Letters and Papers From Prison (36 page)

The first night in my cell I could not sleep much, because in the next cell a prisoner wept loudly for several hours on end; no one took any notice. I thought at the time that that kind of thing would happen every night, but in all the months since then it has only been repeated once. In those first days of complete isolation I could see nothing of how things were run in the building; I could only picture what was going on from the incessant shouting of the warders. My basic impression, which is still unchanged, was that anyone detained for investigation was at once treated as a criminal, and that in practice it was impossible for a prisoner who was treated unjustly to get redress. Later I more than once heard conversations in which warders said quite bluntly that if a prisoner complained of unjust treatment, or of being struck (which is strictly forbidden), the authorities would never believe the prisoner, but always the warder, especially as the latter could be sure of finding a colleague who would testify for him on oath. I have, in fact, known of cases where this evil practice was followed.

After twelve days the authorities got to know of my family connections.
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While this was a great relief to me personally, it was most embarrassing to see how everything changed from that moment. I was put into a more spacious cell, which one of the men cleaned every day for me; I was offered larger rations, which I always refused, as they would have been at the expense of the other prisoners; the captain fetched me for a daily walk, with the result that the staff treated me with studied politeness - in fact, several of them came to apologize: ‘We didn’t know’, etc. It was painful.

General treatment:
The tone is set by those warders who behave in the most evil and brutal way towards the prisoners. The whole building resounds with vile and insulting abuse, so that the quieter and more fair-minded warders, too, are nauseated by it, but they can hardly exercise any influence. During months of detention
for investigation, prisoners who are later acquitted have to suffer abuse like criminals, and are absolutely defenceless, since their right to complain exists only in theory. Private means, cigarettes, and promises for later on play an important part. The little man with no connections, etc., has to submit to everything. The same people who rant and rage at the other prisoners show a servile politeness towards me. Attempts to have a quiet word with them about the treatment of all the other prisoners fail because, although they admit everything at the time, they are just as bad as ever an hour later. I must not omit to say that a number of the warders are even-tempered, matter-of-fact, and as far as possible, friendly towards the prisoners; but they mostly remain in subordinate posts.

Food:
Prisoners cannot avoid the impression that they do not receive in full the rations due to them. There is often not the slightest trace of the meat that is alleged to be included in the soup. Bread and sausage are divided very unequally. I weighed one sausage ration myself; it was 15 grammes instead of 25. NCOs and others working in the kitchen have plenty of unhappy impressions and observations about this. With 700 prisoners to be fed, even the smallest inaccuracy makes a big difference. I know for a fact that when the doctors or officers inspect the prisoners’ food, a nourishing sauce made of meat or cream is added to the plates concerned; and so it is not surprising that the prisoners’ food has a high reputation. I also know that the meat intended for the prisoners has all the goodness boiled out of it first in the cauldrons where the staff’s food is cooked, and so on. An occasional comparison between the prisoners’ food and the staff’s is simply staggering. On Sundays and holidays the food is not examined, and the midday meal is beneath all criticism; it consists of cabbage soup made with water and with no fat, meat, or potatoes at all. It seems to me beyond doubt that the food provided is quite inadequate for young people detained for any length of time. No records are kept of the prisoners’ weight. Although these prisoners are only being held for investigation, and are, moreover, soldiers, some of whom are sent straight back to their units when they are released, they are told that they are strictly forbidden, on pain of severe punishment, to receive food parcels.
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No articles of food are allowed in—
not even the eggs and sandwiches that the prisoners’ relatives bring them on visiting days. This causes great bitterness among the prisoners and their visitors. Military police who deliver the prisoners are looked after - against standing orders - in the kitchen.

Occupation:
By far the greater part of the prisoners detained for investigation spend the day without any work, although most of them ask for work. They receive three books a week from a very mediocre library. Games of every kind, such as chess, are forbidden, even in the communal cells, and if any of the prisoners have managed to make themselves one, it is taken away from them and they are punished. There are no projects for work that would be useful for all the 700 prisoners, such as, for instance, the construction of air-raid shelters. There are no religious services. The prisoners, some of whom are very young (they include anti-aircraft auxiliaries) are bound to suffer in body and soul from the lack of occupation and of supervision, particularly during a long, solitary confinement.

Lighting:
During the winter months the prisoners often had to sit in the dark for several hours because the staff were too lazy to switch on the cell lights. When the prisoners, who have a right to lighting in their cells, put out their flags or knocked to get attention, the staff would shout angrily at them, and the light would not be switched on till the next day. The prisoners are not allowed to lie on their beds before the Last Post, so that they had to spend the hours before that sitting in the dark. That is very depressing, and only causes bitterness.

Air-raid warnings:
There are no air-raid shelters for the prisoners. With all the labour available here, it would have been quite easy to provide these in good time. A dug-out has been built, but only for the authorities; apart from that, all that happens is that the prisoners on the top floor are locked in with the others in the ground-floor cells. When I asked why the prisoners in the second-floor cells were not moved down to the first floor, I was told that it would make too much work. There is no first-aid shelter. When the sick-bay was put out of action during a heavy attack, they could not start to bandage the injured till after it was over. No one
who has experienced it will ever forget the shouting and screaming of the locked-up prisoners during a heavy air raid - some of them are here because of trifling offences, or are actually innocent. Seven hundred soldiers are exposed here to the dangers of a bombing attack with no protection.

