Panzer Commander Part 26

"Of course!" Everything came back to me. "I know too how nervous you were when you had to steal tires, on orders from Samcharadse, from the mine depot. The guards might well have killed you. A lot of our 'special' jobs really were dangerous'and quite an adventure." Back to Fritz Winand's table, the energetic organizer of the meeting of our camp a.s.sociation. On his return he had completed his training and is today a munic.i.p.al inspector in Cologne, responsible for the care of the mentally and physically handicapped.

"Meeting my fellow sufferers of that time," he said, "has left its mark. I cannot and will not suppress or forget those years in the Gulag; they became for many a turning point in their lives. It is quite clear to me that it was only the feeling of solidarity, and the comradeship without regard to rank or social origin, that enabled so many to survive." In Cologne we asked ourselves a question: would we like to see Tkibuli again? Opinions varied, from "Never again!" to "Yes, why not, if the Russians would let us in?" A business graduate, Eberhard Koellreuter, was at the time one of the very young prisoners; today he is professionally employed in the Munich area. He took the initiative and in 1978, 1982, and, most recently, in 1985, he traveled to the Caucasus quite officially with groups of German tourists. He organized the last trip himself. With his permission I pa.s.s on his account of it.

I in 1985 1 made up a party of sixty-seven people who wanted to see the beautiful state of Georgia on the edge of Asia. Apart from me, no one had anything to do with wartime captivity. My application to Intourist to include Tkibuli in our itinerary was rejected:"For that, responsibility lies with the veteran's a.s.sociation." Why is still a mystery to me today. "On 6 September 1985, our party arri-ved in the Caucasus. I asked the young and friendly Georgian woman who 'had been allot ted to us as guide whether we might go via Tkibuli. "I happen to have heard of the place," I said by way of explanation. "Yes, of course, the town is on our way to Lake Ox-eye, high in the Elbrus mountains. There we shall be visiting the famous cathedral of Nikorzminda, built under Bagrat 111, A.D.1010 to 1014."

"I was very excited; no one in the group had to know why I was so interested in this G.o.d-forsaken hole. On 7 September, after a horrible breakfast, we traveled north into the mountains in a dilapidated bus. The road was full of potholes, as it always had been.

"On either side of the road were vast tea plantations (Georgia is the third largest tea-producer in the world), then virgin land again, lying under the peaceful glow of the warm autumn sun. Parallel to the road ran the single-line railway, along which we had been transported to our camp, cooped up in freight cars.

"After two hours of jolting we arrived in the outskirts of Tkibuli. Pa.s.sing the custom-house, we came to the dreary railway station, where we had once been unloaded and had had to drag ourselves to the camp laboriously on foot. I asked the guide whether we might stop for a moment, 'a call of nature, you understand." From a point of concealment I took a few photographs. (May the Russian law forgive mel Taking photographs is strictly forbidden.) From here the town, set against hills and mountains, looked as untroubled as a health resort. When I thought of the many hundreds of our comrades who lay somewhere up there in unmarked graves, tears came to my eyes. I was not ashamed of them.

"As we drew nearer, the little town appeared as it really was and how I remembered it: plain wooden houses, neglected streets, a place built only for prisoners, who brought out the precious coal. We stopped in the middle of it. I spoke to some Georgians, asked about our camp and the coal mines. They looked at me in amazement, a plenni who was visiting the scene of his tribulation? "Your camp has been pulled down long ago," they replied. "Other camps still exist for Russians." Although most of them had not been alive at the time, or living there, they all showed much sympathy.

"We went on up, past the electricity works, which we had once built and which now looked pretty run down. Along a winding road we climbed the mountain to the Nakerala Pa.s.s. There, in 1949, I had been on my last building site: accommodation for mine workem The houses looked neglected; what must they be like inside?

A New Start 337 The view back to Tkibuli was of matchless beauty; up there nothing recalled the suffering of that time.

"I took endless photographs, the view to the north stretched across to Lake Ox-eye and on to the untouched mountain world of the Elbrus range. Then we were at our destination. The beautiful old cathedral appeared to be undamaged, a showplace, perhaps, for the few tourists who strayed this far? We were at once surrounded by mountain peasants, to whom we distributed T-shirts and other little gifts. The friendly pope came up to us, posed for my Polaroid camera with evident pleasure and tucked the picture proudly'into his cowl.

"When the peasants realized that we came from"Ferge," the Federal Republic, we were submerged in a torrent of words.

"'We've heard from our parents how a lot of Germans had to work here as prisoners of war and that some of them starved to death.

