Endless Ordeal, page 3
The whole scene had a surreal touch to it, and Johann would have laughed if it weren’t so drab. He dreaded setting foot inside the train destined for Russia. But any kind of resistance was futile and the only way he’d stay in Plonsk would be as a corpse.
He stuck to Gerd and Helmut, climbing into the car, and hoping that being together with his comrades would bring a modicum of consolation. It was incredibly crowded inside and a few of the men started screaming, as the doors closed, and twilight settled over them.
“How long do you think it’ll take?” Johann asked.
“Not more than a few hours, I’m sure,” Helmut answered.
Johann couldn’t make out the expression on his friend’s face, but Helmut’s voice was as calm and composed as usual. He clung to the words, hoping Helmut was right.
There wasn’t enough room to sit, or lie down, and for lack of ventilation the air soon became thick, fetid and oppressively hot. Fortunately, Gerd’s foresight had pushed the three of them against the outer wall. At least every time the train moved along to load new prisoners, a breeze of oxygen hit their noses, reinvigorating their brains and cooling their bodies. After endless hours of waiting, the train finally left Plonsk and huffed and puffed eastward through the Polish plains.
Night fell, dawn rose, and they were still moving at an excruciatingly slow speed, halting every now and then for undisclosed reasons. Given the devastated state of the country, their halts were most likely caused by damaged rails or other obstacles.
Delirious with thirst, his legs cramping, Johann almost wished the Soviets had forced them to march again.
“This one’s dead,” someone said.
“You sure?”
“Bloody sure I am – there’s a fucking corpse leaning on my shoulder.”
“Let him fall down,” another man suggested.
“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” the first one sneered. “We’re like sardines in a tin.”
A short conversation ensued, and one man took it upon himself to coordinate the others. On his command everyone swayed in one direction and the corpse fell to the floor. As more comrades died, the surviving men had more room and settled atop of them. After three days and three nights, the train stopped and the doors opened, the men nearest to the door toppling over and falling outside.
Johann squinted against the blinding sunlight.
“Out! Out!” the guards shouted, and thirty men stumbled outside falling over each other.
Johann spotted a barrel and dragged Helmut and Gerd along, hoping to find some water. The water was stale and filthy, but after three days without a single drop of liquid he didn’t care. He scooped the water into his hands and drank greedily, before he was shoved away by other thirsty men.
Someone distributed bread to the prisoners and Johann flopped to the ground carefully chewing the hard, black bread.
“It’s a wonderful day,” Helmut said, admiring the spring sunshine,
Johann stared at him, aghast. “How can you be so… content? We barely survived that dreadful journey.”
Helmut shrugged. “But now we’re lying in the sun, a piece of bread in our hands. The sun is shining, and the birds are singing.”
“You’re positively insane,” Johann murmured. “Where are we anyway?”
Gerd glanced around and deciphered the Cyrillic letters on the half-destroyed station building. “Brest-Litowsk. I guess that’s why they let us out.”
Johann searched his brain and remembered that the Russian railway system used a broader gauge than the rest of Europe. Brest-Litowsk was the border town between Poland and Belarus where the two different systems met.
Since he didn’t expect the Russians to have fancy gauge conversion tools for the cattle cars, the prisoners most probably would be herded into different trains. A cold shiver ran down his spine thinking about another dreadful journey ahead of him.
But then he decided to do as Helmut did and not worry so much. Instead, he relished chewing on his bread and soaking up the sunlight.
Looking back toward the long train that spewed prisoners onto the platform, he noticed that some of the men had been tasked with piling up the corpses and cleaning the cars of feces and other human waste. It seemed Helmut was right, and a silver lining could be found at any time. They hadn’t been burdened with that ghastly job.
He must have dozed off, because shouting woke him, and he saw that once again the prisoners had to register. Struggling to his feet, he took up his place in the line. He’d never understand the strange predilection of the Soviets to put everything into lists and then never to consult those lists, but to make new ones with the same information.
“They’re asking for occupation. I wonder what for,” Helmut remarked.
“Who knows?” Gerd said. “I may understand their language, but I don’t have the slightest idea what’s going on in their heads.”
They observed how the Soviets formed groups of prisoners according to the stated professions.
“I’m guessing they need skilled people for some kind of work,” Helmut said.
“Too bad I never learned anything but the trade of a soldier,” Johann murmured.
“I’m a carpenter,” Gerd said.
“And I’m a master locksmith. Tell them you’re one too, when they ask,” Helmut offered.
Johann stared at his friend. “But I have no idea about this stuff.”
“I’ll teach you. It’s really not that hard.”
When it was Johann’s turn to register, he did as Helmut had told him, and much to his surprise, it worked. He was moved to one group with locksmiths, carpenters, brick masons, and electricians, while farmers, bakers, and butchers where moved to a second group, and other professions to a third and fourth group according to some secret master plan.
As night settled trains arrived on the wide-gauge rails and, group after group, the prisoners were shoved into the trains. Before long, Johann heard the locomotive starting up. The wheels clattered along as they gradually gained speed over the metal rails.
