The better part of
valor is discretion.
Shakespeare
Chapter 17
Back in the Same Cattle Car
It was early October 1945, nighttime temperatures started to drop to the freezing point and it rained on and off. Finally on the 13th of October the rest of the Invalid Company men were called together and names were read again from a list. Every man they called had to step to the right and Orje had also stepped out. I didn’t hear my name and at the end I was the only one left. I walked up to the guard and interpreter and gave my name, saying that I did not hear them read it.
They checked one more time and discovered that my name was misspelled. I told them I didn’t give a damn what they called me as long as I was released. They laughed and I was to be shipped out.
We were told to assemble Sunday at noon for the final frisking. The following clothing items were not allowed to be taken out of camp: woolen sweaters, blankets, overcoats or leather boots. Those items would be desperately needed by the remaining POWs during the next winter. It gave me the creeps, thinking that these men would have to endure another winter.
During a man to man frisking by Russian guards the next day, I had to open my army jacket. The guard pulled at my chest-warmer, which fortunately came out of my pants under the guard’s grip, so it wasn’t considered as a sweater, and they let me keep it. I am sure that this unique piece of clothing prevented me from getting pneumonia, which could have meant certain death on the long way back to Germany.
While everything was being squared away by the guards, it started to rain. Late Sunday afternoon we finally formed a marching group of four abreast and slowly walked out of the gate, accompanied by the best wishes of all those remaining behind. I could not figure out why the releases always took place on Sundays. The Russians wanted the working crews to see that they actually released some of the men. They figured that it would improve the moral of the remaining soldiers.
Our group walked in the rain to the rail yard and by the time we were in the empty boxcars our clothes were soaked. I saw that there were six boxcars with 30 POWs per car, a passenger car for the guards and the “nurse”, some kind of a baggage car for the food, and a caboose with an elevated brakeman’s seat for the armed guard on duty. I was in the same type of boxcar in which I had been arrested 114 days earlier. I prayed that this time the journey would get me to Germany. The boxcars were empty. They contained nothing that would have made our stay in them comfortable.
Since our clothes were wet and it was quite chilly, we decided the only way to keep warm was to give the Soviet’s “collective” system a try and sit on the floor close to each other and dry the clothes through our combined body heat. This wasn’t comfortable, the collective body temperature was barely sufficient, and like the real Russian collective system, it stank. We had to change our seating positions several times during the night, so the outside men could get warm. We couldn’t sleep, so we told old jokes.
Then one guy said, “Gentlemen, permit me to remind you, that we thank our Führer for this comfortable situation. Without him we would be sitting comfortably at home and being bored.” That caused a tumultuous reaction, until I finally said, “We should have called him “Fuhrmann” (teamster) instead of “Führer”, because he drove all of Germany into a pile of shit.” There was an “Amen” from several sides, and it became very quiet after that.
Suddenly somebody said, “Gee, this stink is terrible, what did you eat yesterday Karl?” It wasn’t more than a second before Karl replied, “As hors d’oeuvres I had Russian eggs with lobster mayonnaise and caviar, after that filled Hungarian peppers with capers, and as the main course I had larded tenderloin of venison with red cabbage and caramelized potatoes, accompanied by a bottle of 1943 Alsatian Gewürztraminer, and as dessert, puff pastry filled with raspberry mouse, and a cup of mocha.” This almost uninterrupted gourmet dinner menu was accompanied by ahhs and oohs, with instant silence at the end.
Then somebody piped up, “But Karl, that was the wrong wine with the venison,” and another answered, “Karl always had bad taste,” and still another, “Small wonder it stinks here.” Which was accompanied by a roar of laughter.
Early in the morning of October 14, 1945, our cars were finally connected to a train and we slowly rolled out of Vilnius. Exactly on that day in 1941 I had left home to report for duty at the National Labor Force (RAD). I could not escape two facts. First, that I had wasted four years of my life in this incomprehensibly idiotic war, created by one asshole politician who called himself “Führer.” Secondly, that I had signed up for four years of service and had now fulfilled my contract.
