by Nigel Jones
Schäfer was, as indeed I had always found him, kind and considerate and I cannot express how much it helped me at the time to sit with him and talk and smoke. It seemed to me that I had only been there a few minutes when the warder came in again and told him that my food had been taken to my cell and would get cold if I did not come soon. Schäfer shook me warmly by the hand and promised to come again next day. I really felt quite cheerful when I got back to my cell, especially when I found there a big plateful of excellent roast pork with potatoes and greens which was followed by a sort of blancmange with a fruit sauce. Very different to the slops at Berlin. I really had a good feed for the first time since my capture and the only thing needed to make life perfect was a cigarette. I had a packet in which were at least fifteen cigarettes left itching in my pocket, but Schäfer had warned me so earnestly not to smoke in my cell that I had to put temptation aside and satisfy myself by licking my chops.
I had, however, barely finished when the warder came again, bringing with him Grothe. The latter told me that he had brought my personal belongings with him from Berlin and that some of these must be deposited in charge of the warder. I was then taken to a room opposite the lavatory which seemed to be a sort of cloak room. Here Grothe produced a typed list which he checked with the things which he had brought. I was allowed to keep my few spare clothes, my soap, comb and hair lotion, but my razor was given to the warder and I was told that he would bring it to me each day so that I could shave but that I was not allowed to keep it in my cell. All the things which I had had in my pockets at the time of my capture, my watch, my pen and pencil, my pocketbook and passport were there and full details were entered by the warder on a card which I was asked to sign. Grothe then told me that my name was now ‘Wolf’ and that I must use only this name while I was here. This I flatly refused to do, saying that I had never gone under a false name and was not at my age going to begin now. I took the card and put my usual signature. Neither Grothe nor the warder seemed quite to know what to do or to say. I said: “You both know that my name is Best and I shall tell everyone with whom I come in contact who I am and why I am here. If you like to call me Wolf amongst yourselves, that is your own look out, but you can’t force me to help you to keep my existence secret.” I stuck to this throughout and this was my first small victory.
After Grothe left, the warder came in to say that if I wished I could now go out for my exercise. Seeing that I only had a very light pair of shoes he said that he would give me some boots as it was very muddy outside. He brought me a pair of nailed army boots, an odd pair for they were boots of two different sizes, but they fitted me reasonably well and lasted out the whole of my time at Sachsenhausen. A procession was then formed. First the warder, then myself, and behind me two guards. We had to go down the whole length of my passage to a door at the end.
As we went out I saw that my wing of the prison divided the space between the surrounding walls into two square plots of ground. That on the right was cultivated as a garden but that on the left, into which I was led, was a barren waste in which nothing grew except some coarse grass and the ubiquitous nettle. There was a broad path which ran diagonally across the ‘L’ formed by the two wings of the prison and a narrower path which followed the side of the building. I was told that I might only walk round and round the track formed by these paths. One of my guards stood near the door through which we had come out and the other posted himself at the other end of the broad walk. The plot of ground was roughly thirty-five yards square and was enclosed by high stone walls surmounted with two lines of wire which were attached to insulators and therefore probably electrified. All the cell windows overlooking my place of exercise were boarded up but, as I passed, I could hear from the movements inside that the cells were occupied.
Along the path near the point where the two wings of the prison met I noticed six holes formed by drain pipes inserted in a concrete bed. Quite a time passed before I discovered their purpose. This was to hold stout poles upright to which recalcitrant prisoners were hung during interrogation. The men’s wrists were handcuffed behind their backs and they were then suspended from a hook at the top of the pole so that their toes just cleared the ground. I was told that this treatment was extremely painful and if continued for any considerable length of time resulted in partial or complete dislocation of the shoulder joint. Only the passage and the opposite cell separated my cell from this place, and I was to spend many uneasy hours in the future listening to the shrieks of the victims.
It was a delight to be out of doors again and once more to smell fresh air instead of the human exhalations which had been its substitute ever since my capture. I did not even want to smoke but just breathed in deeply and walked as briskly as I could. Only a very short time seemed to have elapsed when the warder reappeared and beckoned for us to come in. Someone had opened wide the window of my cell while I was out and, with the light on, it seemed both fresh and bright. Really, I felt almost cheerful. Supper was brought in, half a dozen slices of bread and butter covered with sausage; quite good. The window was closed and darkened by a blanket. Then the warder appeared again and said: “Wash,” leaving the door wide open as he went. I washed, etc., and when I got back to my cell the warder stood waiting until I undressed and got into bed. Then, to my horror and disgust, out came the handcuffs again and once more I was fettered and my brief hour of freedom a thing of the past.
