Panzer Commander Part 24

"Eventually he gave up and went to get himself another fish." Who can blame this man for his disappointment? Even a lieutenant-colonel was not necessarily familiar with this kind of kultura, but rather with a draw-well somewhere in Russia.

So now to Kiev.

Weather conditions were far worse than in the south-Caucasian lowlands. We were freezing in the new camp, which'was also far worse equipped than the previous camps. We tried, however, to make ourselves at home. It was still not clear to us why staff officers even here were lumped together with "war criminals." But our common fate united us and we got on well together.

Although it Punishment Camp: Hunger Strike and the KGB 315 was not official, I was called in as interpreter for the camp commandant's interrogations and addresses. The commandant and guards were recruited solely from the NKVD, which had its own units parallel to those of the Russian army.

I made friends with the Russiaq woman interpreter, the camp doctor. From her I learned something about the regulations from Moscow with regard to foodstuffs and other matters. According to these we were ent.i.tled every day to b.u.t.ter, sugar, and more bread than we were receiving. So, hardened as we had gradually become, I demanded in the name of the camp the fulfillment of these regulations. But the complaint was rejected.

Remembering how successful the Hungarians had been,. I suggested a hunger strike. L4ong discussions arose. Many were hesitant and fearful. But the argument that things couldn't get any worse but only better, and that we had nothing to lose anymore, was conclusive.

So one morning we refused to accept our miserable meal. After two days of the hunger -strike, the commandant realized that we were in earnest, whereupon he became "active."

"You stop, sons of wh.o.r.es, or I shoot some." This again caused a few of us to waver, as to whether the action was now right or not. The rest of us encouraged them to keep their word and 90 on.

When the commandant saw that his threats were having no effect, he tried the friendly approach.

"Good, tomorrow you get b.u.t.ter and bedclothes, if you stop." To which we replied, "As soon as our conditions are met we will end the strike." Next day nothing happened. Nor could it. As the interpreter confided to me, there were no supplies of either b.u.t.ter or bedclothes. So where was the commandant supposed to get them from?

"All right," we decided, "the strike goes on." After another five days, a commission appeared from Moscow.

Hunger strikes were an alarm signal. There might also have been concern about their former Allies, for news from Kiev reached the West faster than from the mountains of the Caucasus. So I was hauled out of bed in the night and summoned before the Russian commission as the German interpreter for the German delegation. As interpreter on the "other side" was the woman doctor. An NKVD officer, a man in his mid-thirties, sat opposite us with some civilians, doubtless also from the secret service. His facial expression was less threatening than that to which we had become accustomed.

"Why a hunger strike?" he asked in a calm voice. "Why not talk to the commandant, then everything will be settled."

"But it wasn't," I replied through the interpreter. "That's why we're striking. We drew the commandant's attention to the regulations, but received only a negative response and were abused into the bargain.

"We know the Geneva Convention," I went on. "We know the instructions from Moscow about how prisoners of war are to be treated. We know that letters which we have sent to Moscow have been received and noted. We know also that negotiations have been conducted between the governments of the USSR, the USA, Britain, France, and China to the effect that German prisoners should be released in accordance with the Convention.

"We are in a position to get reports through to Western governments which state the real nature of the situation, especially in this camp. Don't ask how we shall manage this, but we shall. It won't be very nice for Mr. Stalin to have to hear from his Allies what conditions are like here.

"We merely demand that the regulations be followed, neither more nor less." The reaction was astonishing. After a brief consultation with his companions, the NKVD officer gave us his answer.

"Your conditions will be met. Owing to the poor state of food supplies and transport not everything has worked as it should.

We are not inhuman, so you can end the strike." All right, he had saved his faci!, and we agreed to end the strike as soon as our conditions were met. After two days we did in fact receive bedclothes and the stipulated food rations.

What is more, we saw with relief that the commandant was not angry with us.

Much to my surprise, the NKVD officer expressed a wish to speak to me alone in the presence of the interpreter.

"Polkovnik," he said, "a question: how many convinced Communists do you think there are in this and the other German POW camps?" Was it a catch question? It was hard to answer, and it also seemed to me dangerous to give my own views. So I said, "About ten percent, I should think."

"Oh, no; at most six to seven percent," he replied. "And Polkovnik, how many do you think there are in East Germany?" Punishment Camp: Hunger Strike and the KGB 317 "Since you have been in Fast Germany now for nearly five years, it might be some eight to ten percent."

