The 50s

by The New Yorker Magazine

  When the Leuna column arrived at the Uhlandsplatz, workers from Buna and from the nearby Ammendorferwerke were already there, and so was what seemed to be the entire population of the city. Many people had also come in from the surrounding small towns and villages, and new groups were arriving all the time. Schorn estimates that eventually there were between seventy and eighty thousand men, women, and children there. He discussed the situation with the strike leader from the Buna Works, and they agreed on a course of action. A command post was set up in front of an inn; it consisted of a large truck flanked by two loudspeaker trucks. Schorn got up on an improvised speaker’s platform on the big truck and through a microphone linked to the loudspeakers briefly summarized the purpose of the demonstration. “I was surprised by the response,” he told me. “There was no doubt that the whole city was backing us up. Ordinarily, the Merseburgers are cool, restrained people, but now they were cheering and singing and applauding like a crowd in Italy or Spain. It was a real fiesta.”

  While members of strike committees representing various factories introduced themselves to the crowd, Schorn and some of the other leaders went around to the local prison. They encountered no resistance there, for the Vopos on duty swiftly disappeared and the guards handed over the keys to the cells. “We went into the prison office and checked through the list of prisoners, separating the political prisoners from ordinary criminals,” Schorn said. “We liberated all the political prisoners, including the so-called economic criminals—people who had been sentenced to fifteen or twenty years for trumped-up income-tax evasions, so that their businesses could be taken over and nationalized. We did not free the common criminals.”

  The strike committee sent off two telegrams setting forth the workers’ demands—one to the government, in East Berlin, and the other to the Soviet Military Administration, in Karlshorst. “We were very proud of our telegram to Karlshorst, which we thought would convince the Soviet High Command that we were planning no wrong,” Schorn said. “In it we asked the High Command to respect the legitimate demands of the workers and to refrain from any measures that might stop our strike. Thus, we said, the Soviet Union would prove its sympathy with the working classes.”

  A special delegation was sent to the mayor of Merseburg, who, unlike most of the local government officials, had remained in his office. The delegation notified him that the strikers had taken over the city and that he would have to obey their orders. He agreed, and he was told, among other things, to see to it that there was no breakdown in the food-distribution system. While the delegation was issuing its orders, the mayor was called to the phone. When he returned, he said, “That was the Russians. They wanted to know how I am.”

  “What did you tell them?” one of the strikers asked.

  “I told them that I was all right and about to negotiate with you,” the mayor replied.

  · · ·

  Shortly before two that afternoon, Schorn was conferring with other strike leaders at the command post when word reached him that some Russian soldiers had driven into the town. They had taken over the prison, and had then arrested a number of strikers and locked them up in it. Schorn reported to the crowd what had happened. A roar of protest went up, and Schorn said, “We will go to the prison with three truckloads of workers and take the prison back from the Russians.” Everybody cheered.

  By the time Schorn and his men drove up in front of the prison, the Russians, reinforced by several Vopos, had barricaded themselves inside it. The Russians turned fire hoses on the strikers through the windows. The strikers retaliated by throwing stones, one of which punctured a hose and put it out of commission. At this point, Schorn demanded to speak to the Russian commandant. After a while, a young lieutenant appeared, and Schorn said, “I warn you that unless you turn the prison back to the workers at once there will be bloodshed.” The Russian lieutenant looked out at the street, which was by now chock-full of people. He shrugged and told Schorn to wait. In a few minutes, the door was opened, and the Russian soldiers and the Vopos came out. Behind them were the strikers the Russians had arrested. Schorn got up on one of the trucks and admonished the crowd to let the Russian soldiers through. Then he and the workers drove back in triumph to the Uhlandsplatz, where he informed the waiting crowd that their mission had been successful.

  “Again there was great jubilation, but it didn’t last long,” Schorn told me. “A few minutes later, a large number of Russians entered the square. I was standing in front of the microphone, talking to the crowd, when I saw them coming. There were motorized guns, and a long column of trucks filled with infantry soldiers. Most of the people in the crowd were facing the speaker’s platform and had no idea they were there. I kept talking—I had to keep talking to give myself time to think. To tell the truth, I was terribly shocked. No one had known for sure what the Russians would do, but some of the optimists had thought that maybe they would help us get rid of the Ulbricht government. Others, like me, had just been hoping and praying that the Russians would not interfere. After all, there had been so much talk about the soft new course the Russians were taking. Surely they would not march against workers! Soviet Russia had always posed as the champion of the working class, and out there in the square the workers were simply demanding their rights.”

  As word got around that the Russians were there, it grew very quiet in the square. Some people smiled shakily at the newcomers and a few even greeted them, and the Soviet officers smiled back from their jeeps and waved their hands, while the enlisted men sat on their trucks, holding their guns on their knees, and stolidly looked straight ahead. The crowd slowly parted, and the column made its way through the square and came to a halt in front of the speaker’s platform. Schorn thereupon asked the people to remain quiet and pointed out again that violence would get them nowhere.

