![](clear.gif) ![](clear.gif) |
Chapter 11:
The Death March of Bromberg (Part 2)
Contrary to expectations the column of Bromberg deportees also stayed in Thorn
for the night. The forced march
of fifty-eight kilometers seems to have exhausted the guard troops to the
point where even the bad news arriving from the front fails to make them eager to move
on quickly. The leaders of this group try without success to obtain some food
from the city for their people. After they have finally found a
seemingly humane guard who, after much persuasion, accepted their collection of
one hundred zloty and agreed to buy some bread for them in the city, they waited
in vain until nightfall for him to return. But finally they realized with a sinking
feeling that this lousy fellow had cheated them out of their last bit of money.
And even water was withheld from them, no matter how much and how often
they begged for some, so now they have gone without anything to drink
for thirty-six hours.
If at least they were completely amongst themselves - but they too have been
seeded with Poles from the start. Some of these are simply criminal convicts, but
others are spies deliberately chosen for this purpose, and many of them speak
German without an accent. In the middle of the night the convicts, hoping to gain
points with the guards, begin some
childish anti-German antics. Even though they are really nothing more
than fellow-sufferers, their Polish hatred demands expression even in this
situation. And so they form a little chorus and bawl their taunting songs:
"The Germans wandered through the woods,
met a bitch and took her for sausage!
Oh, the damned Germans..."
A soloist pipes up:
"The Germans so much water drink
that their asses begin to stink!"
The choir:
"A German died, he died
in the street and rotted.
No one wanted to mourn him,
so pigs came and grunted over him...
"A Pole died, he died
in the meadow and did not rot.
Three virgins came in the end,
took his body on their hands..."
"Quiet now!" one of the prisoners calls. "Time to sleep..."
At that they jump up angrily, and the choir leader yells: "Quiet? You'll get
enough quiet soon, you rotten dog corpse, just wait a bit... And anyone that
doesn't croak during the march will be beaten to death at the end!" Then he and
his fellow convicts begin to shout in unison, bawling a number
of well-known sayings, including this one: "What a Pole can drink in one day is a
German's lifetime fortune!"
And then: "Where a frog croaks, you'll find a German..."
And finally: "The Germans buy land with their butter, build houses with their
cheese, trade clothing for their buttermilk, and live on their whey!"
Then they switch to regaling each other loudly with the latest news from the
front. One of them bellows into the hall: "Have you heard the latest? Our ulans
are already at the gates of Berlin, the Polish fleet crushed the German one at
Gdyngen, and the French have already marched into Frankfurt! That's the end of
you Germans for all time, you're going to become Polish all the way to the Elbe
River..." But even this unbearable night comes to an end, and in the early morning light
they are already being prodded to their feet again.
Once again the first test for them is another running-the-gauntlet, and in the light
of day it seems even worse. When they are finally walking across the open
countryside again, with the dust enveloping them once more in gritty clouds, a
young girl walking beside a women holding
a four-month-old infant realizes that the baby must have died a short time ago.
The fluff-haired little head hangs limply, and the little arms dangle loosely with
the mother's every step. For a while the girl hesitates if she should tell the
mother, but when she sees how exhausted the woman already is, she begins
cautiously, carefully: "Wouldn't you like to lay the little tyke down under a bush
somewhere, in the beautiful green grass?"
"Whatever for?" the mother asks.
"But it's... it's already..." the girl says timidly.
"It's what?" the woman flares up. "It's sleeping... don't you see... it's sleeping..."
And she presses the drooping little head against her chest, sees very well that it
falls back again right away, but presses it tenderly to herself again, over and
over.
Only now does the girl realize that the woman has already lost her mind. "Do lay
it in the grass," she says again, "else you're going to collapse soon! Look over
there, that's a nice willow bush, the angels will come for it there..."
But the woman shakes her ravaged head and carries her child on and on. Her eyes
are wide as on the threshold of death. "I can't leave my child... my first little
child... here underneath a bush, just like that..." she whispers, presses the little
head to herself, lets it fall back again, presses it to her chest again...
The road
they have been traveling since the morning is the road to Chiechozinek,
the well-known Polish salt-water spa. Not far from Chiechozinek is the town of
Slonsk; as yet this peasant town of Lower Saxons has been left in peace. It is yet
to become the Town Without Men. The marching column's Commandant, who
accompanies his prisoners on a bicycle, has ordered the guard troops to question
all passing soldiers to make sure that they are not deserters. And so this death
march is accompanied now by a
secondary man-hunt, as runaways from the demolished Polish army are already
everywhere. The Germans take a small measure of comfort from these many
arrests and think, with an inner smile: they're not going to capture Berlin with an
army like this!
