In The Third Reich
Whistling
loudly our train entered the Dresden station. At most of the platforms
trains were belching smoke. There were crowds on all platforms.
The first impression was of noise, hurrying people, yelling, calling
to each other, loud signals and penetrating voices from various
loudspeakers. The light was dim everywhere. Globes were covered
with something blue, giving only a little light which shone feebly
on the masses of people.
Carried
along by the crowd we reached the street. Small cream-coloured Dresden
trams were ringing their bells non-stop trying to avoid hitting
the people. We were looking for an address given us a long time
ago. Near the station in one of the lesser known streets, we found
the bookshop we were looking for. In its windows, as in all German
bookshops, was displayed the book which was read by hardly anyone
- 'Mein Kampf' by Adolf Hitler. The book was propped up by a wilting
pot plant. It was quiet in the bookshop. The shop was full of books
with shelves reaching to the ceiling. Behind these shelves in a
narrow darkish room Alma was sitting, typing. We had been looking
for her for many reasons. Firstly, she was the only person we knew
in Dresden. She was Marushka's friend from Lithuania and for the
last few years had worked in Germany and would be able to give us
valuable information and tell us the score.
Alma
was a rather unusual woman. I never could discover her nationality
which was quite indifferent to me. She considered herself a civis
orbium terrarum (citizen of the world) and went her own ways. I
never knew if or where she had a family. Alma was a woman, I think,
who did not love anyone deeply. Because of her love of books she
had come to Germany to work in this bookshop. In addition, she was
an employee of the cultural society of German-Turkestan Friendly
Relations. I could never find out what the society was about, especially
in-times when Goebbels liquidated all cultural life. Many schools
were closed besides universities, theatres, libraries and other
places of education and cultural entertainment but the cultural
society for German-Turkestan relationship still existed, even employing
quite a few people.
As
Alma asked us to stay with her, we decided to spend a few days in
Dresden. After a good rest, we went to see the capital city of 'Soksofony'
which Lithuanian labourers called Saxoni. There were many Lithuanians
there as the German employment office in Kaunas sent many transports
of forced labour to Saxoni. There was also a large group of educated
Lithuanians who, fleeing the Front, came to Dresden - people from
the theatre in Kaunas, employees from different administration offices
and even some divisions of the Lithuanian Army. In the streets one
heard many different tongues and saw different features. People
from the 'Ostland' were easily distinguishable. Ukrainers, White
Russian and Lithuanian women wore bright, multi-coloured scarves
and long skirts. Their menfolk wore clean but crumpled tunic shirts
and high boots. Being Sunday, the streets were crowded with masses
of gaping people. All these people from the captured East had sewn
on their clothes a blue patch with a stamp 'OST'. These three letters
covered a multitude of people. They included not only the Russians
in their red and white berets but also people from Ukraine, White
Russia, Baltic countries and also the dark Georgians, the slant-eyed
Tartars, the Azerbaijans with flat Mongolic faces and sly-looking
eyes. They were all imported into Germany for slave labour, the
labourer marked 'made in the East. In this crowd were some dressed
worse than others, even in torn clothing. They could not ever afford
a Sunday best - those were the Poles. They were excluded from the
general ' OST' - they did not belong to the East nor to the West
but the newly formed German oddity 'General Gubcrasatian'. God alone
might have known what their position would be in the 'New Europe'
of Messrs. Goebbels and Rosenberg. Now they were required by the
Third Reich for the hardest jobs. On their chests was a yellow sign
well-known to all in Germany - a yellow rhomboid with a purple letter
'P’.
Walking
along the streets of Dresden we heard many more languages, some
completely foreign to us. The Germans, taking over foreign countries,
at the same time decreased their own population as the foreign countries
taken by force had to be peopled by the Germans. This was the Fuehrer’s
law - he was the master of New Europe. At this time Dresden was
one of the few German cities still untouched by mass bombing. There
were hardly any traces of bombing. The most beautiful part of the
city was spread along the River Elbe, still in all its beauty. It
was dominated by the famous 'Zwinger', the beautiful arena of ancient
jousting Knights which was surrounded by a ring of ornate galleries,
balconies and terraces. The fine old baroque was fully displayed
amidst the flowers and the greenery. Among the fantastically arched
galleries were miniature palaces built on different levels. Large
greenhouses with huge windows seemed to catch all the sunrays. Theirs
was a superior world, beyond temptation, beyond understanding of
the gaping crowd. From there, arched galleries led to the king's
chambers. Only tops of the trees planted on lower levels could reach
them. Golden leaves were falling on the marble balustrades where,
long ago, crowned heads and princesses watched the knights.
All
this was a long time ago. The shining armour was put on wooden models,
the exquisite gowns of the princesses were displayed in glass cabinets
in the museums and the mansions were taken over by Dresden rich
commoners. The rattling sound of the armour was replaced by the
rich, soft sound of music. The Dresden symphony concerts received
here their true sanctuary.
Further
down we looked at the banks of the River Elbe. Large, sloping terraces
led to the 'Zwinger', the place of ancient entertainment and tournaments.
The open grounds over the Elbe were joined by bridges like clamping
buckles. The other side glittered with the mosaic of many coloured
houses. To the left of the open space stood the Dresden Opera House,
its entrance enclosed with winding colonnades. To the right was
the king's church - a beautiful Gothic, its proud tower rising straight
to the sky, its wall nearly touching the king's castle. Over the
narrow street was suspended an arcade in the shape of a state coach
joining the church with the castle, the king's salon with the altar.
A large painted gate led to the king's yard.
Further
on were the boulevards along the river. In their shade were the
buildings of the art academy and the museums. Now they were quite
empty like tombs in a cemetery covered by autumn leaves. They were
declared closed by orders of the Fuehrer. Objects of art were buried
in the ground and people loving and living for art were fighting
for a worse future. Only empty halls, galleries and auditoriums
remained. Buildings by famous architects, these sanctuaries of beauty,
culture and truth were awaiting in the empty stillness the uncertain
tomorrow. Would they survive? Would the war respect them?
The
street loudspeakers were calling ''Attention! Attention! Large formations
of enemy bombers have crossed the frontiers of the Reich. Stay tuned
in - in a few moments a new announcement from the airways force
will follow, they proceed ..." and soon followed names of towns
in central Germany. We rushed to the shelters. Had Dresden's last
hour come? No.
Soon
the 'All Clear' sounded. The planes had turned to the north - this
time Berlin was hit. "A large force of enemy flying-fortresses
is attacking our capital city. Churches and hospitals are being
hit. The civilian population received many losses... headquarters
announced the next day.
It
was time for us to leave. I went to the station for information
about possible connections for our travel.
At
the information office travellers were constantly asking and pleading
with the officer about the safety of different lines. They wanted
some kind of guarantee. The old gentleman in a railway uniform was
shrugging his shoulders and occasionally addressed everyone, saying
'I can't promise you anything. Trains going to the north are being
shot at. If you don't want to take risks, go during the night."
People from the crowd replied "But that would mean sitting
for long times at different railway stations waiting for connections
and we all know that stations are being bombed frequently."
A woman going to Duisburg was very worried. The officer again shrugged
his shoulders and said, "I can only inform you which lines
are temporarily closed due to damaged and bombed railway lines.
I can't tell you which lines will, or will not, be bombed in the
future." Smiling, he added, "Even I, the information centre,
am unable to say. If you are frightened, the best idea would be
not to travel at all. As it is our trains are overcrowded."
"I have to go. My son is seriously wounded,” she said, showing
him the wire received from her son. "He is in Duisburg hospital”.
At last I reached the window with my travel order far Isny.
"You
can have two connections,” the officer said in a tired voice. "One
through Munich, the other through Augsburg." Not waiting for
my question, he continued, "I would advise you to go through
Augsburg as lately Munich has had more air raids." I agreed
without any further question and he wrote out the tickets: Nuremberg,
Augsburg, Memmingen - departure at 22.30.
The
same evening we arrived with our rucksacks at the station. The long
platforms were poorly lit by a blue light, giving everything a deathly
pallor. The top platforms were shrouded in darkness. Sometimes sparks
from the noisy engines flickered down onto the platform.
Unexpectedly
all lights went out. Only red and green regulation lights and lighted
signs showing the way to the shelter stayed alight. A thundering
voice from the loudspeaker informed us "Enemy planes are over
Germany. This is a warning. Keep calm and orderly. Further progress
of the planes will be announced shortly."
Marushka
got frightened and, grabbing my hand, she begged me to run away.
But the crowd did not move - they looked indifferent. We knew that
announcements would follow advising the path of progress. Germany
is large and there are many towns to be bombed. A warning did not
frighten anyone. Our train soon arrived and there was a rush to
the doors. Marushka hesitated and entered the train distrustfully.
We had to find our places in darkness. None of the travellers would
part with their luggage. One had to be ready just in case any minute
the real alarm might come and then ... The unpleasant minutes of
waiting continued. Here and there people were lighting matches to
look at their watches and count the minutes until departure. Seven
minutes to go ... now only five ... now three... If only the time
would hurry on, if we could leave this station more quickly, these
heavy metal constructions, the ghosts of a permanent tomb. Again
the voice from the loudspeaker ... "All Clear."
The
lights came on, a loud whistle blew and the train started moving.
