Having translated this true story from its original German text, I was in awe of the raw courage and intestinal fortitude of this woman in the face of unimaginable dangers and hardships. What struck me most was the unassuming way in which she was able to reach down into her very spirit with unwavering certainty for the strength needed to overcome yet another impossible obstacle.
Heroic? Yes I think so. Unique? Absolutely not! The women who suffer the slings and arrows of political or military ideologies or for tat matter, the untold abuses and humiliations number in the millions. Yet they, as a matter of course, are generally swept under the carpet right along with the abuses they must suffer. Perhaps in posting this story, I have eased my own conscience somewhat in paying my respect to women in general, and Anna in particular for her inspiration. I hope there is something of value in it for the readers.
Anna
Anna cannot tell her story anymore. She, like so many of her sisters throughout the world lies quietly at her eternal rest, a mere human casualty swept under earth's carpet and forgotten in favor of the greater glory of ideology and political power.
We know who Anna was. She was born in a place known as South Russia near the Black Sea. Her time was during the First World War, then the Russian revolution, and the Second World War and its aftermath. But that is not important. She could just as easily been from a more recent time in Rwanda, Kosovo, Iraq, or some such other place. Anna is one woman. Hers is a true story. In the greater context Anna is all women with all the true stories from time immemorial.
The translation of Anna's own story is in a sense, a small monument to her and to all women. It is only a small monument compared to the great edifices built for great warriors and rulers whose empires have all come and since crumbled. Small as it may be, it pays homage to the life force, the courage and compassion that will endure as long as humans walk the face of the earth.
These are Anna's words as translated from the story by Dr. Gerhard Lorenz in Lose Blätter, 1974, II Teil, p. 87
Anna
My name is Anna - Of course I also have a family name. First I had the family name of my father. Then I married a good man and he gave me his name. But there are very good reasons why I do not want to reveal either one. It is sufficient for the purposes of this conversation that you know me as Anna.
They are taking our men - One night there was a knock on our door. When we opened it, we found three men standing there. There was a local Soviet official and two others. They were well dressed and conducted themselves in a proper manner throughout. But their faces were cold, as was the tone of their voices. They explained in matter-of-fact fashion, without wasting any words, that my husband was under arrest and that they must search the house. They dug through everything in the house, being especially interested in books and papers. They singled out some to set aside and later took them along. My husband was allowed to take a small bundle of clothing with him. They said I should stay calm and not let it upset me, for this was nothing to take too seriously. My husband would surely be released in a few days. Then they left with him. He gave me one last long look, and then the door locked behind him. I never saw him again, nor even heard from him; even though more than ten years have since passed.
In the morning I lost the child I was carrying. It was born too prematurely. In a simple box my in - laws buried the child, their grandson who was not given a chance to greet his family and grow.
So now I was alone. I moved in with my mother who was also almost alone in the world. Her husband, my father, lay safely in the cold ground and we could do nothing more for him. We had done enough while he was alive. Mother had four sons and I, four brothers. One still lived nearby, another had moved across land and sea, and mother would never see her eldest again. Two of my brothers had been taken - arrested, just like my husband. Their wives with the little children were left behind, alone. They had taken my sister's husband one night, just like mine. She was left alone with two small children, without food. Our old mother shared the suffering with her daughters and daughters-in-law. It bent her spirit and she aged quickly.
Mother dies - One day she called me to her bed. "Anna", she said, "my poor dear child. I must go now and leave you alone. I wanted to help you and the others carry your burdens, but I no longer can. My heart cannot endure all that sorrow. Bring my greetings to my boys. Tell them I waited for them. How I waited for them. I waited myself to death."
Good neighbors made a simple box for our departed mother. We dressed her body as best we could and then we women carried her to the cemetery. There we opened the coffin one more time. Once more, for the last time, my sister and I and our sisters-in-law looked upon her face. What all had this woman not been to us? She had never offered us anything but love and understanding. How often, in our loneliness, our longing for our men and worries for our children had she not shared her daily bread? Now she had arrived at her eternal rest. We were left to struggle, but only one day at a time for we had no strength for anything more than that.
No service could be read at the graveside. There hadn't been a preacher in our village for a long time. Our brother stood a little off to the side at the graveyard since there was some risk for him being too close by. We women were a little surer of ourselves. We gathered around mother's coffin and softly sang her favorite song 'There over the sea of stars, there is a beautiful land'. Then my older sister prayed quietly. We lowered the box in to the cool ground and closed the grave with earth. Then we went home. In the evening we ate bread and a little millet and greens and drank hot water with it. We and the children went to bed hungry.
The Germans are here - The war came. When the Germans occupied our area we all breathed a little easier. Even more, we began to hope again. Perhaps now our men would return. Perhaps now we would again have food to eat. Perhaps now we could again go to bed without fear.
And things did get a little better but there was still no sign of our men.
Not far from us there was a large Russian village that was targeted to become a command headquarters for the Germans. Here they renovated a number of buildings and began building others. To do that they brought Russian prisoners of war into the village. The prisoners worked under the supervision of the Germans. They engaged a number of German women and Russian girls as helpers to run the kitchen. I became the senior in the kitchen. We all did it because we had to eat after all, and there were few opportunities to earn a living.
At first we had a high opinion about the Germans. We really believed that they wanted to bring a more just order to the country. But in time we came to realize that we were mistaken. Their treatment of the Russian prisoners of war was our first clue.
The Russian prisoners had to work hard, but were not given enough to eat. Naturally, their strength ebbed. Even though we women were friendly to the Germans, we were anything but enemies of the Russians. We deeply empathized with these Russian men. We would have gladly helped them but we knew that the Germans could not be persuaded.
