exception from one locality, so that we all know one another from home. When the Russians pressed into our land in 1944, we were all summoned — women from 17 to 30 and men from 15 to 45 years — to equip ourselves with clothing and provisions for three days, in order to dig trenches for the Soviet army. Without particular fear we set off, for we were, after all, to be home again in three days. Only three days, gentlemen — and now we write 1948; more than four years it is today. A long time. I and our teacher, Wilhelm Würch, had to go along as old men, because we were still hale enough for our age. At that time we went to the station, where we boarded freight S. 132 cars. The doors were bolted from outside and the train got rolling. It rolled on for days and nights. The fear that fell upon us in those days I cannot describe to you. We cried out and hammered, but no human ear heard our pleading. Terrible was that time. Men and women pressed close together in one car, with the doors locked. Can you picture that to yourselves? And persons there were together [?]……

After some days, water was brought into the cars for the first time on the journey, only for the bolts to be shoved to again at once and the journey to go on. Only after fourteen days did we arrive in Kharkov and were brought into this ruin, which we have now fitted up for ourselves as tolerably as may be.

In 1946 the sick were allowed to go home. In the majority they were men, and a few women who had borne children by Russians in the captivity. These mothers were the only healthy ones who up to now have traveled to the homeland. In this way many more girls went home. For us old ones this sad fact was hard to bear. But what were we to do?

Great was the distress in those days. Very many fathers were here with their sons and daughters. At the beginning we counted them very fortunate, for they believed that together they would bear the distress more easily. But when death began to reach about and fetched away their loved ones one after the other, the grief of those people was immeasurable. Yet with time we grew accustomed to death, for he dwelt constantly among us and no longer caused us so much concern.

The men suffered most, for they were far more helpless than our women. The endurance of these danc- S. 133 ing women in all things is astonishing. Especially hard were the first two years. The children were still too young to work hard; besides, they were not used to any work — at home, in their well-ordered circumstances, they had never worked hard. How the people tormented themselves!

Again and again a speedy release was promised us — so too when Tito began his swing away from Russia. Since that time we are told we shall come home when Tito has become reasonable. When will that be?

Now began the real struggle for life. Earn our livelihood we cannot — more correctly, we do not receive our wages, for we must live on what we buy for ourselves. The pay, too, is arranged so strangely. If we earn a hundred rubles, fifty of them are paid out to us. With that little money we must feed and clothe ourselves. On top of that we must also pay for lodging, heating, and light.

The women and girls receive up to ninety rubles a month. A kilo of bread costs three rubles — of fat and meat there is no talking at all. The men were just as badly off; yet here too the women could show the men a thing or two: they went begging, sold firewood that they carried home from the building site under their coats, laboriously sewed clothes out of rags; in short, they helped themselves, while the men were left standing. The really clever ones attached themselves to the women and concluded with them a household bond — that is, they had a common purse and provision chamber. Out of this there afterward developed the internee marriage. When such a union is S. 134 concluded today, it is said the two are married, and no one disputes them the rights of spouses. You are amazed — but such things exist. The union is customarily inaugurated with music and then counts as generally recognized. The so-called 'married couple' then lives together as long as it pleases the two of them. If they part, the band appears again, playing some hideous piece of music, and the 'spouses' count as divorced.

Mail from home comes only rarely. When shall I hear something of my loved ones?" At these words two great tears rolled down the old man's sunken cheeks.

"And work we must, all of us, day after day. The women you can meet everywhere in the city. The most frequent work is stucco work on the government buildings. When we then come tired into the camp, political meetings are held, at which we are told about Soviet Russia and about the traitor Tito. We are sick of it all, more than sick. And to forget it all, the women dance — the only means, as they believe, of forgetting, for faith in God most of them have lost.

Now you know how we live. But I beg you to keep the story to yourselves, for we have many among us who run to the MVD officer with every trifle and blacken their companions in suffering there."

Still the women danced on, though it was shortly before midnight. The musicians relieved one another in turn, while the women danced without interruption. A frightful dance!

S. 135 Palm and Siebert took their leave of Wunsch and went back to their camp, each occupied with the tale of old Wunsch.

After a year Siebert came once again to Labor Battalion 1551 and found the same conditions. Tito was still in Stalin's disfavor, and the girls, who had now become older women, still danced on out of despair, for there was no hope of release for them. They bore their lot onward, like many other nameless women of the many labor battalions in wide Russia, most of which were to be found in the Urals and in the coal basin of the Donets. From there they sent greetings to the homeland by inscribing the inner walls of the coal wagons they loaded with names and addresses:

"Maria Kuhlmann, Liesbeth Hofmeyer, and Sophie Engelbert greet their loved ones in Kovin, Banat, Yugoslavia" — or, "We greet you, dear homeland, from far-off Russia."

The Releases.

"Two years we shall have to stay in Russia before they release us. When the war is over, it will take some time yet before negotiations are conducted over the prisoners. Then preparations must be made for the home transport of the many people. Among the first we shall not be either, so that we shall have to serve out two little years. A long time. Whether we can hold out?"

So calculated most of the prisoners in 1945 at S. 136 their capture. But their calculations had been made without the Russians.

The first home transport from Camp 136 went at the end of 1946. Only the utterly sick were released — men whom Soviet medical art could no longer heal. Most of the homebound men of this transport were driven to the station, for they had sacrificed all their strength in the "reparation" [Wiedergutmachung] work in the Soviet Union. Smaller, quite isolated transports of worn-out men went to the homeland later. In general, however, complete quiet reigned in the release operation.

At last, in April 1947, the foreign ministers of the Big Four came together and resolved to name a commission that was to work out an exact plan for the release of the prisoners from all countries, according to which the repatriation of the prisoners of war was to be concluded by the thirty-first of December 1948. This plan was never worked out, for the Soviets took an utterly obstinate standpoint and thwarted the coming into being of the release plan.

To the prisoners they explained that the Western powers were to blame for the evil, and the S.U. would undertake the release according to its own plan. How far this plan existed and what it looked like has never become known to the public.

So the year 1947 passed without the great mass of the prisoners having left Russia. The hope of all shifted to 1948. Naturally, no one believed in a journey home in winter, for their state of health and their clothing did not permit a winter journey home — but in spring, in summer, then one would survive the trip.

S. 137 Spring came, and Soviet officers explained to the men that the Soviet Union required all forces, including those of the prisoners, for the spring cultivation of the land. In return, the release was to begin in summer. But then the economy of the giant realm was busy with preparations for the harvest, and the railway could spare no wagons for the home transport of the prisoners. In autumn, yes, when the harvest was safely in, everyone should ride home. Autumn too went by. Only a few saw the homeland by the promised date. Around New Year's Eve 1948, to the horror of all the men, the great placard with the words — The year 1948 is the year of our homecoming! — was suddenly taken down from the wall. With that the year was over [sic]. If the officers had until then still been putting the prisoners off to the last of December, from this time on they had only the familiar Russian word "Budjet" ["it will come — in due time"] for an answer.

In those days, in Punishment Camp 7149/2, the open mutiny brewing among many prisoners could be held back, for better or worse, only with difficulty.

The delaying of the prisoners' release had quite definite grounds for the Soviets: first, they needed the prisoners' working hands, and second, the courts had to finish with the sentencing of the many "war criminals," of whom there were daily ever more. In the months of January, February, and March 1949 alone, 97 men from Camp 7149/2 were sentenced, none of them to less than twenty-five years of forced-labor camp. The examining magistrates worked day and night in relays.