We like you Germans; we too are freedom-loving people. There must never be war again."

"On the way back we pa.s.sed once more through Tkibuli, that place of horror. Time has spread its cloak of oblivion. And it is well that it has" So ended Eberhard Koellreuter's account.

What he, as an individual, managed to do should one day be made possible for everyone, in order to extend a hand to the people there and to the whole of Russia.

At the beginning of July 1987, my way took me to Munich. I would visit Jupp Link.

I called Ernst Urban in Munich, who was to arrange the meeting.

In the camp I had often sat with Urban in the evening and heard his story, of how he had been placed between two glowing ovens and dowsed with cold water, in order to force a "confession" from him. Urban was afraid that the reunion with Jupp Link might be too much for Link. His wife said, "Come all the same, but treat him gently." Through the lovely countryside, basking in the warm July sun, our way led us to the village in which Jupp lived, in the foothills of the Alps. We stopped in front of one of the typical Bavarian farmhouses.

"There's Jupp, he's looking out for us," cried Urban.

Leaning on his stick, Jupp hobbled up to me. He had tears in his eyes. And so had I, at this reunion after forty years.

Jupp fell on my neck.

Ilat I should live to see this! Our Colonel von Luck here at my place, well and apparently the same as ever. Come, Colonel, you are most welcome. This is my wife, the mainstay of my life."

"My husband has told me so much about you; I am so pleased' for his sake. He didn't know whether you were still alive until we saw you on TV. I'll make you a Bavarian snack. Till then, sit here on the bench with my husband. He loves this place with its view of the mountains." We three "old plennis" sat together. Jupp had put his arm around me and he spoke of the days and years in the Caucasus. I hadn't known till then that he had taken photographs in the camp, secretly and at the risk of his life, and that he had managed to smuggle the negatives out of the camp with the help of Georgian women. Today these photographs are valuable, because of their rarity.

It was so peaceful there on the bench that we forgot the hard times and were simply glad to still be alive.

After the expertly prepared snack, I had unfortunately to continue my journey. I promised Jupp I would come again, whenever my way took me to Munich.

"G.o.d preserve you, my dear Jupp. I shall never forget what you did for us all as a young man and as the German camp conunandant." A last wave and, sadly, Urban and I drove away.

I have no regret that the past, in multifarious form, has caught up with me again. The bridge to my earlier life has been built.

I can cross it without heartache.

My second life, with its many fresh and strange adventures, has taken on new meaning.

To forget is good-but hard.

To forgive is better.

Best of all is reconciliation.

In 1952 I had a surprise visit from Erich Beck, my companion in many theaters of war, who used to regard himself as my "constant shadow."

"I got your address frbm your mother and took advantage of a business trip to look you up at last." Our delight was immense. We had known nothing more of each other after my flight from North Africa in April 1943.

We sat together and talked: I of the heavy fighting up to the bitter end and of the hardships of Russian captivity. Erich Beck for his part was full of praise for the humane treatment he had received from the Americans, who let him go home early.

"The Amis showed by their att.i.tude that they wanted to forget and be reconciled. "After all," they implied, 'you were only doing your duty.'" We saw each other frequently in the years that followed. Beck's diary and notes have been a great help to me in writing this book. Colonel and corporal turned into friends. In late 1988 Erich Beck died. Unfortunately I had not the time to attend his funeral. I lost a true friend.

In 1956 I had business in Paris. I enjoyed renewing my acquaintance with this unique city. Much had changed, but the little quartiers remained.

I wanted-was determined-to find J. B. Morel again, my friend from the hard days of the war. The Russians had my little address book and he was not in the telephone directory (he had a private number). I couldn't even remember the name of the street where he lived, but I knew what the house looked like and that it was in Neuilly, near the Bois de Boulogne. I went there on the off chance, and in the Rue du Dobropol suddenly found myself in front of the familiar house in which J. B. had had his little apartment. The concierge would help me; the concierges of Paris were all-seeing and all-knowing.

She was sitting in her cubbyhole talking to an elegant lady.

"Excuse me, Madame, does Monsieur Morel still live here?"

"I am Madame Morel," said the lady. "Can I help you?"

"Madame, you don't know me, but I am Hans von Luck, a good friend of your husband's from the war years."

"Hans, mon Dieu, you're alivel" Both women suddenly had tears in their eyes. "I know all about you, J. B. has told me so much.

Come in, my husband will be home any minute.

"My name is Mary, We married a few years ago and for the time being have kept the little bachelor apartment." The apartment was unchanged, a few more feminine touches, perhaps. How often had I sat there and talked about the wretched war.