One day we women prepared a packet of food and put it behind the door. I went out to the yard to get water. When I had filled the pail I asked the guard if one of the prisoners could carry it into the kitchen. It was too heavy for me. He immediately ordered one of the prisoners to do it.
I waited for him at the well. When he came near to me he gave me a sidelong look and said, "You too?" But I could only say curtly that he should follow me with the pail. When we reached the kitchen I gave him the package and told him to be careful to put it aside and to share it with his comrades at the lunch hour. The man understood. Everything went smoothly. The Germans never noticed a thing. But I watched the prisoners sit down to eat. They carefully measured out equal shares for each.
From then on there was a secret bond between the Russians and us. Whenever they could do us a favor, they would. Daily we would place whatever food we could in either this place or that to help them.
So it went for some time. Then one day a guard came into the kitchen. "Frau Anna", he said, someone is spiriting food to the Russians. Did you know that is an offence, and if we find out who is doing it, there will be serious consequences. You probably don't know who is helping the Russians?"
Was he threatening me or giving me a warning? I didn't know but nevertheless it frightened me. I had already seen in the mean time how harsh they could be. What should I do? After I had thought it over I reported the matter to one of the officers. I trusted him more than all the others. I told him that the Russians were getting so weak that the construction was proceeding only very slowly. I told him that we had enough food to be able to add something to their meager daily rations. Why did they not want to do it? The prisoners would be grateful. Out of gratitude they would apply themselves more diligently and turn out better work. Did he not want to consider this?
The man looked at me with scrutinizing eyes. "You feel sorry for these men don't you?"
"Yes," I said. "The Russians have taken my husband and my brother-in-law. I don't know where they are. But when I see these prisoners I think of them and it seems I see my own family. Then I feel that I want to help them."
"Hmmm. Frau Anna, it isn't all that simple, but you are right. Say nothing of what we have spoken about here. Let's see what can happen. Perhaps we can find a way to ease your sympathetic heart."
A few days later a delegation came and thoroughly investigated our food supply. It was decided then that there was sufficient to somewhat improve the lot of our Russian prisoners.
Somehow the men knew that we had intervened on their behalf. Wherever the opportunity arose, they showed us their gratitude.
Jews - In one of the buildings in our complex there were a number of Jews. They too were prisoners and had to do all kinds of menial work. They were dirty, undernourished and dressed in rags. Our paths didn't usually cross.
One day a Jewish girl of about sixteen years of age from this group came to me. "Tante Anna," she said, "tonight the moon will shine. We would very much like to clean ourselves up a little and mend our clothes. Couldn't you possibly lend me a pair of scissors and a needle, and perhaps some thread with it?"
"No, no," I exclaimed. "I can't do that! It's too dangerous. Who knows what you might do with the scissors. That could have very serious consequences for me."
The girl however begged me to do her bidding. She guaranteed that they would do nothing untoward with the scissors that would in anyway cause me problems. She looked at me with her big beautiful eyes so pleadingly that I was unable to refuse her. I gave her the scissors, needle, thread, and even some pieces of cloth.
In the morning she returned everything. Her hair was cut short - to ward off lice, she said. Her clothing was somewhat mended. I felt drawn to this child. A deep sympathy for her filled my heart.
"How are you called?" I asked.
"Sasha," she answered. Then she told me that her parents had died and she and her little brother who was here with her were alone. I asked her if she would be willing to work for me in the kitchen if I could arrange it with the Germans. Her eyes lit up. She would gladly do it, she said.
I asked my superior then if he could give me that Jewish girl to work in the kitchen. She could scrub the pots. "Ach, that lousy Jew brat doesn't belong in here," he spat disgustedly.
I said we would clean her up and that she could save us a lot of work. The man saw the logic of my argument and gave in, although reluctantly. That was how Sasha came into our kitchen.
We undressed her and burned her rags. We put her in a bathtub and washed her body and head. Then we gave her some of our own clothes, whatever we could spare.
The girl was soon presentable. Her body filled out and her hair became wavy and shiny. She was a beautiful and lovely child. She won my affection and I hers. "Tante Anna," she said to me," I have never known a mother and don't know how one should feel about mothers, but I imagine it must be like the way I feel about you."
Another time she asked me, "Do you think, Tante Anna, that they will kill us? Why do they do that?"
I said, "Child, we can do nothing in these circumstances. We do not approve of such things and I pray that nothing happens to you, Sasha." A few heavy tears ran down her cheeks.
Then one night I heard a din in the yard. Trucks were arriving. I had no idea what was going on and went right back to sleep. In the morning Sasha did not appear for work. I asked what was wrong but got no clear answer. It seemed like everyone had something to hide. Soon I noticed that the building housing the Jews was empty. After a while a big truck pulled into the yard. Four German soldiers sat in the back of the empty truck. They came into the kitchen to wash and seated themselves around the table. The men said nothing, nor did they eat. They just sat there in stony silence.
I knew what had happened. My inner being screamed, 'You murderers! You Murderers!' but my lips remained sealed. Later, when one of the men was alone in the room, I asked, "Did the girl suffer?"
"No," he said. "For one so young she had an amazing spirit. She took her little brother by the hand and stood with him as the first ones at the edge of the grave. They fell at the first shots. After that they felt nothing."
Men of the German occupation - We had a man in our group whose name was Bernhardt, for whom nothing was good enough. I tried, but it was impossible to lease him. He swore at our land, our people, our ways, our customs, in short, about everything. That tried my patience. When the opportunity arose I told him they should have stayed home. After all, we had not invited them. They had invaded our land like a band of thieves, hoarding everything. The man threatened me so I could no longer speak.
Once I noticed that he had left a letter on the table which read, 'Dear Bruno, I am glad that you are again in the land where milk and honey flows. Today twenty-five packages arrived. I gave one to the post carrier so that she would not get tired of bringing them. Hopefully you will send more. Your Paula'.