In the spring of 1949 the general release began — that is, now all healthy men were allowed to ride S. 138 home. But even now the release had a great catch to it, which held many a prisoner back: one had above all to be politically without blemish, which was exceedingly difficult. Only now did most of them learn that in the course of four years they had been delivered over to the MVD by good "friends." There was a constant search for SS men, who had their blood group tattooed under the arm. This tattoo was looked for on all the men, for one needed as many SS men as possible, since these were not yet to be released.

At the beginning of May 1949 the investigation in Camp 7149 was almost concluded and the so-called "Black List," with all the politically unreliable, completed.

The complement of 1749/2 [sic] numbered 3,600 men in May 1949. Of these, a transport of 1,800 politically unreliable men was sent into the great bend of the Don, where they were to dig a canal to join the great rivers Don and Volga.

But the winnowing went ever on, until the camp had melted down to about 150 men. These were now to reach the homeland — if the merciless MVD found it proper.

A short time before each transport, a list of the fortunate homebound men was published, on which, however, the MVD still made changes. At the march out of the camp gate, indeed even at the station, people were still held back who in the meantime had been slandered by the envious. Some men were allowed to travel as far as Germany, to Frankfurt an der Oder, and were then brought back into the camp again. They had seen the homeland once more, but were [?] — for they never again stood on a homecomers' list.

Brückner, the Red Himmler, had in Kharkov S. 139 immediately after his arrival once more brought it so far that he became chief functionary in the Anti-Fascist Aktiv. Ruthlessly he raged in all the camps subordinate to him. Until 1949 he enjoyed the unlimited confidence of the Russians. He determined in all things, traveled to Kiev, where he fetched instructions for his activity. Ever more brazen slanders against prisoners, indeed even against Soviet officers, kept him in the saddle. No one believed in a dethroning of Brückner — until, entirely by surprise, he was relieved of his post and stood before the gate of the punishment camp as a man transferred there for punishment. The MVD had, namely, learned of his past from a countryman of Brückner's in Dnepropetrovsk, according to which he was said to have been an active Nazi.

When the camp population caught sight of Brückner before the gates, it raged and shouted, for too often had he abused the people in the punishment camp with the most shameful words. Now he too was at the end of his brilliant career on the anti-fascist plane. In his fear he came to Siebert's room and begged him for protection against an assault by the men. Only on the third day, on the strength of a strict order of the natchalnik [camp chief], did he go to work. Day after day the officers interrogated him: he had, after all, fallen into the wheels of the MVD mill, and in July he marched with the men whom he had once slandered as fascists and criminals along the endless road of misery toward the East. For over four years he had been the terror of all the prisoners, and at the very close of the captivity the sentence "Every guilt avenges itself on earth" had to come true in him as well.

Emil Dowideit, who in his time had been a strong antagonist of Brückner's, rode with a trans- S. 140 port to the homeland. But when he wanted to travel the last hundred kilometers from Gronenfelde to Berlin, he was seized by his former victims and so thoroughly beaten that he had to be taken to the hospital for several months. After his recovery he earnestly tried to strike out on a better path, and placed himself at the side of the West Berliners when the Soviets wanted to abduct a well-known petroleum expert from West Berlin. Dowideit, a major of the Soviet army, and several East [Berlin] policemen had been honored with this criminal commission. Dowideit, however, betrayed the plot to the West Berlin police. These, unfortunately, were not on the spot at the appointed time, and Dowideit alone took [?] the kidnappers prisoner and delivered them over to the West Berlin authorities. Since he was not sufficiently protected by the authorities, he was himself abducted by the Russians and has been missing since those days. The punishment for his countless maltreatments of the prisoners in the Soviet Union had overtaken him as well.

No one, to be sure, was helped by this, for most of their victims Brückner and Dowideit left behind in Russia, or else went together with them down the road of ruin.

Thousands upon thousands still wait today for their release, even though the Soviet Union has officially declared that it has released all prisoners of war. Even Lenin, the founder of the Soviet Union, said that any war captivity lasting longer than three years is a modern slavery. Stalin, his successor, is unfortunately of another opinion, for he finds it completely normal to hold countless human beings behind barbed wire for life.

S. 141

The Russians' Request.

Already in the first days after his arrival in Skorokhodovo, Siebert received permission to go about his official duties outside the camp without guard. No wonder, then, that on his many errands he came together with Soviet people of all classes. If several civilians ran across him or another prisoner, one could brace oneself for a heated conversation soaked through with hatred, for each wanted by his talk to convince his comrades of his devoted attitude toward the Soviet state. But if one met the same people alone a few minutes later, one sensed nothing of hatred or aversion toward the prisoners. In these unobserved moments they opened their inner selves, their thinking and feeling, to the enemies, since they never suspected these of reporting the conversation to anyone. Quite different human beings these Russians were in such moments! Good-natured, as the Russian people is in general, and helpful they seemed to be — and so they were in fact. Then there streamed from their mouths the laments over the great daily want, over their fear of the morrow.

The longing for peace and freedom, for personal freedom, to live at last for once in prosperity, led the people to the most impossible notions.

A peculiar legend surrounded, for example, the Soviet Marshal Shukow [= Marshal Zhukov], who with his army forced Berlin to capitulation and for a considerable time S. 142 was commander-in-chief of the occupation troops in the Eastern zone of Germany. Around 1946 [printed: "1496"] the many-times "Hero of the Soviet Union" vanished quite suddenly from the military horizon, without anything about it becoming publicly known. Naturally this fact set loose a string of conjectures among the people. The most characteristic of all was the assumption that Shukow had flown in his airplane to the United States and was exerting himself there for a liberation of the whole Ukraine from the yoke of the Soviets. The population even knew already how to tell of the withdrawal date of the Soviet troops and of the entry of the Americans. No one took a public stand against this talk. Everyone wanted to be rid of the Soviets as fast as possible.

The time fixed for the liberation drew nearer, went by, and everything remained as it was — only the mood of the population sank to the zero point, for gradually it was learned that Shukow had not flown to America but had, despite his great services, been relieved of his post by the Soviets and was now installed in Odessa as garrison commander.

These and similar legends showed the true disposition of the Ukrainian and Russian population, and were nothing other than the wish being father to this lofty thought.

When Siebert one day was walking with his friends Mölker [?] and Rückert from the city to the camp, they heard hurried steps behind them, whereupon they struck up a faster pace — but in vain; two figures came on rapidly and had soon overtaken them:

"May we walk a stretch with you? We have S. 143 been running after you for a long while. It was still light when we took up the pursuit, but we had to wait until darkness had fallen, for we are not allowed to speak with you. But since we did for once want to talk with Germans, we simply had to wait until it grew dark. We are students of the Institute for Structural and Civil Engineering, budding engineers. You need have no fear of us, for you are only to tell us something about Germany and its neighbors," the two Russians explained in a broken German. The prisoners gladly complied with their request, and, contented, the Russians turned off into the dark side lane when the camp came in sight.

Another example of the friendliness of the Russian population toward Germans was the following occurrence.