We passed a few suburban stations. It was very stuffy in the train
and I opened the window. A beautiful night with a full moon. We
were travelling through the Saxonian Alps. The train often entered
tunnels cut through deep cliffs, oddly shaped and covered with shrubs.
The cliffs seemed to stretch up to the sky, blotting out the view
and bringing complete darkness. Then again the cliffs were falling
away leaving only boulders covered with a pale glow of the moon.
It could be a beautiful country viewed during the day but at night
it gave an eerie feeling as if God Himself in an angry mood had
tossed down the heavy boulders, breaking them into oddly shaped
humps. Now covered with shrubs they made a phantom landscape.
The
day was full of nervous tension - the compartments became empty.
We were leaving one Front behind and approaching another, this time
from the west. Everyone knew or had heard about the flying fortresses
and preferred to travel by night.
In
Nuremberg we saw many ruins and sooty remnants of previous buildings
and many ruins around the station. This town was already deeply
scarred but still alive and working fully because the Fuehrer had
so decreed. We continued without interruption - hours passed. We
were coming nearer to the 'Blue Danube'. The train was rumbling
over a bridge. Through the window we saw an unsightly narrow river
full of sandbanks. In the middle of the river stood a boy, his trouser
legs turned high up, holding a fishing rod. This was the Danube,
the 'wide, blue Danube', which had its beginning somewhere here
in the Black Forest (Schwarz Wald).
In
Augsburg we had a long wait so we went to sleep. When I woke up
the sun was already setting. The train was standing at a small station
smelling of freshly cut hay. We could hear the gentle sound of bells
coming somewhere from the field as if flowers were tinkling softly
in the breeze in this meadow between the hills. Enraptured, we looked
at the scenery near the alps, smelled the forgotten clean air and
listened to the tranquil, melodious sounds. The high fir trees were
cutting a straight line dividing the well kept fields. The colourful
houses of the 'Bauer' (farmer) nestled against the hills. The walls
of the houses were brightly painted with the shutters painted in
another colour and masses of bright flowers made an enchanting view
like a fairy tale. From the nearby hill cows were coming home -
all alike, dark brown, wide in the shoulders, with a leather collar
and a hanging bell. Even the young calves were ringing their bells
as they romped around. Now we understood the origin of the ringing
which had reached us from the meadows. There were many herds in
the wide valley of Bavaria. For the first time we felt the calming
influence of a peaceful atmosphere. The melody of the bells which
the breeze, rich in scents of mown grass, was bringing nearer, was
like a balm for our nerves. Nerves which were stretched tightly
during tracking through the highways of war. We had the feeling
that we were entering a land that had been left behind the main
events of a total war. A land steeped in peace. The land of south
Bavaria. In Kempton we had to change trains and continued our travel
on a small local puffing train (Bummelzug). This little train with
only a few small carriages puffed heavily, climbing the hills and
whistling madly at each twist of its track. It went happily down
the hills but panted heavily and whistled loudly going uphill. On
each station stood the funny looking 'Schwabs', locals dressed in
shorts like children back home. The farmers on the platforms had
very hairy legs, long pipes clenched between their teeth and were
dressed in short leather pants supported by embroidered braces,
a Tyrol hat with a fancy feather and a bright checked shirt. They
were the Swabians. Their women looked just as unusual in short pleated
skirts with an apron, also with braces, bright embroidered blouses,
hats with a feather, and white socks. Their throaty talk and their
slang seemed quite incomprehensible and one had to listen carefully
to pick up German words.
After
a sharp bend we saw hills covered with snow. High peaks reaching
the sky. On the far horizon was the chain of the Swiss Alps.
We
were coming to the Algaue Alps, the regions situated at the foot
of the Alpen hills. Gone were the arable fields. Now there were
forests and meadows in which cows were grazing. This part of Germany
was called 'the land of butter, milk and cheese'.
We
were coming to the end of our travels. The train entered a deep
valley covered by evening mists. The sun disappeared behind the
hills, dusk covered the township, the church tower was clearly visible
and also some tall houses. Rattling and panting, the train stopped
at the station. It was the end of the line. There was a high embankment
and a lantern. On the station wall the sign 'ISNY'.
We
thought that we had arrived at the end of the world. That night
we slept comfortably under eiderdowns in the 'Old Post' hotel.
What
would we do now? Through the window we saw a church, rooftops of
an unknown town and, on the street, strange people.
Taking
our letter of introduction given to us in Kosewo by the German soldier,
we went to deliver it to his father. Mr. Herman Gock was very pleased
to receive a letter from his son. To our astonishment, he spoke
Polish very well. Mr. Gock loved talking, using high-flown words.
Proudly he told us that he was working 'in politics' in many organisations.
Later, on knowing him better, we discovered that he was poor at
writing but made up for it by his orations. By profession he was
a roofer but was at that time working in a factory producing airplane
parts.
I
had trouble stemming the flow to get some information of interest
to us. Firstly, the most important person in Isny was the 'Burgermeister'
(Mayor). He registered the newcomers, he allocated rooms and work,
also food coupons, and he could also lock them in prison. He was
a Party member and the leader of this town.
There
were many Poles and other foreigners in Isny. Everyone had to work,
strictly supervised by industrial police. The work was firstly in
the factory of Mr. Heim, producing parts for planes, secondly a
large hospital-sanatorium for wounded soldiers, a silk factory,
many cheese factories and, lastly, the farmers.
From
the complicated explanation of Mr. Gock I gathered that without
work you could not have any accommodation, without accommodation
one could not receive food coupons and that without coupons one
could not live in Germany. As we wanted to keep on living, we went
to the Mayor's office.
The
talk was short. We were given work for the right to buy food. After
checking our documents, we were allocated to the plane factory of
Air. Heim. Marushka looked very skinny and ill. It did not require
much of my persuasion for the boss to agree to give her a rest for
two weeks. He was probably sure that she was not a good physical
worker. I was enrolled immediately.
I
never knew that a labourer so low in the hierarchy of the German
Reich had to fill in so many forms and sign so many declarations.
Some of the questions went back three generations. First I had to
sign a declaration that I was not a Jew and that none of my genealogical
branches had produced any undesirable offspring during the last
three generations. I had to enrol in the 'Workfront' and immediately
pay some fees, also sign documents for employment offices, insurances,
sick benefits, permits for accommodation and many more which I was
unable even to memorise. After the last signature, my Lithuanian
passport and four pictures were taken. I stopped being an individual
and became a cog in the huge working force of the Third Reich. I
was allocated to the production line at Ru-Helfer No. 350. Le 1590.
In this way I became one of the fifteen million labourers who were
employed in the production of tools for murder, direct or indirect.
Day factory was No. 161.
In
return I received from the Third Reich: -
1)
the right to live;
2) the right to buy two saucepans;
3) coupons for food;
4) a room in the attic with two beds;
5) a small wrought-iron stove with one burner;
6) half a cubic metre of wood for all winter;
7) 75 pfennig per hour from which 30 per cent was deducted for
social, war and Party dues;
8) additional ration cards for hard work: 400 grams bread,
200 gr. meat and 20 gr. fat – WEEKLY! and
9) the right to buy (when available) two cigarettes a day.
The
room allocated to us was in the house of a widow, Mrs. Fleck,
on
the outskirts of the town. She was an old woman, with a wrinkled
face and white hair. She lived with her invalid son and a daughter
with two children whose husband was somewhere at the Front. Mrs.
Trudel was constantly waiting for news from her husband. It was
over a year since she had last seen him. Old Mrs. Fleck had eleven
children and twenty-three grandchildren. There were seven grown-up
sons and many sons-in-law. The Fuehrer took them all, dispersing
them through Europe. Only God knew how many of them were still
alive.
Only the youngest one, as he was a war invalid, did the Fuehrer
return. She used to complain bitterly that now when the Fuehrer
could not use him any more he was returned to her. But the Fuehrer
had not forgotten him and was paying 20 meagre marks monthly
for
his lost arm.
Our
room was in the attic from which a door led to the garret. Two small
windows overlooked the valley and small hills behind which the sun
used to set. The attic contained two wooden beds with eiderdowns,
a small robe and a table made of unpainted pinewood. Over the beds
were a few pictures of chubby angels. This was to be our anchorage
until the END of the war.
Isny
was an ancient town in the Algauer Alps. Surrounded on all sides
by hills, it was at the foot of the 'Black Grat', the highest hill
in Wuerttenberg. This little town was surrounded by marshy meadows
and it nestled along the old fortress walls. The roofs of the old
houses nearly touched each other and the old bell tower of the church
rose high above the houses and the old brick town gates. Narrow
streets wound between monastery walls overgrown with moss. Cloistered
galleries led to the dark arches of the town gates. Nearer, beside
the lazy River Arg stood an old watermill, bent with age - nothing
was ground here any more. The water rushed undisturbed through the
skeletons of the old wheels. The mill remembered the oldest times.
It was built in the ninth century by Count Vehringen who was then
the possessor of this land. When later on the church became richer,
it appropriated this land. The monastery was built in the village
and church towers were the symbol of rule. Isny became a monastic
town, paying service not so much to God as to the owners. One could
still see the old dungeons where the blood flowed from those who
did not obey 'the Will of God'. Three hundred years later Isny was
proclaimed a free town, its coat of arms a black eagle in the middle
of a horseshoe. The town had many happy and free years until it
was incorporated into Wuerttenberg.
