by Unknown
Suddenly Russian officers appeared in the trucks with lists.
Our joy gave way to renewed fear, And indeed, ten of our fellow prisoners were taken off the train and led away. What a cruel fate!
Was the torment of uncertainty to have no end even now? We realized again that true freedom would be reached only after the border to West Germany had been crossed.
At every further stop we cowered in the comers of the truck, always in the hope that we wouldn't be discovered. We were now traveling through Polish territory toward East Germany, but we were still in Russian custody.
One day we stopped on an open stretch of the line. Nearby we could see a village. Some peasants came up to our train across the snow-covered fields.
“Where from? You German prisoners?” We nodded, but were afraid they might be NKVD people in disguise.
“You're lucky, comrades, you're going home. We from Brest, Release 321 once Poland, now Russia. We find new homeland, once Germany, but now given to us by Russians as home. Things bad for us; we must give Russians everything, our cows, grain, butter. Because of that we have to go hungry. Don't be angry with us, we didn't rob you of your homeland.” After nearly five years we were now confronted with reality.
German territory taken from us Germans and handed over to the Poles, from whom their land in the east had been taken in exchange. What a political game of chessl At the end of December we reached the border between Poland and East Germany. At last we were on home ground, albeit the socalled
“Eastern Zone” occupied and controlled by the Russians.
We were taken over by east-German guards, who were very unfriendly and declined to enter into any conversation. Yet we felt safer here.
We had completely forgotten that in the meantime Christmas, the'festival of peace, had been celebrated and a new year begun.
We stopped suddenly on an open stretch.
“Get out! Everybody stand by the trucks!” came the order.
What was happening now? Our nerves could stand no further strain. The tension was hardly bearable. Perhaps the East Germans had been told to keep us in their zone?
"We will now march in line to the border with West Germany.
There each man will be called out by name. He must then cross the border without any further stop." We heard the words with relief.
One by one we took the path to freedom, for which we had yearned so long; cautiously at first, but then everyone ran as fast as he could past the open barrier. In the bare wintry branches of the trees we could see dozens of Russian fur caps. Realizing what had taken place there, we tore off our own caps and with a loud cry hurled them likewise up into the trees.
Freel After nearly five years, free at last!
Helpers and nurses of the German Red Cross took charge of us. A few men had to be supported; their legs gave way when the tension finally eased. We were taken to the Friedland camp, which still exists today, where the extensive but nsary formalities then began.
But before that everyone was allowed to have a bath. What a treat after all the years!
Then came the registering and questioning, about where one wanted to be discharged to, but also dispassionate interrogation
British officers, with questions about the camp in Russia, the food, treatment, and much else.
Then, finally, we were given the chance to telephone our families free of charge. The scenes that took place were unimaginable. No one was ashamed of his tears.
I wanted to be discharged to my mother's in Flensburg on the border with Denmark and was given a ticket, as well as my “discharge pay” of DM 300-00, to which every prisoner of war was entitled. Winand and his fellow prisoners were accompanied by Captain Samcharadse, the commandant of Camp 7518/1, until they reached the Russian border at Brest-Litovsk. There for the last time all prisoners were gone through. We were scolded and they took our last little properties. “Samcharadse's last action” they called it.
I decided to stop off in Hamburg on the way to Flensburg, to see some old friends again.
On 5 January 1950, the official day of my discharge, I arrived in Hamburg early in the morning. Waiting for me on the platform was my old friend Boos. He hardly recognized me in my padded clothes, but then we fell into each other's arms.
“Come on, old man,” he said, “we'll go straight home. My wife is waiting there with a breakfast 'fit for a king.” Do you remember how we used to enjoy such a breakfast when you brought back all those delicacies from the front, things which we here at home no longer knew except by name?" At his lovely country house my padded clothes were first taken from me. At last I could be human again!
“We'll bum these things right away,” said my friend. “On the one hand so that you'll forget your captivity quickly, and on the other hand so that no bugs or lice will be brought into the house. Here are some of my things.” After a generous bath we sat in front of a blazing fire and ate and drank whatever the kitchen and cellar had to offer. For me it was like a dream.
To crown it all my friend opened a bottle of champagne, Veuve Cliquot R 1937.
“Do you remember? You once brought me a case of twelve bottles of this from France. We drank one bottle on New Year's Eve 1944 to your good health and to peace in 1945. Ten bottles we bartered for food at the British officers' mess. But we didn't dare touch the last bottle, because we thought that if we did you would Release 323 never come back. Now the moment has come to empty it to your safe return and to our reunion.”
“You really do have some good friends still,” I thought, deeply touched.
Next day I traveled on to my mother and sister. They and my brother, who had served on a minesweeper in the navy but had been given an early discharge, were standing at the station with flowers. What a reunion!
When we got home, I found many of the old things that I had grown to love no longer there. In order to survive, my mother had bartered many of our valuable pieces from China and Japan for food. Only the Japanese tea service had not been touched, for reasons similar to those of my friend with the bottle of champ agne.
