In the Fire of the Eastern Front

CHAPTER 18 Capitulation and Captivity

On 30 April, we were to hear about the unbelievable death of Adolf Hitler, in a radio broadcast. “The Führer Adolf Hitler, who fought against Bolshevism with his last breath, died today at midday”. At the time of the broadcast, I was to be found in the remains of the Hotel Monopol, which lay opposite our medical centre. I had become good friends with the cook of the hotel, a Frenchman with whom I often heard the German broad casts, martial music, and the forbidden enemy broadcasts from the BBC in London, sent in the German language.

I was simply stunned by this news, the Frenchman too. In the moments after the initial shock, came the realisation that it was the fall of ‘The Third Reich’. For the French who were to be found in the city, it meant their return home. But for me it meant that after all I had given, all that I had sacrificed, it was now null and void. There was no saving Germany any more. We had lost. Would Germany, would Europe, would the world suffer repercussions? The three questions why, what for, and how come, circled around in my mind like a carousel.

We in Breslau had not capitulated. I was still a soldier and here nothing had changed. We could not imagine anything else but fighting, defending, for as long as there was a German government to issue orders, and above all, as long as there was a corner of Germany that was still unoccupied. Even the Commander-in-Chief and Admiral of the Fleet, Admiral Dönitz considered his mission, as deputy head of state, to be one that was to be executed until the conclusion of the war.

Hitler had with his suicide, accepted the hopelessness of further defensive measures, not only for Berlin, but for Germany as a whole, and had made the way free for capitulation. That was a step that he personally was not willing to take, under any circumstances.

After every shipwreck, everyone has to swim for as long as they are able, in doubt and in hope of swimming to land. We were never prepared to go under, in the current of Russia’s flood. At the end of April, and the beginning of May, the propaganda over loudspeakers increased, broadcasting “the catastrophe to be found on the front-line”, as well as their already well-worn arguments, repeatedly, throughout the day.

Until the third week of April, Breslau’s front-line was still intact. Everywhere that the Russians appeared, they had been forced back and there was not a place in the belt of defences around the centre of the city that had been broken. Berlin had now fallen, and in embarrassment and frustration, Russian forces were drawn away from Berlin and posted to Breslau. The Silesian capital came under increased attack, being the only large city left that had not been conquered. We were honoured with an arrogant victory ‘parade in the sky’. It was a warning be fore the final dagger-thrust. Massed Soviet bomber squadrons flew majestically over the city, without dropping a bomb.

The relatively ‘peaceful’ hours of 1 May were not to last. Each day until 5 May, the raids on Breslau increased. Massed enemy squadrons killed and wounded as many as 1,000 civilians with each raid, according to the priest Ernst Hornig. There were two raids every day. Russian tanks tried their luck to break through to the centre of the city once more, but failed. Our counter-attacks were just as strong as before. Their conclusions that we believed their empty promises of safe passages home, or that prisoners would be released as soon as the end of the war was announced, and that these would influence us to throw in the towel, must have been disappointing.

The headlines of the Schlesischen Tageszeitung, whose 6 May issue was to be the last, read, “The resistance against the Soviets carries on!” It was followed by a report from the Wehrmacht regarding the armistice agreement in Holland, Denmark and northern Germany. The article ended, “Festung Breslau is still defended with unbroken endurance and courage against continual attack, causing the Soviets high losses in material and men. In Moravia and Slovakia the resistance also continues”. The following article appeared on the same page. “ German radio announced yesterday that Breslau is a brilliant example to the whole of the German nation. We received a recent report from our soldiers in Breslau, who were proud that they once more refused yet another demand of capitulation from the Soviet Commander-in-Chief. Breslau is standing fast! The heroic defenders of the city are a brilliant example for the German people and have been for some time. For endurance and bravery, in face of overwhelming masses of material, they are an everlasting example for all of us fighting on the Silesian front.”

This was followed with the information that Hamburg had been taken by the British who had then ordered a curfew for the civilian population. Radio Hamburg ended their broadcast with the words “Long live Hamburg! Long live Germany! From now on ‘Radio Hamburg’ is to be assessed by the Germans as an enemy channel”.

On 6 May, an interview took place with the well-known Swedish researcher Sven Hedin Stockholm who said, “I will hold deep and unforgettable memories of Adolf Hitler as one of the greatest men in world history and whose life’s work will live on. He made Germany into a world power. Now Germany stands on the edge of a chasm, because his antagonism could not carry the weight of his strength and power. A land, larger except for Japan, with a population of 80 million and who opposed the whole world for six years and against a power 25 times larger, can never be erased. The legacy of this great leader of people will live on in the German people”.

The walking wounded were allowed outside the medical centre throughout the day and I used the daytime hours to walk, to inspect the city and to be by myself. Not that I went very far away. There were hardly any civilians on the streets. Military vehicles cruised around the man-made mountains of rubble and the craters left by exploding shells. When I met a civilian on the street I was always surprised by their appearance. Despite the catastrophic conditions, all were clean, all were neat and tidily dressed and it was most noticeable. Resigned to their fate, nonetheless they were still proud folk. This also applied to any of the military when I saw them, they were disciplined and greeted each other according to his rank.

Astounded and perplexed at this time, I could only stare in disbelief one day, as a car with both German and Russian officers sitting in it, cruised around the walls of the city moat. I thought they were probably negotiators. Now there were no doubts left for me — the end of the fighting was very near, and I hurried back to the centre. There I was to learn that on 6 May, at 2 o’clock Moscow time (1 o’clock German time) the ‘honourable surrender of the city of Breslau, would take place’. I don’t think that I have to describe the depressed atmosphere among the wounded in the cellar. Some would just not believe it and many wept, brought to tears after months of tension, and felt no shame. Had it all been for nothing? The years of giving life and limb on the front, of deprivation, privation and of sacrifice, the suffering, the air raids back home? We were face to face with the hopeless prospect of POW camp and for how long? It depressed us all and I, I felt bitter, rejected and defiant.

