Panzer Commander Part 23

We no more Kaiser, or our beloved Tamara. They come back and we, shall be free." I did not enlighten the good man that Wilhelm II was long since dead and that we already had the Second World War behind us. I said, "I wish that your lovely country and the proud Georgians may one day be free. I greet the friendly farmers of this village and drink to the health of the Empress Tamara." The women wept and the men embraced me.

The atmosphere seemed to me suitable for buying a few eggs cheaply for Easter and for- the sick back at the camp. When I asked about this, the farmer referred me to his wife, "Wife responsible for goats, chicken, and flour. You bargain with her." I saw at once the sparkle in her eyes at being able to bargain now, like all Orientals, with a buyer. Her first price was far above that of the market in Tkibuli. So I offered less than the market price. She duly gave way a little, at which all the women started to chatter together.

Unfortunately I had no time to continue this game for long, much as I too enjoyed it.

"Listen, I haven't much time. I am saving you the long way through the mountains in order to sell your eggs in the market in Tkibuli. So you really must offer them to me more cheaply."

"I like to walk through the mountains and hear the news in the market. So will you buy now at my price?" I gave up, with the argument that the eggs would get broken on my way through the mountains or be taken away from me by the Russian guard. With many friendly words and embraces we said good-bye. Happy people, for whom time hac(stood still.

Shortly before Easter I visited the village again. I had brought with me a carved knife, made by our men in the mine, as a present for the village elder in thanks for his hospitality.

This time he persuaded his wife to let me have a few eggs as a gift. I thanked them in the name of everyone in the camp.

So we had Faster eggs on our table after all.

After the discovery of the rich new seam, the Russian mine administration had started to build a new pithead in the valley.

Now that the results of the coal-swking detachments were so posi-" tive, the project was pursued at full b. 'ne work was being done, once again, in a slipshod way and without great expertise according to plans supplied from Moscow.

The building site and the first part of a tunnel that was to be driven into the mountain looked catastrophic. Tle construction managers seemed unable even to understand the plans. Materials were stolen. The Russian work force kept strictly to their norms, which were set comparatively low.

Then one day, a German mining engineer, who until then had been working down the shaft, was sent for and given superintendence over the whole project-much to our astonishment.

"You are now responsible for everything. The Russian workers will be subordinate to you. You take from your camp all the specialists you can use and you will receive all the materials that you request." So ran the clear direction of the over-natchalnik, who had obviously arranged matters with the Russian camp commandant.

The further construction and development of the tunnel, the laying of the rails for the underground railway, all the electrical fittings, the building of a machine house and the barracks scheduled for the administration and for the Russian personnel now came under the German engineer.

At first he was hesitant in a.s.serting himself and-was up against some of the functionaries, but then in command, he convinced everyone that work there would be done professionally and well.

He demanded a lot from the Russian construction managers and workers, but his expertise and fairness soon made him popular.

I visited him one day on the building site and was surprised at the almost European appearance of the place and the zeal with which the work was being done. Some trucks arrived while I was there with gravel that had been taken fr(xn the Caspian Sea.

Our engineer tested the gravel in his laboratory, primitive as yet, and refused to accept it.

"This gravel contains oil and is therefore unsuitable for cementing the tunnel lining. I need clean gravel." The mine administration at once ordered the delivery of clean gravel, and a few days later it actually arrived.

By the time of my transfer to another camp at the end of 1948, Kultura and Corruption: The Russian Mentality 305 the new pithead had grown extensively and the administration as well as the mining personnel had already moved into their barracks.

So we no longer wondered why the Russians ignored the Geneva Conventions and tried by every means to retain us as prisoners of war. It was again apparent that with a state-directed system, an army of millions of Russian convicts and conscripted workers and the lack of any incentive to work, and of the most elementary consumer goods, no production was to be achieved of the sort that is taken for granted in the West as the basis of a liberal-in Russian eyes, capitalistnomy.

In Camp 518 meanwhile, more and more prisoners were managing to obtain extra "earnings," so as to improve the wretched, unbalanced, and meager camp diet.