Instead
of the lucky omen of a horseshoe, they now had the black swastika.
They were paying their tribute to the Third Reich with cheese and
fresh air for the wounded and the consumptive soldiers. They might
have been forgotten if it were not for the factory for plane parts.
The Minister for Armaments, Mr. Spei, was looking everywhere for
new factories. The small factory that was previously producing packaging
for its cheese now grew into a big plant. Many large workshops were
built, new ramps for the railway and, lastly, slaves were imported
from the captured European countries. The town became multi-lingual
and the factory started to work. All roads led to Mr. Heim. Wilhelm
Heim, a well-to-do local Isny man, was a Party member with influential
friends. He received from the Wehrmacht the licence to build and
run the factory for war necessities. In a very short time the once
small producer of boxes for cheese became a very important man.
In
Isny everyone knew who Mr. Heim was. The Mayor treated him as his
master, trying to make him more comfortable during the Council meetings.
Heim was the undisputed leader, being a Party member and chairman,
of many organisations. It was even whispered that he had great friends
in the Gestapo and sometimes saw the Gauleiter. Mrs. Heim also seemed
to be very important. People in Isny would greet each other with
a 'Gruess Gott' (Praise Be God) but they did not greet Mrs. Heim
this way as it would have been tactless. She was greeted with 'Heil
Hitler' - any other greeting could have been interpreted as being
against Hitler. If she was kind enough to accept the greetings,
the womenfolk felt happier as this would show that their men would
not be sent to the Front at present but that they were indispensable
to the war industry in the factory of Wilhelm Heim.
As
I was to start work on Monday, we had time to buy the two saucepans
as permitted by the Mayor, and to buy the wood.
I
received only a quarter metre of wood which I carried home on my
back. Now our housekeeping was complete. The cultural requirements
were also shortly completed. We bought two pictures of Isny and,
in a very underhand way certainly not suitable for a Pole, I talked
the salesgirl into selling me a large map of Europe as at German's
highest power. Marushka was fixing the pictures over the beds as
I spread out the map, marking Isny with a pin and considered its
position to the rest of the world. Like the egocentric German philosopher,
Nichte - "I and not I,” the rest was of no great importance.
Geographically, Isny was 32 km from the Swiss border. Hearing the
name Switzerland, all homeless war wanderers felt a pleasant and
warm sensation. This neutral land, my God - if only one could be
there. To the Austrian border it was 30 km and to the Italian one
80 km. As regards the distances to the Front, we measured the map
carefully and arrived at the following distances; the western Front
was 350 km away, the eastern about 1,000 and the southern further
than 1,000. We were not on any war highway. Even from Burgundy,
that was historically in the road of moving armies, we were protected
by a sharp corner of Switzerland, the Boden See and from the south
by the mighty Alps.
I
was really happy, being quite certain that no fighting would reach
this little corner. It was Sunday, the fifth of November, 1944.
Next
morning I had to leave at 4:30 am, and go to work. It was still
dark. In the streets were sleepy and tired people, all going to
work for Heim. The factory was outside the town under the 'Black
Grat'. By the end of the town there was one big procession of Heim's
slaves taking lanes through the meadows and along the railway line.
People were walking singly or in groups, all mostly quiet. Some
were making loud noises stamping in their wooden shoes. It was getting
lighter when we reached the factory. At the right side were the
long, low workshops, to the left were the stores and barracks for
the 'Russkis'. We passed the gate in a single file, calling out
our numbers to the watchman sitting in his guard hut. I, being new,
was told to wait. Soon the boss, dressed in grey overalls, came
and told me to follow him. The noise in the workshop was deafening.
Hammers hitting tin sheets, the screeching of files, whining of
drills, some explosions, hissing, wheezing and roaring, all joined
into one sound, drilling the eardrums, causing pain. We walked along
various workbenches where people were standing or sitting on the
stools. Above some were large signs: "Mark only in soft pencils
on dur-aluminium". We entered the next hall. On all sides of
the hall were lying wings of planes. They were kept in position
on the workbenches by a kind of vice. Many men were working around
them with some unknown instruments. On some benches sparks from
welding flew, from others came a sound like a revolver shooting
into a tin plate. I did not understand anything that they were doing
here. I was still stunned by the previous noise. Automatically I
followed the boss. The men were glancing at me curiously. At the
end of the hall the boss stopped at a bench.
"You
will work here,” he told me and added, pointing to a men standing
at the bench - "he will show you what to do. It is not permitted
to leave the workbench,” and then he left.
The
man looked at me searchingly and I at him. He was a young man of
about twenty dressed in dirty overalls. He was working alone at
the workbench. He asked me something but I did not understand. He
repeated it louder. I thought he was speaking in German but was
not certain. Slowly, screaming into each other's ears, we understood
each other. He was from Holland. No wonder I could not understand
him. It is always very hard to understand a Dutchman when he is
speaking German as the languages, although related, have quite different
pronunciations. A year and a half ago he was taken from Utrecht
and deported for work to Heim. His name was Jan Vaal.
Our
talk was interrupted by the approaching boss. When the Dutchman
saw him coming he pushed a pneumatic drill attached to a long hose
into my hand and told me to drill holes in the marked places of
the aluminium sheets. After pressing a button, drilling started
with a loud wheezing sound, throwing out small aluminium chips of
metal. This was my work in the beginning. Standing on a high bench,
I was drilling small holes on the four metre long wings. Hours were
passing, my head and ears were buzzing. At last the siren sounded
for a meal break. All the noise stopped immediately but I could
still hear the echo in my head. I had already forgotten that such
quiet could exist. Before I realised what was happening, the hall
emptied and I caught up with the last labourers going upstairs where
the mess room was located. Everyone took their place at the table,
taking from their pockets a spoon and a piece of bread. The girls
were bringing plates with soup. A watery, thin soup and a few frozen
potatoes was our dinner. The conversation was multi-lingual. One
table was occupied by French war prisoners dressed in torn military
coats. At the next table were Dutchmen. Germans were sitting separately
at a table in the far corner. From one of the tables I heard Polish.
Around the table sat a few young girls, a few youths and an older
labourer. I came closer. They greeted me in a friendly manner, making
a place at their table. Lunchtime was forty minutes. Again the siren.
We washed our spoons and plates with hot water and started to go
slowly back to work. The foremen were speeding us up. Compressors
were connected, the air hissed noisily, all the sounds came back
and the hall was once again full of noise. The boss was sitting
behind a glass partition between the two rooms, watching constantly.
On the walls were the familiar pictures of a civilian in a large-brimmed
hat trying to overhear something, beside him a large yellow question
mark.
An
office girl came to me in the afternoon. She gave me a large, many-paged
brochure and I had to sign a promise not to reveal any secrets,
either army or industrial ones. The leaflets dealt with high treason,
listing many secrets to be kept, each article finishing with the
threat of a death sentence. The hall was patrolled by a fully-armed
guard who seemed very bored.
When
I finished my reading the Dutchman asked me: "Do you need that
pamphlet?"
"No.”
"Can
you give it to me?"
"Of
course. Are you interested in the contents?"
"No,
God forbid, and anyway I know it by heart. But it is printed on
fine paper. Very suitable to roll cigarettes. We all finished smoking
our papers a long time ago. It is very hard to get cigarette paper
in Isny."
I
asked him - "Why are they going to all this fuss over these
ordinary flapping wings - that is not a military secret."
"What,
you don't know?"
"What
don't I know?"
The
Dutchman looked around carefully, leaned towards me and yelled:
"The other hall is making V 1." (Secret weapon -guided
missile used for bombing London).
"I
thought that this factory was making parts for planes only."
"Not
at all. They say so only to stop people looking. Don't ever repeat
it aloud." He looked around again and, deciding it was safe,
continued:
"We
are making the flaps for the Junker JU 78 and the other room is
making missile wings for the V1."
This
way the pamphlet finished in the pockets of the Dutchman and I was
told about State secrets.
Hours
dragged. When it started to get dark the boss told us to put the
blinds down, checking himself if they were tight and not letting
light through. Extremely bright lights, so unpleasant to the eyes,
were everywhere. Night watchmen with their lanterns hanging from
their trouser belts came to check and tighten the blinds some more.
It was nearly 6 p.m. I felt quite exhausted. My head was bursting
from the non-stop noise and my eyes were smarting from the dust.
It was nearly twelve hours since I had started work. We started
to put rivets in the openings. The Dutchman gave me a tool which
looked like a large revolver, like a 'parabellum' whose barrel was
red hot. This 'Eksposienkolbe' as it was called (explosion barrel)
was heated through an electric cable. Pressing the red-hot barrel
to the rivet heads caused an explosion. The rivets bursting forth
noisily were welding the seams of the aluminium sheet. This way
the job to the spine of the wings was finished. Later we had to
rivet thirty-six ribs to the wings and then pass the flap to another
workbench. There the ribs were covered with plates, again some riveting,
then grinding and polishing and so on over twenty-five workbenches
until it came to the paint shop where numbers and identification
marks were given. The work was repeated the whole time all over
again. This day the number written was 50317.
