I was one of fifty eventually transferred to Susdal, a small town with a monastery several hundred years old. Its beautiful architecture was in evidence, but since the Revolution it had become dilapidated, uncared for by the present custodians, the buildings now housing the officers of the captured army. This camp was what was called a transit camp. The NKVD, or state police, checked the records of each prisoner from the day he had been captured. If contradictory statements were issued, or doubtful information given, those persons were questioned again and again. I found in this camp higher officers with some scientific background. One of them was the world-famed discoverer of Targesin, and was questioned many times a day before finally being transferred to an unknown location.
It was bitterly cold, with much snow on the ground, when we left Susdal, our destination unknown. The train was headed east. None of us knew what fate had in store for us, though we were still hoping to find a place where conditions would be a little better and where we could perhaps stay until the end of the war, at which time we hoped to be permitted to go home to our families. Home seemed more real to me than during the time I had actually been there. How I would love my family, keep my parents, and help them in their old age! I would do everything—if only I could find them alive. My thoughts were interrupted as the train stopped and we were forced to get off. It was night time, and as soon as we left the train we were counted by the guards, then told the bad news: our destination was Yelabuga, almost thirty miles distant, and we would have to march. It was near to forty degrees below zero, with five feet of snow; we were hungry and thirsty, and so tired that we had could have fallen down and slept. Many of us collapsed, getting up and moving again after a short rest on the ground, and some could not get up at all. We tried very hard to bring each one to his feet again, taking hold of his arm and carrying him so that we would not lose anybody. During the last few miles of our march we saw houses on the horizon, only to find that they were mirages of our exhausted minds. Three miles from Yelabuga I collapsed and felt myself powerless to rise. It was an odd feeling, strangely comfortable, and I wished very much to die. Death due to exposure to cold would appear to be easy to endure. The commandant of Camp Yelabuga knew we were coming and had sent a sleigh to bring the most helpless. I was put in the sleigh along with several others, and after an hour’s ride we arrived at Camp Yelabuga.
As soon as the sleigh arrived at camp, the doctor came to see us. They gave us hot tea and a slice of bread, but I was unable to eat or drink, and the doctor, who was a woman, paid more attention to me. She realized immediately that I was in serious condition and gave me an injection. My surroundings were obliterated as I lay in a pool of darkness and rest. In my drugged state of mind, I thought I saw my mother and sister and talked with them. My heart and soul were always at home.
After a few days I found myself back again in a so-called isolation room. It took me almost three weeks to get on my feet, but I had to stay in the sickroom four more weeks. Upon my release from the sickroom, I realized my new place of confinement was not a bit better than the places where I had previously been held captive. Camp Yelabuga had been the residence of some priests in the era of the czars. Here too the beautiful buildings were in a state of decay. The church was used as a storage house for food and empty boxes, the main building housing more of the prisoners. Plank beds had been built in the rooms, each person having a space of about thirty-five inches. Fifteen hundred men were in this camp, sixty being confined in one room.
In January, 1944, the commandant of this camp issued a bulletin to the effect that the camp had to manage itself. This meant that we had to carry our own wood for the bakeshop, kitchen, laundry, etc., keep the water pumps in working condition, man the electric station and provide all necessities for our daily life. Under the supervision of a captured German officer, who was called the camp-leader, different labor groups were set up, some working in the kitchen, others in the bakeshop, in the laundry, on the water pumps, electric station, and ambulance. All of these groups found the work difficult, but the hardest work was carrying the wood for the entire camp. Early in the morning this group marched out, coming back at night with the wagon loaded with wood. They had to pull the wagon themselves, since no horses were provided, and in wintertime sleighs were used in place of the wagon. For this work in the wood brigade the men got four ounces more of bread and a thicker soup, extra food coming from the rations of the other men, rather than from an increase in food delivered to the camp. The result was that the soup for the rest of us was much more watery that it had been. All of us tried very hard to go only once with the wood brigade, in order that the thicker soup might be evenly apportioned among us all. The strain to our bodies meant nothing to us: it was important only that we fill up once in a while.
In the meantime America had made an agreement with Russia to help the Russian population and the prisoners of war. When the provisions of this pact began to be carried out, we felt a little more secure; more drugs were available and the mortality rate dropped, due in part to the fact that the prisoners were becoming better adjusted to this kind of life. The daily ration was still the same, but at least we could count on getting it, which had not always been the case heretofore. Each prisoner was given a daily minimum of six hundred grams of dark rye bread, which contained 60 per cent water, ten grams of flour or peas or potatoes, ten grams of oil or fish, and ten grams of sugar. In comparison, one ounce is equivalent to twenty-eight grams. I had been in Yelabuga almost three years, but it was still only 1944, and every day and month seemed an eternity. Most nerve-racking of all, we had to listen to the news over the radio; the polit commissar turned on the radio so that we could hear how the Russian Army was repelling the German Army and that Germany would soon be the battlefield. We still had hopes that the war would be over soon and that we could go home. In December, 1944, German towns were mentioned for the first time in the news, and we sat listening while our hopes of ever seeing our relatives again died within us. We were still thousands of miles away from home in 1945, and the Russian Army was in Germany, with thousands of people fleeing from East Prussia while we remained captive in Russia, starving and waiting to return to our homes. Our thoughts on New Year’s Eve, 1944, were of home, and we were praying and hoping for a happy 1945.
In February, 1945, the name of my hometown was mentioned in the news; the town, according to the newscast, was virtually razed after a fierce battle. I sat on my bed and cried, feeling an emptiness inside me and knowing that I would never see my parents again. But my faith was stronger than my emotions, and I persisted in the hope that there would someday be a reunion of all of us. After all these years in prison we found ourselves unable to believe one word the Russians were saying. Our only hope—that America and the free world would ask for release of all prisoners of war—gave us the courage to remain alive. The end of the war, in May, 1945, was a relief for all people on earth. The Russians devoted eight days to celebrating their victory over Nazi Germany. We prisoners thanked the Lord that we were alive, skeletons though we were, hoping still for the chance to return someday and build a new life. Would this be soon, we wondered—or how much longer would we have to stay? Could we carry on much longer under these terrible circumstances?