![](clear.gif) ![](clear.gif) |
Chapter 13:
The Death March of Bromberg
Joins With One from Pommerellen
Hardly have
the deportees from Bromberg settled down on the garbage dump of Nieszawa
before an even larger column of deportees enters the street leading to this dump
from the west. It numbers well over a thousand people and also includes many
women; apparently it is coming from Pommerellen.
For the first time the Brombergers see a sort of mirror image of themselves as
they observe a death march column like their own. Certainly they have encountered many
others by now, but only ever
in a hurried march-past while they themselves were also being herded along. Here
they now lie resting on the heaps of garbage and for the first time they really have
the time to absorb this devastating sight, never to be forgotten: The first sign of it
is a slowly advancing cloud of dust, next they begin to hear the constant yelling of
the guards, and only then do the first rows of deportees appear. The first rows are
usually made up of those prisoners who are still in the best shape, but the longer the
column marches past, the more bent are the backs of its members. One old man
hangs with his arms draped across the shoulders of two others, reminiscent of an
old eagle with dragging wings; his once clear eagle eyes are almost lifeless and
only his bent hook nose gives an indication of what his face may have
looked like before all this. Many other men virtually hang in the elbows of their comrades, their
legs dragging on the ground rather than taking steps. Many of those who are
carried on in this manner by the sacrifice of their fellow marchers move their legs
more like puppets, in the air, only skimming the ground with dangling toes. But
as long as one even just goes through the motions of walking, his ethnic brothers
do not desert him...
When the Brombergers finally also look at the passing faces, there are few among
them that do not wonder: do I look like that too? These deportees as well have not
washed for eight days, and so the layer of street dirt, grown loamy with the sweat
of marching, has formed
a finger-thick crust over their features, giving the faces a rigid look, like
mummies. Since many also have bleeding wounds from the many blows, this
loam is often marbled with blood, and looking out of these rigid masks are eyes
which are frequently also suffused with blood, and always badly inflamed for
days already. But the gaze from these sick eyes is something the watchers will
least forget: In most of them the gaze is already almost dead, vacant as the eyes of
the dying, but many still have the expression of hunted game; after all, isn't all
this just one huge hunt? Their clothes are also unspeakably ragged; the men's
suits are uniformly gray with dust, but out of a poignant sense of decency some
still wear their collars, even if for a long time already they have just been
wrapped around their necks like gray rags. In a few cases they are even still
held together with neckties, like they used to be in better days. As for the
women's clothes, except for those traditional peasant dresses of
tough linsey-woolsey they are the most tattered of all. The light summer fabrics
have been reduced to rags, the older women's hems have been uniformly trodden
down, the thin silk of the young girls' blouses is riddled with holes, and bright
blood runs down many of the women's bare legs. But the saddest aspect of all are
their feet, for most of the prisoners no longer have shoes. And so they have wrapped their feet
with handkerchiefs instead, or in many cases only with scraps of coarse sackcloth
which they were fortunate enough to find somewhere. All these unshod feet are
bleeding from the march and often have been covered
in pus-filled sores for days already - no matter how many thousands of steps
they must take each day, they still flinch painfully with every footfall...
"So that's what we look like!" Baron Gersdorff suddenly says. He and the
column's leaders sit at the foot of a great heap of ashes, reclining
against their bulk. Even Dr.
Kohnert's lean face that almost always wears an expression of
cheerful self-assurance is as though shadowed from within at this sight.
"So that's what we look like!" Adelt repeats quietly. "But unfortunately nobody
else sees it, and nobody else ever will see us like this. The English politicians
should sit here in our stead and miss one of their Sunday visits to
church - maybe just once their unctuous words would stick in their craw and they
would realize, even if just for a moment, their own culpability!"
"Or some of those pious Misses who love to go work in the missions to help poor
Negroes to the blessings of Christianity!" Dr. Kohnert says sarcastically. "Here
they would have a grand scope indeed for their Christian compassion and could
earn themselves a choice seat in Heaven..."