  “At first, the strikers did as they were told, but gradually their mood changed,” Schorn said to me. “Some began to shout abuse at the Russians and a few spat on their trucks. I knew that things would get out of hand if we stayed there much longer. I stepped back to talk the matter over with the other strike leaders, and they agreed that we had better break it up, so I went to the microphone and told the people that our demonstration had been a success and that the workers would now march back in orderly ranks to their factories. They were to await instructions from their strike committees, which would keep in touch with a central strike committee that was to be set up later that day. No one, I said, should go back to work until the central strike committee gave orders to that effect. The people reacted well. They formed columns and marched off in perfect discipline. The Soviet soldiers, their guns on their knees, still sat on the trucks and stared straight ahead of them.”

  · · ·

  Back at the Leuna Works, Schorn found to his relief that things had been quiet there while the demonstration was going on in Merseburg. The maintenance crews had kept things going, and reported that nothing had been damaged. Schorn asked whether RIAS had broadcast any specific strike instructions to the committees in the Zone, and was disappointed to learn that it had not. He felt isolated, and the lack of contact with the outside world made him uncertain what to do next. “You can’t move when you don’t know what’s happening on your flanks,” he told me. “There were sporadic bits of news from nearby towns, but no one knew what was going on in Halle, or Magdeburg, or Jena, or Weimar, or Leipzig, or Dresden, or Brandenburg. I knew we had to do something, but the big question was what.”

  Schorn climbed to the platform at the top of the steps from which he had addressed the crowd earlier in the day. By now, most of the workers had returned from town and were standing or sitting in groups all over the courtyard, waiting for further instructions. The special detachment of strikers that had been sent to Halle returned and reported that the fourteen prisoners from ME 15 had been liberated, and once more cheers went up.

  And then the Russians came. It was four-fifteen when the first column appeared outside the main gate. It was made up of
truckloads of infantry soldiers armed with machine guns and anti-aircraft guns; there were no tanks. The trucks drove slowly through the gate and stopped. As in Merseburg, the soldiers didn’t leave their trucks, or the officers their jeeps. For a while, neither side made a move. Then a few of the workers began to throw stones at the Russians, who continued to sit there quietly. Schorn at once seized the microphone and shouted to the crowd, “Keep calm! Stay where you are! We’ll go in and talk to the management.” With that, he and three other members of the strike committee went to the office of the Russian general manager. They went in without bothering to knock.

  The Russian general manager was sitting behind his desk, surrounded by several of his assistants. He invited Schorn and the other men to sit down, but Schorn said they preferred to stand. Then he announced that the workers at Leuna were going out on a formal strike. The general manager coughed, cleared his throat, and replied that he was no longer in charge. The Soviet Army had taken over the Leuna Works, he said, and the troop commander was now the supreme authority. He sent one of his men to summon the commander. A few minutes later, a Russian colonel entered the room, along with several other officers. Throughout the conference that ensued the Russians—both officers and civilians—were extremely courteous. Schorn admits that the same couldn’t be said of him. In the weeks that have passed since then, he has searched his memory for every last detail of what was said at that conference, and he thinks he has reconstructed a fairly complete and accurate version of it.

  “Herr Oberst,” Schorn began, “do your troops have permission to shoot?”

  “No,” the colonel replied.

  “Why did you bring in your troops?” Schorn asked. “Did we give you any reason to intervene?”

  “I have orders to protect Soviet citizens and Soviet property,” said the colonel.

  “Did we provoke you into coming here?”

  “You didn’t provoke me.”

  “We workers of East Germany want to live and work in peace, but we demand decent living and working conditions. This, Herr Oberst, is an internal German affair. You shouldn’t interfere. This doesn’t concern you at all.”

  At this, the colonel’s face got a little red, but he said nothing. Schorn says he realized right then that neither the colonel nor the Russian general manager had received any instructions from higher up as to how to proceed, and were just stalling for time in the hope of getting some. The colonel’s evident embarrassment made Schorn decide to keep on the offensive.

  “Herr Oberst,” Schorn said, “I demand that your troops leave immediately.”

  “I am unable to comply with your demand,” the colonel replied.

  Schorn turned to the general manager and said, “Herr Generaldirektor, I appeal to you to prevent loss of life. And there will be loss of life if the troops stay here.”

  “But I am no longer in charge,” the general manager protested. “I have handed over the executive power to the colonel.”

  “Herr Oberst,” Schorn said, turning back to the colonel, “if trouble starts, your soldiers will shoot. They will kill many of our workers, but our men will strangle them with their bare hands. There are over twenty thousand workers out there and only four hundred soldiers. I appeal to you to prevent a tragedy.”

  “I have to await instructions from my headquarters,” the colonel said.

  “But the crowd will not wait long,” Schorn said. “We will give you ten minutes to get your instructions. Within ten minutes, your troops must leave Leuna. Now I’m going outside and tell the workers that you have been so notified.”