This time, the cars were slightly less crowded and, in the middle, stood a huge plastic barrel with water to drink and a much smaller empty bucket in one of the corners to relieve themselves.
There was a tiny window in one of the walls, through which they discarded their dead comrades. Johann flinched every time at the sound of a corpse hitting the gravel and shivered uncontrollably when a body was squashed beneath the wheels of the train. Once the Russians found out about the unconventional burial method, they nailed up the window with a wooden plank.
Now the corpses stayed, befouling the air inside and staring at their living comrades with hollow eyes. Every day or two, the train would stop. The bucket was emptied and the barrel filled. And sometimes loaves of bread were hurled inside.
One week passed and then two. The cattle car was comfortably empty by now and the water barrel actually lasted the entire day. By the time the third week arrived, Johann was sure he’d never leave that cursed train again. The oppressive heat increased exponentially during the day, just to drop below freezing point during the night. The stench was nauseating.
“We’ve stopped again,” Johann murmured to Helmut, who was propped up against the rough boards.
He listened for footfalls, blinking rapidly when the doors slid open a few moments later and Soviet soldiers commanded them to exit the train.
“Seems we have arrived,” Johann murmured.
“I don’t think I can walk,” Helmut said.
Johann wrapped his arm around Helmut’s waist and together they stumbled out of the car on wobbly legs. He had no idea where they were, but it probably didn’t matter. He just hoped it wasn’t Siberia, for he had heard the most awful things about that godforsaken place.
“No ice, so that’s good,” Helmut said, seemingly having the same thoughts. “I heard there’s ice in Siberia all year round.”
Gerd staggered behind them, rasping in a rough voice, “That’s a stark exaggeration. There’s like six weeks of summer in Siberia.”
Usually, Johann would have made some kind of joke, but right now he was too exhausted to utter unnecessary words. He focused on making his legs obey the commands of his brain. The guards were in a hurry to get the prisoners away from the train station to their final destination, and mercilessly pushed them forward.
“Where are we?” Johann murmured, but nobody knew the answer. About an hour later they reached the POW camp. After another registration the Altgefangene, the German POWs who’d been here since 1942, filled them in.
“Welcome to Voronezh,” the barracks’ eldest, Karsten, said.
Karsten looked older than Johann’s own grandpa, but it turned out he was barely over thirty. While Johann was considerably shocked at the sight of the emaciated man, Helmut said, “So it is possible to survive three years in Russian captivity.”
“I sure hope we won’t be here for that long.”
Chapter 4
The barracks had windows, but no glass in them. In order to keep the bugs and the weather out, previous prisoners had used paper, rags, and pieces of wood to seal the openings.
When Johann entered his new home, a shudder ran down his spine. He’d seen many depressing sights throughout the war, but this was in a category all of its own.
The barracks was set up with narrow two-tiered bunks on either side with a small aisle between them. He estimated that three hundred men were crammed into the building. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the interior in almost complete darkness.
Suddenly, he wished he’d died in combat.
Karsten assigned the newcomers bunks. He bared his rotten teeth with an apologetic smile and said, “Sorry, but you’ll have to share, at least for tonight.”
Helmut elbowed Johann and headed for one of the few bunks fitted with a mattress, but he was held back by one of the Altgefangene.
“No, lad, those have to be earned. You start down there.” He pointed to the far end of the barracks where the bunks had neither mattress nor blanket.
Another shiver ran down Johann’s spine and he was grateful for his greatcoat – and the prospect of sharing some body heat with Helmut. It was April and while the days could be hot, the nights were still chilly.
Supper was a sorry affair, consisting of a ladleful of watery soup and a piece of black bread.
“What is this?” Helmut asked as he removed a wilted greenish leaf from his mouth.
“Stinging nettle,” Karsten said. “Eat it; it’s healthy for you.”
Healthy? Johann frowned, but decided anything was better than nothing. And the plant might even contain some much-needed nutrients. Although he certainly would have preferred a hearty piece of meat.
At the thought of meat, his stomach forcefully clenched, protesting the empty promise. He hadn’t eaten meat since the day he’d been captured months ago.
“What day is it today?” he asked, since he’d lost count during the long journey.
“Workday.”
“Like every day.”
“A good day to die.”
He stared at the other prisoners, doubting their mental health. How long would it take him to lapse into an equally pathetic state of mind? He clenched his teeth, willing away the self-pity and desolation threatening to swallow him whole.
The night was cold and short, but an improvement over the cattle car. His first morning in the new camp started with wake-up call at four-thirty a.m. He rubbed his sore eyes and began to scratch his itching body.
“Bed bugs,” Karsten said. “You never get used to them.”
Oh, well. Another pleasantness to look forward to. Out of habit he’d slept in his clothes and jumped off the bunk bed, hungry as a wolf.
Unfortunately, there was no food. Only work. First, they had to stand in front of their bunks, waiting for the Russians to count them. The living and the dead were summed up and had to match the number on a list.