Another time a German officer sat at our table drinking a cup of coffee. He said to me, "It would interest me Frau Anna, to know what you think of us."
"Is this an interrogation, and has Herr Bernhardt perhaps said something to you?" I asked.
"No", he repeated, " but you have been working here almost two years and it would really interest me to know what you think of us."
I said, "It is better for me not to say anything. People don't usually like to hear the truth. Besides, there could be serious consequences for me, should I say what I think."
"No, no," he urged. "Speak freely and truthfully. It will remain between us."
Then I said, "I am sorry that I work here with you. It would be better had I never been here. Then I wouldn't have known what could happen. When you first came here you spoke nicely and we believed you. But we have become bitterly disappointed. Firstly, there is your great national hatred - how you deal with the Russian citizens. You give them neither salt nor bread. You capture their youth wherever you can, put them in cattle wagons and send them to work camps in Germany. You don't even tell the people that while the youth must work for you, at the end of the war they will be sent home. So you arm the trains with military guards and send these young people off into uncertainty. You bring the Russian citizens' coffers to public places to open them, taking anything that pleases your eye to later send to your women. The Russians here are bloated from malnutrition and stagger from weakness, yet in one day you send up to twenty-five packages of their belongings home. You use the whip enthusiastically to drive the people into the forests. You beset the markets on Sundays and take from the women what they have saved in the week in order to buy a little bread. Today you sent a whole train car full of chickens, geese, butter, eggs and the like to your wives. I wonder if your government knows what you do here. I am doubtful. Another thing, how inhumane is your treatment of the Jews? Do you really believe things can go on like this?"
"Now, Frau Anna," the man said to me, "one notices that communist blood runs through your veins."
"You may think about that whatever you like, but what I have told you are facts. We Russian-Germans were ourselves made homeless by the Communists. Thousands of our people were sent away. Those things our forefathers and fathers built up all lie and stand idle."
I had said more than I intended and I worried about the consequences. But nothing came of it. There was too little time left, for soon we too would be fleeing.
Paul M., a German officer who became better known to our 'family' since he visited us often, complained about the situation. At times he would say, "I am ashamed that we National Germans are such a ragged people compared to you. We call you Russian-Germans, but we cannot measure up to you. What parents you must have had to give you such lofty principals for your life's journey. Among us there is a small sector who want to do things in an honorable way too, but we cannot bring it about."
Life was filled with all sorts of tragedy. At one point I got to know a Russian woman. She and her husband were teachers by profession and had lived in Odessa. The man was the director of a school. They had a daughter of about seventeen years of age, a nice girl. As I got to know the woman, I found she had a second child, a three-month-old baby girl. I got much pleasure from the child and so befriended the mother quite easily.
When it was first rumored that the Germans would have to retreat, the woman invited me to her place. In tears and despairing, she told me that the little child was by a German soldier. Her husband had now reappeared in Odessa and had sent her a notice to come to him. How could she look him in the eye? How could she bring that German child into the house? She pleaded with me to adopt the child. She knew I would be good to it.
I was heartsick and cried with her. But in the end had to tell her that under these conditions I could not possibly take it. But I implored her under no circumstance to give the innocent child up. No matter what happened, she should keep it. Some days later the woman, with her two daughters set out on foot for Odessa. Had she kept the child until she arrived home? How did everything unfold? I never did learn anything about it.
It was a time when people, even good people did things that in normal circumstances would not even be possible. Such deeds brought on fear, guilt, tears and other sadness.
Save yourselves, whoever can! - The Russians were getting closer. Canons rumbled almost without stop. Our unit however was to remain where it was. Then one day came the frantic notice, "The Russians have broken through! Save yourselves, whoever can!”
Almost instantly the streets were crowded with people, wagons and riders. Someone gave me a horse to ride to freedom. An officer I didn't know wanted to take it away from me. But I sat tightly in the saddle and didn't let myself be intimidated. But he wrapped his arms around the horse's neck and held on. I rode back to my superior and turned this so-called 'hero' over to him. In the face of danger, some of these officials who were not seasoned field officers lost their composure and revealed their true character - blustering as long as they were sure of themselves, cowards when everything came crashing down around them.
After that incident I set my mind to getting out of that place. The bridge was clogged with autos, artillery and everything imaginable. It was impossible to cross. I noticed a rider who tried to swim across the stream and wanted to follow but he and his horse sank in the boggy bottom of the river before my very eyes. In the very last moment I managed to turn back.
Again I rode on the high bank. A bomb exploded in the stream beside us. I was knocked unconscious, probably from the concussion of the exploding bomb, but somehow the horse managed to squeeze its way across the bridge with me still aboard. When I came to myself again I was on the other side. I had, in my unconsciousness, managed to hold on. Together with several other riders, I rode as fast as I could through gardens and back roads to get as far away from this burning place possible. Even then people were shooting at us through the windows.
Finally we made it out of that witches nest. Behind us the town was on fire, enveloped in rolling clouds of dark smoke. From time to time as I rode on people tried to take my horse away from me but each time I defended myself. Liese, our relative who had also tried to obtain a horse but was simply dragged from it by the foot so she had to run further on foot.
On this day I rode thirty-five kilometers. It was to have learned to ride as a child. Often I had ridden races with my brothers. Thanks to this experience I had been able to stay on my horse.
That night we stayed in a very small house. Because of my anxiety and fear, I could not ride the next day. My blood was still racing so much that I thought I would die. I had no clothing except what I was wearing. They only way one can understand such a thing is to have experienced it. It can't otherwise be explained.
I came upon a wagon on which I lived until the fifteenth of June. All day we would travel over stick and stone and at night we would sleep on the wagon. When we came up to the Donau we were sent to a very large barracks where thousands of people there were already assembled. The mortality rate here was very high.