Gauleiter Hanke, in his national pride and arrogance, declared that he would have General Niehoff arrested for his defeatist decision, and then changed his mind. He very quickly accepted the situation, making the equally quick decision of ordering a Fiesler Storch. The plane was only for the personal use of the city’s garrison commander, General Niehoff, but behind his back Hanke used it to fly himself out of Breslau. General Niehoff wanted to share the fate of the city with his men, and was glad, upon finding out, that he and the negotiations for the capitulation were not to be disrupted by Hanke’s presence. Perhaps at the end of the day that could have severely influenced events to the extent of disadvantages for the defeated. On 6 May, at around six in the morning, many of the Breslau inhabitants saw the Storch in the air. During the course of the morning, a radio message was received by General Niehoff from Kirschberg. “Gauleiter Hanke has landed here, slightly wounded in a defective machine.” Nothing more has ever been heard of that man. Rumours circulated, whether based on fact or not, that he escaped to South America. There are others who believe that he escaped to Czechoslovakia, but was shot as he tried to escape from a prisoner transport.

Red posters on house walls announced the surrender of the city of Breslau. General Niehoff announced that negotiations were already in hand for the Soviets to take over the city. The great ‘Finale’ took place on 7 May 1945, in Rheims. General Jodl, under orders from a new Government signed an unconditional surrender, at 2.41, on the 2075th day of the war. There was a final ceasefire on 9 May at 00.01 hours in Europe. This ‘Un-conditional Surrender’ has never been followed with a peace-treaty, to this day!

The Germans lost more than 4.3 million people in the great wrestling match that was taking place on the fronts. Approximately 600,000 Germans became casualties during Allied air raids. Over 3,000,000 German soldiers died in POW camps under the Western Allies, or in Communist gulags, as well as refugees, from forced expulsion from their land. (Information from the Berlin Wehrmachts-Auskunftsstelle Berlin)

Estimates of the losses from both sides suffered during the defence of Breslau vary. According to the Regiment’s commander, Hanf, the battle for the Silesian capital Breslau took second place to Stalingrad, for the longest and worst siege of WWII. City doctors assessed that 1,000 patients died every day and that the numbers of civilians who lost their lives totalled 80,000. From those 80,000, 13,000 lost their lives working on the provisional airstrip in the city, says Paul Piekert in his book Festung Breslau. The previously-mentioned Polish authors Majewski and Sozanska assess that every second civilian in Breslau lost their life. At least 90,000 Silesians died in the hasty evacuation from Breslau in January 1945, through starvation, exhaustion or from freezing to death.

General Niehoff s own assessment from the troops within the fortress was 6,000 killed and 23,000 wounded. Taking into account that we only had 50,000 men in the fortress, then we had a loss of 58%. Having said that, this does not take into account the wounded who lost their lives whilst being flown out of the city, or the wounded prisoners, or the prisoners of the Soviets who died.

The losses on the other side were very much higher. The number of Soviet troops around Breslau was 150,000 men, from which the siege cost them the lives of 5,000 officers and 60,000 of their men. Today one may visit a cemetery in the southern part of the city, where alone 5,000 Russian soldiers found their last place of rest.

General Niehoff received a telegram be fore the capitulation, which read, “Germany’s flags sink slowly, in proud sorrow and homage to the endurance of the brave defenders, and the civilian inhabitants of Breslau”. Signed General Wilhelm Hasse 17th Army.

One really cannot speak about ‘pride’ or ‘sorrow’ at this time. Other words from our vocabulary have to be used when referring to the mood of the brave defenders within the fortress. They were angry, they were deeply disappointed and full of doubt, especially the men on the front-line. When envisaging the prospects of becoming a prisoner of the Russians, some of the officers committed suicide, men smashed their weapons on the nearest stones, whilst others threw their weapons in sheer frustration into the Oder. For three whole months they had been encircled by an enemy who had not broken their spirit. They had had a constant companion, by day and by night, for the previous five years, namely ‘death’. The surrender was a sacrilege in their eyes.

Catastrophe reigned in the city. The female personnel of the Wehrmacht changed out of their uniforms and thereafter wore civilian clothes. In the staff offices, mountains of paperwork were being burned, files and important documents being thrown into the flames. The warehouses were opened and supplies issued to the civilian population.

In the medical centre we were forced, under the watchful eye of the surgeon, to throw our pistols and side-arms into a wooden box. A condition of surrender was that no weaponry or equipment was to be destroyed. I, in my frustration demolished the inside of my 7.65mm Walther pistol so that it could never ever be used again. After all those years we all suddenly felt naked and utterly defenceless.

From one day to the next, everything had changed. Now we stood under the laws of the enemy. Now we were the subjects of tyrannical Communist rule, exposed to their arbitrary justice and revenge, and it was to be so. It began with the delivery of our weapons. The Russians would not believe that we had fought with so little. “You could not have held out for so long with only this. Where is the rest?” Very suspicious, they accused us of hiding weapons.

It was now very quiet in Breslau, deathly quiet. Everyone waited for the Soviets to march into the city. The silence was disturbed however. There were sounds of tank motors, and when one cocked one’s ear in the direction from where it came, it must have been sweet music for some, for those who cottoned on, as to what was going on, perhaps those who had been part of a tank crew? Some impudent tank drivers were to be seen driving their tanks round and round, and round and round in small senseless circles, to the observers when there were any, some around the same block of houses, which, when not in the know, made one scratch one’s head. The drivers held their tank in first gear, overheating piston and piston rings, to the extent that the tank was then no longer usable.

Despite the conditions of surrender in the whole of Germany, General Niehoff s negotiations for the surrender of the Silesian capital were to be viewed as agreeable, correct and just. They held promises. Promises for the safety of civilians, medical help, guarantees of life and care of the military and above all the return to the homeland upon the ending of the war. The officers were allowed to hold their status symbols, i.e. military decorations and their revolver, without ammunition and, what was more important, all of these guarantees included those from the Waffen SS.

The following was suggested as the basis of the agreement:

The Soviet Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet 6th Army was General Gluzdovski. He gave his consent to this agreement in the presence of the Russian Chief of Staff, General Panov, in the Russian HQ, a villa, ‘Villa Colonia’ in the Breslau suburb of Krieton. General Niehoff gave his signature to these terms of surrender in the belief that it was an agreement between high-ranking officers which would be honoured. He was at this time a German Officer who was in full belief that it would be so. Perhaps it would, if left between officers and gentlemen. However, it was not to be.