"What keeps going through my mind these days," Adelt suddenly bursts out
passionately, "is this, first and foremost: Whatever may happen to Poland during
this
war - whether all her cities are destroyed by it, whether her entire intellectual elite
is wiped out in the various battles, whether a third of her people die in the iron
hail - I cannot imagine any consequence of war that would strike me as somehow
unjust: If a people can deal in such a way with unarmed fellow citizens, none of
what it may receive in return can be undeserved, and any and all it does receive is
only just! And when the great humanitarians from abroad come along and throw
up their hands in horror and cry: poor Poland, look at what all was done to
her - it is up to us to point out calmly as often as it takes: it was all fair and
just - whatever was done to her! For what Poland herself did here, what she has
done to countless civilized human beings which she herded through the country
like so many heads of cattle, how she drives us here and others there, that is such
an incredible crime against civilization that there can be nothing, nothing at all
which this nation may ever have the right to complain about in the future, for her
own actions have disqualified her from the elite of civilized nations! And after
all, when the time comes that she pays the penance for her actions, she will not
pay it for the acts of individuals, since the entire people, the entire nation was to
blame for this gruesome mass murder and participated in these inhuman tortures
of innocent people, beginning with the Marshal of this State, to the vaivoda and
professors, to the teachers and down to the most uneducated peasants, from the
officers down to the last soldier! Neither the women nor even the children of this
'chivalrous' people have remained free of blame for this mass
murder - all of them have soiled their hands with this blood and reveled in the
torments of the defenseless! Neither the world nor this nation herself had better
complain about the penance it will one day have to pay for its sin against
humanity - God himself will not hear it then, for these deeds have also defiled
God! And if philanthropists of all colors should one day turn to bestow their care
on this nation, then speak to them of nothing but these deportation
columns - if you tell it right, and tell nothing but the truth, then no doubt they will
soon see for themselves that this people, this nation is no longer deserving of love
and that their good deeds are better served on anyone else than on Poland!"
They are all somewhat surprised by their comrade - it is generally not his way to
come out of his shell with such passion. And then they turn their gaze back onto
the new arrivals. Their column is slowly nearing its
end - it has been led onto the same dump site, by the way; perhaps they will even
continue their march together?
"All of this is true," Dr. Kohnert finally says. "But I already know today
exactly what the other nations will say to all of this: Hardly had the war broken
out before the Germans staged a huge ethnic uprising, for they had been well
armed by the Reich! What else could the poor Poles do but get rid of them
as quickly as
possible - seeing as now they were being attacked not only from the front, but
also from within! The fact that their anger at this treacherous attack led to some
excesses, well, who could possibly blame them for that? A small nation fighting
for its survival in the same situation will always act like this!"
"My God in Heaven!" Adelt cries out in shock. "Now it's suddenly become clear
to me why the arrests were always accompanied by searches for weapons, why
they claim the Germans shot at them from every house, and why they planted rifle
cartridges wherever they could! Your explanation shows the overall plan,
prepared in advance from higher up, and with every means at their disposal...
That's the story that was put about amongst the entire population, and most of
them probably honestly believe it..." He stops, devastated, and puts his head in his
hands. "Isn't that horrible?" he asks softly. "Have there ever been statesmen
before who did something like this, so lightly? We are not the only ones who have
to suffer so terribly under its
consequences - the Polish people will also have to face dreadful repercussions.
And all of it is lies, just a satanic deception...?"
"But nobody will believe us, and that's the bitterest part of all!" Dr. Kohnert
speaks up again. He has discovered a broken spoon among the rubbish and
pockets it as a valuable discovery.
"But that's impossible!" Adelt objects, agitated. "After all, everybody knows what
oppression we endured, that it was impossible for us to have weapons, that almost
daily house searches had not left us in peace for half a year already, and that the
discovery of even a makeshift weapon meant months in prison! And also that the
borders had been hermetically sealed for months already and so even smuggling
something in would no longer have been possible! How should we have
managed to arm ourselves, when all old weapons had long been confiscated and
new ones were not to be had? It's simple fact that not one of us could have shot at
the Poles because none of us Germans had a single weapon
left - it's a perfectly clear-cut case - the truth has to win out..."
"Well, I still doubt it," says Dr. Kohnert, unimpressed. "In our century the
truth is no longer absolute, but rather a function of who has the greater
propaganda apparatus..."