One Sunday morning it became known in the camp that the German film "Die Fledermaus" was to be shown in the Municipal Cinema. At last the first German film had made its way as far as Kharkov! So Palm and Siebert resolved to ride into the city to see the film and to take the necessary steps to bring it later into the camp. Arrived in the city, however, they found that all admission tickets were sold out. An enormous crowd stood before the theater demanding entry. With effort the two prisoners managed to push forward to the door, where a militiaman was maintaining order with the greatest exertion. Siebert asked for admission, whereupon the director was called, who procured them a place in the hall. At the same time, however, a first lieutenant also asked for a place for himself and his wife. With great outcry his request was turned away.

S. 144 This action was typical of the Russians, for the good kernel of their hospitality had, in spite of everything, been preserved — and to play a trick on the officer as representative of the sovereign state answered only too well to their inner thinking and feeling.

By chance Dr. Heinrich, Palm, and Siebert made the acquaintance in Kharkov of the Russian bandmaster Nasarow, who in his thinking was for the most part characteristic of the old generation. Nasarow already counted sixty-three years and had in his life come to know all the countries of Europe. Now, in his advanced age, he was no longer active as a musician, but occupied himself as an instrument maker and sought thereby to earn the livelihood for himself and his wife. He strove to place his knowledge at the disposal of the young, but the authorities made ever greater difficulties for him, confiscating his tools and all the musical instruments, because according to the law there were to be no private workshops. His single room, which he inhabited with his wife, could really not be spoken of as a workshop, but nevertheless he had to pay a high sum as penalty for the transgression of the law.

The three prisoners mentioned were often guests at the Nasarows', and whoever can picture to himself the great hospitality of a Russian knows how warmly things went at these visits. Nasarow and his wife would then tell of the "good old times," when the Bolsheviks were not yet in power, and of their plans for when these should first be gone — for the old people still did not give up hope of a change in conditions. Most of all the Nasarows looked forward to the reunion with their S. 145 sons, whom the Soviets had carried off to the far North.

As gladly as the Nasarows saw the prisoners in their home, just as much did they wish them a speedy return to the homeland. When at last Palm was released and ever more prisoners left Russia, the Nasarows begged the prisoners to report to the people in all the world of the great suffering of the Soviet peoples, of their burning wish to be free again as well. In a whispering voice Nasarow brought out his great request, in the name of the Russian people, as he expressed it:

"Should you come home, then tell all people that we greet them. Not I and my wife alone — no, a great part of the Russian people has the same request of you. Say that we long for freedom, that we would gladly live as they do, in peace and security. And then we have yet another great request of you: make it clear to the people that they must not lump us together with Communism. The Russian people is not Communism, for only a small part of our people stands in reality behind this scourge of mankind. We want to be free, to live as befits human beings, and to let others live. In closing we beg you not to forget us. Think of a people that waits for better times — which, to be sure, can come only from the West, for we are too enslaved to be able to rise ourselves against the Bolshevist tyranny. And now go with God. Palm, you ride home tomorrow! Good luck for the journey." Warmly the old woman kissed the prisoners and pushed them cautiously out the door, so that the other inhabitants of the house should not notice that they had had the prisoners S. 146 in their room.

Siebert visited the old people often afterward, and on one of these visits Nasarow made the proposal that they should for once visit the church together — the Blagoveshchensky Sobor [cathedral], which the Soviets had in 1943 released again for divine service. Majestically the great edifice rose above the great square on which the marketplace with its many peddlers' booths was set up. Outwardly and inwardly the Sobor had been neglected, for over many years nothing had been done in the way of repairs; but the divine service within its walls was genuine, for the people prayed there to God as Christians do in all the world, devoted and fervent. The Soviets had believed, when they released the church, that there would be as good as no believers left. The contrary was shown them when they opened the doors of the houses of God again. Young and old people came to the forsaken place, knelt down, and thanked God for His grace and goodness and prayed for His further blessing.

"You see, Siebert," said Nasarow, when he had crossed himself, "in spite of long oppression our people has not forgotten that God is there for mankind — and God does not forget His own either. No, God is and remains the great Rock, to whom we can always look up with joy."

Homeward!

Homeward! [Nach Hause!] What a great notion for everyone who must dwell in foreign parts! For the majority of the prisoners the notion "home- S. 147 ward" meant the entire fulfillment of all hopes and wishes. Again and again one heard it said: "Yes, once I am home, a new life begins — a life that is worth living again."

And at last the long-yearned-for day was there. Now it goes homeward! Excited, hardly aware of himself, the fortunate man would then run from one camp office to another and try to settle everything as fast as possible, though there was no ground for haste, for the Russians had time, much time.

Before one came onto the list of the released, one went to the MVD (mockingly also called the dentist, since the prisoners maintained that there every tooth was examined once more for its anti-fascist health — more correctly, its Communist disposition). If this examination had turned out favorably for the prisoner, then it was on to the clothing chamber, where every homebound man was handed out a pair of wooden shoes and a fitter's overall. On the sleeve of the suit one could read, on a white patch, the two Russian letters W-P [wojennoplennyj — prisoner of war].

As soon as this change of clothing was done, all gathered in the camp yard and a thorough search of all belongings began, in which the entire body of Soviet officers took part. Here they went so far as to order the prisoners to undress and then had them perform some gymnastic exercises, because it was believed the prisoners would be taking home some written notes or other about the S.U. After this search, which was by no means to be the last, one had to pass along a double file of Soviet soldiers to the camp exit. Here the men were once more count- S. 148 ed and inspected, until the ponderous gate was opened, with curses, by the factory police.

"March! Sing!" an officer commanded, grinning. And the men sang as if the journey home depended on the singing — yet no one's thoughts were with the song; no, each feared being called back once more. And how they sing! Only to get quickly away from this place, as if they were thieves who had to bring their booty to safety.

Everywhere the prisoners marched singing through the city, the civilians ran together and gave the homebound men, unbidden, their escort.

When the last man had left the gate, Siebert was each time given the order to go along to the station, since there was still all manner of interpreting to be done, for the Soviet officers had many an instruction yet to give the released men. As hard as it always was for Siebert to make this errand — for each time he had to go back alone into the camp for a further indefinite time — still he always went gladly. He rejoiced every time with the fortunate ones, to whom he gave his greetings for the homeland. Would he too one day be allowed home? Would he too one day be found worthy to ride to the homeland — if for him there was a homeland at all: Siebert's homeland? That one he could not see again; never would he see it again. But with that he had long since made his peace. His homeland was in future to be there where he might live free with his wife and daughter. To that place he wished to be released.

Often it had been promised Siebert, and never had word been kept. When in 1947 Camp 7136 was to be dissolved, Major Jagodkin promised to consider him at the next S. 149 transport and send him to the homeland. But the other officers raised objection to it, because Siebert had been in the Waffen-SS and as such was not entitled to be released. As the last, he went with Lieutenant Müller from the camp in Poltava to Kharkov, to wait there further for his release.

Again a whole year had passed over the land without bringing the hotly yearned-for homecoming. At last the transports began going to the homeland again, but Siebert had to stay, with the justification that his interpreter's services were still needed in the camp. The true grounds, however, were of another kind.

Brückner, who before his removal was still at work, had before his deposition contrived to lodge a report in Kiev concerning Siebert's membership in the Waffen-SS. He had hoped thereby to bring Siebert into the position in which he now found himself. However much Siebert had been spied upon [?; the printed text reads "however much Siebert had spied"], more than his SS membership could not be brought to light. Since he had spoken Russian from the first day, people were long accustomed to it and took no further offense at it. After an inquiry from Kiev regarding Siebert's military and political past had arrived in the camp, interest in his person suddenly moved into the foreground again — but apparently without particular disadvantage for Siebert, for after several interrogations he was left to carry on his work in peace.