The Soviets just could not resist the temptation. It was just too much to be denied and so General Niehoff and his Staff were invited to a celebration dinner. The ‘victors’ and the vanquished sat at the same table, which was bedecked only with the best. It was ostentatious plenitude. Candles flickered over the mountain of cold specialities including caviar, complimented with meat, vol-au-vents, and vodka flowed. Bottles of it stood by the dozen in between the dishes and General Niehoff’s water glass was continually filled to the rim with it, although no one could expect him to enjoy the celebration. His military correctness dictated that he suffer this gala dinner and not spoil the fun of the Soviets, but outside, he knew that long columns of his men were being driven in the direction of the East. He had however, as a prisoner of war, nothing to say. So the loud celebrations carried on with long speeches and toasts. Many toasts, with the ever-full glass of vodka, were to Stalin, but also perhaps out of respect from one soldier to another, to General Niehoff and his brave defence of Breslau.

The friendly atmosphere and correctness that the German officers found on that evening, was definitely an honest gesture from the side of the Soviet military. But at the end of the day, the ruling politicians had the last word. From the high-grade political commissioners present, there was an icy reception.

They made it quite clear to the ‘guests’ that they stood at the door of a future without any rights. The Soviets had no intention of respecting the conditions of surrender that had been agreed to. The soldiers were given no rations, the civilian inhabitants were fair game for the whim and fancy of the Russian soldiers, and the Waffen SS were systematically sorted out from the rest. General Niehoff was to spend in total, ten and a half years as a prisoner of the Soviets. Five were spent in solitary confinement in the notorious Moscow NKVD prison, Lubyanka. The rest were spent in labour camps. The document that was designed to protect him from harassment, bodily search, and abuse, was respected by prison guards at first. It worked like a magical formula, until a German Communist in the form of a new camp commander arrived, and tore the said document into pieces. Niehoff’s protests, when bumping into a political commissioner, were answered with a sarcastic comment. “These so-called ‘conditions’ were nothing but a successful trick of war”. He was right.

It was during the night of 7 May that the Russians marched into the inner ring of the city. The first of the Soviet units, with assault troops, marched in at 1 o’clock in the morning and took their positions at the Oder bridge, and other strategic positions. Of the inhabitants, there were none to be seen. They were waiting, waiting in fear in the cellars of the ruins, for the first Russian faces to appear. Outside there was a thunder of motors, tanks and every other imaginable vehicle from motorised units. That thunder increased as more and more vehicles stormed through the city in a disorderly column. In our medical centre, the wounded waited. Sit ting or lying, they waited together for what was to come, without words, each one within himself.

The noise invaded the cellars, and amongst the roar of motors, we heard the hooves of uncountable horses on the cobblestones and the victory cry of the drunken Reds. I wanted to imprint a picture into my memory and so I ventured up stairs, to the ground floor empty rooms of the Hotel Monopol. I was enveloped straight away with an uncomfortable bitter feeling. I saw the enemy that I had fought for so many years, so close by, and for the first time I was unarmed.

The scene was similar to a colourful waiting caravan, moving over the rubble-covered streets. Lorries were damaged and filthy and in between were tanks, with large red flags hung from their turrets, and dangerously near the vehicles were the typical Russian Panje pony-drawn carts. I really had to wonder at the mass of tanks that we had held at arm’s length for three months. I was not there long, for I heard the cries of the women and girls nearby, and single revolver shots from Soviets searching for solitary soldiers, cut off from their units. I had seen enough and hurriedly re turned to my comrades in the cellar.

Not long after, a gigantic fireworks show lit the skies over the dying city from tracers, flares and shells. The trigger-happy drunken Reds were firing salvo after salvo from machine-pistols, and even from light and heavy anti-aircraft guns, into that balmy May night. Some of the shells hit unexploded mines, for we heard them too. The walking wounded had watched the spectacle from the cellar entrance. Even in our totally depressed state one could imagine a New Year’s celebration in Breslau in peacetime being something similar, the people having flocked to the inner ring of the city, to wish their neighbour “Cheers and Happy New Year, good health and peaceful times”, on the stroke of midnight. On that May night however, in 1945, the show was a prelude to brute force and lack of rights.

Stalin’s ‘Attrition’ applied not only to the people of Breslau, but to every building of importance left standing that through a wonder, had remained whole in the three-month siege. Everything had to be destroyed, and so a wave of destruction rolled through the city. Bands of drunken Reds tottered through the city burning everything that took their fancy and that was still standing.

On 11 May, it began with the Barbara Church and six days later the Church of Magdalena. They burned them to the ground. Frederick the Great’s palace in the city had already been destroyed by fire. This type of war had replaced the one that we knew, and as feared it was followed with plundering and rape. Many in the city asked themselves whether the former was not the more bearable of the two, although they had thought that it was the most terrible that they had lived through, thinking that it could not be worse. They were wrong!

For both the military and civilian populations, 8 May was not a day of freedom, nor one of being freed. On the contrary, it was the beginning of hell, and the realisation of their half-joking phrase, “Enjoy the war, for freedom will be hell”.

On the fate of the female staff, we dare not think, for they were fair game. All women and girls were ‘fair game’ for the Russians, like game running wild in the woods. Even when now and then a decent Russian officer was to be found, who could and did deter single acts of rape, there were hundreds to follow. The women of Breslau fell victim to the same fate as hundreds of others in East Prussia and other German provinces.

According to the reports received in the Ministerium für die Vetriebenen it was stated in 1974 “that sadly there are not enough words in the German language to reconstruct for others the experiences written down and sent to us from the people of Breslau. Words are inadequate”.

Prelate Lange, the curator of the ‘House of Good Shepherds’ reported that on 7 May, a group of Russians climbed over the damaged wall of the convent in Kaiserstrasse, where two elderly nuns were to be found. One of them escaped, but the other did not even try, thinking that her great age would save her from any physical abuse. Sister Felizita was overpowered by the group, was shot and then raped. “We buried her in the garden of the convent. She was 81 years of age.”

Mrs Hedwig Goering reports that, “At first the Russians gave us a good impression, but we were fooled. My niece was raped by Russian soldiers on the third day of occupation. She was only eleven.” Other women fled to their allotment gardens, thinking that they were safer there than in the city. Mrs. A. Hartmann was one of them. “We made a mistake, for we women were raped time and time again, just like the women in the city. I lost my nerve, with the continual cries of the women and ran into the city. I must have been in a state of shock for it was only afterwards that I realised that I was witness to seeing women jumping from the windows of the houses, dying, rather than being the subject of rape from one soldier after the other”.