Steps drag, the dust clouds rise, thirst turns to agony. Two old men collapse
almost at the same time. The policemen stab at them with their bayonets for a
while to force them back on their feet, but when even that does not prod them,
they shrug and leave the two where they have fallen. The entire column passes by
them, takes one last look at their faces, which are almost not human any
more - so badly has thirst split their lips, so viciously has dust inflamed their eyes
and hunger emaciated their faces. Hardly has the last of the column passed them
before several shots crack through the air... Whoever falls,
dies - that's the law - not only here but in all other such death march columns.
Shortly before they reach Chiechozinek, one young man, Schreiber from
Bromberg, asks to be excused for a
moment. "Excused - what the hell - crap in your pants!" one of the guards yells
contemptuously. "The time of playing the gentlemen is over for you Germans,
and it's high time you realized it..."
Aren't they all sick up to here of this life - does it really still take much to make
them toss it aside on a scornful impulse? Before one of his comrades can jump in,
Schreiber takes a razor blade he had kept hidden on his person, and slashes his
throat. The blood spouts in a heavy fountain from his carotid artery, and before
anyone can catch him he sinks backward into the dust. There is a sudden stop, the
Commandant leaps from his bicycle and runs towards him, foaming with rage:
"You damned zwab, do you think you're going to die when you want to, or when I
order it?" he roars down at him and kicks him in the side so that he shudders and
curls up with every kick, and with every shudder the blood spurts farther from his
throat. A few women sob, one shrieks and faints.
"Doctor Staemmler!" the cry passes down the column.
In a few moments Dr. Staemmler arrives. With a great deal of effort he has
managed to obtain permission to help the weakest of the prisoners a bit with his
medications. Though he was forbidden to take any of his instruments along on the
march, he carries a few necessities in his pockets, including some tonics against
sudden faints. He kneels by the
moaning would-be suicide. The cut is not irreversibly fatal, the artery can still be
clamped. Gradually even the Commandant calms down again and even gives
permission to carry Schreiber to nearby Chiechozinek. And so
four fellow-sufferers take a coat, place him carefully on it, and carry him along
like that in the column.
On the large square in front of the main hotel, between the hotel and the mighty
fountain, the spa's symbol, another mob awaits them yet again. But here it is
primarily the soldiers, and again chiefly the ulans, at whose hands the Germans
endure their maltreatment. After all, a larger cavalry unit is stationed in
Chiechozinek. To prevent the same prisoners from always fielding most of the
blows during these marches through the towns, the prisoners have taken to
switching places from one day to the next, alternating between the insides and the
outsides of the rows. And so the day always begins on an especially gloomy note for half of
them, namely for that half walking on the outside...
For a while they march through the town, through the streets lined by gardens,
past many a villa, and finally they stop outside a gate behind which stands a long
wooden house. It is a former Polish youth hostel. All eight hundred of them are
crammed into this house, the women separately into a few rooms and the men
into a
large hall-like room. Once again they get nothing to eat, but thank God some still
have a few small rations left, even if that makes for only a few crumbs for
everyone. After much negotiating they receive one pitcher of
water - it too makes for only a scant swallow for each. Before they can finally
stretch out on the bare floor they must endure a severe body search. All razors
must be turned over, and all pocket knives, as well as all other metal objects, just
as the members of the other death march had to at the start. "Anyone who holds
anything back will be shot at once!" the guards scream over and over.
Gradually, night falls, and the air in the overcrowded room grows thick again.
Nobody may leave here either to answer the call of
nature - one more torment to add to the thousand others. But fortunately few of
them still have any such
needs - after all, where should they come from, without anything to eat or drink?
The men let the urine run down unnoticeably, and general weakness obviates any
other needs anyway. Only some few unfortunates suffering from dysentery have a
dreadful time of it.