At
last the thirteenth and last hour was coming nearer. My head was
bursting, my legs from a day of standing were hurting and my eyes
were sore and watering. We all looked more often at the clock. The
first bell was at five minutes to seven. Everyone grabbed brooms
as the benches had to be cleaned every day. Some were brushing,
the others putting the tools away while the boss was pointing out
dirty places. At last the long-awaited siren. Everyone rushed to
the doors. It was already quite dark outside. Calling our numbers
to the watchman, we left through the gate of the factory. The town
was in complete darkness and we had to grope about looking for the
way.
Day
did not exist for me. We left the house at dark and returned at
dark - no sun was shining for us. I felt utterly exhausted and tomorrow
would be a repetition of today.
A
few weeks passed. The wind became freezing. The cowbells stopped
ringing. The phantom of winter was creeping down the snowy Alpine
hills. Our room in the attic was very cold. The bucket of water
was covered with ice in the morning and I had to break the ice before
we could pour the water into the large dish for our morning wash.
The quarter cubic meter (about 100 lbs.) of wood for which I still
had the coupons was not available. What should I do? Marushka was
coughing more and more. She was getting more restless. At night
in her sleep she would jump out of bed and start running, looking
for our children and wind up, when colliding with the table, in
our small room. I put her back to bed alongside the wall and slept
next to her to prevent her jumping out. Neither of us had much sleep.
The cold and hunger were depressing. I had to get us at least some
warmth in the evenings. I began stealing coal briquettes from the
factory, carrying them home in my pockets. Stealing was punishable
by death. So what? Death was around the corner anyway. After a hot
drink at night, Marushka coughed less and we both had a few hours
sleep.
The
Eastern Front had still not moved - every day the news was still
the same: 'The Front between Bug and Narew is stable - all Soviet
attacks are repelled.' I remembered Modlin with its evacuees, its
peasants, bundles packed and waiting, the constant fires over Warsaw,
the air raids, the heavy shelling. We expected the Front would break
any day. More weeks passed. It was now one and a half months since
we left Modlin. And again we heard: "From Fuehrer's Headquarters
.... all Soviet attacks between Bug and Narew were repelled with
heavy losses for the enemy."
In
the factory the mood was apathetic. One stopped being interested
in the Eastern Front. Only occasionally someone would ask:
"Do
you think that the Germans, where you live, would let you listen
to the radio?"
“Yes,
they would."
"Did
you listen yesterday?"
“Yes,
I did."
"Something
new?"
“Nothing.
Blast them. The bloody war seems to go on forever,"
"It'll
finish, it will."
"When
the S.A. and S.S. will send to the USA. an S.O.S.?"
At
home we had only time left to sleep and the toilet in the factory
became our recreation room. Here was the centre of the intellectual
life of the foreigners employed by Heim. In addition, we were forbidden
to meet people in our homes. Here were the political discussions,
social talks and our trading post. We smoked here, although smoking
was strictly forbidden. Here our ears got some rest from the terrible
noise. Here came those who worked all day outside to get some warmth.
Best of all, one could sit down for a while and rest. To sit on
the toilet seat was one of the rare pleasures of the day. Even the
boss left us alone. The few locked toilets were always occupied
and so you had to wait your turn until you could sit down on the
comfortable seat like in a club chair. In the back were the pipes
of the steam heating. What a blissful state - the legs were resting
and one could have a smoke. "Dolce far niente” (pleasant idleness).
One did not even pull the trousers down. What for? One was standing
for 13 hours daily how could one do without a rest?
Sometimes
the boss rushed in. Our smokes were then hidden in our sleeves and
we rushed back to the halls. He would be cursing and screaming but
those sitting locked in the toilets were safe. They now had the
privilege to stop even the foreman as the sign on the door read
clearly 'Engaged'.
With
difficulty, I was able to count all the nationalities in the factory
- there were fourteen. The largest group were the Dutchmen who were
mainly young people deported through their employment offices. They
lived in barracks and usually stuck together. The next group were
the Frenchmen who were civilians and prisoners of war. Their group
was adorned by a beautiful young girl from Marseilles who was very
much in love with a Dutchman. The Polish group needs some explanation
as it had two kinds of people - the Poles with a letter 'P’ and
the so-called 'Volksdeutsche’ who, according to Mr. Rosenbergls
theory of race administration, could later on qualify to become
true Germans, What an odd anthropological distinction between the
foreigner, the non-German and the under-German. Some of them were
also called the 'race-people' which annoyed the true Germans from
the real 'master-race'. Let Mr. Fabian speak about the 'true race
science' of Mr. Rosenberg and his followers
Mr.
Fabian was a quiet, timid baker from Lodz. He came under the 'race'
and was brought to Isny. Now he was working at the V1. Until then
he did not know what honour was bestowed upon him, becoming all
of a sudden 'pure of race'. Once in the toilet he told us his story:
"I had a small business, a bakery in a village near Lodz. I
am a master baker. My wife is the daughter of a farmer. She was
a Miss Pietrzak. We lived not badly. Until the day the military
police came and screamed - 'OUT'! Just you try to imagine - in twenty
minutes we had all left. All the business, furniture, house, everything
went to the devil. Only what we grabbed in a hurry was ours. I heard
later that my place was given to a Volksdeutsche from Russia. We
were taken by force and deported from Lodz. We were put into a camp
that was terribly crowded. Nobody knew what would happen to us all.
Life was bad. We finished all our food. After two weeks came a commission
with top S.S. men, doctors and educated people - you know, professors.
We were all put in a line and they started to divide us into ‘P’
and 'Race'.
"Crying
and screaming started. Everyone wad afraid to be put for the 'race'
especially the young girls. We heard that those who look pretty
belong to the race but who knows, later on they might be sending
these girls to the Front for the soldiers, brothels, pardon me.
But nobody would listen. We were divided into separate groups and
that was the end of it. Those with the letter 'P’ were sent immediately
to another camp and we were to come under the 'Race’.
I
interrupted: "How were you divided?' According to what?"
"On
the looks of course. They looked to see if the bones were solid
if the face was alright and, in general on the clothing too. Those
who were dirty and in rags went under the letter 'P’. To tell you
the truth they somehow did not take many into the race. You see
none were well dressed because who would dress well for travelling?
A few days passed and we were all very frightened. You see, we all
knew what to expect with the letter 'P’ - Poles but here with this
'Race', that was different. None of us spoke German and we could
not find out anything. Everyone was thinking, all right, a race
is a race but what do they want from us? Some said that it was a
good thing; that we would be given better ration cards for food
and clothing. The others said that we were all to be taken into
the army because all Germans belong to the race and once we are
of pure breed we would have to fight for their country. I am telling
you my head was bursting with all this thinking. Then we were all
called to the true commission - they even had scientific tools.
My God, what they did with us!!! They looked at our teeth like we
do with horses. They pawed our anatomy they measured our faces and
bones with tools and looked into our eyes. I was told immediately
that I have the race but my God, they stopped my wife. You understand
they did not want to let her through the race, saying she was not
suitable, that her bones and her anatomy are not true. I explained
to them that she is the daughter of a good farmer, not a girl born
under a fence, but they only say 'No'. I lost my temper. I told
them she is my wife, I will not part from my family take me out
from the race and put me into 'P’. They talked between themselves
and said 'Gut' and granted her the race. They gave us German papers
and sent us to Isny. They call us here Volksdeutsche but in reality
we are the racial people. We will not change our Polish religion.
We are working the same as the 'P' but it is true that we have better
coupons and don't have to live in camps,” concluded Mr. Fabian.
In
Isny there were many like Mr. Fabian 'people of the race'.
I loved talking with them about the 'race'. I became a lover
of the race question, an anthropologist!
During
power failures when we had to wait for repairs we could sit down.
What a heavenly opportunity for tired feet. I used to sit near someone
from the ‘race’, asking them for their stories. One girl from Lodz
who went through the scientific race business in Litzmanstadt as
the Germans had renamed Lodz. She was telling me about a song which
was born in the First World War and the words were made up now in
the race camps called the song the Ballad of the Race:
During a dark night
The police knocked once at the gate.
Polish lass was sleeping here
And she was quickly taken out.
She had to go to Arbeitsamt
And from there to Lakowo.
And in a short three hours time this maiden was of Pure Race.
The
Commission of the Third Reich for the Strengthening of Germanism
was throwing its nets into far seas, trying to catch some fry among
the Slavonic masses. It had to populate its ponds for the future
Germanisation of the conquered countries. The all powerful Chancellor
Hitler already had these dreams long ago. After taking Sudentenland,
Memel-land and other 'lands', he was dreaming about Donau, Dnieper-
and Wolga-land. The names of these countries were taken from the
rivers and hills and not from the people which populated them. Everywhere
were potential Volksdeutsche ready for production according to the
science of the Third Reich. The theory of race came into being supported
by biological laws justifying the proper selection based on the
philosophy of ‘be or not to be’. When this myth was dressed up scientifically,
according to the need of the twentieth century, the selection came
into operation. On top of the hierarchy of the pyramid was HE -
the highest, the Untouchable, the Total. He was resting on the shoulders
of his Party members and below those were the 'Reichsdeutschel’
- citizens with full rights then followed the four classes of the
Volksdeutsche. The last group consisted of those who could be candidates
for the Volksdeutsche who, with time coming, might develop into
true Germans, The rest was a mob of slaves and villains, good only
for manual labour. Jews and Gypsies had no right to life. They were
converted to fertilisers, soap and other useful materials such as
stuffing for mattresses made from human hair, lampshades made from
human skin.