This report contained uncountable pages describing experiences, not only from the suffering of the women, but of children and old men. Every Russian at this time was a Tsar and he could do what he liked with ‘the Germans’, without repercussions. It was allowed, and from General Niehoffs ‘conditions of surrender’, the guarantee of the ‘victors’ was nowhere to be seen.

8 May was also no happy day for the anti-fascists. Even his loudly announced membership of the KPD, did not hinder the execution of Herr Langwitz, in Neukirchen a suburb of Breslau, or that of Mrs. Sacher in the same city. The membership books of both were torn into pieces by grinning Red Army men in front of these ‘old Communists’ before they were both murdered. The former Jewish mayor Heinzelmann, who luckily escaped deportation, angrily asked, “and we Anti-fascists? We feel betrayed and cheated, and we always promised that Communism would free the population from the yoke of Fascism!”

Music from the Russian loudspeakers was continually interrupted with announcements in the German language, ordering prisoners to gather at certain points in the city and then to wait for further orders. Officers who demanded the freeing of their men were laughed at. “Dawai dawai, i.e. faster, faster!” was the order and the long field-grey columns marched into POW camps. For some it was to lead to their deaths.

The doctor in our medical centre decided to wait, for there were no special orders for the wounded. We used the last hours of freedom to sit or lie in the sun, in the back yard of the Hotel Monopol. With the three other walking wounded, I climbed on to the flat roof, to take a last look at the city. We were discovered finally, on 9 May.

It was in the morning, as we were suddenly ordered ‘to show ourselves’ to Russian soldiers not trusting themselves to come into the dark cellar. They were waiting at the entrance, with cocked machine-pistols. “Come out with your hands up!” (Idi sjuda! Rucki verch!) The walking wounded walked up the cellar steps blinking at the sunlight. Before climbing those stairs I was a regular soldier. But it occurred to me that in the moment my feet left the last tread, I would become from one second to the next, one of those nameless prisoners of war. It was not to be, at least not on that day, for seeing that we were wounded, we were not taken away, nor was there an examination of our pay-books. We were uninteresting in seemed, at least for the time being.

Once more, for all of us in the cellar, it was not long before a husky cry echoed through the cellar. A single Russian soldier tottered down the cellar steps, like a Russian bear looking for honey. He thoroughly searched in all the corners of the cellar rooms and suddenly his eyes fixed on me, or perhaps it was my bed. We were ‘freed’ of our personal possessions on that day by this one soldier. My bed was obvious for it was the only one with a blue and white gingham cover plus a white curtain as extra warmth. The pale colour made the presence of lice more visible for me to destroy. For him however, it meant that I was someone special. “Uri, uri!” he screamed, and I answered “nix uri!”. It didn’t do me any good for he found my ‘Uri’ anyway, for he was on the lookout for plunder. He tore my bedding off my bed finding my knapsack and my silver pocket-watch. Taking it by the chain, he swung it under my nose, waving his pistol at me at the same time. My watch had been a going-away present from my father upon entering the army. It had accompanied me throughout the duration of the war, till now. From the six sons in the family, I was the only one named after my father and this watch had my name engraved in the lid. This ‘bear’ of a man, because of his ungainly movements, ‘freed’ all of my comrades from their watches too, adding them to those already decorating his arms, up to the elbows, one on top of the other.

This however was not triumph enough and with his gun in my back, he forced me upstairs. I really thought that my time had come and that I was to be ‘honoured’ with a quick death, a bullet in the back of the neck under a waving Red Cross flag. In daylight we took stock of one another. He looked at me, and I looked at him. He was a little man, short and stocky. His bow legs ended in leather boots. A grey fur cap, with its red star, was sloppily slanted on his head and sat atop a pockmarked face, which was not shaved and a stubble of red hair which didn’t hide the deep pits of his skin. Not a pretty sight! An array of colourful medals adorned his brown shirt, and because there was no gold to be seen on his shoulder epaulette, I guessed that he must have been a sergeant. Upon seeing my own medals he suddenly grasped me to his breast in a bear-hug saying “good soldier”. Then, releasing me, he laughingly pointed firstly to his own medals and then to mine. Then this bear of a man kissed me on both cheeks, declaring “Vaijna kaput?, i.e. war has ended, and “Hitler kaput?, i.e. Hitler is dead.

In contrast to his own dark suntan, I must have appeared rather pale. I swallowed the frog in my throat and tried in my depressed state, to grin at him. He must have seen the runes on my collar, but they did not seem to bother him. As one of the ‘victors’, when only of a lower rank, even he must have known that my runes distinguished me from the others as ‘one of those’. If I am honest it did not, at that moment, occur to me either that this would most definitely distinguish me in future.

I then had to go with him once more into the cellars, like a fox in a chicken-run, frightening some women who screamed in panic and fled. It amused him and he let loose a shot or two into ceilings, walls and the tiles in the Monopol kitchen. I was happy that he had not shot at me. Taking a bottle of vodka, he took a long swig, he turned to me and said “Cheers! war has ended, now you can go home”. I didn’t need to be told a second time and returned to my comrades.

They looked at me in utter surprise thinking that I had risen from the dead, certain that in hearing the shots, that I had ‘knocked on heaven’s door.’ Who can explain this experience? Who understood the Russian character, this almost infantile mentality, spiced with brute-force, naivety, good-heartedness and unpredictable arbitrariness? Later I was to have plenty of time to learn about the unreasonable and contradictory characteristics of the Russians.

We were most certainly never in doubt as to the influence that alcohol played in the day-to-day routine of the Russians. But we were about to be given undoubted proof it and at first-hand. For our sins, we were much too close to the wine cellar of the Monopol, this treasure-chest being found soon enough by the roaming Reds. We were witnesses to the utter depredation of men, in a uniform, who called themselves soldiers, who drank themselves into unconsciousness, or started punch-ups and then, in their stupor, were uncontrolled in the use of their revolvers. They behaved like animals. We were often collected and forced to drink with them. We used to be landed in ‘bau’, i.e. close arrest, for misuse of alcohol when we were caught legless. After that excess, we were nearly all self-confessed teetotallers.