In May 1949, when the first purge had reduced the camp by 1,800 men, First Lieutenant Laschenko surprised him with the news that he might ride home — and indeed in one week already. Beam- S. 150 ing with joy, Siebert ran to his comrades and told them of his great fortune. But already on the next day fortune drew back its hand, when suddenly an officer, Major Fretz, turned up from Kiev, recruiting pupils for the anti-fascist school in Riga. Men who came into consideration for such a course there were only very few. Major Fretz had them all gathered in a hall and asked each for his consent to attend the school for a period of six months. The great majority declined, for each hoped to be along with the next home transport. Only a few, who were not entirely convinced of their release, gave their consent to take part in the course. Indignant over the slight zeal of the prisoners, Major Fretz turned to Siebert:

"And you? Have you been to an anti-fascist school yet?"

"No, Herr Major, I have not yet been to any school, although I have several times asked for it; but my application was always refused." In fact Siebert had several times applied for permission to go to a school, when his situation in the camp grew too difficult, for through a transfer to a school he had hoped at last to come among entirely strange people and escape a betrayal. Each time he had to stay, for Lieutenant Colonel Krjukow would not let him go from his working post.

"But now you may go. In two weeks instruction begins in Riga. You must be there by then. I assume, of course, that you still wish today to attend a school, Siebert," Major Fretz declared to him decisively.

"Gladly would I have done it earlier, for I wished S. 151 to broaden my anti-fascist knowledge, so as to put it to use in the captivity and later in the homeland in the struggle for a united Germany. Today, however, I must explain to you that I no longer wish to go, for the time for attending schools is past — I have been promised, you see, that I may ride home next week. You will understand me, Herr Major, for I have not been home for four and a half years. My wife and daughter need me urgently."

"That is how you all look! And you want to be true anti-fascists? We Communists think otherwise: first the concerns of the Party and then one's own. You would naturally rather ride home than acquire knowledge for the cause of the working class. Fine! You we do not need at our school — but mark this: home you shall not ride either. Comrade Krjukow, if Siebert stands on the homecomers' list, he is to be struck off on my order. He stays here until further notice."

A fine present, this deferment "until further notice"!

Once more the transport went. Siebert accompanied it to the railway, and alone he betook himself back to the camp.

In this time the camp population melted ever further together. Of 3,600 there were still 450 men left over.

Quite suddenly a great list came to the orderly room, according to which all the men but 31 were to hold themselves ready for removal. Everyone was feverish with fear of being on the list, for after it had been learned that SS men were among them as well, it stood fast for everyone that this was no homecomers' transport, S. 152 but a further installment of the purging of the camps of "politically unreliable" people.

Siebert did not stand on this great list, but remained behind in the camp with thirty other men. Directly after the departure of the unfortunates, who had to set out on the long road to the East, Lieutenant Colonel Litwin ordered Siebert to call the men left behind to the guardhouse. Here he delivered to the men one of his many spiteful addresses:

"You see for yourselves that our camp, which has now existed exactly five years, will exist no longer. While the prisoners just transferred will work a while more with us in the Soviet Union, you may ride home. In five days your transport goes. Until then, however, there is still much to do. The whole camp must vanish, for the factory 'Serp i Molot' is taking over the buildings and the grounds again. You, Siebert — you take over the direction of these works and have three days' time in all. Keep at it, or else you stay here."

The first job was the tearing down of the hated barbed-wire fence, for the men wanted to spend at least two days of the captivity without barbed wire. Work went on into the late evening hours, and on the second day Siebert could report that the task was fulfilled. Visibly satisfied, Lieutenant Colonel Litwin received the report.

Although Litwin had declared that those left behind might go home, no one was convinced that it should really be true, for MVD Captain Fjodorow had the last word to speak in all releases. Against his objection no one prevailed.

On the third day after Litwin's joyful declara- S. 153 tion the interrogations of the homebound men began. Each had once more to sign a questionnaire in the form of an interrogation protocol and testify that he had belonged to no political fascist organization and would in future stand on the side of the "peace-loving" Soviet Union.

Siebert still did not know whether he would be among the fortunate few or whether he was to be sent after the others to the East. At the very end he was called to the MVD officer Major Serebrjanikow, who was leafing through Siebert's personal file as he entered his room. Major Serebrjanikow, a Jew from Moscow, was known as one of the most heartless officers in the camp, and was pleased when he saw Siebert's disconsolate look.

"First take a seat, Siebert." Comfortably he lit himself a cigarette and observed Siebert with a sharp eye. Of this method, by the way, all MVD officers made use in their interrogations. They tried to confuse the prisoners by outward calm and thereby to come more easily to their goal, for it is easier for an innocent man in an unprotected position to fight an open fight than to stand and answer to many hidden and underhanded questions.

"I have the commission," Serebrjanikow began, "to investigate whether we can release you to the homeland. We have otherwise nothing to object to in your person; only that you were in the SS hinders us from releasing you."

Siebert had often declared that he had been with the Waffen-SS only a short time, and began to set the same forth to Serebrjanikow once more. For the first time S. 154 Siebert pointed out to him that he did not bear the blood group under his left arm.

"So-o-o, you have no blood group under the arm? Let us see," the major asked in astonishment.

Siebert undressed and raised his arm high, and the major came up quite close, although the tattoo, if one was present, could be recognized distinctly from a distance.

"Indeed. You do not have the blood group. That is your luck. Go now to the doctor and have a written confirmation of it made out for you, and when you have it, I will see what can be done."

Quickly Siebert ran to the camp doctor Lewit, who, after a thorough examination of the skin of his left upper arm, for which she used a strong magnifying glass, made out for him the desired certificate.

"Well and good," said Major Serebrjanikow, when Siebert had given him the paper, "now you must promise me besides, and in writing at that, that you will never undertake anything against the Soviet Union." The major became quite grave at these words, as if he had an extremely dangerous criminal before him.

"Herr Major," Siebert replied, "on that score you need have no worry. I want peace among all peoples. How then should I undertake anything against the 'bearer of peace,' against the Soviet Union?"

"Sign the protocol here, and mark one thing: if you do not keep your promise, you will pay for it. We shall find you everywhere, even if you should hide yourself in the skyscrapers of New York. We shall fetch you! You may rely on that, Siebert. And now go! I will see whether S. 155 it can be managed to send you home. You may count on it." Siebert thanked him and went to the door. Here the major called him back once more:

"Siebert, give someone the commission to saw me a truckload of wood, and have it brought to my dwelling at Pushkinskaya 78. But no other officer must notice."

Then Siebert went to his comrades, who were waiting in suspense for the result of his interrogation.

No one had had any difficulties of a particular kind, and so each waited for the homecomers' list, which was brought to the guardhouse only late in the evening — whither the last 31 men had been summoned. The officer on duty read out each name slowly and had those named step to one side. 27 names were read out. Four men still waited for their names, but the officer folded the slip and put it in his pocket.

"Yes, you four may not ride home. Your turn will come later. Sergeant Pawlow, so that they do not run off, lead the men into the bunker. Here is the key." To describe the disappointment of these men one is simply not able, for they had looked forward to the journey home for years, and now everything was again over — until further notice, as the Russians were wont to say. Pitilessly Pawlow led away the prisoners Peschl, Emil Kellermann, and two other Austrians.