It was a question now of building a new life. When I went to Hamburg later, to look for a job, the friends just mentioned invited me to stay with them for the time being. On my arrival, my friend came up to me and ceremonially handed me a present.
It was the champagne cork, set with a silver band, on which was engraved “5 January 1950.”
A New Start My fresh start on “Day Zero” began with a body-blow. On reaching Flensburg I at once phoned Dagmar in Berlin. She was to come in a few days' time for a long weekend; her work at the TV station allowed her no more. I looked forward to our meeting, after exactly five years, in great agitation.
From the few cards of greeting to Russia I knew that she had become a successful reporter, much in demand; but also that she had maintained her commitment to me throughout and had planned our first meeting with care. In her apartment in Berlin a room was kept for me, and for me alone.
Now, on the cold station platform, we faced each other somewhat shyly.
“You look well,” I began, to get over the moment I had thought about day and night in the camp. “You look even more attractive, but a bit on edge and run down.”
“You look well too, much better than I expected after the long years in Russia.” Well, I kept myself physically fit; I never gave up hope of coming home and lived for this moment of seeing you again." Then we were sitting together over a cup of coffee. My mother and sister had left us alone.
Dagmar told me about herself, of the successful journey to Flensburg with “my” Mercedes, her job with the British as an interpreter, and her start with North German Radio, until the switch to TV. Dagmar had carved out a remarkable career for herself, from sheltered, well brought-up girl of “good” family to sought-after reporter.
“I've already made inquiries,” she went on, “about possible openings for you in TV, radio, or the press. Unfortunately with no luck; there are too many pros lining up for any jobs that
are open.” Dagmar then spoke of her many interesting colleagues, of the prominent people she had interviewed, and of the pleasure she took in her work.
Suddenly, and painfully, it dawned on me that I had stood still, A New Start 325 like all my fellow prisoners, in the state I had been in at the beginning of 1945, with no chance of further development. We were worlds apart, and a bridge seemed scarcely possible. Dagmar too appeared to feel this.
“We'll have to think it all over,” she said. "Everything is so different from how I imagined it would be through the years.
Come to Berlin as soon as you can. You will see how I live and work, and get to know my friends and colleagues." As I took Dagmar to the train I knew it was all over. In spite of the shock, I was glad we had not married. Many of my friends were facing the wreckage of broken marriages, which had not stood the strain of the five years of separation.
After a few days my friend Boos phoned from Hamburg.
"Come and see us. I've been thinking about what you should, do.,, In Hamburg I told Boos of the situation in which Dagmar and I found ourselves.
“Luck, I know Dagmar well. She was often here during her time at the radio. The two of you have grown apart. No one is to blame. But there's nothing to be done about it. Dagmar is sure to be suffer-. ing just as much as you and looking for a fresh start. But you won't find it together.” I went to Berlin all the same. Her apartment was enchanting, very Bohemian. “My” room was a museum: on the walls were pictures of our time together in Paris, everywhere there were things we had bought together. Her friends, almost all journalists and TV people, came and went. Everything was hectic, professional, and to some extent superficial. “Nice to see you. Dagmar has told us about you. Was it bad?” No real interest. When Dagmar took me to one of the many parties I stood around and felt I did not belong.
Dagmar had to go to the studio early in the morning and she came home late in the evening. Boos was right: we were worlds apart.
On the third day I decided to leave.
“Dagmar, let's remain friends. We can't take up again where we left off five years ago in quite different circumstances. Your apartment, 'my' room, everything seems like a commemoration, it recalls the past, but it's no longer alive.” So we parted.
In this too 5 January 1950 drew a line under my previous life.
It really was “Day Zero.” I only saw Dagmar once more, a few years later. Suddenly there she was at my door.
“There's a man outside who wants to marry me. I like him. Will you have a look at him, talk to him? If you think he's suitable for me, I'll marry him. If not, I won't.” I had to laugh. The end of a romance born in the war was taking on an. element of tragicomedy.
I thought the man was a decent sort: a successful businessman with a house in Ronco on Lake Maggiore, and a Porsche.
“I think he's all right, Dagmar. I hope you'll be happy with him.” Two years later I saw an item in a newspaper: Tragically, the well-known TV journalist, Daginar S., has been killed in a car accident.
NIGHT RECEPTIONIST Back in Hamburg I was sitting with Boos.
"My wife and I have been wondering what you ought to do as a start, until the discrimination against former officers has died down and you can find something suitable.
"You would hardly want to begin your new life as a traveling salesman, the only job for which you would need no training.
But with your knowledge of human nature and your languages you ought to be of interest to one of the international hotels in Hamburg. Why don't you try them?" The idea appealed to me and I applied to one of the largest hotels.
“Madame,” as the proprietress was respectfully known, listened to me with close attention.
“You can make a start with me. The post of night receptionist has just become vacant. With your name and your languages you are just the sort of person I'm looking for. Perhaps I can launch you on a career as hotelier.” Beaming with joy I told Boos and thanked him for his advice.