One evening we were forced to witness the raping of one of our nurses. Three drunken Reds tottered down the cellar steps, with their caps sitting crookedly on top of their shorn heads, in search, so we thought, of more alcohol. That was not what they were looking for. With “woman, come here!” they caught hold of Angel, the pretty nurse, with the lovely smile and who laughed so easily. With her cries of protest, her fiancé, a sergeant medic, sprang at the three, regardless that they were armed with machine-pistols, and who beat him to the ground. He was lucky, for they did not shoot him.

We had all been standing in the ante-room immediately behind the outer cellar door and now the machine-guns were trained on us, as they threw ‘Engelchen’ on to the table. She tried desperately to defend herself, to no avail. We had to witness the shameful scene of rape, from the three, with our hands in the air. Just a few days before, we had been armed and had shown no mercy to such beasts. Now we had no choice but to witness those so-called human beings in face and form. They did not earn the title and we were not able to help. The agitator Ilya Ehrenburg would have been proud of the students of his propaganda. After that sexual gratification, the three then disappeared. ‘Engelchen’ disappeared during the night too, for the shame and degradation, in front of witnesses, was just too much for her. We never saw her again.

We were sold and delivered, we were ‘wares’ for the ‘victors’ and we, our lives, were of no worth. We could live today, but die tomorrow, today or in the next few minutes. We lived with that realisation, day after day. One roaming Red suddenly appeared, and just as suddenly shot at us so that we had to hit the ground or dive for cover under the bunks. Fortunately, no one was hit on that occasion, it was a ‘game’, a game with only a hair’s breadth chance.

We also had visitors who, in comparison, were relatively harmless, such as the up-and-coming ‘speaker’. He wanted to practise and needed an audience. So he appeared, waving his revolver nonchalantly in the air and politely asked us walking wounded, to go with him into the ante-room. There he stood on a chair and started to deliver his speech, in Japanese, for all that we knew. He must have not iced that his words were falling on barren ground, for we only understood the words, Communist, Lenin, Stalin and Russian culture, without showing any resonance. He asked for a translator and one of our chums from Upper Silesia was given the job of translating his preaching of political propaganda. He waited in the pauses, wiping the sweat of stress from his brow and taking strong swigs from his bottle of vodka.

Our Silesian friend gave us an evening that we could hardly forget, for he translated the very opposite of what was being said. We listened, we applauded at the achievements of the Communists in their Soviet paradise. We laughed, and our speaker thought that he had the audience of a lifetime and why not, for he had been very polite in asking us to attend. We were a very patient audience and we let him speak, until he fell off his chair, full to the brim with two kinds of Russian spirit, the intellectual and the liquid sort. There he stayed until the next morning. He was then found by one of the officers, and with a leather whip forced into consciousness, on to his feet and then outside, being brutally beaten as he went. In comparison, we thought that a couple of days in German ‘bau’ was not so painful and we could feel sorry for him.

For some time I ignored the well-meant advice of my chums, to discard my uniform, not wanting to march into POW camp in hospital clothes. As more and more of the Russian soldiers began to take a closer look at my runes however, I exchanged my SS-Untersturmfiihrer’s uniform, for that of a Wehrmacht NCO. At the same time and with a very heavy heart, I burned my pay-book, with all of the entries of my army career in it, plus details of close-combat activity within the city. I was not only thankful to have survived those battles, but was also more than a little proud to have been a part of them, to have made my contribution. Therefore, I kept my medals.

According to my diary, the medical centre was closed down on 18 May and we were transported to Herrenstrasse, to provisional POW quarters. There we said a sorrowful farewell to everyone, with the now common Breslau expression of goodwill “stay healthy”, and “stiff upper lip”! We had no idea if we would be kept together, or if we would meet again one day. It was noticeable that the shiny eyes of the successful defenders were now cloudy and sad, like tired wolves.

My mind was plagued with thoughts of escape, but my splinted arm was a disadvantage. There were no chances of success. But, to end my days as a convict in the unending swampy Taiga forests of Siberia was not for me. I had no illusions about the type of POW conditions that were waiting under the Soviets. I knew that they had refused to sign the Geneva Convention of 1929 and also that many of the German prisoners taken by the Russians between 1941/42 had been executed. I had no other choice but, for the time being, to wait for an improvement in my bodily movements. However, I would be on the alert as soon as the possibility of escape arose.

Other thoughts rushed through my mind. In my gratitude for my survival, I asked myself if there really was a war-god who guided the bullets when he chose. Perhaps, although invisible, he was now looking after me and us?

The sky was a deep blue, the clouds puffy and white that May day. We left the centre and started our march as POWs, joined by other units of the garrison. The wounded who could not walk were transported in German ambulances, under guard from the Russians. Those able to walk made up a column of si1ent, miserable souls, without the customary in-step march, without a happy song on their lips, and without conversation. They went where their feet led them, behind the man in front, exhaustion in many cases having taken control. We were joined by those from the infantry, air force, Volkssturm and Hitler Youth. The boy-soldiers’ uniforms were much too large for them. They quickly sought the nearness of the older men as comrades, which was where they belonged.

We wore or carried only the necessary, or at least what we had left for possessions, a mug and plate, wallet for necessary papers, and a bundle of underwear. Others carried a blanket, despite the warm weather. It was very cold in Siberia! I did not even possess a coat. Our guards carried cocked machine-pistols across their chests, typical for the Russians, with a circular magazine of the sort that we had collected by the dozen. The guards were nervous, some so much that they let loose a shot or two, just by fingering the trigger, although we had given them no reason. Those unable to keep up with the column and who attempted to fall out for a pause were attacked with rifle butts and verbal abuse. They were forced to the extreme limits of physical reserves in order to put one foot in front of the other, and carry on. Sometimes the instincts of animals can be more human than the human being, for I remember that one of the horses carefully picked up its hooves to avoid a fallen soldier, although its rider had manoeuvred to trample over the unfortunate man. One of the guards tried, in broken German, to show us some compassion, to pump some optimism into us, declaring “war, not good, you go home, that good”! This naive sort was however few and far between, but his intentions were well meant. Those in the column, who were still aware of their surroundings, noticed a torn poster advertising the new film, in colour, of the film-star Kristina Sodermann. We noticed that the top half of her laughing face was torn off, but also noticed the title, and felt the pain of disgust in the pit of our stomachs. The newest film of the blonde, laughing lady was entitled, Sacrifice.

