Hans Von Luck - Panzer Commander

by Unknown

  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 asserting 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 quantities 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 accordanc
e 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 assembled 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 hello 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 makeshift 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 assistant 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 passion 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 attitude 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 identity 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.