"At most three to four percent. And what about West Germany?" Surprised by his figures, I suggested, "Less, about two to three percent." To which he gave an even more astonishing reply, "Nill You see, we are realists in Moscow. And because we are, we see no chance of being able to convince the German people of communism." His Conclusion, "Neither the Italian nor the French Communists can be numbered among us. They are first and foremost Italians and Frenchmen. Britain is on the other side of the Channel, the.Americans are far away. But we do have to reckon with you." And then his words held doubt and fear again, "One day you will want to have an army again, with which you will invade us again.

There lies our whole interest in keeping Germany 'neutral." With a neutral Germany danger for us is banished. We can convince Europe of our desire, but also of our intention, never again to allow a war on our territory. That's how things look, Polkoynik." This was one of the most interesting and instructive conversations I had as a plennl The view was in keeping with that of ordinary soldiers, Russian convicts, and civilians, who had already said to me previously, "Although it will be hard for us, we shall one day forget what has happened. But you will go back to your country. Then you will build up a new army and march into Russia, destroy our villages and kill or carry off our people." How can this fear ever be removed from the people or from the "realists" in Moscow? All the noisy reactions to the rebuilding of the Bundeswwhr, the federal army, and to the alliance with the American superpower are to be seen against this background.

The weeks and months went by.

Hope of returning home dwindled more and more. It was especially depressing for us to hear that men had begun to be released from the "normal" camps.

We, the "convicts" were clearly not among them. All the same, after our successful hunger strike, we were in no mood to give up hope. The outcome of the strike had been like a tonic to us.

Since then we had no longer been sent to work; our day was made up of getting food and discussing the rumors that were going around.

In the late autumn of 1949 the Russian winter was descending on the land and snow began to cover the broad expanse of the Ukraine. Then came the Russian interpreter's announcement that releases were imminent in our camp, too, albeit only up to 85 percent. The euphoria triggered off by the prospect of going home was unimaginable, but it gave way yet again to doubt. We had been fed too often with empty promises, with the monotonous saftra domoi ("tomorrow home").

Then at the end of October the first commission appeared from Moscow. The first prisoners were fetched for interrogation-as usual by night. "What did they ask you? Who questioned you?

What was your impression?" No one knew the results of the interrogations. KGB people were impenetrable; they gave no sign of either benevolence or disfavor.

Who would be among the 15 percent who were supposed to remain behind?

The uncertainty, the hope, and anxiety remained. The commission disappeared again. It had interrogated only a proportion of the prisoners. What would be done with the others? Nothing happened. Our nerves were stretched to a breaking point. A deep depression settled over us all.

Then, after a few days, NKVD officers appeared in our barracks.

They had lists from which they read out names. Those concerned had to pack their things and a.s.semble in the courtyard. As alwavs. by night. No one could sleep from excitement. When the rest of us crowded into the courtyard to see what was happening, we were Release 319 brusquely pushed back. Worst off were those, who had in fact been interrogated but then not called. We didn't know how to console them.

Once more we heard the loud "Dayai!" From the windows we saw the small column move off and leave the camp. Where were they going?

Next morning I met the interpreter.

"What's happening?" I asked. "Are the others going home?"

"I think so," she said. "The train pulled out with the doors unlocked. That should mean domoi."

"And the rest, those who were questioned but not called, what will happen to them?"

"I did tell you," she said, "fifteen percent." Even the interpreter could only guess, so hermetical were the workings of the NKVD.

"Was that the lot?" I questioned her further. "The commission has gone away, after all."

"The next commission will come," she said by way of consolation.

"Then they will talk to everyone and decide who shall go home." Shortly after, I came across a familiar face, a fellow prisoner from our old Camp 518/I. He was very downcast.

"After all the years of privation," he said, "and the heavy work in the mines, I was suddenly accused of having fought against the partisans and was told that I had to go as punishment to a special camp. I have never fought against the partisans and was in action in Russia for only a short time. But I can't prove anything. They must be mixing me up with someone else. I was brought here by a guard." We were terribly sorry for him. What a price for an individual to pay, and an innocent man at that.

"How do things look in the old camp," I asked him, "what are our friends doing?"

"We were transferred to Camp II at the very beginning of 1949.