Where is the humane authority at which one can inquire after the whereabouts of these victims? In all likelihood even Major Serebrjanikow himself is today no longer in a position to give information about it.

Siebert, who now also stood among the fortunate, S. 156 did not trust the unspeakable good luck, although earlier he had always counted on release. He could not grasp that the dream of the return to his loved ones should now at last become reality. After the Austrians had been locked up, however, the proper joy had vanished among the others too, for what could still keep [hinder ?] Major Serebrjanikow from having men locked in the bunker. Standing on the release list, one was still by no means home. —

When Siebert was in the barracks, a fear fell upon him such as he had rarely known in all the long years, for he feared, just as his comrades did, that he might yet be put back again, which would delay his homecoming by several years. Perhaps the Russians could even today learn who he really was, and transfer him from the release list onto the criminals' list. His strength almost seemed to leave him. Weary from fear, he rode into the city to be alone in some solitary place, for his downcast mood might strike his comrades and the Russians. Only to be alone was his single desire.

Arrived in the city park, he sought out a hidden corner, knelt down, and begged God for His support:

"Only now still help, great God! Afterward lead me as it pleases Thee and is good for me."

Once more Siebert felt the overwhelming power of prayer, for after he had made his fear known to God, he rose and rode back to the camp, where he was already awaited. The Russians had given the order to begin at once with the clothing-out of the homebound men. S. 157

At last evening had come, and the final night in the camp drew on. Long the men sat together and built plans for the future. How lively these plans were, though each strove to work everything out to the smallest detail. Full of gaps they were bound to be, if only because no one knew what he would find at home. Even if one or another was roughly informed about his private circumstances, he still lacked all knowledge of the general conditions of Germany. Nevertheless each went on forging at his castle in the air, finally to lose himself in a half-solid dream. But even the dream of home, dreamed in foreign parts, is wondrously beautiful!

It was still entirely dark in the morning when the most impatient rose from their plank beds and began to pack their things. Out of impatience they went out and in, again and again, until at last toward noon came the word to fall in before the guard hut.

For the last time there began, for the Soviet camp officers, the charming amusement of a "prisoner-of-war frisking." Every rag was subjected to an examination. In all calm the men let the chicanery pass over them, for they were used to it by now. Often enough they had been plagued when "friskings" of this kind, or health examinations, were staged, at which they had to parade completely unclothed before the officers, doctors, women doctors, and nurses, and had to let the vilest revilings pass over them. This treatment unworthy of human beings was not to last much longer, now that all went well [?]. As the last homebound man, Siebert went through the gate. After [text breaks off at the foot of S. 157 — continued on S. 158]

S. 158 ...after everyone's belongings had been rummaged through and all stood lined up in rank and file, Siebert took his leave of the officers and expressed thanks, in the name of his comrades, for the release.

As spokesman for the officers, Lieutenant Colonel Litvin stepped forward and directed the threadbare, empty words at the prisoners:

"Your thanks we hear gladly, for you truly did not have it bad with us, if one takes into account what Goebbels lied to you about Soviet captivity. The Soviet Union wishes to do no one any harm, and does none, if one leaves her in peace. Or has anyone done you wrong?"

Siebert answered for his comrades:

"Herr Lieutenant Colonel, every one of us has been convinced, in the course of captivity, of the peaceableness and the goodness of the Soviet Union. We are obliged to you and to the other officers with great thanks. But with especial thanks we turn to the Soviet government."

Litvin was exceedingly satisfied with the answer and continued in his speech:

"When you now travel home, it is our wish that you apply the knowledge of the communist world-view acquired here in Germany, so as to create for the German people conditions as good as those the Soviet people enjoy, thanks to the prudent leadership of our great Stalin."

Calmly the prisoners listened to the fairy tale.

"Our last request of you, however, is the following: We know that we have many enemies abroad who spread the most impossible things about our state. Confront these liars with the truth. Re- S. 159 port at home what you have seen here in the years of captivity. Keep to the truth, give it the honor, for in doing so you render us and the whole Soviet people a truly great service. Will you fulfill this request? Siebert, translate my question to the prisoners!"

Siebert translated the officer's remarks to the others, and Dr. Heinrich offered to answer for all:

"Herr Lieutenant Colonel, we came into your country as Hitler's soldiers and knew as good as nothing about conditions here. But now we have seen everything, and we know that the Soviet people have realized socialism and are being led toward communism by the strong Communist Party of the Bolsheviks. Of this we will report to the people at home. Believe us, Herr Lieutenant Colonel, we will under all circumstances give honor to the truth, just as we have been taught here."

"Well then, we expect nothing else of you, for otherwise we would not have released you. It would have been in vain. Now we wish you all a good journey. Should we ever see one another again, let us do so only as friends! Lieutenant Lebedev, lead the men to the station!"

"March!" — and already the men were marching, as fast as they could.

At the station several smaller groups from various other camps were waiting for them. All were busy decorating the freight cars. Many Stalin heads on enormous placards and countless propaganda texts were affixed to the wagons. The principal texts were the following:

S. 160 Long live the Soviet Union, the bulwark of the free world!

Long live Stalin, the leader of the world proletariat!

As enemies we came, as friends we go!

Now the escort details for the camp inmates arrived as well. Among them were also two MVD officers, who at once began to snoop about among the prisoners.

In the evening twilight the locomotive finally came, coupled onto the wagons, and slowly the train set itself in motion. What an exalting feeling, after four and a half years, to be traveling toward home — or rather toward freedom — leaving behind everything evil and horrific.

With tears in their eyes the hardened men stood in the doorways and gazed after the setting sun, for that was where the train was to carry them; there lay the goal of years of longing; there was the end of this hard [sic] road. There, by the setting sun, were their loved ones — insofar as they were still alive.

Only when Kharkov and its suburbs had vanished from sight [sic] into the darkness after a good hour did some life come into the men, and quiet conversations replaced the blissful silence.

"Heinz, we are going home. How glad I am! Surely you are too?" said Dr. Heinrich to Siebert, who however was not disposed to talk, for he sat in the doorway, his feet hanging out of the wagon, pursuing his thoughts, which were anything but glad. For him this journey was precisely the opposite of what it meant for his comrades. They were traveling toward home. And he? He was leaving his homeland behind, to travel forever into foreign parts, into the unknown. What would S. 161 the foreign land give him? Now that he was turning his back on his homeland for the second time, the longing for his mother and his brothers and sisters came over him. He was not drawing nearer to them, for every beat of the wheels carried him farther away, ever farther. Only long after midnight had he reconciled himself to the sad situation, compelled by the recognition that it was out of the question for him ever to reach his dear mother. For him, in the homeland he now wished to leave, there remained only certain destruction.

His home in future would have to be wherever he found his family. With God's help they would build up an existence for themselves again. How and where — that for the time being was still written in the stars; over that [?] he had no influence, and he occupied himself no further with the thought. Only to get out, first of all, of this land of perpetual fear!

Warmly the August night enfolded him and Dr. Heinrich, who was likewise pursuing his dreams.

"You're not asleep, are you, Richard? Do you hear?"

"What is it, Heinz? Am I asleep? No, I was just thinking of my boy. He's said to be a dear little rascal. My wife wrote me he is already quite big and always asks after his father. I don't know him at all, for I have never seen him. He was only born after I was in captivity. That will be a getting-to-know. One can hardly call it a reunion, can one, Heinz?"

