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One day, mother and some helpers had been very busy sorting
clothes and foods, when there was a constant thunder or roar in
the air, accompanied by a huge cloud of dust above the treetops.
The ground began to shake and some people fled into the nearby
forest. The tanks of the Red Army arrived and continued rumbling
right through our fields, while two trucks used the road to our
house.
Always fascinated by anything motorized, I stood in the middle
of the road. The first truck drove around me, the second stopped
in front of me. One Russian soldier came down, kicked and
dragged me to the side of the road. He put his own jacket over
my shoulders, pointed to the ground and ordered: “Stoy!” I got
the message: “Stay!” When I saw mother and friends involved in a
scuffle with the soldiers, I rushed toward them. I came just in
time to witness my mother, my very own dear mother, and the
other people all being shot dead!
At first, deafened and confused by gunfire, I could not
comprehend fully what had happened. Stunned and in shock, I
watched those bodies on the ground rolling and moving into the
very last phase of life. When the magnitude of the horror sank
in, I regained my breathing and pushed and kicked my way through
those soldiers in order to reach and hug my mother. One of them
got hold of me, pulled the Russian jacket off my shoulders and,
like discarding trash, flung me into the back of a truck. I
landed hard in pain, and that helped me, I finally was able to
cry and cry.
My sister was found hiding in a barn and beaten badly. She
landed beside me on the truck. It was war, gruesome war, and we
had been literally thrown into it. Those who had not fled before
the Red Army came were rounded up and herded to a nearby railway
station. I was never to see again my family’s large homestead
that had been established by fathers and forefathers over
centuries in our native East Prussia, which would be ethnically
cleansed of everything German.
We were loaded into cattle railway cars and the long journey
into the Soviet Union began. Everyone sat on the floor very
close together warming each other as the wind blew snow and rain
through the car. At one of the frequent stops an old man opened
the big door to relieve himself when shots rang out. He fell
back bleeding profusely and soon after died. At night some women
opened the door just enough to slip the body out. After many
days without food and half frozen, we stopped at a small village
and were ordered out. A horse drawn wagon was heaped full of
mostly elderly dead people for whom the long trip had been too
arduous. We were fed some little fish and bread. My sister was
hiding a small pouch with some dried foods that had helped us to
survive. It had been the very last gift from our foreboding
mother.
Then we marched out of the village to our new “home”, a labour
camp: barracks and large tents in rows surrounded by fence and
barbed wire. The forest next to it was our toilet; on the other
side down a steep bank, was a big river still covered with ice
and snow. Each tent had a walkway in the middle and to the left
and right a thick layer of straw to sleep on. An adult got one
blanket, my sister shared with me. The nights were bitterly
cold, even during the day we never got warm.
Adults were grouped into teams and had to work in the forest.
Housekeeping was assigned to children. Every morning we had to
shake out and fold the blankets, empty and clean two pails
serving as night pots. While turning over the straw we searched
the sheaves for any remaining kernels of grain to augment our
meager meal of watery soup and a sliver of bread. Hunger had
become our constant companion. Very seldom we received some
salted fish. Carrying ice-blocks from the river up to the
kitchen and the Russian barracks, and hauling and piling
firewood for them filled our day. There was very little time
left for us to pick the lice and fleas off each other. All we
owned we carried on our bodies, worked with it and slept with
it. At night my sister and I cried sometimes together, but we
never spoke about mother. That was too painful.
People got very sick. Nights had become endless. Besides cold
and hunger we had to endure the moaning and groaning of very
sick and dying people. When the person next to me had turned
cold at night – one more had passed on I used that opportunity
to search the pockets for something edible. I had learned from
the adults to be quick at salvaging socks and other garments
from the dead. My sister specialized in swiping scarves from the
corpses, which she then transformed into sweaters on our small
bodies. Rats crawled over us at night. As long as we moved, they
would leave us alone, but they did feed on the dead. In the
morning the guards came with a flatbed wagon. Those dead or
almost dead were thrown on that wagon and carted down to the
river. After completing the haul of ice and water, the naked
bodies were shoved under the ice. The mighty “Dnjeper River” not
only provided, it also received.
Periodically a German speaking “Polit-Kommissar”, better known
as “Stalin’s Apostle”, would lecture us about peace and war,
socialism and fascism. Because we fascists had brought death and
destruction to the Soviet Union, there was an acute shortage of
food and supplies. We should not complain about watery soups and
cold nights, but instead be grateful for the mercy of the Soviet
people to allow us on their soil. He assured us, that life under
socialist rule would soon be much better. The great leader Mr.
Stalin would see to it that the world would live in peace and
prosperity. For those opposing his goals, punishment would be
severe.
Mr. Stalin was somewhere far away. It seemed as if he and his
likes had lived in the past for the future. Our past was
yesterday, that we barely survived and didn’t want to remember.
We were too hungry and too cold to have ludicrous dreams about a
glorious future. Somehow making it through the present day, that
was what counted. That was victory. Surviving that seemingly
endless night to avoid the flatbed wagon in the morning was our
future. More hunger, more pains just like the day before and all
other futuristic yesterdays! It was not a time for mercy or
self-pity. There always is a price to be paid for empowering and
supporting politically evil “Misleaders” in their satanic,
ill-fated ambitions. Old or young, guilty or not, we all paid
dearly.
Besides “Nazi”, we had been called “Gerrrmanski”. By stretching
this word and especially rolling the “R” letter, the Russian war
torn soul would and did air its hatred towards us. Vengeance is
sweet. Even as a child I sensed from whom to stay away.
Occasionally a body was spotted floating down the river. Some of
us who had ventured alone too far into the forest never came
back. Some older men paid special attention as to where the
crowing ravens circled above the treetops. Around there, they
would later search for leftover shoe wear and clothes.
One day we all were assembled outside our compound. While we
received a long speech about law and order, two older men had to
dig a deep hole. They were subsequently shot and buried in it
for trying to break into the Russian supplies. Theft was
rampant, justice swift, when caught. Food, no matter how little,
always seemed to outweigh a human life, even one’s own.
To be continued...
To start from the
beginning
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