A miserable night again. Bright light shining in my face, what little air there was poisoned by the guards who smoked incessantly, and the disturbance inevitable when someone sits and occasionally moves close to ones bed. I got to the point when I could stand it no longer. I sat up in bed and said to the guard in my sternest voice: “Give me a cigarette.” He was a mild elderly man with a bad sniff, a tailor by trade. He looked quite frightened and seemed inclined to shout in alarm for the warder, then he got up, crept on his toes towards me and gave me a lighted cigarette. “For God’s sake don’t tell anyone or I shall be badly punished.” That was good. Who said that smoking was bad for one? This guard was only on duty in my cell for a week or a fortnight, but I have not forgotten Master-Tailor Hartmann of Greifenberg in Pomerania. After the ice had been melted by this first cigarette we chatted in whispers for some time and it was soon clear to me that my guard hated his life here just as much as I did. He was not a Nazi but had been bullied into volunteering for the Waffen-SS and been drafted for duty in a concentration camp: “A horrible place,” as he said.
I must have slept a little after our talk, for it did not seem long before again the warder came in, unlocked my handcuffs, and called out, “Wash!” When I got back from the lavatory I was brought my safety razor, a mug of hot water and a mirror. I was quite startled to see how I had changed in the course of only one month; I saw in the mirror the face of a worn old man; an unshaven tramp.
Another day passed. No one came near me except the guards and the warders when they brought my food which, by the way, was very good; I did not even go out as the warder came to say that it was raining and too wet. I had nothing to read, nothing to smoke, and conversation was also forbidden. I just had to sit before my empty table on my stool. This stool was one that had had a long career of barrack room service during which many soldiers had carved their names upon its surface. One ‘Schulz’ had done so in particularly deep and bold letters which, even through my trousers, I could read as though they were in Braile. There was, too, in the centre of the seat an oblong hole, intended for use when the stool was carried, which was so large that I could never altogether avoid its imprint. The day was mainly passed in offering first one and then the other cheek.
I was not enjoying prison life, but I consoled myself by thinking how very much better my lot was than that of thousands of others; people with incurable diseases just lying waiting for death, or those condemned to pass their lives amidst conditions of squalor and want; no, if the Gestapo thought that they would get me down by this sort of treatment, I was damn well not going to give t
hem that satisfaction. Sitting on my stool I practised a cheerful grin and although this may have made my appearance rather inane, I think I may say that no German ever saw me looking otherwise than bright and happy and by perseverance I came in time even to feel that way. This seemed to annoy two of the Gestapo men who visited me frequently during my first year in Sachsenhausen. When they asked me how I was and I answered “Very well indeed, thank you,” one of them would get quite irritated and say, “You can’t feel well and you can’t be satisfied here. You know quite well that you are being very badly treated. It is just that misplaced sense of humour which all you English seem to have; one can’t believe a word that you say.”
Of course my main fear was that my present treatment was intended to soften me up for intensive interrogation. My interrogation at Berlin had been so farcical that I could hardly believe that I should be allowed to get off so lightly. It therefore seemed to be of the utmost importance that I should cultivate my powers of resistance and harden myself to take whatever might be coming to me. Actually, nothing did come, but I was to be really grateful for the experiences of these first months for they taught me to take difficulties in my stride and never afterwards did I feel even impatience, let alone boredom. My role was that of the happy prisoner, and I lived up to it well and truly. Life is after all nothing but a series of experiences and if one does not profit from all, one has robbed oneself; one has, as it were, committed partial suicide. I am by nature, and for this I can never be sufficiently grateful, contented. I enjoy what I have and envy no man for the things which I have not. I have had my ups and my downs, I have had money and I have been broke, I have had my share of joys and of sorrows, but in retrospect, all things seem equally sweet. As I sit now writing about a period of my imprisonment which was, to say the very least, uncomfortable, there is no trace of bitterness nor hatred in my memories; just an interesting experience which forms one of the links in the chain of my passage on earth which has left me richer, and I hope, a little wiser. Cogito ergo sum, and neither walls nor chains can imprison thought.
At the time my first month at Sachsenhausen was rather bloody, but there were a lot of things to be sorted out and hardly a day passed without my making some new discovery, adding some detail to my growing accumulation of knowledge of the little world around me. The warders and my guards became individuals whom I knew, I worked out the system of their duty rosters. I learnt to distinguish the rhythm of the cage, a periodic regularity in the sounds which for me had to replace sight. Soon I could distinguish many individual footsteps and by counting them, could estimate their position and direction in relation to my own cell. Like a man who has been blinded I found myself acquiring a new acuity of other senses, that of smell, unfortunately included. I am something of a musician and so my hearing was already to a measure trained in analysis. As time went on, I became so expert that practically nothing happened within earshot which I could not translate into an almost visual picture. There was never any lack of sound, for the building, a ferro-concrete construction, was an absolute sounding board which transmitted so many noises that at first they seemed to unite into a vague blur similar to the sound of traffic in a busy street. Very soon, though, the normal background noises faded from my consciousness to form a sort of silence against which every abnormal and interesting sound came to me sharply defined.
