And then the commissars began their work among them, subtly and cunningly. They didn’t beat anyone, no. They influenced them in a far more artful way, making an appearance in the barracks and offering a doubling of portions to everyone, who wanted to come to a political meeting on Sunday and hear the commissar talk. An enterprise that was quite successful; the barracks that served as a meeting hall was stuffed with men who stared at the podium with starved eyes. For an extra ration, they didn’t mind listening to some communist propaganda for a couple of hours.
Then, the psychological warfare got worse. We’re looking to fill positions in the new kitchen. Our soldiers won’t be in charge anymore; you’ll be cooking for yourselves. Former members of the German Communist Party step forward, please. Johann watched in stupefaction when several men strode forward with resolution.
“That’s Müller,” Johann heard one of his fellow inmates mutter. “He was in the SS!”
“And that’s our Gruber,” another voice chimed in, as confused as the first one. “He was the biggest Nazi around.”
But none of it mattered to the commissars, as long as those former SS men “embraced” the new Soviet ideology and began parroting their doctrines to their former comrades while measuring watery soup into their respective bowls. Those “kitchen communists” began growing nice and fat fairly quickly while the others were working outside and dying in their tens. All this was making less and less sense to Johann, who was much too honest to know what was good for him and was also growing gaunter and weaker simply because he couldn’t bring himself to repeat the words in which he didn’t believe, just like he’d refused to do back in Germany. It was all wrong, the National Socialism, the Communism and so very strikingly similar at the same time. Well, with one difference; here, the prisoners weren’t beaten because the Soviet people had some strange morals on that account. It’s not right, beating someone who’s already down, such was their new ideology. During the war, such moralistic trifles didn’t seem to bother them, Johann thought to himself gloomily.
And then the news came; transfer. Nothing else could be pried out of the commandant who had put the paper in front of Johann and moved a pen toward him.
“Sign it.”
“It’s in Russian. I don’t understand what it says.”
“It says that you’re agreeing to be transferred to a better camp.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Johann signed the paper. After all, there couldn’t have been possibly a worse camp after this swampland, could there?
It was about fifty of them on the train◦– all officers◦– and this time they were moving westward and this already cheered them up. When they spilled onto the platform, hollow-eyed and depleted, they were taken into what indeed appeared to be a palace compared to their previous place of confinement.
“Welcome to Camp 5093!” A camp commandant received them personally, a cane in hand, strangely resembling an SS officer in his jodhpurs and tall, shiny boots. “An officers’ paradise.”
It was, for a few days at least. Johann was given an “office job,” which was typing the reports for the camp’s accountant, a young man in round glasses who hardly spoke two words with him except for actual work matters. He was a former accountant in a concentration camp, prior to his superiors shipping him off to the front during the last months of the war, it turned out. In response to Johann’s astonished look as to how he was still alive, Klein only shrugged with wonderful nonchalance. “They wanted an accountant more than they wanted to execute another Nazi. And I have a lot of experience.”
Johann stopped asking questions right after that. He suddenly had nothing else to talk to the fellow about.
The camp consisted of two parts, separated with a stream in which the POWs were allowed to swim whenever they wanted. Carrying his books from the accountant’s office to the Kommandatura, he still couldn’t believe that there was a soccer field and a field for gymnastics, with a volleyball net, stretched between two poles; that there was a barrack which housed a movie theater and another one with a concert hall. But as soon as he started inquiring about all those places, the response that he got suddenly made a lot of sense.
“Those are all for the Party members, sonny. The League of German Officers and National Committee Freies Deutschland,” an elderly man with a weary look in his eyes and a head full of gray hair, replied. “Indulge all you like; just hand them over your dignity first.”
The elderly man was a former General, Johann learned in a few days. A former General and a “fascist.” The man was never in the Nazi Party, to begin with, but just like Johann, he disagreed to submit to yet another totalitarian regime which was no better than the previous one, in his eyes. An agitator. Not at all like the good, old “communists” from the former SS who lounged in the sun and exchanged jokes with the guards like good, old friends.
Another perk that those “good, old friends” enjoyed, were the parcels and letters they were getting weekly from the same guards. Each of Johann’s requests to send a letter to his wife and let her know that he was alive, at least, was met with stony silence.
“If you would like to complain about that, why don’t you go to the commandant himself,” one of the guards finally offered. “He’s an agreeable fellow; surely, you can work something out with him.”
The camp commandant received him with a broad smile on his face as though he’d been expecting him any time soon. Next to him, stood a man in a neatly cleaned and pressed German uniform, beaming as well, familiar and confusing at the same time.
“Rudi?” Johann started, uncomprehending and perplexed.
With a glance in the commandant’s direction◦– May I?◦– Wiedmeyer walked around the table and scooped Johann in a bear hug, almost lifting him off his feet. It wasn’t a particularly difficult task; Johann weighed barely sixty kilograms, unlike his former comrade, who looked as strong as a bear. He said something to the commandant, all the while grinning from ear to ear and pointing at Johann while babbling in Russian with great enthusiasm.
“I’ll be your interpreter today.” He turned to Johann again. “Comrade Commandant says, he’s delighted that you finally came to your senses and decided to speak to him. They’re grand fellows, the NKVD; I tell you! I’ve been with them since 1943 and look at me now◦– promoted to Camp Senior, just recently. As soon as they captured me, I thought the end of me had come. But what do you know? No one laid a finger on me. Not once. No one forced me into anything. They offered me kindly to work for them if I didn’t fancy going to the Vorkuta◦– who does, after all?◦– and so, it’s been two years now and I couldn’t be happier that I didn’t shoot myself that day when my Stuka saw her last. The propaganda, pure propaganda they were feeding us this entire time! The Soviet people and the NKVD are grand fellows!”
Johann stared at him in disbelief. Who was this man, who was just as unashamedly praising the Soviets as he was bashing them when he last saw him? What have they done to him, these commissars who never hit anyone and only smile mysteriously, getting into people’s minds better than some Gestapo butchers? It couldn’t have been lies, either; they even left him his wristwatch◦– he recognized the Luftwaffe signature glowing face of it◦– and the Knight’s Cross was still attached to his uniform, along with the rest of his insignia.