By midnight the air has grown so stifling that some prisoners begin to lose
their self-control. The signs of madness increase. A couple of prisoners keep shrieking
senselessly at short intervals. Dr. Kohnert has posted a few sturdy fellows by the
door to keep anyone from rushing outside in a frenzy. This measure saves several
lives, for time and again one or the other tries to force his way out. "I want out,
I'm suffocating..." yells one. "I'm thirsty, I want something to drink..." yells
another. "I want to go home, I don't want to go on..." begs a third. To top it all
off, the even more dreadful screams of the women can be heard from the
adjoining rooms. But there as well, some invincible ones have joined forces and
physically hold those who have surrendered to insanity back from the gate, for
anyone who sets foot outside is instantly shot. Even during this night the women
cannot make the young mother realize that her child is long dead; she still holds it
zealously fast. Every now and then she opens her dress, holds the drooping little
head against her wasted breast, presses the infant's shriveled mouth firmly against
it and says in a singsong voice: "Can't you see how eagerly it's drinking..."
And so this second night passes as well. The march continues in the early
morning, but before
the march-out the guards remove the prisoners' handcuffs. This is by no means
done out of a sudden merciful impulse, but out of the realization that, when
handcuffed together, the prisoners cannot take cover quickly enough when enemy
planes approach. Often enough someone tried to go one way while the partner to
whom he was handcuffed tried to go in the opposite direction, and often one of a
pair stumbled and therefore the other could not get off the road either. For the
men the removal of their cuffs is blissful relief, and suddenly everything seems
much more bearable. It was high time for their hands as well, for everyone's
wrists are raw; the sharp meal edges had dug deeply into their flesh due to the
never-ending tugging, and in many cases, due to the dust, the sores have even filled
with sweaty pus.
They are now marching towards Nieszawa. The day grows unusually hot, and the
agony of thirst is not long in coming. Many of the guards have levied bicycles for
themselves, and like the Commandant they ride slowly alongside the column, rest
in the vanguard in the shadow of a tree until the last row of prisoners has passed
them, and then ride ahead again to overtake it suspiciously. Before they reach
Nieszawa the deranged young mother is finally delivered from her torments;
suddenly she stumbles a little and drops forward onto her face, still clutching her
dead infant in her arms. Those who walked beside her can see right away that she
is already
dead - the rearguard will have no extra work dispatching her. She had kept
walking for her baby's sake until even the last ounce of her strength gave out.
Half-way to Nieszawa German planes approach again, and only few moments
later everyone has taken cover in the ditches. "Thank God," says young
Gersdorff, "finally..."
"It was about time!" brawny Adelt adds.
"Indeed - otherwise one might almost think the Poles had really taken over
Berlin!" mocks Dr. Kohnert, unperturbed as always.
"That's nonsense, of course. I mean the rest period," says Adelt. "We should get
an air-raid rest every half hour or so. Many would regain their strength as a reault,
and a whole lot more of us might survive this march."
"I just keep thinking about the British," says Baron Gersdorff, as though to
himself. "All this blood is on their hands, because if it weren't for their
Guarantee..."
"Definitely!" Dr. Kohnert agrees. "The Poles would never have taken the chance
of this war if they hadn't been backed by the British Guarantee. An intelligent
Polish officer once told me, 'Despite all our megalomania we're not a nation of
suicides!' There can be no doubt that if it weren't for England we would have
reached a sensible agreement that really addressed Polish and German needs. But
now the Poles will lose everything they
had - was that really a service of friendship on England's part?"
"That's exactly how it is," somebody lying nearby says quietly. "It was England
that killed my sons, it's England that herds us through the dust here, England that
forces us to go without water until we lose our minds, it's England that lets us
starve here until we collapse, and it will be England that smashes our heads with
rifle butts in the end..."
At that very moment the planes scream right over them, and a light bomb
explodes nearby. Something whizzes over their heads, and someone tries to
suppress a
scream - it's the gray-haired man who was just talking about England. A jagged
metal fragment protrudes from his shoulder, but it only went in a little way and
can easily be pulled out. A comrade does him the favor. The old man doesn't
make a sound at the painful wrench and only says hastily: "Give it to me, it's
mine..." And he holds it in his hands and says in a tone of tenderness that
somehow also moves the others: "A German fragment... from a German bomb..."
And finally he hides it under his shirt, against his chest, like something rare and
precious...
An hour
later, already near noon, the towers of Nieszawa appear. Apparently the plan is to
wait for something here, but the only place that can be found for the column to
stay is a huge garbage dump on the outskirts of the city. Here the eight hundred
are finally permitted to rest, and so they drop with relief onto the ground between
the mountains of garbage that fill the entire surroundings with their stench.
![previous page](dpback.gif) ![Table of Contents](dptoc.gif)
Death in Poland
The Fate of the Ethnic Germans
|
|