Coming
back to our group at Heims. There was a group of Soviets, numerically
next to the Poles. They had to live at the factory and were just
the livestock, as the horses were. They were even harnessed to carts
to bring wood to the factory. Some of them worked with us. They
consisted of different nationalities; Russians, Ukrainers, White
Russians and Armenians. The majority of them were young girls and
boys deported for labour, the rest were war prisoners allocated
to the factory. There was also a small group of Jugoslavs, Belgians,
Italians, Estonians and Lithuanians. According to the administration,
I belonged to the latter as my only personal document was a Lithuanian
passport. I had nothing against it from an opportunistic point of
view. As I did not qualify for the 'race' or Volksdeutsche, there
was only the letter 'P' left which meant that we had to live in
barracks which were dirty, full of lice and even colder than our
room. The thought frightened us. Marushka was not well - we suspected
tuberculosis and such living would be a death sentence for her.
The passport issued in Lithuania saved us. Our small group was generally
treated better than the OST. We even had a Swiss man with us. I
was never able to discover what made him leave the quiet, neutral,
beautiful Switzerland and come here to work for the German Army.
The
last were the Germans. They had all the leading positions or worked
in the offices. Only a few Germans worked as ordinary labourers.
They were a few old men, a couple of dwarfs and a few invalids.
The administration personnel was enormous, amounting to twenty per
cent of the working force. All those who were bombed out were doing
their utmost to be employed by the war Industry as this gave them
better living conditions and here they were able to live in considerable
peace away from big towns. One was employed for issuing coupons,
another one for additional coupons, a third one for checking coupons,
and so on. Every German, whatever his position, had at least a few
German offsiders who usually had nothing to do. They hid behind
shelves or in dark corners to read love stories from sheer boredom.
Every few workbenches had a German controller.
In
addition to those mentioned we also had the factory police, hated
the most by all labourers. They were like a special Gestapo working
for Mr. Heim. Being all Party Members, the range of their work was
extremely wide. Their powers seemed to be unlimited, not only concerning
work - they had the last say about the right to life and death for
the civilian labourers. They spied and were allowed to beat and
torture. They made sure that people stayed at the workbenches, they
prevented talk and the forming of groups. They threw us out of the
toilets, they were permitted to confiscate our ration cards, they
checked the barracks, they searched private rooms. We especially
hated one of our 'guardian angels', the 'black' one was a real sadist.
He ferreted for his prey. In the darkest corners and nosed about
everywhere. The proprietor of the factory could sleep peacefully
in his villa on the hill near the forest for he had his henchmen
who controlled his workers.
In
the beginning of December I was transferred to another workbench.
Here worked an old Swabian who had a pleasant face, Mr. Lange. I
was to help him. Our job was to rivet the heavy flaps with the pneumatic
press machine and to file them down to smoothness. Lange was a friendly
mate. He taught me my job, how to do it more easily, and he never
pushed the hardest job onto me as he was fully entitled to do, being
a German. He had only two faults. He had received a stomach wound
at the Russian Front which healed not badly but he constantly spoiled
the air and I felt as though I were gassed. As the table was only
four metres long, I could not very well avoid the smell. His second
fault was his constant adoring talk about Hitler. To him Hitler
was the Ultimate God and ‘Mein Kampf' was his bible. He believed
implicitly, without reservations. It would have been alright if
he had not tried to convert me to his beliefs. This non-stop talk
amid the putrid smell became a nightmare. Because of the noise in
the workshop, he would come near me and scream in my ear, explaining
the providential genius of the Fuehrer. His honest face would touch
me and from his mouth came the pungent smell of rotting bile. I
would grab a tool and go to the other side of the bench but he would
follow me, yelling about the genius and his achievements in war
strategy. He stopped only with a new spasm of pain, becoming pale
and sweating. In those moments I was truly sorry for him. I used
to help him to the sick room and, returning, had to work for both
of us.
On
the 13th of December we heard that the Germans had started a great
counter-offensive at the western Front. The German headquarters
announced details of the victorious march, how the German Army was
able to recapture in a few short days lands which had been previously
captured. Goebbels in the paper 'Reich' was speaking about the new
reborn power of the German Army. He even recalled the Hannibal losses
at Rome's gates when the reborn power of Rome's legions were able
to destroy Carthage. The plutocrats had to leave. London, just like
a Carthage of the twentieth century, would lie in ruins.
The
polite English gentlemen were thanking Goebbels by radio for his
educatory lessons and the suggestive analogy between Hannibal and
... Hitler.
But
facts remained facts. It was true that the German Army was advancing
in the west, clearing the Siegfried fields.
We
became very depressed - we were losing hope in the Allied victory.
Goebbels was encouraging his Germans, promising them a Merry Christmas.
Lange
was of course very happy and triumphant. Measuring the German advance
and calculating something on the wings of the planes, he informed
me that by the New Year the German Army would reach the Channel.
At
last Christmas came and, with it, two days of rest. The evening
was cold and clear, the sky covered with stars. Our room was very
cold. The stove, heated only for very short times, could not even
melt the ice which covered one wall. When on Christmas Eve the bells
were pealing over Isny, sitting in our room a deep sorrow and longing
filled us. On the table we had our saved-up food: some bread, a
few teaspoonsful of marmalade and a few tablets of saccharine. With
whom could we share this evening? Our family was thousands of miles
away, our landlady was not friendly. We went to the Guesthouse where
the people were also lonely, away from their families. We felt better
with them.
Next
morning I went with Marushka up into the hills. We were climbing
up the Black Grat, now quite white, covered deep with snow. The
higher we climbed, the harder it became. On one of the humps of
the Grat stood a farmhouse.
The
large wooden patio overhanging the cliff was the pride of the farmer.
From here one could see the Bodensee from which the Rhine was feeding
its stream. Looking down, above the firs one could see the blue
of the sea, separated by a line of the Alps from the blue of the
sky. In the north the open valley seemed to be without horizons
and the earth and sky appeared to join each other. The uneven and
hilly scenery changed to gentle slopes which farther down became
quite even and smooth, receding from the sky.
The
back of the house was hidden from the world by the Black Grat, overgrown
with snow-covered firs., We stood at its foot but its towering top
was tempting. I decided to try and reach it. Asking the farmer how
long it might take, he replied laughingly: "In summer it shouldn't
take more than half an hour but I doubt if you could make it in
five hours without skis."
I
wanted to go but Marushka did not. I went alone. Going along the
track near the farm buildings it seemed child's play. The farm buildings
finished, a sign for tourists pointed to the left. The going became
harder. I was falling up to my knees into the snow. It was not pleasant
but quite bearable. I reached a clearing. A bit further away I saw
some firs sticking out of the snow. I thought they would be new
seedlings and continued. Within seconds I was in snow above my waist.
When I tried to free one leg the other fell even deeper. What I
took to be seedlings were fir trees about my height. Looking up
I could see only tops of trees and understood my mistake, When in
Isny the wet snow was falling and melting immediately, here the
same snow was cut by wind and frost and built up harder surfaces
on which later new snow was packing. When in the meadows of Isny
the snow barely reached thirty centimetres, here it was over 11
metres deep. Moving in a slow crawl, using hands and feet, I managed
to creep free. An hour later, wet and tired, I returned to the farm
without even covering one-fifth of the distance. The farmer was
right and I had learned my lesson.
Coming
back down the valley it was becoming dark. White smoke was playing
about the snow-covered roofs that looked pink in the last sunrays.
It was a landscape like paintings on sale at fairs. Nature loves
the sweet, cheap showoffs.
After
Christmas the factory police became quite persistent that Marushka
should start work in the factory. They were yelling that now it
was time for work and not for holidays, health reasons or not. No
talk helped. We had to think of something as Marushka would certainly
not survive any length of time in the factory and its thirteen hours
hard work. Marushka heard that the guesthouse, 'The Stag', was looking
for a waitress. She applied and was accepted. She got her working
card, signed by the employment office. In this way, instead of being
a factory worker she became a waitress.
Now
we were leading a truly proletarian life. After work I hurried to
The Stag for a bowl of soup. Marushka, in white apron, was already
serving, carrying plates and large beer mugs. She greeted me with
a knowing smile, placing a bowl of soup in front of me. Not for
nothing was I the husband of a waitress. Soup could be served without
ration cards. After tea, when all the guests had left and the rooms
tidied up we returned home. There she would toss her bag on the
table and count her tips. She had changed since she began work.
In the beginning she would not accept any tips, then only reluctantly,
but now she was counting the small change happily.
"Look,
Zyg, these two marks I received from the Estonian. He never takes
the change due to him. Ten, twelve, fourteen! That is twice as much
as you are earning in the factory. Just look what I can do."
She was proud and happy, hugging me. When the lights were out and
we were nearly falling asleep, I heard her murmuring:
"If only foreigners would come to The Stag I would receive
probably twenty marks. The Germans are rather careful with tipping.
Just a few lousy pfennigs.”
There
was an extra bonus at her work. When cleaning all the rooms, she
carefully gathered all the usable butts of cigarettes and cigars
and we had some smokes at home, shredding the tobacco and rolling
it in newspapers.