"You will know him, and you will love each other very much, Richard. What a great gift has been granted us today! We are going home! Can you believe it? I cannot, although I feel that I am in the wagon and the wheels are rolling on the rails. I know that we are traveling west, but grasp it — no, S. 162 that I cannot."

"It's exactly the same with me, Heinz. For long years we waited for release, and now that it has come, we do not believe it. Would you pinch my ear for me, so I can determine whether I am still here and really going home," the doctor asked.

Siebert gave his ear a proper tweak.

"Ow, man, not so hard! I'm still here!" cried Heinrich.

"Good — if you really are here, then tell me: when do you intend to start believing that you are going home?" Siebert asked the doctor.

"It won't happen to me on the journey, for I could easily be disappointed, seeing that the MVD lieutenants are with us. When I am in Baden-Baden at last and hold my wife and my big boy in my arms, then I will try to believe that I am home."

The two friends sat in silence again and looked into the dark night, while the wheels beat their monotonous song upon the rails.

Although Siebert knew perfectly well that it was now toward freedom they were going, he was still not able — no more than Dr. Heinrich — to grasp it with his understanding. Really going home — no, after so long a time that was too beautiful to be true.

The men in fact had every reason to see their homeward journey in danger, for two MVD officers were spying through every wagon for men whom they could send back. Siebert's fear rose ever higher, for perhaps [?] even after departure it might yet be learned [?] who he really was. In such a case they would S. 163 telegraph at once. Still in the first night they passed Kiev. Siebert breathed a sigh of relief when the train [had passed ?] Kiev, for if they meant to hold him back, a telegram could only be waiting in Gomel. Such thoughts occupied him the whole night through, yet he was firmly resolved to flee. Should they search for him, he was firmly resolved to flee [?]. Only as far as Gomel, first! There was the familiar Black Forest [Schwarzer Wald], which he had crossed while still a Soviet soldier. It would take him in again now too, for to fall into the hands of the MVD even now would have been too dreadful. If nothing happened in Gomel, he could be at ease until Brest-Litovsk, the last city on Soviet soil. There too one could escape, because there was no longer any strong guard there. He constantly imagined he saw the two MVD officers, always striving to find him.

So Siebert was still sitting in the doorway when a glorious August morning flooded the broad Ukrainian steppe with golden light.

The first breakfast of the homeward journey. Then the train — which grew steadily longer, because at almost every station wagons of homebound men were coupled on — rolled on westward. Already the transport numbered over 1,600 men. Many they were, and yet so heartbreakingly few when one set them against the mass of those left behind.

When the train halted at a small station after breakfast, the prisoner Möller came to Siebert with an alarming report:

"Heinz, come over here a moment," Möller whispered to Siebert.

"Lieutenant Korobovsky is going from wagon to wagon looking for politically unreliable men.

S. 164 You know yourself that we are taking several informers home with us. It would suit them well to commit one more piece of stupidity. Can't you help? Get the lieutenant onto some other subject."

"Good, Möller, we'll see what can be done," Siebert answered, without knowing any way out of this situation at all, for it would not be so easy to get the lieutenant onto other thoughts. Korobovsky was an exceedingly zealous MVD officer, and it would certainly bring him noteworthy recognition if, on the journey, he discovered yet another "war criminal" or "fanatical fascist" and brought him back to Kharkov.

Siebert went at once to the propaganda wagon, where he sought out Dr. Heinrich and Hans Pietsch, for he knew them to be truly reliable. To them he passed on Möller's report. The three looked at one another, at a loss. But then they believed they had found a way out. At the next stop they took a chessboard, dominoes, and a lotto game and made their way to the wagon in which Korobovsky was traveling.

"Herr Lieutenant," Siebert addressed the officer, "you play chess or dominoes, do you not?"

"Naturally."

"Then permit us to climb in with you, for time is hanging heavy on our hands."

"Of course, come right in — it's exactly the same for me," said Korobovsky cheerfully.

Now Korobovsky and his colleague played incessantly — now chess, now dominoes — from morning until late evening with astonishing endurance [sic], while the prisoners relieved one another and kept finding new players. No one suspected what the perpetual playing was S. 165 meant to accomplish, but it succeeded in keeping the officers in the wagon until they arrived in Brest-Litovsk.

On the first of September the transport arrived in Brest-Litovsk with two thousand men. Here they had to change trains, because the Soviet tracks came to an end. Everything was transferred onto the standard-gauge tracks.

In Brest-Litovsk the last search also took place. Every scrap of paper, even wrapping paper, was confiscated, for the prisoners might perhaps be carrying espionage material with them. This search passed off without particular incident. In order to stay precisely abreast of things, Siebert placed himself at the disposal of the transport leader and settled all misunderstandings, insofar as any arose.

Toward evening — after a great political rally had been held on an open square, at which the prisoners were impressed upon once more, in their reports about the Soviet Union at home, to give honor to the truth — they crossed the Soviet-Polish border with the doors closed. Here the train was taken over by German railway personnel, and off it went now, already behind a German locomotive, driven by German people, at a faster tempo toward home.

On the second of September they came into the German eastern territories, which now stood under Polish administration. Everywhere the same picture of devastation and desolation. Whole villages empty; not a living soul was to be seen on the streets. No cattle grazed in the pastures, and the fields were overgrown with weeds, for since 1945 no one had thought of inhabiting the homesteads of the expelled Germans and keeping them in or- S. 166 der.

The houses lay there as if dead. Over vast regions where creative life once reigned, the wind sang a death-song that bore witness to the monstrous injustice which the victors brought into the world at Potsdam. Such conditions prevailed as far as the Oder, where the German eastern frontier had been reached.

Polish border officials stepped up to the train: "Close the doors. We are crossing the border," they commanded. The great sliding doors rolled shut and heavy bolts were pushed to from outside.

The locomotive whistled loudly and set off with all its might. Slowly it hauled the many wagons over the Oder bridge, only to halt again soon after. The bolts rattled and the doors fell back.

"Men, you are home! You are on German soil! Welcome to you. Long have we waited for you," the German railwaymen called into the wagons. What a greeting! Everyone rushed out of the wagons toward the railwaymen! Only when the train jerked back and forth did the men climb in again. The jubilation would not come to an end. But after a short time a cold sobering came over the men when they saw begging women and children. That too was a greeting!

"This is Germany? Sunk so low? Our people brought down to the beggar's staff?"

Here the true conditions in the Soviet occupation zone showed themselves.

The Russians had given the prisoners enough bread for the journey, which however, out of sheer excitement, had not been touched, so that now they could distribute generously to the population. How the hungry children rejoiced over a piece of black bread! They knew S. 167 its worth.

In silence the journey continued to the station in Frankfurt an der Oder, where all disembarked at once, and the long column wound its way through the streets of the city to the Soviet discharge camp, in which the prisoners were to be handed over to the German authorities.

Before the prisoners were handed over, they had to receive discharge certificates, which however first had to be made out. For this purpose all who had command of the Russian language were assembled, and the drawing up of the certificates began.

For the last time Siebert took a precautionary measure: he wrote out his own discharge certificate first and sank it deep into his pocket, for in an emergency he would get through with this scrap of paper — which opened the way to freedom for him and his comrades — even without an official seal.

Without difficulties they came into the German camp Gronenfelde, where the prisoners were received right at the gate by representatives of the Socialist Unity Party of Germany (SED).

"Comrades, we greet you most warmly in the homeland. We rejoice that you are here and hope to have gained through you a powerful support in our struggle for a unified Germany. Help us build socialism in the homeland. Everyone is needed."

