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Chapter 10:
The Death March of Thorn (Part 1)
Aside from this great deportation death march there were countless smaller ones,
trudging along almost every road through Polish territory. Who could ever name
them all, locate all the graves, tell of all the horrors their victims endured? One such death
march was that from the Schrodau region, and it alone left a hundred and nine
victims murdered in Turek. Another was that from the
Siedlce prison to the citadel in Brest, and it
left twenty-five of its members dead and dying in the ditches. A third led to the concentration
camp Bereza-Kartuska, and for all its members it was a march straight to hell. Of
all these countless marching columns, one of particular significance, besides Dr.
Kohnert's, was the column that endured the longest march of all, namely the one
coming from the Thorn region, which included among its number
the well-known ethnic German leader Lengner, and with him, the
equally prominent Kittler, and the well-known minister from Gursk, Dietrich.
This group was assembled in
the police prison of Thorn after its members had first spent two days in the prison
cells there. One of the first men to be brought in was Dr. Konrad Raapke, a
factory owner from Thorn. He spends his first day alone in his cell, which
incidentally is only meant for one inmate anyway, but on September 2 another
seven men are crowded in with him. As it turns out, most of them are good
friends of his, including Lengner, the leader of the German Association of Thorn,
a short but physically very fit man in his fifties, with unusually bright eyes beneath
a strikingly broad forehead. Later they are joined by Kittler, the leader of the
Young German Party of Thorn. Thanks to the aid of a boilerman they manage to
get in touch with their families, so that these can bring them the barest
necessities before they are marched out, most importantly
a backpack, readied some time ago in case of such an emergency.
On that infamous Sunday, which is sunny and hot in and of itself, their Polish captors
turn the central heating system on full, and the afternoon becomes unbearably hot
in the overcrowded cells. Since the eight men can barely even move in this cell
meant for one, the heat is triple the torment for them, and soon their sweat runs in
rivulets and their clothes stick to their bodies like wet rags. "That's typically
Polish," says Dr. Raapke, with resignation. "But this time nobody can excuse it as
'an impulsive act by a hotheaded people', this time it's a deliberate, calculated
dirty trick!"
Due to the heat, the air, which is used up anyway, becomes so unbearable that
some prisoners begin to suffocate from the lack of oxygen. Everyone has to fight
for air with every breath. Add to that the fact that the entire cell is covered
in weeks-old grime, that hordes of vermin crawl the walls, and that shrieks of
pain frequently resound from the other cells. Whenever new prisoners are brought
in the cries of the maltreated rise to a gruesome chorus, clearly showing the other
prisoners that the great Polish manhunt is taking on more and more horrible
forms with each passing hour.
"Just think of what awaits us when we get out..." one of them whispers, shaking
his head helplessly.
"It's odd," says Raapke, "I was still treated fairly decently when they brought me
here two days ago. But since then their psychosis of hatred has taken on forms
that one can really only describe as pathological."
Around ten o'clock at night, as their exhaustion is beginning to turn deadly,
everyone is suddenly chased outside at breakneck speed.
In sweat-soaked clothes they now stand in the frigid autumn night until everyone is
horribly cold and their weakened bodies shiver like leaves. Then
everyone is first relieved of all metal objects, such as pocket knives, aluminum
soap capsules, cigarette lighters, even keys on their key chains. Gradually the
guards also arrive. They consist of two units of junaki, a kind of
organization similar to the strelzi, and the two hundred of them are led by an
army Captain and several NCOs assigned to him. Just before
the march-out several policemen also join the guards, so that in the end the
escorts number two hundred and fifty, almost half as many as the prisoners
themselves, of whom there are about six hundred. Among these prisoners there
are numerous octogenarians, as well as about sixty women, one of whom has
her child with her, a little girl just four years old.
Fifty men make up the vanguard, and then comes the marching column itself. To
either side of the prisoners walk two rows of junaki, all of them armed
with French rifles, with
sharp three-edged bayonets fixed. The rear is brought up by fifty soldiers. Most of
the prisoners can hardly wait until the column will finally move out, as they hope
that walking will warm their shivering bodies somewhat. As the column marches
off in the direction of the main train station, a few naive ones among them
already expect to be entrained, but the march goes past the station and in the
direction of Alexandrowo. For as long as they are still in the city streets, these
prisoners as well must pass through
a line-up of malicious rabble, and a few of those weakened by the heat already fall victim
to their maltreatment. Speaking is strictly forbidden, as is looking around;
both offenses are immediately punished by blows from truncheons. Whoever falls
down with exhaustion is instantly beyond help, for giving assistance of any kind
is also strictly forbidden.
Outside the city limits things improve considerably for the column of prisoners,
but then the junaki begin to torment them. Especially the elderly are
shoved forward time and again, and also anyone who is ill. There truly does not
seem to be a heart beating in these young people's chests. And don't these
unhappy people, with their bruised and beaten faces, look as though every raised
hand should drop again at the very sight of them?