The
Allies intensified their air raids over Germany, more towns were
bombed. The bombed-out people were fleeing to the hills. The population
of Isny increased from day to day. All hotels were overcrowded.
The people came not only from nearby Munchen, Nurenberg and Stuttgart,
but also from Berlin, Cologne, Koblenz and Essen.
The
German counter-offensive, so blown up by Goebbels, started to fade.
Although the news from headquarters was still speaking about some
hard-to-describe success and about hundreds of airplanes being destroyed
on the ground, the number of evacuees kept increasing. Some people
started to realise that all this loud talk of the counter-offensive
was just hogwash.
The
cold January of 1945 arrived. The narrow streets were covered with
snow, sometimes reaching the windows. It was impossible to go outside
the town without skis. This was quite normal for the Allgau. Near
Isny stood a pole with various markings and dates. In 1907 the snow
was three metres deep.
One
morning, going to work, I looked at the thermometer of the chemist,
near the cloister. It was 25 centigrade below freezing point and
a cold wind was blowing from the hills, stinging the eyes. People
walking to work had their collars up and were clapping their hands
together. The group of French war prisoners walking through this
snowstorm were a sorry lot, trying to push their heads into the
narrow collars of their loose coats like Napoleon's grenadiers returning
from Moscow. The first and the last of the prisoners carried a lantern,
shining feebly on the ground. Behind them walked a German guard
with a machine gun. I passed this sad procession. For the first
time I thought with pleasure about the factory. It would at least
be warm there.
The
day started normally. The people were still warming their hands
on the pipes of the heating units after first hanging their mittens
and socks on them. The hammering and boring began and the everyday
noises filled the workshops. The wings went from bench to bench,
covered with pictures and short aphorisms, full of longing and love
sighs. Those wings going, from bench to bench were like an album
full of sad literature in many languages. Wala, a young Ukrainian
girl from Czerniakow, wearing a red beret, had the most poetic soul.
She worked at the bench next to mine. She covered the sheet with
long poems - parts were from Russian poets, parts she wrote herself.
When the next flap arrived at our bench old Lange, pointing the
finger at the writing, asked me if it was in Polish. On the flap,
in an uneducated handwriting, was written in Russian:
Goodbye my unwashed Russia
The land of slaves and farmers
And you my navy uniforms
And you my obedient people.
I
was astonished by the topic that could equally apply to a farewell
by a grandfather as well as by his grandson. I did not know who
put it there nor the thought behind it but it sure was the grandson.
This day the 'Black' beat up three boys at their benches. Two Poles
and a Yugoslav. He also dragged by force a sick Ukrainian girl from
her barracks to the workshop. Our mood was gloomy. Luckily, in the
evening someone brought news that the Russians had started a great
offensive in Poland. The talk was about a large concentration of
the army on the Vistula River and a constant shelling by the artillery.
Everyone was excited. The news was whispered (shouted) from ear
to ear in all languages. Next day the news was even better. There
was a breakthrough on the eastern front. Once again we all got
interested in war news. This news was partly confirmed by the German
Headquarters and the official German Press. Some of our people
had the possibility to listen to the news from other countries although
listening to the radio of the allies and spreading the news was
punishable by death. In spite of this we received, through hidden
channels, the news from London, Switzerland and Moscow. The news
became distorted by the different translations from one language
to another. The Dutchmen told it to the Russians in German, the
Russians repeated it in Russian to the Poles and the Poles to the
French in German. The communication between the groups was sometimes
really funny. The 'international' language was German but the majority
could hardly speak it, using a few known slang words learned from
the Swabians. If those few known words supported by a sign language
were not enough, an interpreter was called, but there was no-one
who could speak so many languages fluently. It was done in what
we called ‘by chain’. I'll give an example. If a Ukrainian wanted
to say something to the Frenchman he would call me. It did not mean
that I could speak French. I, in turn, would call an Estonian and
translate it to him in German. This Estonia had a friend who could
speak French fluently but did not know either Ukrainian or Russian.
When the Estonian finished translating the meaning, the Frenchman
would turn to the first source and say "Gut, gut, verstanded."
Of course there were many combinations, depending who wanted to
speak with whom. The ordinary, everyday conversation was quite often
transacted without any interpreters. The spreading of news from
the Front was not hard at all. Our international language was greatly
simplified by calling out names of cities lost by the Germans.
At
the end of February, Czeslaw arrived quite unexpectedly in Isny.
By chance he met Alma in Dresden and she told him that we were heading
for Isny. We were very happy to see him and very anxious to know
what had happened to him since we parted in Warsaw. If chance had
not intervened, our ways would be the same as his.
After
we left Czeslaw, all the evacuees under guard were taken aboard
a train. Nobody knew where the train was going. When his train was
passing another train going in the opposite direction, for some
unknown reason both trains stopped beside each other. Czeslaw and
others from his transport started to jump over to the other train.
Before the Germans realised what was happening, the train started
to move in -the direction of Warsaw, taking some of the evacuees
and Czeslaw with it. It was rumoured that the stopping was an organised
job. On one of the small stations Czeslaw changed trains and finished
in Prushkow were he stayed in hiding for a few months at his friend's
place.
After
the fall of Warsaw he met some more of his friends. As he had to
live and also to earn money, he and his friends decided to organise
a fictitious company supposedly supplying goods to the German Army.
There were many such companies. They started this business by chance.
Going along the streets they saw a death notice of a German, a Mr.
Metz. On the bottom of this notice was the name of the printer and
his address. They went there and ordered one hundred letterheads
with a nice name: 'Johann Metz and Co. - Eisenwarengesellshaft (Metalwork
Co.)', including the address of the firm, telephone numbers and
bank accounts. The best part was that the head offices were shown
in a street in central Warsaw and the agencies in small towns of
Poland at the time occupied by the Soviets. The story continued:
this firm had now been evacuated and the directors, Czeslaw and
his friend, had full authority for transactions. The authority empowerment
papers were on beautiful paper, signed by the dead Johann Metz.
They then started to go to different offices asking for different
travel orders, different official permits to facilitate their work
as, according to their story, they had to complete the evacuation
and save their costly goods which were so needed by the army. In
order to supply the army, they must start their activities in a
new place. One official document, one rubber stamp created the way
for others - at last they were able to travel anywhere, even using
military vehicles, bringing to Wien and Krakow and the Czech Prague
cigarettes and taking from them ladies' wear selling it in different
towns. The business was prospering until Prague was taken by the
Soviets. After hearing that we were in Isny, Czeslaw wrote a special
travel order for his firm dealing in such important goods as metal
and came to Isny to see what the prospects were there. This time
the document certified that he was dealing in hydraulic brakes.
He
showed us all his documents, all duly stamped and certified by high
military offices. All, except the first one, fully authentic. It
seemed incredible that all this business was just the work of imagination.
He
spent a few days with us. Before leaving, he went to the 'Burgermeister'
asking him to prepare storage place for his brakes and of course
received additional coupons for food and cigarettes as the Burgermeister
was quite impressed with this important businessman.
He
returned to his headquarters to continue his business of Johann
Metz and Co.
The
news from the Front was fabulous - the tempo of the Soviet offensive
was incredible.
When
the Soviet Army stopped on the line of Odra, encircling the German
armies in East Prussia, we were certain that the long-awaited finish
of the war was near. The mood in the factory was a happy on. Nobody
hid his or her happiness. The labourers talked animatedly, pounding
each other on the shoulders.
This
war news had a shattering effect on the Germans. The average locals,
the bombed-out, the Party members had been brainwashed for a long
time. Through speeches, Press and radio they were made to believe
in the mighty Thousand Year Reich, in their Fuehrer who could never
err, confirmed by all the war propaganda. They were stunned when
they learned that the enemy crossed the frontiers of their own country,
their Heimat, that Oberslesia was taken, that Pomerania was attacked,
that Saxoni was threatened, that their own citizens were fleeing
in panic from East and West Prussia. That the Russians who should
have been crushed long ago were rushing now with impetus towards
Berlin.
Of
course it was hard for an average German to comprehend what was
happening but he had to understand as even his own government could
not hide any more the seriousness of their situation. The papers
were writing 'Our country is in danger.' Goebbels coined a new slogan:
"There is now no boundary between the country and the Front.
The Front is our country and the country is our Front. Every German
is now a soldier. 'Volkssturm' go ahead."
A
great campaign started in Allgau for the 'Volkssturm'. To the last
the human war material was squeezed out, from the farmers, the factories.
The old and very young, the deaf and cripples, the war invalids
who could walk, were organised in battalions of the 'Volkssturm'.
Our chief boss appealed to all the Volksdeutsche, the 'race people'
and other Germans to join voluntarily but his appeal was a total
failure. Only a few came forward to join the Battalions. Heim still
tried. He asked the people, singly, to his office; he explained
and persuaded and ... got three more volunteers. Where the pressure
was not great enough, the human self-protection won.
"Why
should I join a business which is going bankrupt?" they were
saying amongst themselves. "Why should I risk my skin? Why
should I fight? We are not even true Germans."
Many
of those who refused were sent to dig trenches near the Rhine which
was being bombed by the English.