  Schorn and the three men with him turned to go, but the colonel called them back. “I will order the troops to leave,” he said.

  “Will you guarantee that no reprisals will be taken against the members of our strike committee?” Schorn asked.

  “I will,” the colonel replied.

  Schorn and his three colleagues went back to report to the strikers. “We were exhilarated,” he told me. “We all shook hands and told each other we had won a great victory. I think I trusted the colonel at that moment.”

  · · ·

  When Schorn and his companions stepped out on the platform overlooking the courtyard, they got a shock. Motorized Russian columns were approaching from two directions. Some of the troops were pouring into the courtyard, while others were encircling the whole plant. Schorn waited a few minutes, expecting a counter command to be given, but the troops did not turn back.

  “Then I grew really angry,” Schorn told me. “I grabbed the microphone and told the crowd, ‘Friends, the Russian troop commander promised me that he would order his troops to leave. You see how he has kept his word. New troops are coming in.’ The workers shouted their contempt.”

  The door behind Schorn opened, and the colonel and his officers came out. Schorn turned to the colonel. “Herr Oberst, look!” he said, pointing to the troops. “Do you call this the word of a Russian officer?”

  “Don’t get excited!” the colonel said tensely.

  “I’m not excited,” Schorn said. “I’ve merely stated that you, a colonel of the Red Army, have broken your word. You promised that the troops would leave.”

  “I have received orders from Karlshorst,” said the colonel. “The troops must stay.”

  “Do you still guarantee the safety of the members of the strike committee?” Schorn asked.

  “There will be no reprisals,” the colonel said.

  Schorn swung around and faced the strikers, who had stood silent, listening to the argument that was taking place in front of the microphone. “You heard what the colonel said,” he told them. “All right. It’s nearly five o’clock. Go home now. But be back here tomorrow morning at seven. If the members of the strike committee aren’t here, you’ll know what has happened to them. And then—”

  A Russian officer jumped forward and cut the wire to the microphone, and Schorn’s voice became all but inaudible in the courtyard. Angrily, he wheeled on the colonel. “Why don’t you let me talk to the men?” he asked.

  “You’ve been talking, haven’t you?” the colonel said.

  “Maybe you didn’t notice, Herr Oberst, that one of your officers cut this wire,” Schorn said. “The workers at Leuna have always been told that the Soviet officers are their friends. They know better now.”

  Then Schorn turned toward the crowd and held up seven fingers. “Tomorrow at seven!” he shouted. “Everybody right here!”

  The men and women moved off in small groups. The colonel and his officers quickly disappeared inside the building. The soldiers were still sitting on their trucks. When Schorn left the courtyard, several workers accompanied him through the main gate and insisted on staying with him until he boarded his streetcar for home. As he rode toward Merseburg, the stimulating influence of the large crowd passed off, and he began to feel tired and depressed. He had no illusions about his future. He suspected that reprisal was both inevitable and imminent; the Russian colonel wouldn’t be likely to forget having been humiliated in front of that crowd.

  As the streetcar jogged along, a stranger in blue overalls who was sitting next to Schorn leaned over and whispered to him, “My friend, I’m from Leuna. I listened to you today. I’ve just heard that the Russians have proclaimed martial law in Merseburg. Don’t go home tonight. Do you hear me?”

  Schorn nodded without turning his head, and the man went on, “If you want to sleep in our place, we’ve got an extra bed. You’ll be safe with us.” He whispered an address to Schorn. Then, without saying goodbye, he stood up, and got off at the next stop.

  “I didn’t know the man, but I trusted him,” Schorn told me. “A few months before, my first thought at being addressed by a stranger on a streetcar would have been, Watch out—he may be a spy. But the sincerity of the demonstration earlier in the day had changed all that.”

  · · ·

  When the stranger had gone, Schorn got to thinking. All day, he had been so elated by the vision of a new era and by the
fervor of the crowd that he had forgotten about his wife and children. Now, in a dazed way, he began to realize the seriousness of what he had done. His wife, a trusted leader in the S.E.D., had turned out to be the wife of a strike leader! And God only knew what they might do to the children! Schorn was well aware that the Russians often make children pay for the offenses of their fathers. Here was a horrible prospect indeed. At first, Schorn thought he would go home, try to explain to his wife what had happened, and then say a regretful goodbye to her and the youngsters. But after his performance that day he might easily jeopardize the safety of his family simply by being with them. If the authorities learned that he had been home and that his wife had not at once done her best to turn him in, they might resort to some very harsh measures. Schorn’s mind cleared rapidly, and he could see that there was only one thing for him to do. He got off the car, got on one going in the opposite direction, went to the address the stranger had given him, and spent the night there. In the morning, he went back to the Leuna Works with his host. He knew, of course, that he was taking a chance, but, on the other hand, there was the possibility that he had exaggerated the danger of his position and he felt he could not let the workers down. On the streetcar, he met a neighbor of his, who whispered to him, “Lucky you didn’t go home last night. They’ve been to your house six times.”