Mary was running around excitedly.

"Hide in the sleeping alcove. We'll give J. B. a surprise." Suddenly, there he was.

"Bonjour, ch6rie, have you had a good day?" Then he turned around and saw me standing before him. His coat and briefcase fell to the floor, tears sprang to his eyes.

"Non, Hans, ce nestpas vrai, Mon Dieu, it really is you." We rushed together and fell in each other's arms. I too had tears in my eyes.

"Mary, put something on, we're going to celebrate. I'll give C16ment a ring; he's got to come along." We all sat together in a little restaurant that belonged to a friend of J. B.'s.

"Pieffe, you won't believe it, I've found my friend Baron Hans von Luck again. Bring us a bottle of champagne and cook up something special for us." There was so much to tell and to ask about.

At the end of the war J. B. had left no stone unturned in his efforts to find me: he tried the French emba.s.sy in Moscow, the German emba.s.sy in Paris, and even the Russian KGB.

"All I could discover was that you had fallen into the hands of the Russians. But no one could tell me where you were or even whether you were still alive."

Epilogue.

C16ment Duhour turned up with a bottle of very old champagne, Veuve Cliquot Ros6. He, meanwhile, had ome an eminent film producer, his liaison with Vivianne Romance long since ended.

"How is Dagmar? After her flight from Paris in 1944 we heard nothing more of her." I told my friends how and why things had come to an end between us and the dreadful circ.u.mstances in which she had lost her life. We sat together far into the night and promised each other never again to allow contact between us to be broken.

Two officers, who had once confronted each other as eiiemies, had become friends in the best sense of the word.

Everything divisive was forgotten and forgiven.

In 1967 I received a phone call from a director of Pathe films in France.

"The ORTF is planning to make a doc.u.mentary film in North Africa called The War Without Hate, using newsreel material on the desert war from 1941 to 1943. In making it, an eyewitness from each of the four countries that took part in the war, Britain, France, Italy, and Germany, is to be present as commentator.

The project is under the auspices of the French minister of defense, Messmer (who at the time was one of the defenders of the desert fort of Bir Hacheim). We shall be flying with the team in a government plane to Alexandria, and from-there go to Tobruk and deeper into the desert. If you would like to take part, Monsieur von Luck, I'll come and see you with an ORTF editor to discuss all the details." I agreed at once, for the job appealed to me.

We arrived in Egypt about four weeks before the outbreak of the Six Day War. The country was highly unsettled. For security reasons we were not allowed to go to Tobruk. So we made the film somewhere in the desert.

The outcome was a conciliatory, objective film, which has been shown with great success in many countries of Europe and overseas.

From the end of the 1960s to 1979 I was, as already mentioned, a guest of the British Staff College, Camberley, which organized a "battlefield tour" in Normandy each year,'so that young generalstaff officers could hear on the spot comments on the most important battles in Normandy by former partic.i.p.ants in the war.

There is virtually no senior British officer today who as a student did not hear my talks in Normandy. Among them is the Duke of Kent.

Opponents have turned into friends, who together, and without emotion, try to draw lessons from the events of that time.

Since June 1980 I have been a guest each year of the Swedish military academy, which for the reasons given is interested in the German defensive operations during the invasion.

Finally, in November 1983, I was visited by Stevmbrose, today my good friend, to be interviewed for his which was to reconstruct, for the fortieth am nvasion, the coup de main by which Major John Howard had been able on that occasion to take the important bridges over the Ome.

In May 1984 I gave a talk in Normandy to a group of Americans, who were being guided around the battlefields by Steve Ambrose.

"Will you be coming to the celebrations on 6 June?" he asked me.

"No," I replied, "that is a day of remembrance for the Western Allies. As a former combatant I would have no business to be there.

"In all the efforts at reconciliation, one should on such a day respect the feelings and memories of others." At the end of May 1984 things were very hectic at the little Caf6 Gondr6e, which stands right by the Pegasus bridges and was probably the first house to be liberated by the Allies. Steve Ambrose, the American historian, John Howard, the British liberator, and 1, the German colonel and "man from the other side," sat in front of the caf6 in the sun. We were served by Madame Gondr6e and her daughters. For me the moment was symbolic: opponents of forty years earlier sat together as friends, to sign Steve's book for the hundreds of visitors who had come from all over the world for the approaching 6 June.

The Caf6 Gondr6e had presented me with a problem from the start.

Madame hated the Germans. Her husband, a member of the Resistance, had died shortly after the end of the war. Since then John Howard, the liberator, had been regarded by Madame Gondr6e and her daughters as the patron of the house.