Everybody milled around in the boxcar and looked out the open door on one side, while everybody took turns to relieve themselves through the partially opened door on the other side. The German POWs had impressed the camp commandant with their ability to make their lives more comfortable. I must admit that as a man who had only served at high Wehrmacht commando posts, I was an inexperienced “acquisitioner”. Most of the men in my car had been frontline soldiers and knew how to make something out of nothing.
Orje, my mentor in the camp, took command of our boxcar. He assigned certain responsibilities to each man. He never gave unnecessary orders or advice, and yet remained in control of any situation. This man, a POW for three years, amazed and impressed me every day. I thought every man in that car owed Orje a lot for his leadership in this unusual situation.
Four men were assigned to fetch the meager food rations from the guard car when the freight train was stopped, because there was no other way to move between cars. The food for the entire trip was bread, some jam and dried fish. There was no refrigeration, so dried and salted fish was the only thing that survived in edible condition.
All rail lines in eastern countries were single track so the train stopped frequently on a spur to wait for an oncoming train. Since there were no toilets on board our train, except in the guard car and the caboose, we also had to use these stops for toilet purposes. What a way to travel, but we didn’t mind, we were going west.
Soon the train took us into parts of former German East Prussia, which had been primarily an agricultural area. Here we saw more sad consequences of the war. The large farms in the area had been abandoned by the German owners ahead of the advancing Russian armies. Most of their farm equipment had been rounded up by the Russians and stored in open fields for transport to Russia. We found that abandoned houses often still contained personal belongings. This was either because nobody knew the houses had not been stripped, or because they were so far from main roads along the rail lines that they were ignored.
The important thing to us was the food stored in field pits, underneath layers of straw, covered on top by a layer of earth. These storage pits (Mieten) contained primarily potatoes, but also grain, turnips, carrots and beets. They provided a welcome addition to our meager rations. There were also potbelly stoves left in some of the abandoned houses as well as pots and pans and all sorts of other goodies. In order not to let those valuable things go to waste, we quickly organized bucket brigades back to our boxcar to “upgrade” our rolling quarters.
Soon we had straw on the floor to sleep on, a potbelly stove with stovepipe, and cooking utensils to cook the vegetables we had harvested from the pits. There was firewood, a couple of benches to sit on, and wardrobe hooks on the walls. Our life was getting a little easier and better organized with every day of our journey.
The lookout men had to make darn sure that the requisition guys didn’t miss the train. They had to give a loud whistle before the train started to roll again. This was not too difficult when we were on a spur in wide open country, because the scenery in East Prussia was pretty flat and we could see the oncoming train for miles. The guards were very lax, because none of us would escape, but they were responsible for X number of POWs whom they had to deliver at the release camp. When the train stopped at a station, the POWs were not allowed out of the cars, because then the guards themselves were watched by whatever Russian officers were at that station. All POWs understood that and cooperated.
As our train progressed further into former German territory, the scenery began to look familiar. I was finally convinced that we were going towards Germany and not in the opposite direction, as I had before. We were into the eighth day of our journey, a journey that under normal circumstances would have taken no longer than 20 hours. This was caused by the chaos caused by the war.
So close and yet so far
Two POWs had died on our train. We didn’t know this right away, since we could not talk with men in the other cars while the train was in motion. A number of men were quite sick when they boarded the boxcars at Vilnius. Of course there was only the most basic first aid supply with the nurse on this train, and no medication or physician was available. The dead men were put in body bags and stored in the caboose, because the guards had to account for all of the POWs, dead or alive. Such were the Russian rules.
The rest of the POWs were beginning to have problems too. We could not wash or bathe, and only had one set of underwear and clothing. We all stank and were infested with lice. The lice deposited eggs in the seams of our clothing and they hatched under the body heat. During the four years in the war, I never had any problems with lice.
Soon we heard about the third death, and we thought, “Who is next?” Some of the dead guys might have been POWs for a long time and now that the end of their misery was near, they kicked the bucket so close to home, how utterly tragic.