We had only reached Striegauer Platz as it became dark. Striegauer Platz was where my friend had died in a bunker and where there were already long columns of men. The remainder of Regiment Besslein were to be the first to leave the city, perhaps because of fears that they could still pull a trick or two out of the hat. In the light of tank headlights they stood, like ghosts, their abnormally elongated shadows stretching over the rubble-filled square to high on the walls of the bunker.

We were continually counted by the Russian soldiers, “Odin, i.e. one, Dwa, i.e. two, Tri, i.e. three”. An officer asked me if “wounded?” to which I replied “it’s nothing much”, for I did not want to be parted from my chums. “Ospital” was his curt reply. So with other wounded who had been separated from the rest, our next stop was the medical quarters for POWs in Herrenstrasse.

Standing at the entrance were gruff-looking ‘Ivans’, with fixed bayonets on their long rifles. They gave me the impression that they were troops from the communications zone, for front-soldiers would have been a little friendlier. They ran their greedy eyes over us, shouting “Uri, Uri”. They must have been disappointed, for how can you steal from a naked man, who has no pockets? We had been “freed” of everything that we possessed.

The Russian soldier was given privileges, in that they were allowed every month to send home “bounty parcels”, or ‘plunder packets’, weighing up to eight kilos. The regulation for officers was even more generous, double the weight, to allow for their collection of “militaria souvenirs” as the Russians called them. That regulation was clearly an encouragement to steal. And the little soldier when not so fortunate, not having so many opportunities, coming too late? What did he have to send? The bandages from his feet or the remainder of his ration?

The bed allocated to me was still warm from the previous occupant and the blanket smeared with blood, but it was at least a real bed. During that first night in Herrenstrasse, the paratrooper in the next bed to me died and I witnessed his struggle with death. I lay and watched all the stages of tetanus leading to the terminal stage. The tragedy of it was that of all of us he was the slightest wounded. He had only had a graze from a passing bullet. All that he had needed to live was a tetanus injection, which he never received. He had to lie for nearly four hours, stiff in cramp, the only movement coming from his pale eyes which looked at me. He, just as I, had been one of the walking wounded and yet he had to die. During the night, the stillness was broken with screams, screams from those waking bathed in sweat, from nightmares of their most recent battles.

In Herrenstrasse I had time to look over my new room-mates. They were young, very young, being in school just yesterday? But their schooling had not equipped them for what they were today, old men of war. They had certainly believed that their schooling had equipped them for the important things in life. I was sure that it had not taken long for them to ascertain that it had been useless for war. This education had had to be replaced with another, even more important, a desire for life itself. That lesson was simply to shoot quicker than the enemy, and be even quicker to hit the ground for cover in order to live, to survive. As I looked at them, it was clear that they had been robbed of their freedom before their lives had even begun. I believed at that point, that there must be another purpose to life, other than that which my life had revolved around till then. Surely life consisted of something else other than schooling and shooting? These lads would certainly have other experiences in life, after this, and hopefully ones which would produce laughter one day.

I went to war as a boy and I became a man, one with clean hands. That was an achievement in total war, and because of it I personally found imprisonment unfair. I was not the only one who shared that opinion. Others had to and did accept their fate. Most of them, tired in mind and body, acquiesced to that ‘truism’. They played cards, or tried to relax themselves and others by telling jokes, most of which we had all heard before, but laughed at nevertheless. Only now, the laughter had no echo. This artificial ‘stiff upper lip’ behaviour showed itself amongst the officers by the dissection of their tactical mistakes. “When we, or if we had”, who now knew how they could have won the war. Some were obsessed with food, and titillated their palates and that of others, with imaginary meals, explaining how they were cooked. “Take so many ounces of butter and two eggs”! Perhaps because we only had lentils as a good square meal, every day!

There was another theme which wove itself into our daily conversations, women. And why not? We were all in the prime of our manhood. We all without exception, admired Sister Susi, the nurse from Hamburg. She was young, very petite, had red highlights in her dark blonde hair, was scrubbed and left a sweetness behind her of soap and face-cream, which we followed, one after the other with our noses. She was the epitome of womanhood for us, myself included, and was the nearest to our dreams that we had. We all held a secret love of her to our breast, no amour-fou, but more of a platonic nature. This sweetness in our lives did not last long, for we became unwilling members of a ‘Wandering Club’, as our cross-country wanderings began. Instead of the usual coach-house stops, we went from one prison hospital to another. One of those I remember was the bombed Scala Cinema in the former Employment Exchange, a huge building on the edge of the Oder, in Saltstrasse.

Up to that point, my blood-group tattoo, despite medical examinations, had not been a disadvantage for me. The knowledge of this significant and distinguishing ‘mark of Cain’ had obviously not filtered through on a large scale, but at some time it would. Mine had to be erased, at all costs. This was easier said than done. Some of the other WSS patients tried with burning cigarettes, or continual abrasion with a rough stone. It was even said that it could be done with milk. I did not believe the latter of those solutions. In any case, where on earth could I lay my hands on milk?

The assistant doctor Markwart Michler wanted to help me and arranged an operation. His equipment was rather primitive. The operation itself was to be performed in strict secrecy, away from everyone. He procured a razor-blade as a scalpel and ice as an anaesthetic. At the agreed time, we met in one of the large rooms in the cellar and I prepared myself for the worst, with guards at the door. I bared my arm and it was duly iced. We then had an interruption, with the result that the area around the tattoo was no longer anaesthetised, but “ten minutes pain, or 25 years in Siberia?” And so with the light from a candle, the operation began.

It could not to be compared to the seconds that a foreign body sears into one, such as a bullet, shrapnel or glass, producing the numbness of shock through causation. This was deliberate, so my mind reacted accordingly! It was hell! I ground my teeth, for I had no other choice, or one that I did not contemplate. And it bled! I tried for some minutes to stem the flow by sucking it away. Then, after urinating on a shred of an army shirt, Michler wound it around the wound to sterilise it. At some time later, this was exchanged for a plaster, after it had scabbed. Now my fears were allayed. I was no longer named ‘Cain’. Thus I hoped to evade the hunt for members of my organisation. I escaped with only the faintest of scars, which can still be seen today.