One
day a party of German airmen arrived at the factory. They were pilots
and mechanics. To our astonishment they were put to work on the
production line just like ordinary labourers. They were all young
men from the Soviet front. To our questions as to what they were
doing here, they explained laughingly: "All our planes are
'kaput' so we came to help build new ones but before we finish all
Germany will be 'kaput!" They did not hide their opinions.
They did not care about anything. They were laughing at the 'Volkssturm',
they could not care less about the 'race' and they quarrelled with
the foremen who did not know how to treat the airmen. They hated
the Party members and were rude to the work police. This mood started
to infect the labourers. The production, never high, fell markedly
and people were forming groups around the benches, talking. Although
they returned to their workbenches on arrival of the foremen, they
did it very slowly. The bosses tried to avoid real quarrels with
the labourers - they looked the other way when something which was
forbidden was being done. Some even tried to become friendly with
the foreigners. Only one Party Member, Mr. Altenbach, did not change;
he remained as he was before, a mad dog ready to bite.
The
boss valued him and soon he became the boss' right hand because
he could hold a labourer with his left hand and hit him strongly
in the face with his right. We were afraid of him, which increased
his authority. I must admit he was the only one left who tried to
hold the factory together by his cruel power. Luckily he was not
in our department. He was the tyrant in the wood shop where the
majority of Frenchmen were working. One day the 'Black' once again
dragged a sick Ukrainian girl to the workbench, pushing her hard.
It was the same girl he had dragged out the previous time. She had
tuberculosis. Pale and weak, she started to cry, and our first riot
started. We told him that if he kept her at the bench we would all
stop work, we were successful. After a short talk with his boss,
he let her go back.
In
the evening the foreman came to me telling me to follow him to the
big boss. I was worried - what could Heim want from me? He did not
even know me. From behind the desk rose the fat Heim. I had never
met anyone so resembling the Soviet caricature of the typical capitalist.
He was exactly like an old picture from an old forgotten Bolshevik
newspaper: pink face, reddish blond hair, a big belly, small fat
fingers, a treble chin, a red thick neck and a cigar in his mouth.
He
rose heavily from behind the desk, pointing to us to sit down in
low, comfortable chairs. Whew we were seated, he took from the cabinet
a bottle of brandy and three glasses. He filled them, took a packet
of cigarettes and, offering them to us, sat down heavily, all in
complete silence. Raising his glass, he indicated that we were to
join him. The foreman followed his example. I felt confused with
all this. What would he ask of me? However I emptied my glass. Heim
immediately refilled the glasses and, lighting his cigar, said:
"You
are friendly with the family Naumow?"
"To
a certain extent, only,” I answered carefully, "as I have only
met them here in the factory, helping once to interpret. We sometimes
speak at the mess table."
"Have
you visited them at the barracks?"
"A
few times as engineer Naumow loves playing chess and so do I."
"Do
you speak Russian?"
"Yes."
"Is
Mrs. Naumow a Russian or a Ukrainian?"
"I
think she is a Russian from Smolenks."
"Is
Mrs. Naumow often in the barracks of the Ukrainians?"
"I
don't know as I don't live there."
"Do
you know that Mrs. Naumow is agitating the Ukrainians and Russians
to sabotage my factory?" He looked searchingly at me.
"No,”
I replied immediately and thought to myself, is that where it hurts
you?
Inhaling
deeply and playing with his fat fingers along the table, he asked
me:
"Did
you volunteer to come to Germany?"
"No."
"After
the end of the war do you intend to go back to your country?"
"Yes.
Heim
again looked at me searchingly. Our eyes met. This was the moment
when he gave up trying to enlist me as his factory informer. He
got up and said, raising his voice:
"I
am warning you, if there is an act of sabotage or a riot like today
in which you were also active, I will have to inform the proper
authorities. Who they take from here will depend entirely on me.
I know my people and today I got to know you. You do understand?"
"Entirely."
"Don't
forget it and also inform the Naumow family." He finished speaking,
crushed his cigar in the ashtray, full of passion. With his finger
he gave the sign to the foreman to take me away. This was my first
and last talk with Heim.
Something
wrong was happening to the electrical power in our district. 'Gaulieter'
(county boss) issued many orders restricting the use of electric
power. Thanks to him our working day was shortened from 13 to 11
hours. We had to stop work when it got too dark. But this did not
last long either. One day all the power stopped. Everything stopped
- the compressors, the pneumatic drills - without electricity the
factory was dead. The blessed silence: Soon news came that the factory
would be closed as the power was cut for "an indefinite period."
All the labourers were happy.
We
were allowed to go home earlier. All women except Russians, Ukrainians
and Poles with the letter 'P' received leave until further notice.
All men, including 'OST' labourers, were told to report for work
next morning. Next morning we were divided into many labour gangs
for various jobs. The management was determined to keep us working
so that we would not eat the German bread while idle. The women
had to clean the yard and roofs of snow whilst older women sorted
rivets. The Dutchmen were sent into the forest to cut wood, the
Frenchmen were cleaning all metal parts of rust, a few Soviets and
I were sent to the cabinetmakers to make new shelves for the stores.
Now for a change I became a cabinetmaker. The worst part of this
assignment was that our boss was the hated Altman whom I mentioned
before. Already on the first day he had screamed at me when I was
lying on a shelf although I was hammering in nails. He did not like
my comfortable position. Red in the face, his hand waving madly,
he started screaming at me. I thought he would hit me on the head
with a tool but luckily my head was hard to reach, being pressed
deep between two shelves. It ended with me only listening to his
most vulgar swearing, half of which I could not understand anyway
as it was delivered in Swabian slang. From that day on he picked
on me constantly. Everything I did was wrong. He might have been
right because, as a solicitor by profession, I was not much good
as a cabinetmaker. But he was also sadistic. Once, after the bells
had sounded and we were all ready to go home, he kept me back, making
me clean the hall. I began to hate him in earnest. I don't know
how it would have finished but new orders were issued. The power
was restored under the condition that we would work at night only.
I returned to my old bench.
The
working hours were now from 9 p.m. to 6 a.m. At 1 a.m. we had twenty
minutes break. For the first few days it was hard to fight sleep.
About two in the morning after eating the soup, I simply slept standing
at the workbench. Fighting to stay awake in spite of the hellish
noise in the hall and the patrolling foreman, the mind became befuddled
and a mental blackout occurred. The heavy press tool fell out of
my hands landing on my toes. This woke me up, gasping with pain.
It was worse when this state of sleepy paralysis came to my knees
because then, as if cut down, I fell to the floor amongst the laughter
of my mates. To my inner discomfort, I did not notice these states
happening to my mates. Something was probably wrong with me. With
time our situation improved, thanks mainly to the recurring air
raids.
The
Americans became more interested in Wuertenberg and Bavaria, the
region of south-west Germany. When the planes were proceeding in
our direction, the factory was advised by phone. All lights had
to be switched off and we could stop work. In seconds all tools
were thrown down and, using our coats as pillows, we lay down. Sometimes
we were lucky and the alert lasted two hours but mostly it was less
than half an hour. It happened sometimes that the squadrons were
flying over Isny in which case we were told to leave the factory.
We had to walk through corridors built in a zigzag fashion over
half a kilometre to a large shelter built under the forest. This
shelter had been built in case the factory had to be moved underground.
We walked around the forest and it usually took a long time before
we were back at the workbench. I did not like these 'Full Alerts'
as we had to carry the more valuable equipment to the shelter. My
duty was to carry a large typewriter in a wooden box through the
narrow, muddy passage. I definitely preferred to sleep in the factory.
One
day the German newspapers announced that a Canadian tank division
was moving towards the Rhine. The headquarters added: "No Canadian
or English would ever cross the Rhine. The efficient German Command
had foreseen the enemy intentions and through the December offensive,
by attacking from the east and the west, thwarted their plans. The
Soviet attack on the River Oder was stopped and pushed back thanks
to the attitude of the German people.
"We
will win. The disaster of the year 1918 will never be repeated,”
wrote Mr. Goebbels. "Germany of 1945 is a monolith under the
leadership of the Fuehrer, a man of genius. "What the Soviets
received near the Oder River, the Anglo-Saxons would receive at
the River Rhine. Neither tanks nor airplanes, but the spirit of
the soldier will have the final victory."
In
the meantime the 'soulless' tanks were crushing the bunkers along
the Siegfried Line. The activities of the Allies were growing in
intensity. Army after army was pushing forward, wedging in, causing
breaches in the defence lines. The German Army was disintegrating
along the Rhine as was the 'monolithic national spirit' behind the
lines. Many V.I.P.'s and builders of the great Reich began to look
to their own survival. Only Goebbels was still undaunted.
The
little doctor (Goebbels, the Minister of Propaganda) was still promising
great things. He promised a secret weapon which was so powerful
that it would decided the outcome of the war, he spoke about glories,
he tried to make bad blood between the allies, he wrote articles
to different papers, he made speeches in public and on the radio.
He had a lot to do as he was the mouthpiece for all the others.
The Fuehrer was no longer heard. Goering had stopped talking a long
time ago. Hess had disappeared in disgrace, Dietman was ill and
the others tried to forget what they had said previously.
It
was not good in Germany, there seemed to be no safe hiding places
left. Those who were not threatened by the approaching Front were
threatened in the towns by falling bombs. The huge Allied air raids
destroyed cities, killing thousands. Many cities were already in
ruins - Hamburg, Berlin, Hanover, Cologne, Munich, Stuttgart, Ulm
and many, many others.