A seventeen-year-old junak wearing the blue coverall of an apprentice
mechanic has chosen
a half-unconscious old woman to pick on; for the last ten kilometers he has not
left her side, herds her along in front of him the entire time even though she is
almost collapsing from exhaustion, and gives her countless little pokes with his
bayonet. And the German men must see and watch this, watch it the entire
time - and can not even raise a hand in the old lady's defense because any such
movement would be tantamount to suicide. At times like this, when men are
powerless, oh why do not the heavens open with a crash of thunder, to strike
down such violators of nature with a bolt of divine lightning? For this here went
against nature herself, and she herself should rise up against it...
The
column marches all night long, arriving in Alexandrowo the next morning. In the
city, black seething masses of rabble await them once again and beat them with
all kinds of objects. Near the train station, quite a distance from the city, there
stands a huge customs warehouse that was once used as tobacco storage hall; the
prisoners are penned into it. The great wooden hall contains no straw, and so
everyone drops onto the bare floor where they are allowed to rest until the
evening. A couple of times, air raids on the nearby train station take place; the
pressure of the bursting bombs can be felt all the way into the hall, and the crash
of the explosions rings in everyone's ears for a long time. Once more the ethnic
German leaders show their exemplary characters: the rations which some few still
possess are distributed fairly and equally among all. In the course of the day the leaders even
manage to convince the Captain to procure some carts for the sick.
At dusk the order is given to line up, and the prisoners arrange themselves in rows
of four in the hall itself. But while they are still waiting to march out, an old man
suddenly moans that he would not be able to walk any more. This message is
immediately passed to Lengner, standing at the front, who in turn whispers back
via Kittler to Dr. Bräunert that the old man should join the other sick
prisoners on the cart. At that moment a man leaps out of the prisoners' ranks
nearby and demands to speak to the Polish Captain, announcing that he has just
overheard a dangerous conspiracy. Evidently he is one of those Poles who had
been placed in each column as spies. The Captain arrives, and listens with a
scowl. "Who was whispering?" he then asks.
The spy pushes his way through the ranks and first points out Lengner, then
Kittler, then Bräunert, and last at a fourth man named Oliva.
"So you planned an escape, did you - were hoping to take off, all of you!" the
Captain says cynically.
Lengner tells him truthfully what they had spoken about, and says that they had
whispered only because speaking in and of itself was forbidden.
"If it's forbidden, then why do you do it?" yells the Commandant.
"It's a matter of someone who is deathly ill, Captain!" says Kittler calmly. He is
only thirty-four years old, a strikingly tall man, his face has pronounced
cheekbones and an expression of great intelligence.
"You just see to yourselves, you'll soon be deathly ill too!" the Commandant
growls scornfully. Then he turns around and yells, almost falling over himself
with excitement: "Out with these
four dog-blooded Hitlerowkis!"
A dozen junaki surround them and force them out with blows. As he
leaves, Lengner greets his faithful followers and Kittler looks his friends in the
eyes one last
time - an offense which the junaki immediately punish by descending on
the prisoners
and pistol-whipping them in the face with their Brownings. The last thing the
prisoners see of their leaders are faces quickly turning red with blood - but their
heads remain proudly thrown back and they do not bow even under these
blows...
Right after these four are led off, the column is marched out and forced at a run
up an incline, where mounted police await them. But during this run, some few of
them do manage to cast a glance backwards, and they see their four leaders
standing with hands raised in front of the warehouse wall; a few also hear one of
the policemen rant furiously at one of the four that he should damn well raise his
hands too. And they also hear the reply, the devastating reply: "How am I to raise
my hands now that you've smashed my joints..."
That is the last anyone knows of the four ethnic German leaders. Since no shots
were fired, they must have been killed with bayonets. And so the sad procession
moves on in deep silence, deprived of its leaders and the encouragement they had
known so well how to give. Their place is now taken by
Reverend Dietrich who, like them, devotes himself to his task with a degree
of self-denial that soon earns him the admiration of all his fellow sufferers. The
column is now almost entirely mixed, a few rows of men are followed by women,
but this only puts them at the disadvantage of being treated just as cruelly as the
men, which had not been the case when they were segregated.
After an hour's march, shots are suddenly fired in the vanguard - have they
encountered German troops after all? For the first moment the entire escort seems
to think so, and a panicked fury breaks out among them like a kind of insanity.
"Hands up, you swine!" they scream. "Down on the ground,
you whore-sons!" roar others. "We'll liberate you, all
right - you're all going to be shot now!" shriek the remainder.
The entire column immediately drops to the ground, but even that does not
suffice to calm the guards. They aim their guns accurately at the dark masses on
the ground, and fire rapidly into them for several minutes. Terrible screams rise
from the prostrate prisoners, many are mortally hit, others thrash about with
dreadful injuries. "Whoever can still raise his head, do so immediately!" a shrill
voice cries, and repeats the order a dozen times or so. A few of the women
comply automatically, and another round of shots rings out and hurls them back
down into the dust...
Finally the shooting ceases, and the vanguard grows quiet as well. It was no
Germans, it was just a sudden
panicked short-circuit. "Up!" the order goes now. "Close up the ranks!" Anyone
who can still get up struggles to his feet, some of them stand in pools of blood
from shot prisoners, others can only get to their knees. One young woman also
tries to stand up but collapses again
immediately - a bullet has smashed her ankle. "Oh, just shoot me dead..." she
finally cries.