One day waves of bombers flew over us - five waves with a hundred bombers in each. The ground literally shook. People were screaming and running everywhere. The horses were rearing up on their hind legs and screaming too. The harbor was destroyed. When the bombers left there was a cloud of fog over the destruction.
We moved further through hill and dale. Finally we were invited to board a train that had just finished hauling a load of coal. It brought us to Pabianitz in Poland. Our group comprised about five thousand people. In Pabianitz we received food and supplies and then the people were sent to all parts of Germany. I went to Litzmannstadt (Lodz). There I inquired about my siblings. When I found out where they were, I asked to be sent there too. They refused so I asked for a sixteen-day leave to visit them, but I was already clear in my mind not to return to this place.
My sister Tina was working for a German-Bessarabian woman. The woman was at the railroad station when I arrived. She came up to me and asked, "Are you Tina's sister?" I said I was and she invited me to go with her. When I had rested at Tina's place, I found work as a cook in a children's home.
Second flight - In January of 1945 we had to flee again. We saw such suffering as to remind us again and again of the bible verse; 'Pray that your flight does not happen in the winter'. We actually didn't want to flee again at all, but we were persuaded to do it. People came to our house in the night and told us within two hours the city must be evacuated.
We four women took our children by the hand and started out. On the outskirts of the city we came upon a horse-drawn wagon on which we could seat the children. We adults went on foot. Then I saw a horse and wagon standing by a mill. I took the rig that didn't seem to have an owner and drove back to the city to get some bedding for the children since they would otherwise freeze to death. I went alone into the dark city. It was night and very unfriendly. Only now and then did a searchlight light the city. In the distance you could hear the roar of the canons. When I reached our house I loaded up a feather bed, blankets, some food and whatever else I could find in the dark in my anxiety. When I was done, another woman came and asked if she could load her trunk on the wagon too. Now the two of us drove off.
As we left the city we saw an old mother being supported and led down the road by two women. I stopped. The woman was Mrs. Anna Wiens and the other two were her daughters Anna and Frieda. We took them all along. Before long we came upon a child who turned out to be Peter Janzen's Frieda. She had somehow been left on her own. Tante Anna and the child sat on the wagon and the rest of us walked. Thus we continued on. The horse was not shod so it must have been hard for the animal. It was night and not a person was to be seen anywhere. We didn't even know if we were on the right road. In the morning we encountered some tanks. The poor horse fell down from sheer fright. I closed my eyes and ears so as to not see or hear what now must surely happen. But the tanks ignored us so we stayed among the living for the time being.
At Konin we caught up with our group. It felt like we had arrived at the end of the world. Many people were being loaded on trains, but more and more people kept coming out of the city and assembling here while airplanes circled overhead. In fearful times like this one no longer thinks about home and possessions, only about staying alive.
People with wagons were set in rows. Each wagon was given a number and we were told to stay in the order of our numbers. Our journey led us through a burning city. Heaven and earth, people and horses - everything and everyone seemed to be scorched red.
As we left the city, the way sloped downwards somewhat and led to a bridge that had been mined and was ready to be blown up. Just before the bridge, my horse tore the collar of his harness. In order to not hold up the procession, I pulled over a bit to the side. However a soldier-escort misunderstood. He grabbed me, accusing me of sabotage and shoved me against the wall, ready to shoot. My sister Tina saw what was about to happen and panicked. But she had to continue on. The guard didn't shoot and I ran after our wagon. I found my sister completely disheveled. All this horror suddenly overwhelmed me too and I cried out loud. I laid my befuddled sister on the wagon to sleep and drove on. When she awoke she thought it had been a terrible dream. She had a splitting headache. She asked me, "did they want to shoot you or did I just dream it?'
Amid all that misery and insanity, Jacob's wife's daughter Tina got lost. After a day we found her again, just by chance.
Our situation was becoming increasingly dangerous. We heard the booming of the guns creep ever closer and the airplanes flew ever lower above us. The Bessarabian-Germans had their wagons heavily loaded. Many of them were piled high with their belongings. Now they threw their belongings away, simply on the ground. No one even thought of taking anything. Having possessions were of no importance now.
The Russians are here. - Suddenly the endless trek halted in the middle of a forest. Thousands of people and animals stopped here but everyone became so still that it was eerie. No one dared make a loud sound. Russian tanks had broken through the seven-kilometer trek and we were now back in Russian hands. I said I wanted to go to the front to see what was going on. People tried to discourage me but I went anyway. In the forest I noticed an empty building that had apparently been used to house the military. I went back and about six wagons drove there. We wanted to heat some water and if possible, get some rest. Others had the same idea and soon a number of people gathered. Before long we heard Russian cursing in the woods and then the Russians soldiers appeared. Of course there was an immediate search made. They took our best horses and wagons. Then we were ordered to return to where we came from. So we left. Time and again we were stopped by Poles and Partisans to ask where we came from. On hearing that we came from the Black Sea area we were allowed to continue. But the Bessarabian-Germans fared very poorly. They had a bad reputation among the Poles. Their dealings with them had been harsh and now came the day of revenge.
We had to leave the main road because we were holding up military convoys. In six wagons carrying thirty-six women and children, we drove in the direction of Konin. In the first village all boys in our group of the ages between twelve and fourteen years were taken away. Among these was Hans, our brother Jakob's son. His mother cried and begged so hard that the young officer's heart softened and he gave back her son. We laid him in the bottom of the wagon and covered him up as well as we could.