At that moment, a prisoner arrives whom one can just barely recognize as a
clergyman. Two surly Poles accompany him. He is the Reverend Krusche, the leader
of the newly arrived deportees. They hurriedly discuss the most important things,
but are forbidden to speak further; nonetheless they have guessed it anyway: both
columns are to continue their march jointly from here on. Meanwhile the leaders
of the Bromberg deportees have recovered enough that they can tackle the most
pressing matters their role as leaders entails. Dr. Kohnert has a guard lead him to
the Commandant, whom he asks for permission for some of the prisoners to buy
some bread, with their own money. Strangely enough, the Commandant permits it
this time. Zloty are hurriedly collected again, and the hope travels like wildfire:
"There's going to be bread, we're going to get some bread..."
By now the newly arrived deportees have settled in, and now there are almost two
thousand people lying among the trash. Even though most of them lie still, a
cloud of ash constantly surrounds them, since even the slightest movement stirs
up the dust. Many of them kneel among the garbage, poke through it
searchingly - maybe there's an old crust of bread to be found, or even a head of
cabbage someone has thrown away? These wretched figures grubbing through the
filth are the most devastating sight of all; over here, one gnaws greedily on a
moldy crust, over there another one has found an old tin can, which he happily
attaches to his jacket with a piece of wire. Now he finally has a drinking
cup - all that's missing is the water! But most of them lie among the piles of
garbage as though struck down, only moving
their pus-encrusted eyes when someone else drags himself past, and moaning
with parched, split lips for a drop to drink.
The dump lines the street along its entire length and is separated from it only by a
guardrail surrounding it on all sides
on three-feet-high posts. To the right of the street is a tall board fence which
evidently encloses a sawmilling square; to its right are a few sandy hills, with
some wretched peasant shacks standing on it. Not far from this little ridge of hills,
on the other side, stands a Protestant church, and not far from that stands a small
house, just across the street from the dump. Here, it seems, lives an ethnic
German family that has not yet been expelled.
And from this house they receive the most marvelous gift they could imagine
under the burning midday sun: Suddenly a petite woman steps out of the doorway,
her straight black hair falls
in page-boy style to her shoulders, and at her side there walks a brightly
chattering little
girl - in either hand, however, the bashfully smiling woman carries a bucket of
water! There is almost a stampede among the prisoners, and it takes the leaders'
combined energy to prevent them from simply running the little woman
down...
And so they drink, almost all of them, and even though each only gets a mouthful,
that mere sip goes far towards reviving their spirits. For three hours this
diminutive
woman - she is the wife of the sexton Wiese, who has
fled - carries her heavy buckets from her house and across the street, and when
the prisoners' purchase of bread also arrives from the city, the general happiness
almost knows no bounds.
At four o'clock in the afternoon, far too early for everyone's liking, the order is
given to march on. Once again the deportees organize themselves into columns
and rows. The group from Bromberg is the first to leave the dump site, after
which the group from Pommerellen heaves itself out of the garbage as well. A
cloud of stench follows them for a long time
yet - a reminder of the time they spent lying among the trash. They march along close to the banks of the Vistula river,
towards Wloclawek, which they just manage to reach by nightfall. Eyes wide with
surprise, they see that many houses here have already been shelled, and again they
nurse some hope of being liberated soon after all. All of them are crowded into a
gymnastics hall, but no matter how large the room is, once again there is not
nearly enough space for all of them to stretch out on the floor. But here at least
there is no garbage mixed with human excrement on which they must huddle, and
there is no stinking street dirt mixed with sharp glass shards on which they must
stand barefoot.
Very early the next morning the march goes on, but no longer
eastward - suddenly they are directed to move south. Could it be that the Germans
are to the east, that they have already blocked off the roads? Dr. Kohnert manages
to obtain one more concession, namely that some ill men may also ride on the
carts along with the sick women. But
when seventy-year-old Superintendent Aßmann, a dignified minister with the
best of reputations, asks for the same privilege, it is difficult to preserve him from
bodily harm. "Look at this gangster," the Commandant yells, "how harmless he
acts, and yet he's the most dangerous of all!" And so two young men take him on
their arms again and all but carry the exhausted old man this entire day as well.