"Shut up, you whore!" roars one of the junak.
"Just shoot me dead, please, please, please, just shoot me dead!" she begs
anew.
"Let her have it, if she wants!" yells another junak.
"I don't shoot at women!" says the first, with a proud gesture. Oh, after all, he's a
Pole, always chivalrous to the ladies...
"Well, you sure are stupid," says the other coldly. "Aren't they Hitlerowkis too?"
And he walks eagerly to her, presses his rifle against her left breast, and with a
scornful laugh pulls the trigger...
Gradually the rows form again. The still-living step over the dead, walk around
the dying. In almost every row someone is missing. Once again new people join
up to fill in the rows, and now even individual women walk in some of the men's
rows. Despite this terrible "rest period" the survivors hold up as well as before,
only now and then there is the sound of quiet sobbing...
Hardly has the rear of the column left the last victims on the ground behind it
before a horrible spree of murder
begins - every single body on the ground is carefully listened to, and if there are
any sounds of breathing he or she is dispatched for good with dozens of stabs from
bayonets. For a long time the prisoners walking at the end of the column still hear
death screams behind them, and the quiet calm of merciful night descends only
slowly over this site of horrors...
But the march itself is growing harder and harder. Did the scent of blood whip the
junaki into such a frenzy that they are now dreaming up ever new
torments? After a short time one gives the order that all luggage is to be thrown
away, into the
ditches - mind you, without the slightest pause. Since nobody has the chance to
take anything out first, this means the loss of everyone's last few treasures, the
last rock-hard crusts of bread, the last carefully hoarded cigarettes.
"The purses too, you damned whores!" the junaki yell at the women. At
that, Reverend Dietrich turns to the Commandant and points out to him how
senseless this demand is, and actually manages to have the order rescinded. With
a poke of his bayonet one of the junaki has just forced a young lady to
throw her purse away; but hardly has this lady heard the order being withdrawn
that she walks back to her tormentor, head raised high, and tells him coldly: "Pick
up my purse!"
"Are you crazy?" The junak freezes.
"I said, pick up my purse, didn't you understand me? Don't you know what's
proper around a lady?" she repeats icily.
For a while the boy stares dumbfounded into her eyes, then he surrenders to the
bright girlish gaze and bends down meekly to pick up her purse.
"That's Poland!" thinks Dr. Raapke, who is standing nearby. "What a
country - what a people..."
After a period of uneventful marching, another order is given: Everyone is to
close up ranks tightly! At the same time the rear of the column is prodded to
speed up so much that everyone ends up constantly stepping on the heels of those
in front of them. Many come away from this with deep wounds in their heels, and
many soon lose both their shoes. "Maybe they only dreamed this up so that the
rearguard can collect all the shoes, just like that was the reason for making us
throw away our luggage. There's nothing one can put past these louts, not even
something that seems absurd to normal people!" thinks Dr. Raapke.
He is walking in a row of four brawny men. The row in front of him, however, is
made up of four young girls who have linked arms in order to support each other
better. But since the men's row is much wider than the row of girls, this is a
constant annoyance to the side guards. "Line up with the person in front!" one
group yells constantly, and shoves the men with their truncheons from the right.
"Walk in exact single file!" yells the other group just as constantly, and shoves
them in the same manner from the left. Finally the young girls realize that they
can only keep the men behind them from suffering constant blows by unlinking
their arms again and walking at the same distance and in a row of the same width.
Walking among these girls is a certain Fräulein Buller, a secretary from the
German Consulate, a remarkably delicate girl but she holds her own in exemplary
fashion.
Hardly have the prisoners adjusted to this harassment before the junaki
think of something new, and yell as in a chorus: "Dropping to the ground doesn't
go smoothly enough yet, do you think we're going to risk bombs hitting us for your
sake? So let's practice, down on the ground, all of you as one, when we give the
order..." And then each of these boys yells whenever he feels like it: "Down..." So
there are always a few rows of prisoners down on the ground. If they do not
comply quickly enough they have to repeat it a dozen
times - but if they do comply with precise suddenness and to the guards'
satisfaction, the row behind them usually falls over them due to the unexpected
stop.
"Hahahaha!" the junaki then laugh, slap their thighs, roar at the top of
their lungs: "See them tumble, those elegant Hitlerowkis, falling over each other
like rabbits..."
The last torment of this stage of the journey comes in the form of an order for everyone to
walk with their hands behind their backs. And so they march the last few
kilometers with their
backs ramrod-straight, which quickly becomes so painful that not only the women
moan softly with every step. Having to walk like this robs one old man of the last
of his strength, and in a fit of weakness he staggers in front of an oncoming truck,
which crunches right over his body...
In the gray of dawn they finally see a large estate, which is already full of soldiers
but which also has a number of barns beside the stables. This is the Jarantonice
Estate, the second day's intended
destination - but when Reverend Dietrich does a head-count, there are fifty fewer than
there were the evening before.
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Death in Poland
The Fate of the Ethnic Germans
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