Not one of the prisoners listened to the man, who shouted his speech into the crowd with a hoarse voice.

Only onward, only home — was the single wish of all.

Here the Russian discharge certificates were col- S. 168 lected, so as to prevent any possible escape.

Each man was handed fifty German East-marks, which however had to be spent immediately, for East-marks were not permitted to be taken into the western zones.

With a joyful heart each man received the news that it was possible to inform one's relatives of one's arrival by telegraph. Among the very first, Siebert was at the post office and sent off a telegram to Ella:

"Warmest greetings. Heinz. Frankfurt an der Oder."

How long Ella had had to wait for this news!

God had not forsaken her. Only a small stretch now separated them from one another. How wonderfully He had led them thus far!

At last, after a sleepless night in the overcrowded camp, the transports for the western zones were dispatched. After long years the men parted from one another, dispersing over all of Germany, perhaps never to see each other again.

Siebert traveled with some 350 men to the English zone. The transport was routed as far as Heiligenstadt on the zone border and quartered there for one night. The next morning they were to cross the border, past the last Soviet barrier, into freedom. The whole night the men wandered about the yard; sleep would not come to them, for an unspeakable restlessness had seized them all, mounting with every minute. Could it really be true — at last to be a prisoner no more? Could one really no longer need to fear all the things that for so many years had lashed their spirits and strained their nerves to the utmost?

S. 169 How slowly time passes when one is waiting for something! As if in spite, the hands of the clock seem to stand in place.

"Six o'clock! Get up! Receive your discharge certificates!" the SED man calls across the yard. One by one the men receive the certificates and fall in before the exit of the yard.

"So, gentlemen, we are finished and can go," said the man, coming down the steps.

"What do you mean, finished? We haven't received our certificates!" cry sixty men as if from one throat — among them Siebert as well.

The SED functionary stood there as if dumbfounded and wrung his hands:

"But such a thing has never happened to me, gentlemen, for I have distributed all the discharge certificates I had. A misunderstanding has arisen here, for your certificates have probably been left behind in Frankfurt. Don't take it so tragically; you can cross the border tomorrow. The others: March!"

The assembled contingents marched off toward the nearby zone border, while the little band had to remain behind in Heiligenstadt.

The prisoners did not leave the SED man's office until he had established by telephone that the discharge certificates — without which one could not pass the zone border — were lying in Frankfurt and were to be sent on with the next transport the following day.

After the men had received this information, they went singly and in groups to look at the town, and in this way that day too was got through.

When the next transport ar- S. 170 rived the following morning, the discharge certificates were indeed there, and now the sixty waiting men were permitted to march to the zone border, which lay about twenty minutes from the town.

"Do you see the barrier? That's where we must pass through!" the men cried with enthusiasm. "There we are home, and entirely free!"

At last they stood before the barrier. On the eastern side was the Russians' guardroom; on the other side the English had posted their sentries. As they passed, the men showed their certificates and turned their backs on the Russians. Only a few more steps and then they were across. Now there was no going back; now it was all over.

The Russians, glowering, had to look on idly as the men threw the hated Russian caps into the air and did not pick them up again. A whole mountain of these caps had piled up here.

Nurses, representatives of the clergy and of the authorities received the homecomers with warm words; even a hearty meal was not lacking. They ate directly in front of the barrier.

An indescribable feeling, to be so close to the Russians and to know that they could no longer do anything! Glorious!

While the prisoners were still eating, great omnibuses rolled up to carry them to the English discharge camp Friedland. It could not go fast enough for the men until the column set itself in motion: only homeward, as fast as possible.

Friedland, a camp consisting of many, many corrugated-iron barracks, received the impatient men. A great S. 171 registration of all homecomers was under way here. The Soviet discharge certificates were collected, and in their place English ones were to be issued, for which purpose each man had to state his particulars.

Siebert took his place in the long queue of those waiting. The official asked him quite amiably for his name.

"And where were you born?"

What? Here too, again, this wicked, oft-posed question. Lie again? No — no more lying! Here one may speak the truth. Resolving quickly, he named his birthplace.

"Good heavens, man, you claim to have been born in Russia? And then you were released? A rare case. My heartiest congratulations." The official wrote everything on the certificate.

"There — and now wait until the officer of the English security service has signed the discharge certificates, and then you can travel."

"Thank you." Siebert ran to the telegraph office to notify Ella of his arrival in the English zone.

— Am in Friedland, coming day after tomorrow. —

But Siebert was not to receive his discharge certificate so quickly. All his comrades already held the most glorious of all certificates beaming in their hands; only Siebert was still waiting for his pass into freedom.

"Heinz Siebert, report at once to the security officer," came the call across the yard.

"The homecomer Heinz Siebert reporting."

"Fine, take a seat," ordered a young Eng- S. 172 lish officer in impeccable German, and sat down himself behind the large table.

"You were born in Russia?"

"Yes."

"How, in such a case, do you come to be here?"

Siebert explained the story to him, whereupon he was allowed to go. Half an hour passed before he was called again.

"Tell me, please: what assignment do you have from the Soviet security service? That you came over only with such an assignment we do not doubt, for otherwise the Russian would never have released you," said the same officer.

Siebert could not believe his ears: where he believed himself finally free, he was being suspected as a Soviet spy. Indignant, he rose:

"Sir, I regret that I did not reckon with this vile suspicion, or I would certainly not have blurted out the truth so early. Only because I no longer wished to lie, as I was compelled to do for years on end, did I speak the truth — and as you see, I have cut into my own flesh. Do you suppose a Soviet spy would come to you and announce himself to the security service? Do you take the Russians for so mad? I want to go to my family, nothing else, and therefore I urgently request my discharge certificate."

Astonished, the officer looked at Siebert:

"Calm yourself, for we — I and the major — cannot believe that the Russian released you without a particular reason. I will speak with the major about your person. Please wait outside the door."

S. 173 Again Siebert sat a good half hour and waited for the major's decision. His many comrades had already gone into the barracks to rest at last, for the homecomers' trains did not leave until morning.

When Siebert was called into the room again, he saw his discharge certificate already lying signed on the table — only, to his regret, furnished with the notation "For special observation."

"Here is your discharge certificate. We hope you have the firm intention not to harm us. In the contrary case it could cost you your neck," said the officer as he handed Siebert the discharge certificate.

Is it to begin all over again here, this everlasting back and forth? So Siebert asked himself as he walked toward his barrack. He had not yet reached his quarters when the bells of the camp called the homecomers to the thanksgiving service in the camp chapel, to which Siebert betook himself without going into the barrack at all, for he truly had every reason to thank God for His great mercy and His support.

The camp church was filled to the last standing place. With one accord and fervently rang the hymn "Now Thank We All Our God." Everyone wished to give thanks — even those who had only learned in the hard years of captivity that there is an almighty and merciful God. Of the good will to give thanks there was truly no doubt; only, no one was entirely certain of his strength to remain thankful, and therefore many a man folded his hands with the great plea to God:

"Keep me always as thankful as I am now."

After the service most made their way to S. 174 their beds, to rest a little more before the journey, for in the morning hours of the sixth of September the trains were to depart in all directions of western Germany.

The train slowly got rolling. How comfortable it was here, for now the men, who were prisoners no longer, no longer sat in freight cars as in Russia and in the eastern zone of Germany, but traveled like all other people in proper passenger trains. Delicious sensation, to be once more an equal member of human society!