After a short time releases were made. I hope that in the meantime everyone has gone home." A new commission arrived from Moscow.

The same procedure took place once more: interrogations by night, selection and transportation. Then came a third commission.

The camp was beginning to empty. Although we, the residue, were 11 of hope for the next commission, we tried to console waiting fu and raise the spirits of the fifteen percent who had been picked out to stay behind. Finally-after the val of the fourth commission -it was my turn and I had the memorable experience of my interroption.

We who were called to pack our few belongings had first to go to the clothing room, where we were given new Russian winter clothing: padded jackets and trousers, as well as fresh foot-cloths, or foot-wrappings, which replaced socks.

The stockings that I had knitted for myself, of which I was so proud and which I wanted to show my mother, were taken from me.

"Nix kultura," said the Russians.

I did manage, however, to keep my Knight's Cross, which I had been able to hide from the Russians throughout those years. For a pair of my homemade stockings the German camp carpenter made me a little wooden chest, with a hollow s.p.a.ce chiseled in one of its sides to take the Knight's Cross, which was then glued over.

The irony of fate: my first lodgings in Hamburg were burgled shortly after I had moved in and the Knight's Cross, among other things, was stolen.

Our train rumbled west across snow-covered fields, fields that five years earlier had seen the last stages of the struggle with Russia. Beneath them now lay the fallen, in hundreds of thousands.

At Brest-Litovsk, the boundary between Poland and Russia, drawn anew in 1939, we came to the first stop of any duration. Again we changed from Russian into European wagons.

Suddenly Russian officers appeared in the trucks with lists.

Our joy gave way to renewed fear, And indeed, ten of our fellow prisoners were taken off the train and led away. What a cruel fate!

Was the torment of uncertainty to have no end even now? We realized again that true freedom would be reached only after the border to West Germany had been crossed.

At every further stop we cowered in the comers of the truck, always in the hope that we wouldn't be discovered. We were now traveling through Polish territory toward East Germany, but we were still in Russian custody.

One day we stopped on an open stretch of the line. Nearby we could see a village. Some peasants came up to our train across the snow-covered fields.

"Where from? You German prisoners?" We nodded, but were afraid they might be NKVD people in disguise.

"You're lucky, comrades, you're going home. We from Brest, Release 321 once Poland, now Russia. We find new homeland, once Germany, but now given to us by Russians as home. Things bad for us; we must give Russians everything, our cows, grain, b.u.t.ter. Because of that we have to go hungry. Don't be angry with us, we didn't rob you of your homeland." After nearly five years we were now confronted with reality.

German territory taken from us Germans and handed over to the Poles, from whom their land in the east had been taken in exchange. What a political game of chessl At the end of December we reached the border between Poland and East Germany. At last we were on home ground, albeit the socalled "Eastern Zone" occupied and controlled by the Russians.

We were taken over by east-German guards, who were very unfriendly and declined to enter into any conversation. Yet we felt safer here.

We had completely forgotten that in the meantime Christmas, the'festival of peace, had been celebrated and a new year begun.

We stopped suddenly on an open stretch.

"Get out! Everybody stand by the trucks!" came the order.

What was happening now? Our nerves could stand no further strain. The tension was hardly bearable. Perhaps the East Germans had been told to keep us in their zone?

"We will now march in line to the border with West Germany.

There each man will be called out by name. He must then cross the border without any further stop." We heard the words with relief.

One by one we took the path to freedom, for which we had yearned so long; cautiously at first, but then everyone ran as fast as he could past the open barrier. In the bare wintry branches of the trees we could see dozens of Russian fur caps. Realizing what had taken place there, we tore off our own caps and with a loud cry hurled them likewise up into the trees.

Freel After nearly five years, free at last!

Helpers and nurses of the German Red Cross took charge of us. A few men had to be supported; their legs gave way when the tension finally eased. We were taken to the Friedland camp, which still exists today, where the extensive but nsary formalities then began.

But before that everyone was allowed to have a bath. What a treat after all the years!

Then came the registering and questioning, about where one wanted to be discharged to, but also dispa.s.sionate interrogation British officers, with questions about the camp in Russia, the food, treatment, and much else.

Then, finally, we were given the chance to telephone our families free of charge. The scenes that took place were unimaginable. No one was ashamed of his tears.