I held the highest rank of all of the wounded in the group. Therefore I had the responsibility of reporting to the doctors and non-resident doctors on numbers present, and other things that interested the Russians. The very first time that I performed this duty, it caused smiles from the German doctors and nurses who were standing behind the Russian team of doctors. I clapped my heels together, which was the custom when in the presence of higher ranks or personages, together with my arm salute in Deutscher Gruss. I very slowly rested on my cap, in doubt. Habit is habit! The Russian team did not bat an eyelid, ignoring the rebellion against the new regime.

In comparison with those conditions to be found in prisoner transports, in cattle-wagons, and under way to the East, we could not complain. We could move around on the banks of the Oder. All day long we lay in the sunshine, watching it shimmer on the water’s surface. We were thankful for small mercies. Others, fallen into deep depression, lay on their bunks the whole day. Others walked to and fro over the few metres of their room, like caged cats looking for a quiet corner where they could be alone in their despair.

One day in the middle of August 1945, this was all very rudely disturbed, as mighty underwater explosions from the Oder sent fountains of water high into the air. The hot summer sun had reduced the level of the river’s water, exposing unexploded shells and other ammunition, as well as weapons from the German soldiers who had thrown them into the river. All had reached exploding point with the increasing heat. The force of the blasts threw to the ground those wounded who were walking the promenade. It caused already weak walls to collapse, and resulted in damage to buildings, and to the furniture in the hospital. The Russians were in pure panic and believed that we were breaking out on a large scale, with the help of explosives. We were just as much in the dark as they. We had no idea what was happening. They ran wild over the hospital yard, screaming as they ran criss-cross in all directions, with cocked machine-pistols. To see their cool command broken to such an extent through a false alarm gave us a lot of pleasure, for there was not much entertainment in our everyday lives. One could nose-dive into deep depression, when busy only with one’s self.

I tried to wile away the time by reading every book that I could lay my hands on, to put some distance between myself and reality, to forget what was going on around me. I had to sort out my feelings and my mind, for some objectivity. Mainly I needed peace, peace after the din, the loud, unpleasant and prolonged noise of battle, and the months of strain. The books in the Employment Exchange were plentiful, in the attic and cellars, and I helped myself. To my joy I even found some in my mother-tongue, which must have found their way from the lending-library, perhaps for the foreign labourers. I read everything that I could find, gladly reading about journeys into foreign lands, plus everything that had been formerly uninteresting, including the poems and works of Schiller.

I perused the world once more, soaking up every minute detail of it, the warmth of the shining sun, bird-song, the fascinating flight of the butterfly. I followed the route of the beetle in the sand, like a small child. I did so despite the stifling worry in my breast about the fate of my family back home. I had to work up some optimism and clarity of mind, and not become a sacrifice to the ‘barbed wire syndrome’.

I sought conversation in every corner of this band of brothers-in-arms, from different units, from older comrades, to help strengthen my courage to face life. They discussed their experiences with me. I found their philosophy of life was all the more surprising, in the short time since the end of the war. Among those were engineer Karl-Heinz Corfield, who had grave leg injuries, and assistant surgeon Markwart Michler, with whom a very deep friendship developed over many years.

The war had already been over for some months and the fanaticism and brutality of the ‘Ivans’ had relaxed. They were even lenient with the prisoners, some showing sympathy for our situation. We even formed an orchestra at that time, with self-made instruments. The qualified musicians among us played from their personal repertoires. We had a magician among us too, who made one of the prisoners disappear from his wooden box. “Where is comrade? The box is empty!” What would happen to them when one of us had failed to turn up at the count, the next day? We laughed our socks off. Afterwards, as they cottoned on to how it was done, they laughed too, at themselves!

We had moved once more, to Hedwigstift, a church boarding-house, to be shorn like lambs. One could never have failed to notice the varying degrees of the hair-cut of the Russian soldier. The ‘men’ had their heads shaved, the sergeants were shorn to ear-level and the officers were not shorn at all. Such were the medical measures against lice. Nonetheless we protested. It was of no avail for our protests fell on the deaf ears of the grinning Russians. “Shaved heads, no lice, dawai, dawai!” Those who refused, were physically brought to the barber by force. I found it all demoralising and so I refused to move too. In the palaver that ensued it was overheard that I was Dutch. This saved my hair, but I had to report to the Commander.

Two Russian soldiers appeared, to escort me to the Commander. They wore blue caps. Blue caps meant that they were certainly from the NKVD and with granite-hard faces, they conducted me for interrogation. “What is your name? You are not German, but you are SS?” Now I knew what he was after and I played dumb. My repeated words in Russian “I don’t understand,” brought the Captain who was sitting at the wooden table to a rage. Then he ordered me to remove my jacket and shirt, which I was not allowed to lay on his field-bed, for fear of lice. I explained freely that the scar on my arm was due to shrapnel, but he chose not to believe me. “You SS!” With that the two granite-faces had turned to grinning ones, and their owners took me to the barbers, where I was shorn just like the others.

I had hoped that that was the end of the matter, but I was wrong. I was now branded. I was now ‘one of those’, and treated accordingly, being separated from the rest. It was however not long before I was joined by the others. For a witchhunt had begun for other SS soldiers. All had to bare their left arm and show their tattoo. The Commander had been informed and the information had filtered through. Now the guards wandered through the building, searching. Some were able to hide themselves, in the attics and the cellars, and the Commander made good use of the incident for another purpose.

Up to that time, individuals had escaped. It was clear that as there were now 25 in my room, that the commander wanted to use us as pressure to stop those attempts. It was announced that for every one who tried to escape, one of us would be shot. We hoped and prayed that we could rely on the solidarity and comradeship of the others. We were under special arrest for six weeks, six weeks when our comrades never let us down. No one tried to escape in that time.