The arrival of the special train with the homecomers had already been announced everywhere the day before, so that at every station a good reception had been prepared for the men.

All who had come to the station rejoiced that once again a large number of men had been permitted to return home. Searching and questioning, wives and mothers went from wagon to wagon, but only rarely did the searchers discover their husband or son: they were either not yet due, or would never return. Hopeless, the poor women stood on the platform and gazed after the departing train [sic]. Perhaps he will come tomorrow, or the day after — for mothers seldom believe that their son will not return. How could a mother's love have room for such a thought?!

Scarcely had they traveled an hour when the first men got out — they were home. Now at every station one could see the most touching scenes of reunion, at which many grew anxious, for many of their loved ones were no longer there. And further, the anxious question: Are my loved ones — am I myself, after the long separation — S. 175–176 still the same? How long will it take before people have grown back together again? For under such circumstances a growing-apart of brothers and sisters, and still more of husband and wife, could not fail to occur.

[Supplied July 2026: the text of pp. 175–176, whose leaf had fallen out of the family copy, has been added. The exact position of the page break between p. 175 and p. 176 is not evident in the source, so the page marker is given as a combined range.]

In the early afternoon the train pulled into the station at Hamm.

"Half an hour's stop!" called the conductor. Quickly Siebert ran to the post office once more, to let Ella know he was arriving that very day — for on the strength of his telegram from Friedland she could not be expecting him until tomorrow.

Many of the comrades got out, so that the train ran on, nearly empty, toward the approaching western border.

The next station was Ahaus — Siebert's final destination.

If he had gazed excitedly out of the window [?] throughout the whole journey, at the thought that he would now, in a short while, be with Ella and Lilli he became quite calm. He simply could not grasp that he was now to be home. The long separation had done its part to blunt the very notion of "home."

How would he meet Ella? And Lilli? Would she accept him as her father at all? When he had seen her for the last time, she was three weeks old. And now? She was already five years old. How big she must [sentence breaks off in the source; some lines are probably missing here, among them the arrival in Ahaus — to be checked against the original] Slowly he walked to the information counter to ask the way "home."

"You want to go to Vreden? Take the bus — it is due to leave any moment now. You will be there in an hour." Siebert came just in time, for scarcely had he boarded the coach when it set itself in motion and turned into a road lined on both sides with tall trees. He had taken a seat at the back window of the almost empty coach and, sunk in dreams of the approaching reunion with wife and daughter, watched the beautiful countryside of Westphalia. Every moment brought him closer to home — a home he was to reach only after the whole of Germany had been crossed, for Vreden lay directly on the Dutch border. Suddenly, up ahead, Siebert saw a sign bearing the inscription "Vreden."

Home! At the goal at last.

Already the market square comes into view, where the bus stop had to be. Quite slowly the big coach pushes its way through the narrow street onto the square. And there Siebert already sees a woman with a little girl, who holds her mother with one hand and with the other lifts high a great bouquet of roses. The woman's eyes search the windows of the vehicle. The child talks at her mother more and more insistently.

Now the coach is directly opposite the two, and Siebert recognizes his wife. Ella! The child at her hand can only be Lilli, his daughter.

They have both stepped up quite close to the coach as Siebert makes to leave it.

"Heinz, you're here! Lilli, this is Papa!"

"At last it has become reality. I have you again."

"Come, Heinz, there is a car waiting for us over there," said Ella through tears after the first greeting. Willingly Lilli let her father take her up in his arms. She nestled close against him, yet without saying a single word.

A stranger opened the car door and Siebert climbed in with his loved ones. No one was able to speak a word, for these happy people were too deeply moved by their overwhelming joy to have been capable of [bringing out ?] even one little word. The great silence was the purest expression of blessedness, because words could never have expressed the true feelings of their souls.

"Ella, will you tell me now where we are going?"

"Home, Heinz — into the great happiness, where you must stay with us always. Always."

"Mama, does Papa want to go away again? He should stay with us," Lilli spoke up, not having quite understood [?] the question and answer.

"Don't worry, little darling, I am staying with you now. And do you love me at all?" Lilli laid both her little arms around Siebert's neck and nestled still closer against him, without going [further into his question ?].

"Heinz, you will feel at home with us too, for we have been living for three years now with very kind people who are truly good — they have helped us wherever they possibly could. And how fond of us they are! We live here as if at home. How good that we fled all the way here back then. May God repay them their kindness, for we shall never be able to. You know, Papa and Mama Hubbeling were already looking forward so much to your homecoming. And the boys — you will love them, I know it for certain. But how I do run on. Forgive me, Heinz, I am so tremendously glad that you are here. Now we need no longer be afraid for you. But there is the farm where we live, up ahead. Look, the whole family is expecting us. Such a pity my parents are not here. They are waiting in Canada for the news of your homecoming — they emigrated there a good year ago; only Lilli, who is so big and good, and I stayed here to wait for you. We two love you so."

The car stopped before the front door. Siebert lifted his loved ones out of the car, and already Papa Hubbeling was coming, leaning on his stick; with tears in his eyes he took Lilli up in his arms and greeted the stranger — whom, to be sure, he had long known from Ella's accounts. Then he turned to Lilli:

"Now you too have a Papa again, dear child. But you won't forget me altogether, will you?"

Hearty and sincere was the welcome of the Hubbeling sons. No — these people could only be good, was Siebert's impression as he shook the men's hands.

Ella led Siebert to her room, and now began a great telling of all that had happened in the times of separation — times of hardship and of longing.

Lilli had found herself a little place between her parents, clasped them both with her small arms and listened, from time to time shyly directing a word to her mother — for she did not yet dare to speak to her father. He was still somewhat too new in her world. While the mother told of the hardships they had endured on the flight from the Warthegau to western Germany, and of the want after Germany's collapse, Lilli's little head sank further and further to one side and at last fell limply into her mother's lap.

Gently Siebert took her up in his arms, S. 177 to carry her, sleeping, to her bed. In this he did not succeed, for the child's eyes opened wide and looked at him, beaming:

"Papa!" — the first word his child said to him broke down everything strange between father and child.

When Ella wanted to put the little one to bed and reminded her to say her evening prayer, the child folded her hands and prayed the customary prayer with its closing:

"Dear Savior, and then I ask you, send us our dear father home again soon, safe and sound. Amen." — without thinking that the Savior had let her plea be fulfilled this very day.

"You dear child, now we no longer need to ask the Savior to send Father. He has heard our prayer — yours and mine and Father's. Papa is here with us and will stay here always. Listen, Lilli: from today on, wouldn't you rather pray like this:

'Dear Savior, I thank you that you have sent our dear father home to us.'"

Then the child slept in peace and quiet, as only children are able to sleep.

"Ella, only now do I believe that I am with you — until now I could not grasp it. Let us always thank God for this great happiness, which was granted us out of God's grace, and always ask the Lord in heaven to keep us ever thankful and content, for He, and He alone, gave us this reunion out of grace."

The End

Handwritten entries and notations found on the physical copy of the First Part (half-title leaf):

Front half-title leaf:

• "N. 17" · "Jacob Warkentin, Marquette Man. 1951" · price notation "3.50 [?]"

Rear half-title leaf / final page:

• "N. XVII" (struck through), beneath it "N. 18"
• On the right margin (vertical): "Jacob Warkentin, Marquette Manitoba 1951"
• Top right: price notation "3.– [?]"