The train rolled into the northeastern corner of the province of Brandenburg and my knowledge of the area and the rail lines told me we would be passing through my former hometown, Landsberg/Warthe. I was apprehensive about what I would find there. Observations along our rail tour did not give me much to hope for. The train stopped in Zantoch around midnight for several hours.
Zantoch was situated at the confluence of the rivers Netze and Warthe and I had been there many times with the rowing club. A freight train pulled into the rail yard from the opposite direction and stopped next to our train. The train had “interesting” cargo. The open freight cars were filled to the brim with potatoes. Of course that put everybody on the alert. We always needed more food. The entire food supply on our train had been used up, the trip had taken so long.
This potato train was guarded by an armed Polish militia man, who was sleeping on top of one car. To acquisition from this train was taking a chance, because he would fire at the POWs if they tried to steal any potatoes. That would awaken our Russian guards too. The first thing the guys had to do was to disarm the guardsman. Orje huddled with some of the guys, and made up a plan of attack.
Several POWs climbed on the guard’s car from opposite sides, confiscated the gun that he had rested next to him and threw it under one of the railroad cars. That woke him up, but since several POWs stood above him he didn’t have much of a chance. He didn’t know what hit him and tried to raise a ruckus. To shut him up the POWs quickly wrapped him into the tarp he was sleeping on, and several of them sat on him. In the meantime others started to unload the potatoes. This all happened so fast that the Russian guards and most of the other POWs didn’t realize what was taking place.
Trauma of seeing the hometown again
Hours later we rolled into Landsberg/Warthe, the town that I had left four years ago when I was drafted. I had spent my teenage years here, and I loved this country. I had many friends here with whom I had shared the joys and pains of growing up. I didn’t know if my mother was still there, or if she had fled before the Russians had occupied it on January 30, 1945. Even that date had its own sadistic significance. Twelve years earlier, in 1933, on that very day, Hitler had become Reichskanzler. What he “accomplished” was right before my own eyes now. How could this insane man devastate this beautiful country without anybody stopping him?
When the train slowly rolled through the town on the elevated tracks, I could look onto the Marienplatz at the center of Landsberg. I saw many burned out buildings. I knew there had not been any fighting to gain this town. The town had been surrendered by the mayor. To my surprise the train stopped just west of the railway station near the city’s gas plant, and I found out that we would be delayed for about two hours.
Orje and I got off the train to look around. We met some Polish residents who spoke some German, and they told us that the Russians had deliberately burned down almost the entire center of the town and that there were very few Germans left, most of them had been deported. Everywhere I looked, buildings were in a state of disrepair and destruction. There was a feeling of anger and hopelessness even by the Polish people. Overhead wires of the streetcar system were hanging down on the sidewalk in Friedrichstadt. When I looked into some of the buildings of the gas plant, I noticed that even light switches and conduits had been stripped and none of the buildings had windows or doors.
Polish people told me that the Russians had done all this, before turning this area over to the Polish administration. Here I was, a 21 year old man, realizing that I was homeless. I lost my remaining faith in humanity and it would never be fully restored.
I decided to say a last good-bye to the Warthe river which had so enjoyably enhanced my life as a young man. I walked through an underpass down to the edge of the river, dipped my foot into the water and thanked the river for all the good things it had given me. Then with a heavy heart I walked back to the train. My life would never be the same, but it went on, and I had to try and make a new start someplace else.
The train was moving again and when we passed the places I knew well, I drank the scenery in one last time. We passed through Küstrin which was completely destroyed, and then continued towards Berlin. The train should have turned south in Küstrin, to get to Frankfurt/Oder, but apparently the direct rail lines were still interrupted or destroyed. This was not surprising since the heaviest fighting took place here before the Russians advanced on Berlin. There were still pieces of destroyed war machinery sitting everywhere along the railroad tracks. Whenever we saw a destroyed Russian T-34 tank or some other Russian equipment, a loud “hurrah” went up. The POWs’ spirit was starting to recover.
Our cars were uncoupled from the train and put on a spur. We could not leave the car because of the curfew. Early the next morning I thought I was seeing some familiar sights and figured that we were somewhere east of Berlin. Then we were hitched to a locomotive and moved in an easterly direction.
