Surviving the Reich

by Ivan L. Goldstein

  “Don’t think about it.”

  Close to midnight the next night, the four of us stood next to the train, a line of cattle cars like the ones used for taking Jews to the concentration camps. Though these were smaller than American boxcars, the Germans were stuffing eighty men into each one.

  We watched the guard carefully as man after man handed over his ticket and climbed aboard the train. It looked like the guard was handing the tickets back to them, but we couldn’t be sure. We inched our way up the line, the four of us standing one against the other as we had practiced.

  Finally, my turn came. Heart pounding, I swiftly flashed the ticket under the guard’s nose and then handed it off to Andy. A split second later, someone shoved me into a boxcar and locked it behind me. I was number eighty in the first boxcar. I couldn’t see out.

  “Urda! Kessler! Lozano!” I wanted to shout, “Where are you?” But, of course, I swallowed the impulse, mutely straining to see between the slats into the darkness. It was nearly a miracle, I realized, that the guard didn’t take my ticket from me. I had passed it successfully to Andy. What happened after that? Did they make it? Were they somewhere on this train, or had they been caught? Could they be executed for trying to outwit the guard? It was my idea. What have I done to them?

  Andy! Where’s Andy? Near panic set in when I realized I had lost my partner. Andy and I had grown truly dependent on one another. I wanted to cry like a child, feeling like I had been torn from my lifeline. I told myself over and over that my isolation was only temporary. He must be somewhere on this train. I’ll find him when we reach our destination, and we’ll have a good laugh. I’ve got to keep my sense of humor, I told myself. I’ve got to keep a calm perspective on this.

  After an hour, the train began to move. As we kept saying during our captivity, “Nothing can be worse than this.” At Gerolstein, we thought nothing could be worse. Wrong again! With eighty men packed in the car, I began to envy sardines in a can. At least they could lie down. I was lucky to get a space against one of the sidewalls of the boxcar so I could slide down and sit with my back supported by the wall. Metal drums were placed in the corners of the boxcar for toilets, but with the rampant dysentery among the passengers, they certainly were not sufficient. If you had to reach one of the drums from the center of the car, you were forced to climb over many people, and much of the time, the person failed to get to his destination in time. Some guys didn’t even attempt to use the drums and relieved themselves where they stood. Adding to the animalistic stench was the fact that the cars previously had been used to ship cattle, and we stood on a floor covered with frozen manure. The only thing worse than standing on frozen manure was standing on manure that was defrosting because of all the people standing on it. This alone was enough for the facility to lose its five-star rating, I thought.

  Somehow, I expected that we would arrive at our destination before morning, so I kept telling myself, “I just have to survive the next six hours.” But from the small open spaces between the slats, I could see that we came to a stop while it was still dark. We remained stopped until daybreak. This was terrible news. As the Germans would move the train only by night, it undoubtedly meant that we would remain locked in the boxcars for another day. No one brought us food or water. No one came at all.

  As daylight crept through tiny openings in the car, it became noticeable that icicles had formed on the ceiling and were dripping water. I watched as prisoners fought like animals to reach the ice. I hoped that I would never become that desperate. As for myself, I had saved part of my bread from last night’s meal at Gerolstein and was looking forward to it as my morning breakfast. As I was munching on my bread, a frenzied prisoner tried to grab it out of my hand, but I managed to push him off and save it. I knew it was my last morsel until we would reach . . . wherever.

  It dawned on me suddenly that maybe we walking wounded weren’t headed for a German army hospital. Maybe they were disposing of us because we were too sick, because we were no longer of any use as slave labor. Many in the group were clearly very sick, and, in fact, during that day, two of the prisoners died. Their bodies were shoved to the end of the car, and everyone moved as far away from the corpses as possible. This made our luxury car even more cramped than before.

  For the first time since we boarded, it was apparent that we might all die on this train. The extreme conditions, the lack of food, the questionable destination, and the ever-present stench of illness and death began to turn normal humans into animals. Crazed by suffering, all that was left was the animal instinct to survive. The voices that had started as quiet conversations when we left Gerolstein became louder and louder. Moans turned into soft sobs and then into loud wailing as the noise reached a crescendo of screaming and yelling. We were all going mad.

  This episode was the worst I ever experienced. As I watched one man after another lose his sanity, I tried to block out what was happening around me by immersing myself in prayer. I focused constantly on God. “Save me, protect me, keep me safe,” I muttered for hours on end. “Please don’t let me lose my mind, just don’t let me lose my mind. . . .” I vowed that if God would deliver me from this terrible nightmare, I would never forget His constant presence in my life.

  The single ticket the foursome—Andy Urda, Ed Kessler, Ed Lozano, and me—used to leave Gerolstein.

  It was not unusual for me to turn to God at this moment of crisis. I had grown up with the story of how Mother had made her deal with her Divine Partner after Father died, and over the years, her staunch, enduring faith had become a part of me. Rocking to and fro, with the steady beat of the train wheels beneath my feet, my mind drifted to an incident that happened when I was about eight years old. My little brother Max was a baby of a year or two, and he was very sick, with a fever so high that the doctor said it could cause brain damage. Mother frantically tried everything to bring down his temperature, but nothing worked. Now she was panicking, screaming, crying uncontrollably as she rocked Max in her arms. I ran into my bedroom and prayed harder than I ever had in my life. “Please, please, save my little brother!” With my fists clenched and tears streaming from my eyes, I repeated my plea over and over. The fever broke that night. There was no question in my mind that God had heard my prayer and lovingly answered.

  So I knew that He was listening, even in this stinking cattle car, with everyone around me going berserk. I knew He could keep me whole, keep me sane, if He wanted to—I just didn’t know if He would. How long could I hold on? “Please, please, protect me. . . .”

  We remained in the train for three full days, moving by night and stopped under cover of forests by day. Prisoners were dying one by one, and I continued my dialogue with God. On the third day, for some reason, our captors attempted to move during daylight hours. Allied fighter-bombers immediately spotted the train, and as a plane screamed by overhead—wham—a direct bomb hit on my car! The explosion was deafening, shrapnel flew in every direction, and bloody body parts streaked past me. The man on my right was cut almost in half; the head of the soldier on my left was cracked open.

  I was untouched. Not a scratch. Quaking, I stood alone among the dead and critically wounded. It was truly a miracle.

  I must have gone into shock, because I don’t remember getting off the train or anything that happened immediately afterwards. The first memory I have, and I don’t know how much time had passed, is that I was sitting in the snow among prisoners from the train. The Germans had given each soldier a can of meat and a piece of dark bread. Someone said that the can contained horse meat. Sickened by the thought of eating the stuff, I traded my meat with another soldier for his piece of bread.

  I wondered if my friends had been on the train and if they had died or gone crazy like the others. With sad resignation, I concluded that I would have to survive without them, if I survived at all. Then someone kicked my foot. I looked up and staring down at me, gaunt but grinning, were Urda! Kessler! And Lozano!

  I learned that my car was the only
one bombed, and I couldn’t figure out why. Almost sixty years later, Kessler told that me that some prisoners from the train had lain down in the snow and formed the letters POW with their bodies. The American pilots understood. There was no additional strafing, and the planes flew off.

  In years to come, I blocked out this entire train experience, forcing myself to forget, for whenever I would recall these memories, they would make me sick. I allowed but one recollection to remain with me: my prayers had been answered. More, I had personally seen the powerful words of Psalm 91 come alive: “Thousands may fall at your side, but [harm] will not come near you . . . For he has yearned for Me and I will deliver him . . . He will call upon Me and I will answer him, I am with him in distress. . . .”

  I would never forget my vow.

  CHAPTER 9

  Liberation

  IN THE FOLLOWING DAYS, we were marched to a number of locations. March is not exactly the right word, for we dragged ourselves along, knowing that stragglers would be shot. Andy and I leaned on one another, trying to keep up a cheerful exchange that seemed more and more forced with every step. Kessler and Lozano shuffled along beside us. My recollection of the towns and villages we passed through are vague, for the suffering and shock blocked out a good deal. Most likely, I was only faintly aware of them at the time.

  But I clearly remember reaching Stalag XII A in Limburg, Germany. (Stalag is the abbreviation of stamm-lager, meaning main camp.) The fact that this was a large, official POW camp raised our expectations: here, they would have to comply with international law, we reasoned. There would be better food and facilities than at Gerolstein, and maybe even packages from the Red Cross. The Red Cross was known to send weekly packages of powdered milk, chocolate bars, cheese, and Spam to POWs.

  One look at the prisoners in the camp crushed our optimism. Their faces were horrible, with sunken cheeks and haunted, lifeless expressions. Here too, starvation and hard labor had turned them into walking skeletons. And once again, our diet consisted of the same potato peel soup and dark bread, once a day. Sauerkraut was sometimes added, and to this day, I can’t stand sauerkraut.

  The only improvement was that we slept on straw, rather than directly on the ground. We knew that in a short time we would look like the rest of the inmates, if we didn’t already.

  Ever since my first and only interrogation, by the major who threatened to have me shot, no identification or names were asked. It was toward the end of the war, and the Germans were no longer keeping accurate records. We had all just become nameless slave laborers. But just in case, I hid my dog tags inside the rags covering my feet. I did not need it known that I was a Jew.

  We didn’t know then that the camp in Limburg was notorious for its terrible conditions. Its primary function was to act as a transit camp, the first point of interrogation and documenting of captured Allied prisoners. From there, they would be moved on to more organized and better-outfitted prison camps. So there never was any attempt to make conditions livable, even when a sizeable population of about twenty thousand wound up living there for long periods of time toward the end of the war. As usual, toilet facilities were grossly insufficient, medical aid was practically nonexistent, there was no heat despite the bitter cold, and the dismal place had no lighting. Night would come, and with it nearly total darkness. We would fall into our bunks like animals, dead tired from arduous labor. If the Red Cross was sending anything to Stalag XII A, we didn’t know it.

  Many who came in through the entrance of Stalag XII A never lived to go out of it. Here the gate is guarded by Allied troops after our liberation in March 1945. Allan Jackson/Keystone/Getty Images

  Escape was unthinkable. We had been told in no uncertain terms that we would be shot if we so much as touched the tall barbed wire fence that surrounded the camp. We had no reason to doubt that the threat would be carried out.

  Barbed wire also divided the camp into two sections: one housed American and British POWs. There was a good number of these, including soldiers from India serving in the British Commonwealth forces. They had been captured in North Africa in 1942, and I later learned that they were fairly well treated. The other side of the camp was for Russians. As in all German camps, the Russians were treated with particular ruthlessness, as though Hitler deliberately wanted to break down these sad remnants of Stalin’s army. The Russians had a deep-seated hatred of their German captors. Their cities and villages had been destroyed; they had witnessed members of their families raped and murdered. And they swore that someday they would avenge the atrocities inflicted upon them.

  We knew about the planned revenge, for Andy Urda’s Slovak background enabled him to converse in a limited way with the Russian prisoners. With Andy as interpreter, we would talk through the barbed wire fence, exchanging news of the war on the Western and Eastern Fronts. The consensus on both sides was that the Germans were retreating from both fronts and that it was just a matter of time until they would surrender. At least, we all wanted to believe that.

  Inside the barracks of Stalag XII A—a barn used for American prisoners. The Granger Collection, New York

  A break in the freezing weather also brought a rise in our spirits. What’s more, several of our guards appeared to be only fifteen or sixteen years of age, a clear sign of dwindling German manpower. We taunted them that in less than a month their invincible German empire would be demolished. “Hey, why not set us free right now?” But they had been brainwashed to believe that this was not possible, and they swore that the Third Reich had recaptured Paris. England and America were next, they warned with glee. We didn’t believe them. We held onto our hopes, bolstered by every new prisoner arrival, that the war was all but won.

  Meanwhile, however, our daily slave labor would continue. We were divided into groups of ten prisoners, with one person responsible to deliver his unit’s daily meal. I was in charge of my group and made out a list of the ten soldiers who depended upon me.

  The one labor detail that never ceased was the burial detail. Unlike my previous experiences with this gruesome task, here the dog tags of the deceased were saved. We hoped they would be used for notification of their families.

  At long last, the brutal winter was coming to an end. With the approach of spring, I experienced an indescribable, wonderful sensation that would repeat over and over through the years. During the previous months of captivity in sub-zero weather, my body never experienced a feeling of warmth. I was frozen to the bone nearly all of the time. When spring was in the air, I would go outside the barracks and sit in the brilliant sunshine, thirstily absorbing the sun’s rays. The glorious feeling of heat penetrating my body was like a rejuvenating elixir. The sensation was beyond description, and to this day, whenever I sit in the sun, I recall that marvelous feeling.

  Yet despite the renewal from the sun’s warmth, I couldn’t help noticing that my health was failing. The dysentery now was continuous; I was weak and dehydrated. My bones nearly protruded through my skin, and my face had taken on the hollow-eyed, sunken expression of the Limburg veterans. I could only pray that a liberating army would arrive before I became one of the victims of the burial detail.

  Nevertheless, Andy and I continued our buddy system, sharing everything we had and trying to keep up the banter that would keep us sane. Then one day, Andy complained that his throat was so sore that he couldn’t swallow. He had a fever and felt terrible. The health officer of the camp diagnosed diphtheria and sent him to an “infirmary” in the Russian section of the camp. This is the last time we’d see each other, I thought forlornly. After all we’d been through together, how could it end this way?

  Within the next few days, I came down with the same symptoms. The health officer said that I also had diphtheria and ordered me quarantined to the Russian infirmary. I said goodbye to Lozano and Kessler.

  I was taken to a one-room building measuring about twelve by fifteen feet. It was not an infirmary for treatment or care, but a means of keeping us from infecting other men with our
sickness—a place to die. I looked around the room: there were eleven other men sprawled like mangled rag dolls on wooden bunk beds. Then I spotted Andy. He was still alive, I rejoiced, and we were together again. At least I wouldn’t die alone.

  Besides us, there were nine Russians and one other American. No one came with medicine, just a bit of food and water now and then. In the next few days, the nine Russians died and their bodies were removed. We three Americans were the only ones left in the room. Andy and I were too sick to move. I might have known the name of the other soldier at the time, but I was too ill to remember it afterward. I just recall that he was able to stand and walk around. Time ticked by slowly; night became day, and day turned into night. I don’t know how much time passed.

  Then one day the other soldier was peering out the window and started shouting with joy, “The Americans are here, the Americans are here!”

  “Pipe down,” I called weakly from my bed. “My head’s spinning. What are you yelling about?”

  “The Americans are here! It’s over!”

  “Can’t be,” I groaned. “Can’t be true.”

  This April 1, 1945, photo of American POW Pvt. Joe Demler, taken in Limburg after our liberation, shocked the readers of Life magazine. Most of us—including myself—looked like him. John Florea/Time & Life Picture/Getty Images

  “But it is. I see them! Those are American tanks. I think it’s the Ninth Army, and there’s not a Kraut in sight.”

  We did not know that the camp had been evacuated. When the Allied soldiers began to cross the Rhine River in March 1945, German personnel began evacuating as many prisoners as possible. In one instance, 1,200 British and American prisoners in Limburg were packed into boxcars, bound for prison camps still under German control. Unmarked as POW trains, they were bombarded by U.S. planes, and many of the prisoners were killed. The Russian prisoners had been left behind along with the American prisoners too weak or sick to walk. My illness probably had prevented me from being put on that train. This was the third time I was saved from being killed by Allied bombers. This time, however, I wasn’t even aware of it.