A terrible night - In the night we arrived at a Polish village. Here a German speaking man stopped us. Did we not know that we could not travel at night? He then told us to come with him and led us on to a yard surrounded by a high masonry wall. The gate was locked behind us and the wagons lined up in a row. Then the man ordered us all into the house where he would give us some hot tea. He would look after the horses. Everyone went in except me. I took the bit out of the horses' mouths, loosened their harness and covered them somewhat. The man approached me and asked if I had not understood his order.
"Order?" I asked. "How do you come to give orders?"
He drew a pistol and said I should do as I was told. Should I be lucky enough to live to see tomorrow I should thank God, but not hope for too much in the mean time. Many of those who came on to this yard did not leave alive.
Now Tina, my sister came out of the house. She said the tea they had been given was poisoned. The people fell asleep right away. The floor was covered with straw but underneath it was all bloody. We must flee if we were to stay alive. We went into the house. Sure enough, our children and friends were all asleep. We stirred them and tried to wake them, but they were as if dead. Mucous ran from their noses, spit from their mouths and they were deathly pale. The man came into the room and locked the door behind him. There was a woman in the room who busied herself straightening the heads of the sleeping people. An old man sat in the corner smoking like a chimney. Whatever he was smoking had a numbing effect on us. We begged the people to let us go. We would keep this all to ourselves and tell no one about them.
Whenever we became too urging or if we went anywhere near the door, the main again raised his pistol. We noticed that they were obviously waiting for someone. Glasses and brandy were brought out. These people spoke Polish among themselves and since it is so similar to Russian, we understood enough to know what was about to happen to us. Our inner screams were to God to help us, and if it came to our dying that He would welcome us to Him in grace. We promised what is so easy to promise in such circumstances.
Our captors were constantly looking at the clock. Then we heard footsteps. The woman went to open the door. Instead of the expected visitors, three Russian soldiers who had come to see what was going on in this place surprised her. To us they were saviors, but to our hosts they were a visible disappointment. We surrounded the soldiers and begged for their protection. They opened windows and doors to let fresh air in so that the sleeping people could revive. The soldiers stayed in the house for the night and in the morning they escorted us into the village. We thanked them with tears of gratitude.
On January twenty-eighth we reached Kramsried where we had once lived and was now our destination. But our bodies were so tired we could not lift our feet over the threshold. Our limbs would not obey us. We had gone without sleep for ten days and ten nights. At best we had slept a little while walking. One would think that such a thing is not possible, but it is.
The horse that I had once taken from the mill had served us obediently all the way here.
Back to our starting point - Our first shelter was in the school but very soon we received permission to move into our own quarters. There were thirteen of us living in two small rooms.
On the very same day as we moved to our own place a number of Poles arrived. They were looking for servants. They inspected us much the same as had once been done on the slave market and picked who would go with them. Tina, Jakob's wife was to be a maid to a teacher's wife. Lene, Heinrich's wife was a maid for a teacher's family. I was a maid for the town official. The children were left to fend for themselves during the day.
It was not easy for us but soon we won their trust and could often bring something home for the children to eat.
We have seen time and time again when one is taken up in dire emergencies; when one is beset on all sides; when one is truly hungry; one is unmasked. Then we see how we really are. We have also seen how the Germans, once they turn bad can be very bad. Even those who would otherwise be good act differently under stress than they would want. When we were in the forest later on, our children were almost always hungry. The result was that they were sometimes contrary and argumentative. One morning, it was still dark out; I lost my patience and punished Frieda with a switch. She promised not to fight anymore. We left, still in the darkness, the children still hungry and alone. All day I kept thinking about what had happened in the morning. I couldn't stop crying. I understood how hard it was for the children to be always hungry on their own in the cabin day after day. It was already dark when we returned in the evening. The children surrounded us happy, with no bad feelings about what happened that morning. I explained to them that I understood they had a very difficult childhood and that we - I - under all the pressure did not always do the right thing.
But back to Kramsried - I cooked for the Poles and had to polish their shoes. When the Russians came they forbade the Poles to be served by us. But the Polish woman I worked for really liked to have us continue in her service.
At the home of my Polish employer who was the town official, there was a man who always brought him presents such as eggs and other produce. One day when I was cooking in the kitchen, my nephew Hans came storming in and said I must come out right away. They had an emergency. The man who brought the gifts had his team and wagon in front of Tina's door. He had a paper from the official giving him permission to take Tina and her children to his place. She should be his cook and servant and little Hans should be a herdsman. I told Tina to wait a bit - not to go with him. I ran to the Russian command post and told the commander what had happened. The commander gave me a letter addressed to the official suggesting that he had better keep his fingers away from the Russian citizens. Our family was to stay where it was. When the Pole read this, he grew pale. But Tina and her family stayed.
Back to our 'Homeland' - The day came when all the Russian-Germans must travel back to their homeland. The Polish official begged the commander for permission to keep our whole family here. Thus we could be able to stay in Poland. But I soon became aware what this situation would cost us. So I concerned myself about making sure that we would stick together with our own people. With that in mind we also went back to Russia. Our hostess and her children bid us a tearful goodbye. She gave us several days' supply of food to take along. Then we were taken to the train station.
We waited there for some days since more and more families were brought from the interior. On the tenth of June 1945 our long train with its many passengers started out. It was going to our 'homeland', as it was called.
The train - it was a freight train - went very slowly. We got our weekly allowance. The big door was open, only a board was drawn across the opening. Everywhere, especially in Warsaw, the ruins stared at us. Everything was smashed and nothing was left but rubble. Wrecked trains and tanks and much more destruction lay all around us.
Meals were a problem for us. Each time the train stopped we went outside. There were twelve of us to a kettle. We were responsible for getting our own water. We had no pails, only boxes and other containers. A few stones were laid down, the kettle place on them and a fire was lit. Many times, as soon as we had the kettle on to boil the train would start to move. Then we had to quickly gather everything together and run after the train. Quite often, someone would be left behind. Then it was a scramble to catch up on another train. If a mother had left her children on the train it was always a great blessing when she caught up with them. Once I only just barely managed to latch on to a seat in the very last car with a pan of cookies in one hand and desperately grabbing on to the seat with the other.