Both the Staff College and the Swedes always took lunch at Madame's; it was already a tradition. But how could I as a German and at the same time a guest of the British, and later the Swedes, share in the daily lunch without disclosing my nationality?

John Howard found the answer.

With the British I was introduced to Madame as "Major van Luck," and with the Swedes as "a Viking from Sweden." Over all Epilogue 343 the years Madame had responded with the words, "I like the English" and "I like the Vikings," accompanied by a kiss on either cheek. Although it was rea.s.suring that Madame bad never discovered my true nationality, I was nevertheless far from happy about this white lie.

While Steve and I went on signing copies of his book, the Swedish commandant and John Howard were still sitting in Madame's sanctuary, the little back room with all her photographic mementoes.

Suddenly John Howard came out.

"Hans, for Madame the 6th of June 1984 will be the high point of her life. The celebrations for the fortieth anniversary of D-Day will be attended by Prince Charles, who will also be coming to Pegasus Bridge and the Cafe Gondr6e, and will meet Madame. She is very ill and is only keeping herself going for that day. I think we should finally tell her the truth. She ought not to die with our white lie. I'll speak to her." I waited outside, anxious about how Madame would react.

Then she came out, with her arm hooked through John's. She stopped in front of me; her expression was kind.

"Monsieur Hans, John has told me everything. I know now that today you are close friends, and John's friends are also my friends. Let us forget and forgive everything. G.o.d protect you!" And this time her little kiss was legitimate.

The reconciliation with this patriotic woman meant more to me than many other encounters.

A few weeks later John called me from England.

"Hans, I shall never forget the meeting between Prince Charles and Madame. Before the eyes of the world's press and TV cameras, this wonderful woman kissed the hand of the British heir to the throne and expressed her grat.i.tude for 'liberation from the n.a.z.is."

"She died a few days ago, happy, as her daughters told me." The following year I went with John to the little village cemetery and laid some flowers on her grave. I also laid a bunch on the grave of Lieutenant "Den" Brotheridge, the first,man to fall in John's company. They had a claim to my respect.

In May 19871 was invited by the French consul, Monsieur Kieffer, to Rittershoffen in Alsace. Not far from this village, which had been so hotly contested in January 1945, a one-time casemate in the Maginot Line was to be inaugurated as a museum. French German youngsters had worked there voluntarily for months, a wonderful sign of reconciliation.

On Monsieur Kieffer's initiative a monument had already been inaugurated the year before between the two villages of Rittershoffen and Hatten. On it were inscribed the names of the divisions that had fought against each other in the last phase of the war. Under the fluttering flags of America, France, and West Gerznany, foz-zner enemies shook hands, in the knowledge that they had no intention of ever fighting each other again.

In July 1987 I was invited to deliver a lecture at the University of Innsbruck in Austria to some twenty-five students, male and female, who were members of Steve Ambrose's cla.s.s on a studyvisit to Europe. Quite a number of them were Jews. Before we all traveled to Normandy for a long weekend, we sat together each evening in a little restaurant and talked. I knew that many of them had been highly sceptical as they listened to the lecture of a "former officer in the n.a.z.i army." I was able to satisfy them that the term "n.a.z.i officer" was incorrect and a generalization, and that the vast majority of the German army realized, after the invasion of Russia and the lost war in North Africa and France, that the ideology of the "Thousand-Year Reich" was false and had plunged not only our own people but the whole of Europe into misery.

I also said, however, that I was still a German, and would stand by that.

On the train journey to France I tried to give them an idea of Rommel's personality, which interested them greatly, and to make clear to them that the black-and-white portrayal of the Russians as nothing but evil and us in the West as nothing but good was mistaken and led us nowhere, They also wanted to know whether we former soldiers had not, after all, known something about Auschwitz and the other extermination camps and done nothing about them. I was able to satisfy the students that this had not been the case; until I heard that my future father-in-law had been killed in Sachsenhausen concentration camp, I had known nothing about them. That for me had first opened a c.h.i.n.k in the door to the appalling events.

The fact that they believed me is for me the clearest evidence that the youth of today is trying to see things objectively.

In their examination papers and in their personal letters to me it was evident that they had received a new picture of their former opponents, us Germans, for which they thanked me.

Epilogue 345.

The youth of the Western world, the new generation, has long since built bridges to each other and thereby unconsciously and without difficulty effected a reconciliation between former opponents.

Glasnost and perestroika will make it possible, one hopes, for resentment toward our former Russian opponents to be broken down and for a hand to be extended also to them.