Finally the entire column is moving again as before, with dragging feet,
enveloped by dust clouds, beaten in every village they pass through, spat
at - or more - by everyone they pass...
This day as well soon grows hot, almost like a summer's day, and the sun beats
down mercilessly on the traveling prisoners. As they have had nothing to drink
since leaving Nieszawa, by noon their thirst approaches lethal degrees. Often
there are large water tubs standing by the roadside; these have been thoughtfully
placed there by farmers for the passing
soldiers - but the prisoners are forbidden on pain of death to drink from them.
This midday the death threat no longer has its intended effect; an old man is the
first to suddenly throw himself over such a water tub and, forgetting everything
around him, he drinks insatiably. But even while he is still drinking, and others are
about to follow his example, the nearest guard leaps towards him with his gun
barrel in hand, takes a huge swing, and already the rifle butt crashes into the back
of the old man's head. The man does not make a sound; his
head, half-crushed, sinks into the water, and his upper body slowly follows while
the clear water turns red with his blood. "Have you got enough now, you damned
water guzzler!" the policeman screams at him. He does not even permit the
lifeless corpse to be pulled
out - no, it is to remain in the tub, as a warning to others...
Towards evening the first cases of delirium occur; some of the prisoners begin to
hallucinate. "Over there, that's my estate, and at the gate, my Elisabeth, she wants
to give me a pitcher of water, just let me go to her for a moment!" a young farmer
keeps crying out. If one of these unfortunates does not happen to have someone
walking in his row who still has the strength to hold him back, his remaining lifespan
is measured in seconds. For anyone who takes even one step out of line is
immediately beaten to death by the guards.
More and ever more of them begin to see hallucinations - marvelous rivers with waterfalls,
surrounded invitingly by shady stands of trees: "Just a few more kilometers! You
can already see it clearly, just up ahead," they say to their comrades, in all
seriousness. "Muster up just one more time, we'll be there in half an hour!"
Around five o'clock these delusions become so strong for some of them that they
suddenly break ranks and run with long strides towards a nearby hill.
Immediately, wild shooting begins, and none of them make it farther than ten
meters. After they fall, every one of them is stabbed to death with the guards'
bayonets; in his rage one of the guards even jumps on top of one of the prisoners,
stands on him with one foot on his throat and one on his private parts, holds his
carbine reversed and aims one stab after another into the writhing body. Three
strelzi wearing their heavy nailed boots jump the prisoner who made it the
farthest towards his hallucination, and viciously trample his face until there is
nothing left of it but a bloody pulp...
One after the other drops back from the foremost ranks, falls back row after row
until finally he has arrived at the back of the column. There, the nearest guard
seizes the opportunity to kick him in the
back - if he holds up under this he may live a little
longer - usually he collapses under the third kick, which tends to follow the first
very soon. That, however, is the signal for his liquidation, and thus he ends the
same way as all the others before him, under a rifle
butt. Forty-four of the prisoners already half dead from thirst die in this manner
this day...
But things are still progressing too slowly for the Poles. Which of them would ever
have thought that these Germans would be so tough? Just outside Chodez the
Commandant runs into an officer,
a well-dressed, well-manicured first lieutenant from a Warsaw regiment. He
dismounts his horse for a moment, exchanges cigarettes with the Commandant,
and finally the stranger says, with a tilt of his head: "Why are there still so many
of them? On the entire march here, haven't you even had the time to clean up a
bit among these pigs?"
The Commandant just laughs and squints his eyes. "That's all still to come, don't
worry. I prefer doing it slowly!"
At that, the other laughs as well, and presses his horse on: "That's right, that way
they'll get more out of it too, those damned Hitlerowzi..."
At long last the sun sets, dusk falls. "Just a
bit more patience," a young farmboy among them keeps repeating to himself,
"soon the first dew will fall..."
But even before the dew falls and they can lick it up, they arrive at their day's
destination, the large sugar refinery in Chodez.
![previous page](dpback.gif) ![Table of Contents](dptoc.gif)
Death in Poland
The Fate of the Ethnic Germans
|
|