There was a Frau Froese with four small children in our car. She and the children slept on the upper 'Polka'. That is like an upper deck. The big door was locked for the night. There were of course, no toilet facilities.
One night Frau Froese was stricken with a terrible diarrhea. What could she do? She opened the window and hung out there all night. In the morning the train pulled into a station and when the people saw the terrible mess on the side of the cars the officials cursed and spat at us. But what else could the woman do? She was still lying sick and weakened on her bed of boards. While at the station she sent her oldest child to fetch something. The train pulled out and the child was left behind. Thankfully they were finally re-united but how much heartache and worry was caught up with this?
We were unloaded at Brest Litovsk. There were about ten thousand people at this station. Our own people put their belongings next to a fence. Belongings of course were precious few. Rain came in a deluge. We could put only the children in a shelter. Seven days we languished here in the almost continuous downpour. Not one thread of clothing covering our bodies was dry. People died, among them Frau J. Reimer from number three. A shallow hole was dug, the dead wrapped in a blanket and so buried in the watery grave.
People were divided up into groups. Each group had its own destination. The destination of our group turned out to be in the high north of Siberia. After thirteen days at Brest Litovsk we left for our final destination.
Our destination - For two months the train slowly hauled us across the endless expanse of the Soviet Union. Finally we stopped at Atbasar where we disembarked. There were many of us here, although I can't say now how many so I would rather not guess.
There were twelve people in our family - four women and eight children. The oldest child was Jakob's son Hans who was fifteen. His daughter Lili was ten. Heinrich's Liese was ten, Hans was eight, Frieda was seven and Leni was three years old. Sister Tina's Köthe was thirteen and Nuta was seven. All these years we had stuck together and together we shared whatever joys came our way as well as the suffering that befell us.
We kept our few belongings in one pile, cooked together in the same kettle, and gave everyone his share from one plate. During our long journey we even acquired a tablecloth; for which we became known to our fellow travelers as the family with the tablecloth.
It was the month of August and it was warm. People came from far and wide in the area to have a look at us. They had been told that there would be some Germans arriving and believed that we would have horns. So we stayed here idly to wait for what was to come.
On the fifth day a number of organizations, collectives, sovchose etc. came to get workers. They inspected and evaluated us row by row. We felt like the black slaves we read about in Uncle Ton's cabin. When they came to our family and saw the number of small children we had, they quietly moved on. Finally though, we too were loaded on to two wagons bound for a collective one hundred kilometers from the station. Tina Fast and her children and some others also came with us. They brought us to a collective by the name of Kachovka. There we stopped.
Again we were looked over and inspected. Then they brought us to a tiny house in the barnyard. The pitiful hut had two rooms and one stove, two small windows with no glass, and the walls were black with flies. We hardly dared open our mouths for fear of swallowing the insects. We stared at each other in disbelief. This should be our home?
The front room was assigned to our family. They brought us half a liter of milk per person. We made our beds on the floor. The children went to sleep right away, but we adults talked for a long time. What more could be heaped on us here? The quiet was eerie. For five years we had been under orders and regulations and now we were thrust into this remote place.
We had to go to work the very next day to bring grain into storage. The children had to work too, namely to drive the oxen. We brought eighteen to twenty-four loads per day. The local people, within the same time, hauled only five loads - six at the most.
When the insects bit the oxen too much they would begin to run. That brought many tears. Lena, our sister-in-law had to help clean the grain. Sometimes she was able to bring some home in her pocket for us to eat.
Sunday we went to the market with some pieces of clothing we could spare in order to trade for a cow. We found one too that we liked and made a trade. It wasn't until the next day we found out she was blind.
Then we were offered a hut for sale. It had one room, one stove, two small windows and a lean to. The door was low and inside was an earthen floor. The roof was thatched with straw. There was even a very small garden with this dilapidated cottage. At least there were no flies. Since we had no money, we gave a coat and scarf for it. For a pair of stockings we acquired a table. For another scarf we got three hundred fifty manure sods. We hauled our firewood from the forest. We made some greens and traded them for a few potatoes and straw to feed our blind cow.
Tina Fast and I walked thirty-five kilometers to the Rayon (local authority) and asked those in charge to give us another workplace. We didn't do very well with that. They were very rough with us. We should go back immediately and get to work. That was why we were here, after all. We still begged for a place where we might get an hourly wage but without success. With broken wings we went back home. Tina cried the whole way.
Our oldest children, Hans and Liese were sent about one hundred kilometers away where they were to tend cattle.
We all got sick from typhus, but somehow managed to stay alive.
In the winter I had to bring feed to the cattle with an ox team. Badly dressed and hungry, I had to go out every day. Once we were housebound by a storm. We sat in our one room and waited for the weather to change. My boss said to me, "Anna, your oxen are wandering around outside. Go and check on them." I went but found them resting quietly. The man had come with me. I asked him what the meaning of this was. He grabbed me and wanted to push me into a corner. He spoke of love and how well off I would be if I would only do his bidding. I hit in the head him as hard as I could and walked back into the room.
The next day I did not go to work. The man came to see why I wasn't coming. I told him I would never work for him again and if he had anything against it he could go and report me. I would know exactly what to say. He apologized and wanted to talk things over. But I kept fast to my resolve.
The next day I went to a neighboring town to look for work. I found a position at a school looking after livestock and doing other odd jobs.
We are ordered into the forest - After fourteen days we received notice that all Germans who had been sent here were being taken to work in the forest. There would be living quarters there too. Workers would be paid four kilograms of flour per day and non-workers would get two. For us it seemed like an improvement over what we had.
