Open Writing

No redeeming features come to mind with regard to the February weather at K.D.F. Stadt. Icy, bleak, murky, gloomy: these are the key words to describe it. One early morning in 1945, around the 10th of that month, I could be seen tramping with my bundle of belongings through snow and sleet in the direction of the Polish camp (der Polnisch Arbeits Lager). Having left the housing estate with the hotel behind, I soon found myself in the windswept, dreary industrial area of the Volkswagenwerk complex. The camp was situated at about three kilometres from the factory.

My apprehension grew with every step. I countered my fears with a resolve to keep a cool head, crucial in dealing with the Poles in the camp. Fortunately I was also fully aware that the Nazi rule could not go on for much longer. All I had to do was to summon enough courage to last the distance.

This latest upheaval did have one big plus: Marcel and I would live much closer to each other, and we would even be working at the same place. Such a prospect had enormous appeal. Since the beginning of the New Year 1945 we had become increasingly frustrated by the constant impediments of one sort or another that kept us apart too often.

Up till then my incursions into this part of town had been confined exclusively to the French camp, because I had neither the need nor the desire to venture into the domain of the Poles and the Russians.

As I expected, all the contemptible Slavs were relegated to the remotest part of the camp area, reserved for the foreign work force.

That morning I could no longer avoid an encounter with my compatriots. Upon entering the compound I was met by the Polish head of the camp: a tall, middle-aged, heavily-mustached man whose name was Wacek. He looked like a larger version of Lech Walenca. I did not find him particularly friendly. He left me in no doubt as to who was the boss. After examining my papers and explaining the rules of the camp, he took me on a tour to acquaint me with all 'the facilities,' including the ablutions block with the inevitable rows of outside latrines.

He then led me to the long Stube of one of the barracks, fitted out with about thirty double bunks. They were mounted in two even lots on the opposite sides of the rectangular chamber. The identical narrow beds, all made up with a military-like precision, momentarily cast my mind back to the ominous Autumn 1939 in Lodz when my Mother and I on an errand in our 'dorozka' were commandeered for staircase scrubbing and bed making duties at a German caserne.

All of the inmates had already left for work at the factory, and the room was empty. Wacek felt free to lecture me at length about how vital it was to maintain such neatness at all times. He forewarned me that any sign of non-compliance with the rules would result in serious repercussions. Finally he allotted me an upper bunk at the end of the row, closest to the door, and left me alone to unpack.

I had to share the standard tall and scanty cupboard to the left of my bunk with the person sleeping below me. Luckily, I found ample room on the upper shelf for my meager possessions. Next, as I examined the bunk itself, I discovered my 'mattress,' that consisted of a case fashioned out of rough hessian stuffed with straw. A slot in the middle allowed for refills. This essential component of my bedding was resting on a wooden frame, reinforced by several ill fitting loose planks. There was no proper pillow nor bed linen, just gray army blankets.

In the center of the Stube stood long trestle tables with adjoining benches bereft of back rests. A small fuel stove near the door introduced the only other item of comfort in this dismal abode.

Since my appointment for official enrollment at the factory was not due until the following morning, I had to spent the rest of that day wandering aimlessly around the place. I took advantage of my leisure time to familiarize myself with the new routine of a daily three kilometre constitutional to the Volkswagenwerk and back.

The niggardly food ration issued to me at the camp was a far cry from the hotel fare: it left me hungry. Normally workers received their regular meals at the factory, where they toiled for up to eighteen hours a day.

As darkness fell, the foreign work force began to return to base. Slowly, the Polish women who lived in my Stube began to file in. They were mostly young, reminding me of my travelling companions on the unforgettable train journey from the 'Arian' Warsaw to Germany in May 1943. To have to deal all over again with a similar situation in February 1945 made me feel very resentful indeed.

To prepare for the worst, I tried desperately to summon to mind all of dear Babcia's instructions in the course of my Christian indoctrination phase in Warsaw. I need not have bothered! Everyone who entered the Stube looked far too tired or indifferent to take much notice of a new presence, especially at that hour of the day.

Relieved, but wishing to appear polite, I addressed the occupant of the bunk beneath mine, only to be confronted by a very coarse and dumb beyond redemption specimen of a Polish concierge (strozka). Like so many others she was caught one day in the street of a town and shipped out to the Reich. After a few years of captivity she seemed to regard her deportation as a 'fait accompli.' She struck me as a dupe, perfectly adjusted to her fate, both at work and at the camp; to her, this Lager was home.

The other inmates' use of language indicated to me that, for the most part, they came from peasant or working class backgrounds. To stay on the safe side, I concluded, I must appear to merge and say little.

Curfew was strictly observed at the camp. This eliminated any chance of after-hours strolls with Marcel. However much we looked forward to being together on that first night of my relocation, we managed only to wave to each other as he returned from work.

In any case, I was in a quandary: on the one hand I had deliberately severed all contact with S. and R. Marcel was the only person left to whom I felt really close. On the other hand, even though I was in love with him, I could not bring myself to reveal even to him the whole truth about the past. Moreover, in the midst of this rather hostile environment I thought it wise to keep our relationship very low key.

My first night at the camp was pretty ghastly. Before I retired to my bunk, nudged on by the extreme cold and impending curfew, I hurriedly joined my new mates under a lukewarm shower in the communal block. At about 9:00 p.m. all the access doors to the barracks were locked for the night by the German guards in charge of the camp. Within our Stube, in the dim light of a few electric bulbs, one of the women lit a fire in the cast-iron wood stove. Apart from billows of acrid smoke, the little warmth it yielded made barely an impression in the huge chamber. We all remained fully clothed inside.

For our alleviation, an empty bucket was placed by the door. We were free to urinate into it during the night. According to a roster, one of us had to dispose of its contents first thing in the morning. That activity triggered in my mind my uncle Adolf Petersburger's reminiscences of his military service during the First World War.

Once settled in my bunk above the concierge, I remained very still for fear of dislodging the loose planks of my bed. The thought of the likely consequences made me shudder. When at last I felt relatively warm under my army blankets, I began to contemplate the new setting.

Most of the women fell asleep long before the lights went out. I could hear bouts of coughing, snoring and sighing, intermingled with the steady rustling of compressed straw. Understandably, I felt wretched and terribly alone on that first night of my banishment. Unable to sleep, I dared not roll about in my restlessness. I sought solace in reliving some wonderful moments of my childhood. I tried to draw strength from all the love, care, and fun I once knew. Dwelling on the past helped somewhat, but it failed to completely suppress my muffled sobs. It took a while before I regained my composure.