One
day we received a letter from Alma.
"I
am still alive although the town I live in is already dead. What
can I write about it? It was too commonplace to be tragic. Out of
the blue came thousands of tons of metal cases filled with dynamite
and something unknown and into the sky rose clouds of dusty debris,
bricks and flames. There remained only ruins under which were people,
either crushed or burned. The survivors left the ruins of the town.
I am at present in Halle. I don't know why nor for what reason I
exist. Maybe just to become a victim during future air raids.
"People
invent nice games, don't they? And this is humanity: I feel ashamed
to be a human.
Your
bombed-out - Alma.
P.
S. I am sorry only for the books."
Dresden
was finished too. I remembered the beautiful, charming Dresden,
its Zwinger, opera, castle and avenues along the Elbe River. Now
'there were left only ruins and stumps. 'Sic transit gloria mundi'
(so passes away earthly glory).
March
came. The sunshine became stronger, warming the earth. The meadows
started to show some green, the small rivers flowed rapidly. The
cows in the barns were mooing longingly. It was a promise of Spring.
Although
I was tired after a whole night's work, I did not want to miss the
sun and the awakening Spring. I got up during the day and, crossing
the town, went to a barn behind which were some cement pipes. I
used to lie on them, bathe in the sun and look at the snow-covered
Alps. During my night work, with eyes smarting from the very bright
light, I would long for those moments.
One
day when I was dozing peacefully on my cement pipes I was woken
up by some loud, peculiar noise. Lifting my head, I saw from the
direction of the forest a group of boys running. They were rushing
straight towards the barn. Occasionally they would drop to the ground
throwing wooden grenades, crawling on the meadow, running crouched
over. Behind them, German officers came from the forest watching
the boys through field glasses. The boys were in the uniform of
Hitlerjugend (Hitler Youth). Puffing and sweating, the first reached
the barn with a triumphant yell. The barn including me, was probably
the aim of the exercise of attack. When the majority were near the
barn, a bugle called off the war. The youngest were the last to
arrive at the barn, covered with dirt, puffing and red in the face.
The youngest looked no more than nine years old. Two were carrying
a wooden gun of actual size, the third carried the ammunition box
and one of his shoes which he had probably lost during the attack.,
Shortly the three officers arrived. Two were on crutches as each
had a leg missing above the knee, the third one had the Iron Cross
on his chest and an empty sleeve - the whole arm was missing. They
were the instructors whom Hitler had chosen as tutors for young
boys to teach them how best to kill people. The boys were listening
attentively, mindful of their teachers missing limbs. Assembly and
withdrawal were sounded by four buglers. The boys went proudly,
in a military file. They could be proud as they were considered
worthy to fight soon at the Front. They were like soldiers. The
Fuehrer himself took the parade of their Hitler Youth delegation
which was now already fighting at the Front.
They
heard through the radio how, in the Fuehrer's Headquarters, the
Fuehrer accepted them as true soldiers. Some had even received the
Iron Cross and one of their comrades, a boy of ten, received from
the Fuehrer himself a golden cigarette case. The Fuehrer loved them
all. They were honoured to be able to give their blood to the last
drop for the Fuehrer himself and the NDSAP. (Nationale Deutsche
Socialitische Arbeits Partei)
(National German Socialistic Labour Party)
Everyone
could read it in the newspapers. Every day there were obituary columns
marked with black crosses, headed by beautiful words: ... 'They
died for the Fuehrer, Volk and Vaterland'.
The
boys were entering the town now singing - 'Unter der Lanterne' (Lili
Marlene). Behind them followed the officers on crutches.
One
day many dusty buses and trucks arrived in Isny, full of people
and luggage. They must have been running away from the approaching
Front. On some signs were visible between cracked dirt: 'Town administration
-Vienna', a red one parked near the Mayor's office had the name
'Melba' and below it 'Chocolate Berlin'. Many private dusty cars
around hotels and guesthouses contained men in dusty and crumpled
civilian clothes, most with Party member medals pinned to their
collars.
As
usual I had my dinner, a bowl of soup, at The Stag. Marushka was
rushing about an overcrowded room with scissors, cutting the various
ration cards when taking orders. Mostly she had to serve eighty
people or more. The heavy beer glasses were bringing her to near
exhaustion, especially after the morning cleaning of hotel rooms.
Rucksacks lay on benches and, under the tables, leather suitcases.
Men were spreading maps on the tables, maps of the hilly Allgau,
their fingers tracing the hills. Between these hills were faint
lines crossing the nearby Swiss border. No music was heard from
the radio - only 'Luftanmeldungen' (air reports). The latest was:
"Large
formations of enemy planes are proceeding in a south-easterly direction
... stay tuned in ... attention, attention, the aforementioned formations
are 20 km from Augsburg. Augsburg ... Augsburg...! You now have
a full air alert, all to go to the shelters." There was no
sound in the dining room except the loudspeaker. Everyone was listening.
The speaker continued: "Some bombers are bombing the southern
district of Augsburg; the rest have passed, over the town flying
to the east."
About
eight in the evening before going to work I used to listen to the
radio in the guest house. Most of the guests, concerned for their
home towns, would sit near the speaker with maps in front of them
to follow the latest communiqués from German headquarters. Nobody
doubted now that Germany had lost the war.
The
Allied armies were pushing deep into the Reich behind the Rhine,
damaging the main railway junction. Cologne, Frankfurt-on-Main,
Wuerzenburg and Kassel were already taken. The speaker announced
that two German officers had been shot after the army found them
guilty of neglect - they had not destroyed a bridge near Ramagen.
This allowed the allies to force their way over the Rhine. The Fuehrer's
headquarters were looking for the scapegoats. Eisenhower's correspondents
announced that the best way to cross a river was over an undamaged
bridge.
The
announcement tried to avoid mentioning towns. They usually spoke
in general geographical terms, mentioning long rivers along the
Front or some threatened province. Therefore the news bulletins
dwelt for days on heroic battles in the Ruhr which stopped the enemy.
But in the factory we knew better. We were able to organise, quite
nicely, access to other than German news. A young Yugoslav, a lawyer
from Lumblan, had a hidden receiver for listening to the Swiss radio.
We all appreciated this neutral news. This Yugoslav was a work controller
which made his job in distributing the news much easier. Walking
along the workbenches he would draw on the wings the latest positions
of heavy fighting. Through him we learned that the heroic fighters
in the Ruhr were doomed as the Allied forces had already completely
encircled the German divisions and the first Allied armoured divisions
were approaching Hanover.
The
factory ran out of material for work. Some workbenches stood empty.
The finished flaps were not taken by anyone. They were stored everywhere,
even in the yard under the open sky. One day a full transport of
wings was returned to the factory. All the wings were full of holes
- some were twisted. The transport had been caught in an air raid
before reaching its destination. We were told to patch the holes
with pieces of tin. We all knew that this job was senseless but
we were held at the workshops and had to work.
Even
my Lange became quiet and depressed but never for long. The night
before he had read an article about the 'Wehrwolf' (German partisans)
and the 'Panzerfaust' (anti-tank gun). Now he was again of good
hope, speaking about the 'Endsieg' (final victory).
Previously
one had to be quiet and listen to Lange but now people started to
joke, especially the Swiss labourer who loved joking. Now he came
over to Lange, listened attentively, using a glass from a watch
as a monocle. Suddenly he interrupted:
"Do
you know what the English are calling the Panzerfaust?"
"What
else can they call it?" asked Lange.
"They
call it the Eight Mark and Twenty Pfennig Suicide Apparatus."
The others started to laugh. Lange was confused. A pity he was a
good man, but so stupid.
During
meal break the rumour had it that the Gauleiter (Governor) had left
Stuttgart and was living in Jaegerdorf, a small village near Isny.
This was also repeated in the whole town. It was impossible to check.
The rumours started to become more and more fantastic and unbelievable
that Hitler and all his staff were now in Allgau, the American paratroops
had landed in Ulm, and many more. One thing was typical of these
rumours; they usually appeared shortly before some catastrophe.
Easter
came. The Resurrection Day, a day of peace and happy chiming bells,
was a bad day for the people of Isny. The bells were ringing, but
for a different reason - "The town is burning:" - the
scream called the people to the streets.
Under
cover of night, planes had come over Isny. People were sleeping,
nobody had kept watch at the sirens. People were woken up suddenly
by the noise of explosions. Rushing to the windows, they could see
the so-called 'Lamps' (parachute fires) hanging above the town,
the planes circling or diving low over the roofs. The planes, after
dropping mainly incendiary bombs, disappeared back into the darkness.
The bells began to ring the alarm, the sirens to wail and people
rushed out to help fight the fires. The phosphorous was spreading
from roofs and houses to the streets very quickly; there was no
time to save all buildings. Three houses were already burning very
brightly. Everyone was trying to help save goods and animals, rushing
with hoses and buckets to keep the fires down. The best were the
young Dutchmen. Not thinking about themselves, they were helping
those most in need. They started the motor pump just in time as
the fires started to spread to the neighbouring properties. The
houses were usually adjoining each other in this old town. Nobody
slept that night; everyone was watching lest all the town was consumed
by spreading fires. The towers, also scorched, were still ringing
their bells.
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