There was one regular noise which to the end I failed to suppress and which as time went on became such an annoyance as to test my patience to the utmost. It was that of the wireless in the warders’ room which, when certain warders were on duty, was turned on from break of day until midnight; always at maximum strength. The acoustics of the building were such that I could understand nothing that was said and of music only the beat of the rhythm and sometimes a vague indication of tune reached me. While this noise was going on, my brain simply ceased to function and I could neither read nor engage in any other occupation. In the evening there was competition from two other loudspeakers somewhere in the camp. Here I occupied the unfortunate position that the sound of one reached me a fraction of time before that of the other, with the result that all I could hear was a most unpleasant and discordant gibberish. In the morning, somewhere not far away, there was daily singing rehearsal. I learnt later that this was for prisoners who were taught to sing in chorus so as to make a gay and satisfied impression on any who saw them marching to and from their work. They always practised the same songs, the England Song (‘We Are Sailing Towards England’) and another which started off to the tune of ‘Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag’ and then diverged into an entirely different air. As at most rehearsals, nothing was sung from beginning to end and songs were constantly broken off short or certain passages repeated time and again. Soon I knew all the difficult spots and I often sighed with relief when one of these was surmounted without breakdown.
There were though other noises. A sort of shuddering whimper which starting from one cell seemed to travel in jerky waves and increasing volume until the whole building was filled with a moan of utter misery. Then suddenly it would be hushed and the only sound left would be that of someone tramping back and forth in his cell, that, and a feeling of expectancy as though everyone were listening for something to happen. Often, too, something did happen. There would be the sound of many people in heavy boots walking about near the entrance and of talking and laughter. A warder would march briskly along one of the passages, stop, open a cell door and say: “Come, you.” As he walked back there was a prisoner clip-clopping along in his wooden pattens beside him. There would be some more talk and laughter. Then a dull sort of thud, the sound of a piece of lead pipe striking a roll of carpet. This would be repeated, about once every three or four seconds. At first this would be the only sound and then following it there would be a sort of grunt or a cry of “O-O-W-W!” Then pain would vanquish any determination to display fortitude and ever louder and louder shrieks would mount into that terrible falsetto which seems to typify the limit of human endurance.
Another time a warder would march briskly to one of the cells, open the door with a jerk, and call to the inmate: “Get ready to bathe…. No, take everything off. Turn round. Face to the wall.” A crack of a pistol.
“Clear up that mess in number seventy-two and scrub out the cell.” One of the trusties would come along. Then there was the sound of something heavy being dragged along the passage. In the deathly hush one could hear in the distant cell the trusty slopping water from his bucket and scrubbing. More marching near the entrance and cries of “Heil Hitler”; then the wireless would strike up some cheerful tune and prison life returned to normal. My left hand would tremble for some hours afterwards.
There were three warders in the building when I first went there. All had the rank of Hauptscharführer (Warrant Officer 1st Class) in the Waffen-SS, in which they had enlisted for a minimum period of twelve years. Their names were Kurt Eccarius, Franz Ettlinger and Josef Drexl. Eccarius was the senior man in rank and was supposed to be responsible for the running of the building, but actually he always played second fiddle to Ettlinger, who was not only a man of more dominant personality but also enjoyed the friendship of the commandant. Eccarius, a dour-looking man of thirty-five who seldom smiled was an excellent official who ran things quietly and efficiently during his turns of duty. Each warder did twenty-four hours on and forty-eight off and I think that everyone like myself longed for the days when Eccarius was on duty. Everything ran smoothly, everything was on time, and there was none of the shouting and noise which marked the work of the other two.
Ettlinger, in his smart uniform and with his cap on was quite a good-looking fellow of twenty-seven; good-looking until he removed his cap, for then one saw that his head ended about an inch above his eyes and then went flat back. He was, I think, the most despicable character that I have ever met. He was a sadist, a bully, a sycophant, a thief, and a drunkard. He contaminated everyone with whom he came in touch and during his turns of duty succeeded in making the pr
ison a hell for every inmate. I shall have much more to say about him later on. As for the third, Drexl, he was just a Bavarian peasant, rough and uncouth, inclined to speak gruffly and shout, but really a kind, good-natured fellow; he was much older than the other two, nearly fifty and never had much to do with them outside his work. If one asked him for anything, his answer was invariably: “Can’t be done,” then, after a few minutes he came in and with a crooked grin did what he had been asked.
There were four men detailed for duty in my cell, each doing two hours on and two hours off in the daytime and two hours on and four hours off at night. Each day at 8 a.m. one man went off on leave until 4 p.m. the next day and, if he lived in the neighbourhood, was free to go home. Each man therefore, was on duty from 4 p.m. one day for the succeeding three nights and two days. Just as my night’s rest was disturbed every two hours by the change of guards so these men too had equally disturbed nights, sleeping as they did, four to a cell. Most men broke down under the strain, suffering from acute boredom and lack of sleep.
During the first months of my sojourn, my four guards were Becker, Hofmann, Schnaars, and Schwartz. Becker, who was the smart little man who took the first turn of duty after my arrival, very soon became my firm friend and gave me most valuable help in finding my feet. Schnaars, too, an enormous fat man, a fishmonger in civilian life, also turned out to be a good sort. He was very drunk one day when he came on duty and simply could not keep awake. I told him to go ahead and have a nap and that I would warn him if there were signs of the approach of a warder. After this he was so deeply grateful that he would do anything for me.