But first we wanted to celebrate Christmas here. We melted snow and washed the children's' hair and bathed them. Together we sang Christmas songs and told them the Christmas story. We had made some dolls for the girls earlier and gave them now. We couldn't buy anything. We had nothing - not even a pail, only a casserole.
In February someone came to get us by sleigh. We sold our house for one pud (40-lb.) of flour and one hen. The children sat on the sleigh under a blanket and we older ones walked and drove our blind cow. It was a forty-two kilometer journey. The children sang cheerful songs along the way.
Our home: We stopped in a clearing in the woods. Here we came upon some of the poorest wooden buildings one could imagine. They were low, dark, and primitive. This was to be our new 'home'. Our hearts sank. What would await us here?
We, a collection of seven families, were jammed into two rooms. Later, we four women together with our children managed to get our own quarters of about ten square meters. The room had two windows and a lean to. We sawed up some logs, laid some boards on them, and called that our bed.
There were already a number of families of our people here. On the day of our arrival a Frau Reimer was badly injured from a falling tree. One leg was broken in two places.
In the evening we found we had pitiful light made from a bottle with a little lamp oil and a wick. Evenings we would just sit on the ground since we had nothing else to sit on. We would talk about parts of our lives, our fears and worries. We learned to share each other's burdens in those days.
Our work - The next day we had to go to work in the forest. They gave us each a saw and an axe. The axe handle was seventy-five centimeters long. Until now we had never seen a tree fall or even held an axe properly in our hand. The snow in the forest was deep and we had only shoes on our feet. In order to be able to work, we first had to shovel the snow from every tree, sometimes up to one and a half meters deep. But we weren't depressed. If fact we were glad to be here in comparison to the place we had left.
The work was hard and often the temperature got down to minus forty degrees. Badly dressed and hungry, we went to work. Sometimes a tree wouldn't fall the way we had planned so we would have to spend the whole day digging it out.
Our immediate supervisor was the forest guard. He would write down what we had done and according to his accounts we would later be paid. We soon noticed that he was making money on us. One day I asked him what our daily quota should be and how much the pay was for that. He told us that he did not really want to employ workers who wanted to know such things. I then suggested that if he didn't want to give us the information, perhaps we would find another place to work.
That was what we did. I also acquired a measuring stick. Every fifth day the guard came around to collect our work. We were able to tell him exactly how much there was and what he owed us for it. He didn't like that at all but had to deal with it.
In the summer we brought water with us to work, but by noon it would already be warm. We workers agreed that we should dig ourselves a well. We dug during our lunch hours and in a week it was completed. Everyone drank from the well and we all got sick. We were lucky that the water caused us to vomit; otherwise we would probably have died. There must have been some sort of poison in it.
Hunger hurts - A large part of our thinking and planning naturally centered around food. They gave us frozen beets, potatoes, and frozen cabbage. For months at a time we had no bread. We were always hungry. Often we staggered from it. Every so often some of us were unable even to leave the house and it seemed that starvation was inevitable. But we always found a way out, usually altogether unexpected.
When a person is hungry he becomes indifferent, surly, dissatisfied, moody, objectionable and abusive. I have already mentioned my own shortcomings. Other, physical things happen too. For three years in the forest we women had not menstruated, our breasts disappeared, and our faces looked like they were washed with moss. When we finally were able to get something more to eat, everything gradually returned to normal.
We would get up in the morning when it was still dark. We would make tea out of raspberry leaves, but would have nothing to eat. Then it was off to work. For our work we got a little flour. We would make a little flour soup out of it and would bake some potatoes or beets on the hot coals. On special occasions we would bake little cakes from the flour and water, but of course, we never had any salt. Salt cost six rubles per glas. At home we very often had absolutely nothing to eat and there were other times when we had to mete out the flour soup, potatoes, or beets by single spoonfuls.
When spring arrived the forest came to life. Everything greened - flowers, berries, and mushrooms all shot out of the ground. The children gathered berries and took them to a place thirteen kilometers away where they could sell them.
We dug up a small piece of ground. Then we bought some seed potatoes on credit. I had to go far to get them and they had to be planted late at night after work. For protection we built a fence around the garden. You just had to know how to do these things. Hunger is a very hard teacher.
Our children had to stay home by themselves during these long days. Usually they had nothing to eat and were very hungry. By the time we came home from work they were already standing on the bridge we had to cross. They would come and cling tightly to us - no complaints, no groaning came out of their mouths, only labored breathing.
But if during the day some food had come in to the house or my sister who was unable to work had traded something in one of the Russian villages, the children's eyes fairly sparkled. But they would sigh and sadly say; "We have nothing in the house to eat. We probably have to go to bed hungry again." Then I knew there was something. But I pretended to believe the children.
Once we were completely at the end of everything. The children stood numbly at the bridge. Slowly I walked with them toward our home. There was no sign of hope. Along the way we met the post woman. She gave me a slip of paper from the post office. There was a package of eight kilograms from my in laws waiting for me at the post office some sixteen kilometers away. I shared the news with Tina and Kathi and we were all excited. I washed and changed and even though I had worked all day I still wanted to go and get the package right away. Some of my relatives who had also been exiled lived some thirteen kilometers away. I would stay there overnight and walk the other three kilometers to the post office early in the morning. Frieda who was nine years old at the time did not want me to go alone and begged to go along. She didn't want me to walk through the forest in the dark by myself. She begged so long and persistently that I finally gave in and let her come with me. We started out. The child always walked in front of me and we talked and talked along the way as though our lives depended upon it.
We arrived at our relatives only to find sorrow and troubles there too. They could give us nothing to eat. They themselves were suffering from hunger. So we went to bed hungry. But we could not sleep. Our thoughts kept returning to the package. What could be in it?