The mine workers, who had no contact with the outside world, began a lively trade in coal, which they sold to freezing Russian families, having previously paid the guard a small commission. Or they used the mine workshops to make artistically carved knives and other useful articles which could not otherwise be bought anywhere by the local inhabitants.

Our German truckdriver, Fred Sbosny, with whom I once drove to Tiflis to buy things for our theater group, tried to maintain his Studebaker truck in good, condition. As he told me, whenever a spare part was needed, he always received the same instructions from the Russian commandant, "You get from mine.

Guards in vehicle park must not notice." This meant that he often had to go, on a "scrounging trip" by night, at great risk and by bribing the guards.

Spare parts for the Studebakers, over 100,000 of them, which the Americans had supplied under the terms of a "Lend-lease" agreement in the last years of the war, were not available, or were sold "under the counter." Thus, in the course of the years, three trucks became two, and two became one, until even this last gave up the ghost.

Under the terms of the same treaty the Americans, mistaking the conditions, had supplied vast quant.i.ties of pajamas. For the Georgians, who loved everything colorful, tese were a very welcome gift, and so one still saw them after 1948 running about the town in their pajamas, even during the day.

The Russian officers and the NKVD people undoubtedly knew that the camp was slowly beginning to change, and they were realistic enough to put a higher value on our achievements.

The summer of 1948 was marked by two events, each of which impressed me in its own way.

One day I was detailed for technical working reasons to go for a week to the Hungarian camp, which was one of our group of camps.

When I arrived three Hungarians had just been locked up for complaining about the working conditions. "Me whole camp at once went on hunger strike, sent a delegation to the Russian commandant, and demanded their release. As this was refused, the hunger strike went on, and I found myself compelled to join it.

Hunger strikes, unusual cases of death, and suicides are for the Russians an alarm signal. A commission at once appeared from Moscow to look into it. The three were released and the hunger strike was called off.

What impressed me was the unanimity with which the whole camp had joined in the strike. The Hungarians hated the Russians, who had occupied their country as well.

I profited from the strike by learning to knit from a Hungarian shepherd. After I got back to our own camp, mine workers made me some knitting needles, others brought me fourteen-ply insulating yarn from stolen electric cable, and I began to knit stockings. Since we and the Russian soldiers knew only of foot-cloths, which provided no warmth in winter, my stockings were a "hit." In the course of time I became so proficient at knitting that I produced several pairs a week, which were bought, and often ordered in advance, by fellow prisoners and the soldiers who guarded us.

The second impressive event involved our camp. Late one afternoon after work the Russian commandant came to see me.

"Polkovnik, get hold of another three strong men and come to the guardroom in ten minutes." Another deal seemed to be in the offing.

The four of us duly appeared at the guardroom, where the commandant handed us over to a Georgian, whom he treated with great respect and who seemed to us to be a prominent man in the town. An escort was provided for us and we marched down into the town. When I asked what there was for us to do, the man looked at us sadly. "You will see what has happened. You help me." We came to a quarter of the town where the ndtchainiks and functionaries had their wooden houses, which stood out from the usual ones. We went into the house and saw before us, standing on the living-room table, an open coffin in which lay a very pretty young girl, his daughter. Standing around the coffin were a number Kultura and Corruption: The Russian Mentality 307 of women, who in accordance with oriental custom were tearing their hair and singing laments. In some consternation we stood still and asked the good man what in heaven's name we four had to do there.

"You bear coffin ceremoniously to the churchyard. I bury daughter there. You also Christians with respect for dead." We knew that the former churchyard lay at the other end of the town.

"Gospodin, we will do everything with dignity. But it is a long way, so take a stool so that we can set the coffin down when it gets too heavy." At that we shouldered the open coffin in which the young girl lay, in a white dress and adomed with flowers, and marched off, followed by the father with the stool. Behind him came the family, and behind them all the friends and strangers. The procession grew longer and longer. On either side of our long way to the churchyard stood many of the inhabitants of the little mining town.

As soon as we gave the- sign, the father came up with the stool.