End of the journey
Finally after ten days and nights, on October 25 1945, we were pushed into a switching yard near Frankfurt/Oder. Here we disembarked. God, what a relief to finally have reached our destination, Rest-Germany! It was sad to see three dead buddies being unloaded from our train. Orje said, “Who knows, they might be better off than we are. None of us knows what horrors might lie ahead of us.” When we marched from the rail yard, we saw some high ranking Russian officers walk along our vacated boxcars, pointing to the “luxurious” interior and shaking their heads with unsmiling faces.
On a parallel track other POWs were coming off their train.
We were taken to a former German Panzer compound with buildings in very good condition compared to what we had seen during our trip. German employees were running the paperwork here and the really sick soldiers received medical help. The most exciting feature was the halfway decent food with genuine German Kommissbrot (standard German military style bread). The next day was spent filling out forms, taking a first shower, washing some underwear and finally getting the Russian release paper, called a sprawka. They briefed us on the rules of the Russian occupation zone. The city of Frankfurt/Oder was off limits to all POWs. Anybody caught there would be arrested and taken to jail. I was very disappointed, because I knew the Master Optician in Frankfurt/Oder and had hoped to get a duplicate of my technical education papers.
On the next day we were each given one loaf of Kommissbrot, were told that we are on our own from here on, and that there were no scheduled trains running yet. We were practically chased out of the compound, and I, sarcastically as always, remembered what Kaiser Wilhelm II had said to his troops leaving for World War One, “Der Dank des Vaterlandes ist euch gewiss,” meaning, “Be assured, the Fatherland will thank you.”
Orje, who focussed on necessities, rather than emotions said, “Let’s get going right away, maybe we will be lucky and find a train or locomotive to hitch a ride on.” Two other Berliners joined us.
Berlin, the city I was born in, lies about 50 miles west of Frankfurt/Oder. That was going to be our destination. If all else failed, we would have to walk there.
Most of the other released POWs also had to go to or through Berlin since all roads lead to Berlin, to re-coin an old Roman phrase. Just outside the switch yard we talked to a German railroad engineer who had his engine under steam and was obviously ready to pull out. He told us that he was only going as far as Fürstenwalde, but he would let us ride on the tender at our own risk. Orje suggested that we each give him a thick slice of our bread, and he gratefully accepted the precious food.
It was late in the afternoon when we arrived at Fürstenwalde and the engineer warned us about the curfew restrictions. Even though I had been here before, I didn’t recognize the area around the switch yard. The four of us decided to use an empty old barn as our home for the night. There was straw in the corners of the barn and we heaped up a small pile to sleep on. We decided to take turns sleeping in order to preclude any surprises from Russian soldiers. We talked in a whispering voice so as to not attract any attention. We ate quite a bit of our Kommissbrot, because we hadn’t tasted any decent bread for such a long time.
I asked Orje what he was going to do when back in Berlin, and to my total surprise Orje said he would get himself a few “race horses.” I didn’t understand the meaning, but the other guys explained to me that it meant he was going to have some prostitutes working for him. I was sure he was not kidding.
Next morning we eyed the area through gaps in the barn’s siding and decided that curfew was over, because we could see people walking around in the distance. We talked to a switch yard worker, who gave us a hint as to when an empty freight train would be leaving for Berlin. This time we were lucky and ended up in an empty boxcar (dejà vue) in a freight train. The trip to Berlin used to take an hour during normal times. The war destruction and the dismantling of many rails for reparations by the Russians would lengthen our trip.
At about midnight we finally ended up at Rummelsburg in Berlin, a large switch yard in the eastern part of the city. The yard was north of the river Spree. I had lived and gone to school here. We could not leave the train because of the enforced curfew. A yard worker happened to walk by and we asked him if the train we were on would leave during the night. He didn’t know. So it was just wait and see what happened. At the first movement we would have to abandon the train, and hide some place until the curfew was over. So it was another night in a damn freight car.
The train didn’t move overnight and a sunny morning dawned.
SBN 1-89-634-05-0, Printed in U.S.A. Copyright 1999 by Hugelwilhelm Publishing Co. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages.