Letters From Berlin: A Story of War, Survival, and the Redeeming Power of Love and Friendship

by Kerstin Lieff

  We stopped at a station somewhere in a desolate open space for, it seemed, all afternoon one day; we had no idea why. The day was dreadfully hot. No new passengers boarded; of course, no one got off. We never had any idea how long we would stop or when we would leave again, so we stayed in our seats. Some of us stood in the doorways to get some fresh air.

  Trains pulled up alongside us from time to time. They were always full of prisoners. These prison trains with their slatted sides and roofs open to the sky were what we in Germany knew to be cattle cars. I could see moving shadows through the slats if I tried, and the shadows were of men sitting in the heat. We tried to speak with them if we could, and we learned they were soldiers, most of them German.

  We asked: “Where have you come from?” From the Eastern Fronts. “Where are you going?” They did not know. They were hungry, we heard most often, and they needed water. Some of our passengers still had cakes and chocolates from their Swedish relatives, care packages that had been sent to them through the Swedish embassy, so we did what we could to throw our food over the tops of the cars. They always let us know how grateful they were.

  And always I asked, “Have you seen Dieter Dos? Do you know him? He’s from Berlin and he fought in Italy. Then he fought in the East. He was to become a lieutenant, and he is my brother. Have you seen him?” Never did one man say yes.

  One of these trains pulled up alongside us and came to a full stop. I could hear again the men were German, so I started a conversation with one of them. He whispered yes, they too were all prisoners, and they were very scared. They did not know what was to become of them. Many of the men were wounded and had not had their bandages changed for a long time, he said. Some of their wounds were beginning to fester. My heart beat so fiercely it could have been the noise of an oncoming train. I knew how to change a bandage and clean a wound. I could perhaps save a soldier’s leg, but how could I help now? I was afraid to leave the train, and, besides, I had no clean bandages with me. Perhaps it was guilt that filled me; probably it was, the guilt of someone who knew she would help but couldn’t.

  I talked with another man, whose name I can’t remember. He had been an engineer before the war. He had a wife and a young daughter, although he had not seen them in several years. “She would be seven now,” he told me, and he had no idea if she or her mother was alive or dead. His home was in Helgoland, on a small island in the North Sea. His people still considered themselves to be Frisians.

  Behind him I could hear the moaning of men in pain, and I knew this sound well. It was the moaning of men who were thirsty and men who had lost everything. Men who had no hope left, men who knew they would die. My new friend told me that, yes, indeed, men were dying. It was very hot inside his train. The men were dirty and thirsty; they had not been let out for several days, and it smelled foul of urine and sweat, he said.

  “You must understand,” he told me, “these are men who once were brave, who believed in their fatherland, who are fathers and sons, who now will likely die here. No one will know. Yesterday, two Russian soldiers came to each of our cars and asked for the dead. The train was still moving, but slowly. When we pointed them out, they were grabbed by feet and arms and thrown out the door into the field. Who were these men? Did we know them? No. Who were their mothers? Their wives? Who would tell their children that they had been brave, that circumstances had deposited their bodies here in this forsaken land where soon enough mud and rain will wash over them, their bodies disappearing beneath next year’s grasses?” Then he said, “We have not had anything to drink all day…”

  I wished I could pass him at least some water through the slats, but I could do nothing. I had no water, and our train suddenly began to move. I wished him luck, and when he was gone, I pressed my hands to my mouth and prayed silently so no one would hear. “Thank you, God, once again, for my good fortune. And thank you that I am not one of them.”

  As our journey approached nearly seven days, still on our way north toward Leningrad, the train suddenly took a sharp turn. From the sun we could see we were headed east again. How disturbing! Some of our people began to worry. We all wondered out loud why this was, but Therese was not anywhere to be found. We tried to calm ourselves by assuming what she told us later that evening: We were now on our way to Moscow. Again, she explained it in the same way as before—it was for proper papers, papers none of us had and papers that would ensure our freedom. We had nothing to do about this but to be patient, once again.

  The sun became a red streak on an empty horizon, and the land grew purple. There were no lights in this train—a circumstance of war, we believed—and on this evening we were all anxious. Surely we would be arriving somewhere soon, somewhere we could get off the train, somewhere we could call our destination. Around midnight—it was dark, very dark, we couldn’t see where we were, and by now the train smelled something awful, of human perspiration and worry—suddenly the train came to a stop, our doors were thrown wide, and we were told to get off.

  We were at some sort of train station, and several women were there. They wore large headscarves and long aprons, and they spoke Russian at us. “Follow them,” Therese told us, pointing. “They will show you where you can sleep.”

  We followed, Mutti with her sack heavy with silver. She never did acknowledge that she had it, although she did trade her silk stockings at one of our stops for several eggs, which we both ate. They were only half cooked, but we were grateful. I carried my now much lighter suitcase, the suitcase without my winter coat, and the six oil paintings, three under each arm. Through thick, wet mud we made our way, trying our best not to slip. Ahead of me I noticed a young boy who had lost his shoe somewhere. He began to cry. His mother lifted him, and with their bags, she carried him, his bare foot dangling.

  It was drizzling, as it had been doing on and off all day. Up ahead, we could barely make out some sort of building, long and narrow. This was where we were led. Inside, it was large and mostly unfurnished. A woodstove was at the far end. One of our men, a quiet one but one who knew a little Russian, asked for water so that we could wash: “We have not bathed in five days. I know the women, too, would appreciate something to clean with. Some soap, perhaps.”

  Two large tubs filled with water were brought to us along with several bars of black, foul-smelling soap, and happily we washed ourselves. Women and men both, Mutti and I, we all bathed as well as we could. We rubbed each other’s backs, we made jokes, we were suddenly elated, happy that something was about to happen. We were off the train at last, and we were clean. With new hope, we made beds from our clothing and laid our bodies down wherever we could find space. I slept a deep sleep, something I had been wishing to do for a very long time.

  When I awoke, the sun was brilliant, the fields around us painted in gold. I’m free, I’m free! I wanted to dance. I hugged Mutti, who was also unusually lighthearted. Therese came to us then, again with our morning Ersatzkaffee, set the tray down and left. Strange, I thought, but then Therese was often strange. Timidly now—we had been in that train car for so long—I stepped out the door. I wanted to feel the new sunshine; I wanted to smell something other than humans. But what I saw before me was the last thing I had envisioned.

  19

  STAY SMALL

  We were inside a sort of compound surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. To one side I could see yet another compound, this one full of people. What divided us from them was a wooden fence, and it was very tall. At each of the four corners of their area was a tall tower constructed of steel. Who were the men, and why were they there, and we here? This was unbelievable.

  Somehow I managed to peer over the fence that separated us. What I saw were men, all in German uniforms. Landser—German infantrymen—and even some wearing officer’s uniforms. I would soon learn they were prisoners of war. We, on the other hand, were merely in a holding camp—a quarantine, we were told, in order to receive our papers.

  I learned we were in an area called Krasnogorsk, not far fro
m Moscow, and it was called Camp One.26 Many of these men had very high ranks, some were generals who still wore their red sashes, and some of them were even rather famous. I heard names the radio news had spoken of in the past, names like Friedrich Paulus and Walther von Seydlitz and others from Freies Deutschland, the Free Germany movement. They had all been detained here. These were men who had fought against Russia once, but in the end they worked against their own people, the Germans, something people didn’t talk about much.

  What they did was so shameful—they betrayed their own comrades. But what they wanted was the right thing, to stop the senseless fighting, and they thought this was the right way to do it. During a battle in Breslau, some of the men from Freies Deutschland had shouted over loudspeakers, in German, telling the German soldiers where to run, which many of them did, but it was right into the arms of the Soviets. It did not go well for those soldiers. It turned into a mad bloodbath, and this is what was remembered of the men of Freies Deutschland. Of course, it did not go well for these men in the prison camp either. Many were treated very poorly.

  The “quarantine camp” in Krasnogorsk was where we would stay while, again, our papers were being put in order. There were new arrivals now, too, most of them also Scandinavians: Finns, Danes, and Norwegians. It was a Sunday, I remember, a week later, when Therese informed us, “It’s very difficult, you know. Identity needs to be verified, and with so many dead and so much misinformation … well, it will just take time.”

  Mutti said it must be the Swedish embassy in Moscow that was holding things up, but then Therese informed us we also needed to be checked for lice. This was news. Of course we did not have lice. We were not pigs. Among us were diplomats and ambassadors. One from Thailand, another from Greece, another from Hungary, men who were always addressed as “Your Excellency.” We women were dressed well too—well, in comparison—and some even carried stylish handbags. Why would she think we, of all people, had lice? Some of us were becoming skeptical. I tried to stay calm. At least we had left Germany behind.

  Our days became routine. We were fed twice a day. Always the food was relatively good, much the same as on the train: bread with butter, jam, sometimes cheese for breakfast. Ersatzkaffee or even tea. In the evening we were given soup made with chicken or some other kind of meat, some bread, and again tea.

  During the day there was not much to do. I wanted to know who the men were on the other side of the fence, and I often took my soup bowl at night to a place I found where I could talk to whoever would listen, and many did. It was a good way to pass the time, it seemed, for both of us.

  There was a man I had come to befriend. He was, he told me, a German translator for the Russians. We spoke nearly every night, sometimes for hours. Before long we discovered that we might even have some friends in common. There were many soldiers here from Berlin, he told me.

  “Oh,” I said, “I’m sure I know some of them. So many of my school comrades fought on the Eastern Front, and some of them might even be here.” I began to mention names. “Do you know Horst Viedt? He was a lieutenant. Or Franz Doebl? And there was my friend Hans-Wilhelm Hendel, a parachutist who fought in Russia. Have you heard his name spoken?” In turn he gave me names. Some I vaguely knew. Perhaps they had been grammar school friends, but none whom I knew well. And then he mentioned Willi Hohorst. “Oh my! Willi was one of my dearest friends! He sent me a letter once from Breslau. Oh, tell me, is he here?”

  “Dear Margarete. I am so sorry. He is here. He was badly wounded, though. I don’t know quite what happened to him, but he is not right. Do you know what I mean? He talks in his sleep. He screams sometimes. We try to calm him. We give him warm soup and our bread if we can. His eyes are cold. Something happened. I don’t know what.”

  “Oh, but do bring him here to the fence. Do. Please. Tomorrow, when you come, bring Willi. Tell him, Margarete from Charlottenburg is here and wants to see him. Tell him that.”

  The next evening—and I had a hard time concentrating all day—I went to my seat at the fence and there was the translator sitting, waiting, along with my dear friend Willi. What a shock it was to see him. He was gone. Gone, all of him. His body looked like bones dressed up in a uniform. His eyes, when they looked at me, were distant and removed.

  “Margarete!” Willi saw me, it is true, and he knew me. He threw his arms open, and if we could, we would have held each other a long time.

  Tears we could no longer control ran down our faces. We wished to know everything that had happened to each other. How did you manage to hold out? How did you survive? Who do you know who is still alive?

  “And what about the street where I lived, Margarete? Tell me about it. Is my house still standing? And do you know how things went for Rosemarie?”

  “No, Willi, no. Your street is in ruins. I cannot be sure, but your house probably is, too. I’m sorry. This is the story of most of us, you know.” Willi had been my confidant, my friend. Rosemarie was a girl he said he wanted to marry one day. I knew about their private meetings after the Tanzschule—that’s how close we were.

  The translator, only too happy to have made the introduction, quickly excused himself and left. As soon as he was out of earshot, Willi lowered his eyes.

  “You are a prisoner, Margarete. Make no mistake. You are here to work for them, nothing less.”

  “No, Willi. You’re wrong,” I said. I shook my head, worried for him that his circumstances were so different from mine. “We are mere refugees, Willi. Raoul Wallenberg sponsored this train, a special train for Germans of Swedish descent.27 We are all on our way home to Sweden, and that is where I intend now to live. Berlin, as you must know, is no more. In fact, when we left, everyone was saying it is to be a ‘dead city.’ ”

  “You are mistaken, dear Margarete. I am sure of this. You are here to work. These people cannot be trusted. They are Russians and we were their enemy. They will tell you one thing and then do the opposite. They will tell you a lie, something you know is a lie, and they will look at you as if they believe every word they are saying is true.

  Willi Hohorst. “You are a prisoner, Margarete. Make no mistake.”

  “I have been here nearly five months. I do not know what they intend to do with me. They will not say. I have been through one interrogation after another. They think they will find informers. They will find none. We only want something to eat. We want to bathe, and we want to go home. I don’t think they’ll ever give us this last wish.”

  When I knew Willi in Berlin, when we were in high school together, he was muscular with thick hair that he would comb neatly to one side. The corners of his mouth were always somehow turned upwards as if his next sentence was poised to make you laugh. He had a strong nose; his arms were full like those of a man ready to take on the world.

  What he intended, he once told me, was to become a teacher of German history. He loved the old German sagas, and I always thought he would make a delightful man to listen to, standing at the front of the class. His favorite stories were myths from the Rhine, where he was born. “The Lorelei,” about a beautiful woman who sat atop the cliff, combing her long hair. She mesmerized the sailors, causing them to fall in love, and they, not being able to take their eyes off her, would crash into the rocky cliffs. The lines of the poem he had recited for me often:

  “What wouldst thou with me?” Lorelei cried, starting to her feet.

  “To cast thee into the Rhine, sorceress,” said Diether roughly, “where thou hast drowned our prince.”

  “Nay,” returned the maid, “I drowned him not. ’Twas his own folly which cost him his life.”

  He described her long wet hair streaming over her shoulders, and her haunting songs sung in an otherworldly voice, like that of the wind. This same Willi now sat before me as I gazed into a face that had long disappeared. Willi with his jagged cheekbones and barely a voice inside him, scratching at his ears, his hair, his groin. The sky was turning dark, and he suddenly seemed not wit
h me. He was like an actor in a film with his sentences memorized, looking past me more than at me.

  “Don’t eat the salt fish,” he blurted, out of context and into the void. “And don’t eat garbage. Don’t do that. Never do!” His eyes became sharp. “Both will kill you. I have seen it too many times. Men go crazy for food. They begin to steal from each other, they lie, they wander in the night, and I have seen them crawling around over the garbage heaps like ghosts in the moonlight.

  “They eat anything they can find. Eggshells. Rotten fish scales. Dirt, even. Anything. And then they go crazy and die. Intelligent men, strong men once, smarter than this, reduce themselves to nothing but flies landing on every piece of rot they find. I saw a man chewing on the legs of a pair of trousers once, moaning and convulsing like he was making love to the dirt. The next morning his body lay like a lump at the side of a building, a half-eaten pant leg still in his mouth.

  “But you must know something else. They will try to kill you, too. They will watch you die slowly. Of thirst. We get them once a month or so—salt fish. You get so hungry you want to eat anything that is put in front of you, and you get so tired of cabbage soup, so every once in a while they will serve you salt fish.

  “Don’t eat it! It has been cured in a salt brine. You will never have enough water to wash it down with. And you will die of thirst. This, too, I have seen.”

  A long pause, and then: “Never let food be your motivator. You will betray your comrades if you do.” Then Willi was silent.

  The night stars were bright now, and I remember the sky had turned the color of lapis, deep blue, not black. It must have been late, or early, really. The sun never set during those summer nights.

  My gratitude to Willi would come in later months. For now, despite his sad condition, I was only happy to see him and know he was still alive.