Hardly had we set the coffin down, than female mourners came running up to the coffin to touch the girl once more. Finally we arrived at the churchyard. The dilapidated church, which served as a food store, the overturned tombstones and the rank weeds gave the place a sad impression and offered no atmosphere of peace. The father and his sons had already dug the grave, so we set the coffin down beside it.

The place meanwhile had filled with people. After a last farewell, the coffin was closed, and we lowered it slowly into the ground. I had arranged with my three companions that after the lowering of the coffin we would remain standing by the grave and say the Lord's Prayer. As we did so, and then in addition threw three spadefuls of earth into the grave, the a.s.sembled people looked at us in amazement, but seemed to be so overwhelmed by this gesture that some of the mourners crossed themselves and began loudly to weep.

Then, together with the father, we started to fill in the grave.

As we did so I could not help asking him what his beautiful daughter had died of so young.

His answer was unexpected, "The silly cow, I always told her she shouldn't make love to her boyfriend in the open air. Now she's had pneumonia and kicked the bucket because of it." We were somewhat taken aback. The four of us then marched with the father back to his house, where the table had been laid in the meantime with what was by Georgian standards a sumptuous funeral feast. We were overwhelmed by the meal, for years an unaccustomed one for us.

There were maize cakes, eggs, fruit, meat, , goat's cheese, home-baked bread, and in addition, Georgian wine and brandy.

When our escort arrived to collect us at about eleven o'clock, he too was invited to eat and drink, an offer he did not refuse.

We then took our leave. The family thanked us again for the beautiful funeral. Swaying slightly we appeared at the guardhouse, where the night sentry greeted us with a great h.e.l.lo and envious remarks.

With a somewhat guilty conscience we told our fellow prisoners about this "Russian-style" funeral.

Punishment Camp: Hunger Strike and the KGB Late autumn, 1948. Winter was advancing slowly over the land.

We still had hope of being home for Christmas. The opposite occurred.

Without warning, as always, a selection was suddenly made. All staff officers, former members of the Waffen-SS and the police, and those who were considered such by the KGB, as well as prisoners who had fought against partisans, had to ready themselves for a transfer to a special camp. We were very depressed.

Leave-taking from those who remained behind, with whom we had endured so much in common for more than three years, was hard for us. We were just able to give them our home addresses for memorization before the Russian commandant appeared on the scene.

"I can't do anything. Orders from Moscow. You good workers, mine management and many people will miss you."

"You too soon domoi, go Although there was little comfort in his words, they were well meant. The Russian soul showed through for once.

We found ourselves once again in closed trucks with new guards who were not to be trifled with. They behaved as though they were' dealing with dangerous criminals.

In the afternoon the train rumbled down to the valley, out of the mountains in which so many of our comrades had been buried or thrown into makes.h.i.+ft graves. We went past the little wooden house that had once let our "wood transport" through. Higher up, where I had worked.vith the coal-seeking detachment, we could see the first snow.

Our thoughts went back to the other prisoners. As we heard later, all prisoners of the main Camp 7518/1 were sent at the end of September to a camp in the outskirts of K6taisi. It was said that this camp had been used before as camp for the "Wehrmachtshelferinnen" (girls serving in the Army as a.s.sistant workers). The camp was quite near an Opel factory dismounted in East Germany and now slowly rusting.

Winand told me later that, with some exceptions, they were released during October 1949. He himself left the Caucasus on 12 October and reached his home in Cologne on 28 October.

Fellow prisoner Koellreuter managed to visit Ktibuli as a tourist in 1978. He reports that our Camp 7518/1 does not exist anymore. So all signs of our pa.s.sion faded away.

We rumbled east through the Caucasian lowlands and were detrained unexpectedly in the neighborhood of Tbilisi (Tiflis), the capital of Georgia.

The collecting camp to which we were taken was already partially occupied by selected prisoners from other camps. They too had no idea what was to become of us.

We were "greeted" by the camp commandant, "You here well treated, Moscow very correct. Staff officers not work." I was again employed as interpreter, but my propusk from Tkibuli was unfortunately not valid here. We staff officers took no great pleasure in not being allowed to work, although the decision was correct and in accordance with the Geneva Convention.