We, under special arrest, as well as all in the Hedwigstift, were moved once more. Following that move the witch-hunt for the SS was forgotten for a short time. The pressure on sorting ‘us from them’ eased and we were moved to the Cloister of Compassionate Brothers. For me it was to be the last stop in Breslau as a prisoner. There was no compassion from the Soviets in possession of this house of God. The cloister was the sorting house for Siberia. The fate of every man inside its walls was decided by a commission of Russian doctors, male and female. The cloister was very strongly guarded and the compassion came not from the guards but from the monks. Most spoke Polish and with this language tried to communicate with us.

After a while, the word went round from the others already there, that when a certain doctor was on duty and sat in the president’s chair, then few escaped the journey to Russia’s paradise. Fear struck every man whose name appeared on the list on the same day as that doctor, who was a female major. The accent being more on ‘major’, than on ‘female’. When this was confirmed, the word went around the prisoners like wildfire, and there was no escape. The said ‘lady’ could be described as a typical Russian. She wore a tight high-buttoned blouse stretching over her more than ample bosom. There were fist-thick epaulettes on shoulders and neck, and she looked as if she was growing out of it all. She was never, even in high summer, to be seen without her Schapka, with its red star on the front, covering the military cut of her short dark hair.

She was as hard as granite. Not fever, nor a bad stomach, would qualify anyone for exemption from Siberia. For of course the weeks of the long, long journey would act as a ‘cure’ whilst underway! Those prisoners belonged to Group One and would be shipped off to Russia. That woman had a rather doubtful method of delivering her diagnosis as to whether one was healthy or not. Disregarding the symptoms, she would give every man a good hard pinch on his backside! Many doubted if that method of testing the flesh on this area of the male torso had been medically founded. But she believed in it, or wanted to. Under her scrutiny even those on crutches, or with wounded feet, were classified as Group One.

I celebrated my twenty-second birthday on 4 Sep t ember 1945, but there was no joy on that day. According to the entry in my diary it de noted utter depression. My thoughts were back home. I asked myself if anyone was thinking about me on that day. One thought led to another, as to whether they or any of my family were still living. My entry also tells me that because of malaria, or dysentery, many of my comrades were no longer with me. They had been sent in massed transport to Hundsfeld, the transition camp. From there they went in the direction of the East instead of, according to General Niehoff s conditions of surrender, returning home. Home? One upset oneself by saying the word out loud and so it remained in one’s thoughts.

The day came when I had to go before the commission, when my name was on the list. There must have been all of a hundred men who had as sem-bled. We queued like lambs for the slaughter on that day, in the dark, tiled, cloister corridor leading to the doctors’ room. There were amputees among us. In circumstances such as those, one could almost be jealous of their very good chances of escaping this plight. But there was no escape when the scales tipped in your direction. Even those who had received a bullet in the lungs, which no one would ever wish to have, gazed with interest at the beautiful frescoes decorating the cloister ceilings. Their optimism could not be overlooked. However, that did not interest us, for we were too busy with ourselves.

The queue moved slowly, too slowly. The hours ticked by. The tension built up inside every one. Would it be Siberia or our home land? German medics accompanied the Russians with their long lists. They controlled the queue, together with a very young Russian woman in uniform. Her appearance distracted our thoughts. She was the only thing that could have distracted our thoughts, nothing else! It could have been very amusing under any other circumstances. Even so, this very feminine apparition replaced our thoughts with others. They lasted only for seconds. She was blonde, with obviously long hair that was twisted into a grandmother’s knot at the back of her neck. When she undid this knot of angel hair she must have been beautiful! Every time she passed us, we all looked. Our mouths fell open, one after the other, and our eyes followed her very shapely legs encased in soft Moroccan leather boots, which caressed her legs like stockings. She wanted, with her short, brisk military steps, to give another impression. But conscious of her attractiveness, she pursed her red lips as she went, as if that could detract from her beauty.

I began to feel really sick in the pit of my stomach, as the queue slowly nudged its way to that door where my fate would be decided. When I landed in Group One then I would try my luck at escaping! Perhaps I could find a trusted comrade, one whom I could rely on, and we could use our chances of escape on German soil. One way or an other, they were not going to send me to Siberia and that was for sure! Suddenly, we were no longer needed. “Come back tomorrow”. The commission had not managed to examine the numbers on that day. A move from ‘Lady Luck’ or that ‘God of War’?

That night was long and one that brought no sleep for me. It was one of tense agony and apprehension for the second act. The next day, far quicker than I thought possible, I was standing before this committee. It was a room filled with blue cigarette-smoke, with German and Russian doctors, a translator, and who was sitting in the middle at a table? This beautiful apparition! So, she was a doctor, which explained her rank, but from her appearance she could have been a medical student.

To examine me, she carefully undid my sling and, just as carefully, felt the area around the bullet holes on my arm, which by now was almost paralysed. Although I was tense, I felt the soft touch of her long slim fingers on my skin, like a caress, but let out a loud yell, “Ouch!” as was rehearsed with our assistant doctor during his ‘simulation course’. My arm had not healed quickly without the use of a sling and so I saw to it that I had not used mine very often. In that way I stretched the healing process for as long as possible, and the result was now, at that moment, to be seen. I could hardly be called ‘whole’, although I was not in as bad a condition as others. A discussion began between all of the doctors. In the months of contact with the ‘Ivans’, however distant, through repetition one is forced to recognise words, until you ask what it means, or you are informed, and so I recognised the word good. Did that mean good enough to work? Was I not going to be released? This angelic female could not release me on medical grounds? I watched her whispering for some minutes with an older colleague in a white coat, and then she turned to me and smiled, saying “Du domoy”, i.e. I was dismissed!

Only upon leaving the room did I understand her words. I was going home! Had it been the tuition from my doctor friend? Had it been the sympathy of this woman, of the same age as I, which had spared me from Siberia and saved my life? I will never know. Numbed but happy, I wanted to share my news with my chums and returned to my room. Most were Group One. Suddenly it was clear to me that to have shared my joy with them would have abused them emotionally. I could not console them, for I could not find any words. As I stood there, the melancholy sound of a harmonica filled the air, coming from the cloister garden. The melody hung in the air. It was one known to all of us who had worn a uniform. The musician interpreted what we were all suffering, what we all needed, interpreting the despair in most, and the hope in others. The music of this soldier’s philosophy was far better than any words of mine could ever be. Es geht alles vorüber, es geht alles vorbei. “Everything changes, changes to yesterday”.