In the morning I did walk the three kilometers to get the package. We opened it at our relatives. It contained a few kilograms of flour and seventy-five rubles in money. We cooked some soup and gave each of the children a good bowl full of it. Then Frieda and I made our way home.
At first she walked beside me in high spirits. After a time she began to tire and finally she started to cry. Her strength was completely gone. With encouragement and promises we somehow managed to get back to our miserable cottage. In the afternoon I walked another six kilometers in the opposite direction. There I bought potatoes for the seventy-five rubles. At home we counted them, measured out the flour and figured out how many times we could eat. Soon after, we received four hundred rubles from my brother.
In spring the three children came to work with me. Even thought they were still so young, they worked like adults. In this way we were able to earn a little more so that we could all stay alive. While we were working I often told them stories to help take their minds off their troubles. Fortunately we were all healthy. In spite of our poor clothing, we seldom got a cold. Also we experienced that when the need is the greatest, help was always closest at hand.
I tried in later years to repay my in laws for all their help. I didn't say what it was for, but in truth it was out of gratitude for their great help in our time of need. Even our brother and his good wife stood by us and helped in so many ways in those years.
The year was 1947 and the month was April. The snow was melting far too quickly. The water in the stream was so high that we couldn't go to work. So we had a free day and there was nothing in the house to eat. How could we go on? My sister-in-law Tina resolved to walk the seven kilometers to the office of the director under whom we served and ask for help. The road was sloppy and walking was hard. Finally we arrived at the office. We felt like beggars but there was nothing else to do. So we asked the director for help. We had nothing for the children or ourselves to eat. Could he not advance us a little money - or something to eat even if it was only wild seeds - or some oil cookies? But the director could not help us, although he sympathized with our situation. The roads would soon be passable and then we would get provisions. We left the room in tears.
Where could we turn now? We knew that our sister-in-law and the children were waiting for us at home, bitterly hungry. We went to the Fasts, exiles just like we were. Frau Fast gave each of us a piece of millet cookie. How we would have loved to eat them, but we kept them for the children. Frau Fast told us that not far from them there was a field that had been planted in potatoes last year. People had gone there now and then to look for any potatoes that had been left behind. Now we went there too. All we found was a bottomless sea of mud in the field.
How could we go on? We just couldn't go home like this. As we stood there in total despair our eyes fell on a black object in the distance. Somehow we found our courage and went toward it. It turned out to be a combine that had still been threshing on this very day. The people and the grain were already gone. We sorted through the chaff and amazingly, we found some grain in it. As the sun was starting to set we removed our dresses and took our headscarves off. We gathered the grain into these and tied them in bundles and left. We were perhaps six or seven kilometers from home. The road offered no footing and we hadn't eaten anything all day. Still, we pulled ourselves together. My sister-in-law nearly collapsed, but slowly we made our way forward. We had gone barely a hundred meters when a rider came toward us. What would happen now? He stopped and looked at us but said nothing. He just watched us mechanically moving on. Finally he rode off, and the moon came out. Slowly we sneaked home, arriving in the middle of the night. a small candle burned in our room. We thought the children would be asleep but they were awake. They were waiting for us. We cooked some of the grain and gave a portion to each of them. The next day we ground the rest of it in a small hand mill that we had made out of pieces of birch sometime earlier. We were very frugal with the flour and every find kept us from starvation.
Of course we had brought our blind cow with us from the other place. It was not always easy to feed and look after her since she was blind, but even so she was a great help to us. We had bought ourselves a scythe to cut grass for the cow and arranged five days off from work for this purpose. We had planned to save all our money together so we could buy a cow for our sisters-in-law too. When we were out cutting grass we heard the children calling the cow, "Soja, Soja".
At home we found the children crying. They couldn't find the cow. We searched for three days. Even other workers helped, but it was no use. Someone must have stolen her because if wolves had killed her, we would have come across her skeleton.
We sighed and prayed and looked for our cow. Our hay lay in the field without being gathered up. We were all dead tired from running up hill and down in our search. As if that wasn't enough it started to pour rain. The cow was gone, the hay was soaked, and we had lost three days of work. It seemed to me impossible to carry our heavy burden any longer. I sat down on some hay and cried like a small child. When I had cried all my tears and calmed myself a bit I went home. Tina was cried out too and the children were tired. I said, "We don't want to mourn the cow any longer. It's very sad about her, but at least it is no one out of our family. In time we'll be able to buy another cow". Everyone breathed a little easier.
Soon the sun came up and the clouds dissipated. Tina said, "Let's go once more and call her. The air is so clear that now our calls will be heard from far away. So we went. And really, we heard an answer from the blind cow.
Tina said, "don't touch the cow without first having thanked God". Thus we led her home in triumph.
All the workers, young and old rejoiced with us. The children who'd had to share our worries from the time that they were small really loved that cow. Even the cow was attached to us and always answered when she was called by name. Of course she couldn't explain what had happened to her but indeed she must have had some contact with wolves because since then, whenever the children howled, she would run home as fast as she could. She had developed a great fear inside her for wolves.
The time came when we were in a position to buy another cow - one that could see. We did that so the children could be a little freer from their duties. We butchered the blind cow, but the children refused to eat the meat. They had been too attached to her. But eventually they got used to the new cow too.
That is how we spent ten years of our lives in abject poverty here in the forest. In spite of all we went through it could have been worse. We didn't have to bury anyone and we all stayed faithfully together. Even with all that happened, we did learn to love the forest. The clean air, the silence, the noble trees, the flowers and mosses, the grasses - they are all beautiful. Whenever I walked alone through the forest, as I often did, I always felt a kinship with it and could forget our misery.
One day our time here also came to an end.