There was no radio anymore, no chance of earning a little extra or of making contact with the local population. We sat about the camp in idleness and were dependent on the rumors of the outside brigades.

It is hardly believable, but we thought back to our camp in the mountains with a certain nostalgia. The work had been hard, and mortal for many, but it had been a distraction. We who in the course of the years had come through physically and mentally had been able in work to forget something of our hard fate.

Treatment in the camp at Tiflis was correct, but we were degraded from prisoners of war to convicts. Once again I was required to denounce police and SS officers. When I refused, I had to spend a day in the standing box. With only a little piece of bread and a bowl of watery soup to eat I had to stand for 24 hours. There was an air hole in the ceiling, but otherwise only concrete around me. I don't know how many days one could bear it.

My inactivity in the camp gave me the chance to draw up an interim balance.

In the three and a half years I had gathered a good many experiences. I had learned to do work which I had known before only from hearsay. I had learned that the will to survive and training to survive were decisive in overcoming a fate such as mine. Equally important was to keep alive the hope of returning home one day. I had learned also that a clear, intelligible att.i.tude and language im Punishment Camp: Hunger Strike and the KGB 311 pressed the Russians. They despised opportunists, let alone informers. I, ; I I.

I remember a conversation with an NKVD functionary in which he said, "We use traitors of course, but we don't like treason." The picture I had been able to form over the years was fundamentally different from that which Hitler and his Propaganda Minister Goebbels had tried to give us, namely, of the Russians as subhumans who had no right to exist.

I think the period of the war in Russia, but especially my years in captivity, had helped me to understand a good part of the Russian mentality. I don't mean the power centers in Moscow, but the Russian population.

Like children the Russians could be cruel, but ready at the next moment to share with another their last crust of bread. I liked these people, who despite permanent oppression had never given up their ident.i.ty or lost their love of their country. In the evening we often heard, wafting over to us from the Russian camps and villages, melancholy songs, sung in harmony, which seemed to express the destiny of these people.

But there were other experiences which made our blood boil and reminded us of medieval methods of torture.

Gold crowns were broken off our teeth; we had to carry the dead out of the camp on hand-barrows and bury them unceremoniously; and we had to undergo periodic "frisking," in which we were deprived of our last possessions. All this seemed to us cruel and unfeeling. Even photographs of our families were taken from us and torn up before our eyes. Our plen to spare us the photographs at least were met with derisive hoots and the words, "Lovely woman, we had in Germany. Your wife long ago has other man." And we could no longer bear to hear the inevitable davai, the word with which our overseers drove us on, any more than the word saftra, tomorrow, which was the answer to every question about returning home. To us it seemed like mockery.

At work our relations with the Russians who labored alongside us as convicts were much better. Perhaps it was the common fate that bound us together, to which they, however, were more easily reconciled than we. At the time there were about 3 million Russian prisoners, distributed all over Russia. In the towns and villages there was hardly a family that didn't have one of its members working in a punishment camp. But was not the whole of Russia one vast prison camp?

Despite the monotonous daily round the weeks went by.

Previously, mail from home had still been a bright spot. Here even that no longer applied at first, for it would take weeks for our new address to reach home. I We couldn't understand why the Russians had lumped us staff officers in with members of the police and the Waffen SS, whom they designated as "war criminals." Were we perhaps potential reyanchists? This term is still part of the Russian vocabulary even today.

Hally Momm complained in particular, "I opposed Hitler and because of that was demoted and put 'on probation' in the notorious"Dirlew.a.n.ger Brigade." So why have I been sent here?" Slowly the rumor gained ground that our stay at the collecting camp was to end and that we were to be transferred to a punishment camp. A Russian ocer told us, "You are going to a punishment camp and will be sentenced there." Was it malice or the truth? He proved to be right. From the end of 1948 to the beginning of 1949 transports were a.s.sembled which left Tiflis for an unknown destination. We too were on one of them. Again a truck, again closed doors, and once again unfriendly guards. Hope gave way more and more, to apathy. We trundled north, back over the Elbrus mountains, and ended up in the region of Kiev, the capital of the Ukraine.

