One of them was Willi Jelinek who came from Stockerau. At the end of the 1920s and beginning of the 1930s, as ‘companion’ to elderly rich Vienna Jewesses, he had spent some time on the Riviera. He had then taken himself to the ‘Workers’ Paradise’, from where, after a few years, he returned disillusioned. He made no secret of how disappointing his time in Russia had been. The other man was the Viennese Reservehauptmann from the Luftwaffe, Alfred Tunzer. Taken prisoner by the Russians during the First World War, he had learned Russian. On his way home he had got caught up in Moscow, and had lived there until the 1930s, working in the ‘Many Peoples Publishing House’ of the USSR. He spoke excellent Russian. But because of that, and because of what he had done in his life, he was, in his own words, an object of suspicion. He was often taken to night-time hearings and was actually held back when we others came to be released. Tunzer had to remain in captivity until 1949. I chanced to meet him after 1950 when I was studying in Vienna. Characteristically he did not say much about how things had gone with him. In 1947, in the camp, he had suffered from painful facial erysipelas. His whole attitude, and the expression on his face, gave away the fact that life had given him a bad deal. Fate had not looked kindly upon him.
For almost a year, as a member of work detail 3, I worked in the camp library. In the circumstances that work had been a stroke of luck for me. I always had something to do. Many books from the abandoned houses in Insterburg came into the library. To recognise National Socialist literature was not difficult. Whether my work was in line with the censorship measures that had been ordered, I must most conveniently doubt. It was not only that I knew too little of the Marxist class struggle, but in the field of literature, and above all of belles-lettres, I was not sure enough of myself to be able to judge whether a book would be ‘acceptable’ in the context of the class struggle. Of course I kept Die Barrings and Der Enkel. I owed that to the spirit of Georgenburg – but not in the sense Karl Marx meant!
The library was located in the single-storey house beside the offices of the camp leadership. The bookbinder there always had plenty to do because the books were subjected to a great deal of wear and tear. He was the former Feldwebel Hans Adam. Slowly and deliberately he carried out his work, and made the best of the scanty possibilities for his beautiful handiwork. He had cardboard and glue, together with some presses and clamps. He did not need anything else.
In the autumn of 1946 the camp pulled off a great achievement. They got hold of a X-ray machine, which made it possible to X-ray the sick men. It was an old model, and of course was not able to produce photographs. The doctors in the camp were Dr Eitner and another with a thin face, glasses and dark hair, whose name I have forgotten. The two of them used the machine to prepare drawings of the chest cavity and hand those out to their patients. The inflammation to my ribs and the linings of my lungs, that I had suffered as a result of my wounds during the previous winter, were set down on the drawing. Because of the massive lesions in the lining of my ribs, the doctor had sketched the lower halves of both my lungs. That made a great impression at the frequent examinations under the supervision of Russian medical officers and assistants. Thus, doubtless because of my condition, I continued to be excused from heavy work.
At about the same time, the infectious diseases hospital was closed. Until then it had been used in Insterburg. The remaining personnel joined us in the camp. Among them, were the surgeons Dr Walter and Dr Drechsler, the pathologist Dr Schreiber, and a certain Dr Kindler. However, they were not employed as doctors any longer, as there was obviously no need for them. With the exception of Dr Kindler, I came across those doctors again, while I was studying in Vienna. Another man who had arrived from the infectious diseases hospital was the pharmacist Wilhelm Cellbrot. He became a close comrade and friend, and has remained so to this day. I will be speaking of him again. From Dr Fritz Walter I learnt that he was one of the many pupils of the surgeon Eiselsberg.
I must add that the doctor who had X-rayed me ordered me not to expose myself to the sun. His advice clearly indicated that I had contracted tuberculosis. At that time tuberculosis was still a disease that was feared, and was often fatal. I was shocked. But that was mitigated by the fact that I was not running a fever, and did not have to go into the Tuberer barracks. Thus I could evidently consider myself to be cured.
Uncertainty about what was going to happen to us was characteristic of our time as prisoners of the Russians. It lasted from the first day almost to the last day. It was gradually alleviated, but never quite eliminated. A great relief, and a great step towards certainty and towards the hope that we might some day be able to go home again, was the fact that in June 1946 we were allowed to write to our relatives. For many men that raised the question as to whether their relatives were still alive.
I too was uncertain. Both Rudi and I had urged Mother, if the front was getting closer and there was real danger of being occupied by the Russians, to flee to the West in time. To whom and where, was I to write? My feelings for Gisela had cooled. In the light of what we had heard about the political situation in eastern Germany, and since the last time I heard of her she was in the labour service in Saxony, it seemed pointless to send post to her. Therefore I addressed the postcards that were handed out to us to my mother. I sent them to our home address in Stockerau, and to Aunt Ilse Steinbach in Vienna.
The first news that my relatives received was the postcard sent to Aunt Ilse on 27 June. She received it on 21 September, nearly three months later. She immediately sent it to my parents. But it was to take until January 1947 until the first reply arrived. On 20 January the first prisoner of war postcard from my Mother reached me. She had written it on 20 October 1946. The postcards were in Cyrillic characters, that is, in the Russian language, and each was subtitled in French. The name and the address of the recipient had to be printed in Latin characters. A Red Cross worker, who knew the language, added names and addresses in Russian. The large heading referred to the organisation of the Red Cross, and the Red Crescent in the USSR. My address as a prisoner of war was Moskau UdSSR, Rotes Kreuz, Postfach 445.
The news that post was coming had already been rumoured for weeks. Waiting for the first post, for half a year and more, was agonising. Who would receive post? Would it be good news? When the time came and I recognised my dear Mother’s handwriting, I was glad. But I gathered that news from my father had been sent previously.
We thank God that you are still alive and well. We long for you to return home soon. Löhners, Richards and Aunt Lotte in Dresden have lost everything. Löhners are now living in Aachen with friends, but things are not going well for them. Gisela Pittler is living in Oberlind and has asked after you. Things are going really well for us here, even if our flat is small. Today Father had a lot to do and is very tired. Heartfelt greetings from us three! Your Mother.
To my great surprise the address from which the card had been sent was Braunau am Inn, in Upper Austria, Linzerstrasse 41. But what really disturbed me was the fact that Mother wrote nothing about Rudi. I immediately had the ominous suspicion that he was no longer alive. My suspicion was confirmed six days later when I received Father’s first card, undated. He wrote that they had not received the news I had written to Stockerau, but only that which I had sent to Aunt Ilse. The one and only piece of news that they had had from me was the slip of paper which I had given to my fellow Stockerauer Franz Heinz and which the family had received with great joy on Christmas Eve 1945. Then came the shattering news.