I wanted to be discharged to my mother's in Flensburg on the border with Denmark and was given a ticket, as well as my "discharge pay" of DM 300-00, to which every prisoner of war was ent.i.tled. Winand and his fellow prisoners were accompanied by Captain Samcharadse, the commandant of Camp 7518/1, until they reached the Russian border at Brest-Litovsk. There for the last time all prisoners were gone through. We were scolded and they took our last little properties. "Samcharadse's last action" they called it.

I decided to stop off in Hamburg on the way to Flensburg, to see some old friends again.

On 5 January 1950, the official day of my discharge, I arrived in Hamburg early in the morning. Waiting for me on the platform was my old friend Boos. He hardly recognized me in my padded clothes, but then we fell into each other's arms.

"Come on, old man," he said, "we'll go straight home. My wife is waiting there with a breakfast 'fit for a king." Do you remember how we used to enjoy such a breakfast when you brought back all those delicacies from the front, things which we here at home no longer knew except by name?" At his lovely country house my padded clothes were first taken from me. At last I could be human again!

"We'll b.u.m these things right away," said my friend. "On the one hand so that you'll forget your captivity quickly, and on the other hand so that no bugs or lice will be brought into the house. Here are some of my things." After a generous bath we sat in front of a blazing fire and ate and drank whatever the kitchen and cellar had to offer. For me it was like a dream.

To crown it all my friend opened a bottle of champagne, Veuve Cliquot R 1937.

"Do you remember? You once brought me a case of twelve bottles of this from France. We drank one bottle on New Year's Eve 1944 to your good health and to peace in 1945. Ten bottles we bartered for food at the British officers' mess. But we didn't dare touch the last bottle, because we thought that if we did you would Release 323 never come back. Now the moment has come to empty it to your safe return and to our reunion."

"You really do have some good friends still," I thought, deeply touched.

Next day I traveled on to my mother and sister. They and my brother, who had served on a minesweeper in the navy but had been given an early discharge, were standing at the station with flowers. What a reunion!

When we got home, I found many of the old things that I had grown to love no longer there. In order to survive, my mother had bartered many of our valuable pieces from China and j.a.pan for food. Only the j.a.panese tea service had not been touched, for reasons similar to those of my friend with the bottle of champ agne.

It was a question now of building a new life. When I went to Hamburg later, to look for a job, the friends just mentioned invited me to stay with them for the time being. On my arrival, my friend came up to me and ceremonially handed me a present.

It was the champagne cork, set with a silver band, on which was engraved "5 January 1950."

A New Start My fresh start on "Day Zero" began with a body-blow. On reaching Flensburg I at once phoned Dagmar in Berlin. She was to come in a few days' time for a long weekend; her work at the TV station allowed her no more. I looked forward to our meeting, after exactly five years, in great agitation.

From the few cards of greeting to Russia I knew that she had become a successful reporter, much in demand; but also that she had maintained her commitment to me throughout and had planned our first meeting with care. In her apartment in Berlin a room was kept for me, and for me alone.

Now, on the cold station platform, we faced each other somewhat shyly.

"You look well," I began, to get over the moment I had thought about day and night in the camp. "You look even more attractive, but a bit on edge and run down."

"You look well too, much better than I expected after the long years in Russia." Well, I kept myself physically fit; I never gave up hope of coming home and lived for this moment of seeing you again." Then we were sitting together over a cup of coffee. My mother and sister had left us alone.

Dagmar told me about herself, of the successful journey to Flensburg with "my" Mercedes, her job with the British as an interpreter, and her start with North German Radio, until the switch to TV. Dagmar had carved out a remarkable career for herself, from sheltered, well brought-up girl of "good" family to sought-after reporter.

"I've already made inquiries," she went on, "about possible openings for you in TV, radio, or the press. Unfortunately with no luck; there are too many pros lining up for any jobs that are open." Dagmar then spoke of her many interesting colleagues, of the prominent people she had interviewed, and of the pleasure she took in her work.

Suddenly, and painfully, it dawned on me that I had stood still, A New Start 325 like all my fellow prisoners, in the state I had been in at the beginning of 1945, with no chance of further development. We were worlds apart, and a bridge seemed scarcely possible. Dagmar too appeared to feel this.

"We'll have to think it all over," she said. "Everything is so different from how I imagined it would be through the years.