On the long railway journey we discussed what had become of Lenin's worker and peasant state: a state capitalism of the worst kind, the apparatus of power ossified and only maintained by an ingenious system of supervision. What had come into being was a state of functionaries, in which on the "toady principle," treading on those below and cringing to those above, everyone tried to work his way up out of the ma.s.s. I didn't come across any officer or functionary who treated his people humanely. The less Marx's ideas and Lenin's program could be realized, the more the system had to be maintained by force and supervision.

Any relaxation would in the long term lead automatically to collapse. Great disappointment was evident in those of our fellow prisoners who in Germany had been enrolled members of the Communist party, who had had to endure much suffering for their ideology. Their faith had been shaken.

A few days before our removal to Kiev, I had a further unusual experience. On my way to get food a young man suddenly stopped in front of me.

Punishment Camp: Hunger Strike and the KGB 313 "Colonel! My G.o.d, you here! Don't you recognize e?" It was the orderly officer on the staff of my I st Battalion of the Panzer Grenadier Regiment 125, which on 18 July 1944, had been in the thick of a hail of bombs during "Operation Goodwood" and had been completely wiped out. At the time I had tried in vain to make contact with this battalion and was afraid even then that casualties would have been heavy.

"Good heavens, where have you come from? I didn't think you were still alive. Tell me what happened to you." We arranged to meet that evening and he told me his story.

"As we were well dug in and kept our heads, our losses were not all that heavy. Then, after putting up fierce resistance, we were all taken prisoner by the British. For some unknown reason we were handed over to the Americans. I ended up eventually in the USA, more precisely in the Middle West. Our treatment was first cla.s.s. I was even able to continue my geological studies and take my exam before a Swiss commission. We didn't have to work, it was on a voluntary basis. I did work and earned so much money that I was able to buy all the books for my studies and have suits made at the tailor's."

"Then how in the world did you get here?" I wanted to know.

"In 1948 we were released," he went on. "I was allowed to take all my things with me, which I packed up in several boxes. The boxes were then s.h.i.+pped by the Americans. When I arrived in Germany I produced my discharge certificate and was asked by an' American officer where I wanted to be discharged to. I told him I wanted to go to my mother in Dresden. "For G.o.d's sake," he replied, 'that's in the Russian zone. You'll have problems.

Stay here in our zone." Relying on my discharge certificate, I stuck to my decision. "All right, I wish you luck. I hope you won't regret it."

"I never got to my mother's. As soon as I had crossed the demarcatioh line between the Americans and the Russians, I showed my discharge certificate and asked for permission to go to my mother, but my request was to land me in trouble.

"'Certificate from Americans no good fiere," was the Russian reaction. "You German officer and revanchist, go to Russian camp."

"Next day I found myself, along with a lot of others who had made the same mistake, in a train for transportation here," he said, ending the account of his unfortunate journey.

My young orderly officer at least had the good fortune to be able to work as a geologist outside the camp at Tiflis, although not under as good conditions as with the Americans.

In the Tiflis camp I had another, rather amusing experience. At the end of 1948 a few POWS arrived there who had previously been in a camp in Romania on the Black Sea. One of these men, also deeply disappointed, told us his story.

"I belonged to a brigade that was supposed to repair some slightly damaged houses in what was once a spa. Russian occupation officers were then going to move into them. At the house on which I was working a Russian lieutenant-colonel turned up every day with a little wooden chest and his day's ration of dried salted fish. "'When house finished? I sleep in car, want to move in here."

""In a few days. There's no water supply yet in the bathroom," I said, each day giving the same answer.

"One day his patience came to an end.

"He turned up again, but this time with the words, "I now stay here. I no need water in bathroom, I wash outside at well' which didn't exist).

"He set down his little wooden chest, took his salted fish and said, "You no kultura, no well, no water in house. Where I can wash salt from fish?"

"I showed him the lavatory. "This is the only place where the water is already running."

"I went back to my work. Suddenly I heard a terrible cursing and shouting from the lavatory.

"'Fish gone, d.a.m.ned kultura here. You find me fish."

"I tried to tell him how pointless it was to look for his fish, but he grabbed me by the hand and rushed with me from one story to the other.