Thankfully, it did. Then the newcomers were ordered to remove the comrades who’d died during the night. Sixteen in total. Johann could only shake his head, but everyone else seemed to consider this a normal number for the barracks of three hundred prisoners.
“We’ve had fifty dead per night during winter,” Karsten said. “Spring has really helped.”
After that ghastly task was accomplished, Helmut grabbed Johann’s elbow and led him to two of the bunks that were now empty. “They said we could use these. Do you want the top or the bottom?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Johann wanted to scream. His future looked bleak. His only hope was that the war would be over soon, and everyone would be released home. He could cling a few months to the thing they called life.
The men walked outside to a row of buckets stacked against the fence.
“What are we doing?” Johann asked.
“Getting water from the river.” One of the old prisoners bent down and took a bucket in each hand. “Better get going, or there will be no breakfast.”
His words frightened Johann’s empty stomach and grabbing two buckets he followed the man in front of him to the exit.
“They let us leave the camp?” Gerd whispered, renewed hope in his voice.
Nobody bothered to answer. The column of prisoners walked in darkness to the river, accompanied by several armed guards. Johann eyed the flowing water with longing. It would be so nice to take a bath and rub off the layers of grime. But he didn’t even reach near the river. The file stopped and his fellow prisoners started handing empty buckets down the line and full ones up, until everyone had two heavy buckets in their hands.
A whistle gave the sign to return and they trudged back to the camp. Carrying the heavy buckets cost Johann every bit of strength he had left, and he arrived at the camp out of breath, his arms sore and his back aching. He glanced into the empty eyes of the Altgefangene and observed their scuffling gait. They were but shells, devoid of an actual human being inside.
Every man was handed a tin cup full of water and the rest was used to make lunch, and dinner: a thin soup with stinging nettle. On a lucky day they’d find a morsel of potato at the bottom, but most of the days it was just soup.
Breakfast consisted of a piece of black bread. The bread was different than the one he knew from home. It was hard, but humid. The Russian word was khleb, but the German prisoners dubbed it Klebe, or glue, because it was slimy as soap and if you threw it against the wall it stuck there.
The bread stuck to the roof of the mouth, especially when eaten without water. But if chewed long enough, it became soft and sweet.
“A gift of God,” Helmut, who’d been unusually quiet this morning, said.
Johann didn’t have enough energy to engage in a conversation, so he simply nodded. Conserving what little energy he possessed had become his main concern. The breakfast took only five minutes and they lined up to hand over the dishes to the kitchen staff.
“If you want to survive, get a job in the kitchen,” a man behind him murmured.
Johann looked up. The kitchen prisoner was by no means fat, but he didn’t have the same zombie-like look as the rest of them. He wondered what one had to do to become kitchen staff or if it was simply a matter of the stars aligning.
Back in Plonsk the Russians had assembled the prisoners according to groups of professions, so he expected them to somehow make use of that information. But at yesterday’s registrations nobody had asked for a profession. Every old prisoner attached himself to a work detail, while the newcomers were left to wait in the courtyard.
Chapter 5
As the sun peeked over the horizon, haze covered the fields. It gave the camp and its surroundings an eerie appearance. In the waiting crowd Johann spotted Gerd and walked over to him.
“Hello,” Johann said. There wasn’t much else to say. Glad you’re alive. Is your barracks as horrible as ours? Did you sleep well?
“Hello,” Gerd answered, peering at him with bloodshot eyes. His face and neck were covered in red bites. Involuntarily, Johann touched his own neck, reminded of the itching bug bites.
“Anyone know what’s going to happen?” another newcomer asked.
“No.” The usually well-informed Gerd shook his head. “As mute as maggots, those Ivans.”
As if to contradict him, one of the guards yelled, “Line up in single file.”
Helmut gave a half-grin. “At least lining up is something we know how to do well.”
A huge number of men neatly lined up in several long queues going from one end of the courtyard to the other one. They were left waiting for some time, until the next command was given.
“Strip naked.”
Johann couldn’t believe his ears and he hesitated a moment too long. A rifle butt thudded against his back, accompanied by a command he didn’t understand.
Left and right his fellow prisoners took off their clothing and folded it neatly to lie in a pile by their feet. He swallowed and followed suit. It was embarrassing to stand in a row with several hundred naked men, with a few guards watching them closely and keeping their guns at hand.
But his embarrassment multiplied when about half an hour later a military vehicle sped through the gates and came to a halt a few feet away from the first row of prisoners. A female doctor climbed out of the passenger side and despite the cold air Johann felt the heat of shame climb up to his burning cheeks.
“It’s a woman,” Helmut whispered unnecessarily.
They hadn’t set eyes on a woman in months and the first encounter had to be a doctor parading in front of them while they stood at attention completely naked. To add to his grievances she was not only female, but also young and even pretty.
He stared straight ahead, trying to forget his clothesless state, while the doctor walked down the file, inspecting each man. His distraction worked until she stood directly in front of him, her peachy face with the high cheekbones and the dark eyes looking directly at him.
“Name?”
“Johann Hauser.” He cast his eyes to the ground and clenched his jaw, avoiding looking at her.