Until I had found a room in Hamburg, I would be able to stay with him.
“Good evening, Mr Y. Your room has been reserved for usual. We hope you will have a pleasant stay in Hamburg.” I stood behind the reception desk of the hotel, half of which was still requisitioned by the British occupation forces.
It was almost midnight on that cold day in February 1950. After A New Start 327 38 years, Day Zero had begun for me. As I write these lines a further 38 years have elapsed. The second period of my life has been no less interesting than the first, merely less dangerous.
At its center stands my “African adventure,” with many pleasant, but also unpleasant experiences.
I had to get used to civilian life. When the last guests had arrived and the night prowlers were back, the quiet, silent hours began. The night porter was a decent, older colleague who had Survived the war in Hamburg and told me about the air raids the shelters, and the hunt for extra food. He asked me, very warily, how it had been at the front and in captivity. My replies were brief, I wanted to put that time behind me.
I had to get used to the new rhythm: while most people were asleep, I was standing at the reception desk. When they went to work, I tried to sleep, before going to work again. Every night I looked at the guest list to see if I could find an old friend among the hotel's patrons.
Then came a little episode that was to change my whole attitude for the future.
Early one morning a guest from Finland was leaving. He had to pay his bill with me. As I wished him a good journey, he pushed a ten-mark note across the counter.
“That's for you. Thank you for the excellent service.” I was staggered. Never in my life had I received a tip. The situation was very painful.
“That's not necessary, thank you very much. I hope you have felt at home here.” And I gave him back his money.
The Finn looked at me in disbelief, shook his head, and picked up the money. He had hardly left the hotel when the night porter rushed over to me.
“Are you mad? We live off the tips. Why do you think we're so badly paid? Every hotel management knows we get tips.” Then, a bit more calmly, “I can understand you well enough. It's not easy for you to adapt. But you must. Every job has its rules.” An important lesson for me: it was now essential to think commercially. From then on I accepted tips, without a guilty conscience. Before long they doubled my pay.
I took increasing pleasure in talking to the guests, who came from all over the world. Back from a stroll in the town or along the Reeperbahn, they were often in the mood for a chat.
I had still not come across any of my former friends; my little address book was in the hands of the Russians.
Then, standing before me suddenly was Jiirgen Graf Rittberg, orderly officer in our reconnaissance battalion and severely wounded in France in 1940. He had married into an old family in Diisseldorf which owned an automobile dealership. He offered me a job with his father-in-law as a salesman, but I declined politely. We saw each other frequently in the years that followed, until Jiirgen was killed in a car accident.
I still dreamed of a job abroad; the urge to travel would not let me go.
Meanwhile I was in touch also with Hally Momm, the showjumper and a fellow prisoner. He came to Hamburg every year for the horse show. Then Helmut Liebeskind, my adjutant since the invasion on 6 June 1944, turned up. Our delight was immense; we hadn't seen each other since we had been captured in April 1945.
Over a glass of wine he told me he had been approached by the Bundeswehr, just then in the process of being organized, to join it as a general-staff officer.
“What would you advise? Should I give up my good job?”
“That's something you'll have to decide for yourself, Liebeskind,” I replied. “You are still young and could have a great career, even if you were not as well paid as at present.” His idealism won. A few years ago he retired as a lieutenantgeneral, after a distinguished career with many foreign postings.
Finally, a meeting came about for which I had always
hoped: indirectly, through a number of people, I was brought in touch with the proprietor of an export firm which for generations had had close contacts with Japan, China, and Hong Kong.
“I intend to set up a new firm in Angola, West Africa, where competition as yet is not very strong. To do so I shall be going to Africa for a year and I'm looking for someone to represent me here. You have been recommended to me. Does the idea appeal to you?”
“It certainly does,” I replied, “but I'm no businessman.,, ”The mechanics can be learned. Good management and reliability are innate. And that's what I need in a colleague who can run my newly founded firm while I'm away. My staff would show you the ropes. So, what about it?" I agreed on the spur of the moment, especially since I was given the prospect of taking my turn in going to Angola for a year or two.
A New Start 329 “Madwne” quite understood my decision when I handed in my notice for the hotel job.
At evening classes in commercial law, bookkeeping, and Portuguese, I made myself familiar with the new subject matter; my young colleagues were a great help to me.
With my new boss I visited all our customers in Germany and elsewhere in Europe, and after a few months, I took him to the cargo boat that was to start him on his long journey to a new country, which later would also become my own second home.
I had found a new vocation, to which I am committed still today.
The past became a memory; I devoted myself wholly and utterly to my new work.
There was, however, one more occasion when I was confronted by my former profession. I was summoned to an anonymous office in Bonn which for the time being was responsible for organizing the new Bundeswehr.
I was asked whether I would be interested in making my experience available by joining up again.
“You are still young, you've served in the Reichswehr and the Wehrmacht, with the tank force, and you've fought in almost all theaters of war. Your experience would be of great value to the future Bundeswehr.” My answer came very promptly.