Miscellaneous:
The only way in which a prisoner can communicate with the staff in case of urgency is by putting out the flag. This is often ignored for hours, or perhaps a passing warder simply pushes it back without finding out what the prisoner wants. If the prisoner then knocks on the door, he gets a volley of abuse. If he reports sick outside the regulation hours, he inconveniences the staff, and is therefore in most cases angrily shouted at; it is only with great difficulty that he manages to gain access to the sick-bay. I have twice known prisoners to be kicked into it; one of them had acute appendicitis and had to be taken to the military hospital at once, and the other was suffering from prolonged hysterical convulsions.—All those who are detained for investigation, even for the most minor offences, appear in chains at their interrogation and trial. This is a great humiliation for a soldier in uniform, and makes the interrogation a more severe ordeal for him.—The men who empty the buckets and bring round the food receive the same small amount of soap for washing as the ordinary prisoners, and even for the latter it is hardly enough.

Lance-Corporal Berg

With a smug and self-satisfied smile, Sergeant-Major Meier takes delivery of a green parcel and hides it away in his brief-case, which he then carefully puts away in his desk. Then he puts on his official face and asks: ‘… and your heart-trouble, Müller?’ Müller springs to attention and stutters: ‘Sergeant-Major, my wife…’ ‘I’m asking about your heart trouble, Müller. It’s – no better? worse?’ ‘Yes, Sergeant-Major, worse, decidedly worse,’ asserts Müller quickly and in a rather flustered way. ‘But, Müller, perhaps in three months …?’ ‘Yes, Sergeant-Major, of course, certainly, that is, perhaps, yes, perhaps, Sergeant-Major, in three months. Three months is a long …’ He breaks off. Müller follows with curious glances the movements of the Sergeant-Major, who takes out a list, makes a brief note after one name and puts the list back in the file. Lance-corporal Müller takes a deep breath. He wants to say thank you, but feels that this is not permissible. ‘That’s good, Müller, you can go,’ says the Sergeant-Major with dignity. Just as Müller has the door-knob in his hand, the Sergeant-Major says almost in passing, without looking at Müller: ‘… and, Müller, you won’t forget…!’ ‘But, Sergeant-Major…’ Müller makes a bow, as though he were standing behind the counter in a shop. Compulsively smiling and bowing again, he goes out.

The telephone rings. ‘Wehrmacht Interrogation Prison here, Sergeant-Major Meier speaking - who’s there? – I can’t hear – ah, Major!’ Meier comes to attention, his face fixed as a deferential, smiling mask. ‘Pardon me, Major, I had not… about a posting?’ Meier’s voice goes husky. ‘Ah, I understand, Major, you want to post a man to us.’ Meier’s voice is quite clear again. ‘Of course, Major, naturally, we have a place here – excellent man – comes from the front - badly wounded - quite capable of duty – understanding treatment – comradely handling – but of course, Major - tremendous comradeship here - of course - the man can come immediately - pardon - understanding treatment? But Major, that goes without
saying – fighter at the front – thank you, Major.’ He bows, laughs. ‘Your obedient servant, Major - the Major can rely on me completely – yours to command, Major.’ Meier puts down the receiver quickly and in some disquiet. A new man? I cannot use him. A front-line fighter? These people often introduce such an unattractive tone – they don’t fit here - they see everything differently from us - yes, if one had been out there oneself - yes, perhaps not completely fit for duty - badly wounded? Understanding treatment? Comradeship? The same question twice? Meier hesitates, shakes his head. ‘No, in the end I have to make the decisions here,’ he murmurs to himself complacently. He reaches for the key of the desk and is just about to open the closed packet when there is a knock at the door. The packet vanishes again immediately. Vexed, Meier calls, ‘Come in!’

The duty sergeant enters, pushing before him a soldier with handcuffs and chains on his legs, so that he stumbles into the office. ‘Today’s intake, Sergeant-Major. Deserter. Cell 127.’ The prisoner looks round in confusion. He seems overcome with weariness and looks hungry. ‘Would you mind taking up a military attitude, you tramp,’ roars the Sergeant-Major. ‘Have you never seen a parade ground?’ The prisoner pulls himself together. ‘How old?’ ‘Eighteen years, Sergeant-Major.’ ‘Occupation?’ ‘School-leaver, Sergeant-Major.’ ‘Where from?’ ‘The front, Sergeant-Major.’ ‘From the front, you swine? Do you know what the consequences of that are?’ ‘Yes, Sergeant-Major.’ A slight tremor goes through his body. ‘From the front, you cowardly lump? So you’re leaving your comrades in the lurch? You’re undermining discipline and order? You want to put your personal satisfaction first in the middle of a war? You stuff yourself full and go around with whores while every decent man is sacrificing his blood and his life for the fatherland? You’d run after anything with a skirt on?’ ‘No, Sergeant-Major.’ ‘No, you say? Are you a liar as well, you guttersnipe? Why did you desert?’ ‘I don’t know, Sergeant-Major. It just happened.’ ‘You don’t know? It just happened? Don’t you know that the German has a will with which he can overcome the swine within himself? It just happened That’s a new one!’ The room shakes with the roaring and laughing of the Sergeant-
Major. ‘You don’t know why you pulled out? Well, I’ll tell you. I know. Because you’re a miserable piece of scum, who trembles at every shot and who will now get the shot that he deserves on the sand-bags. How many hours were you up at the front, then, you mother’s son, you cut above the rest, you school-leaver, you?’ ‘All the winter, Sergeant-Major.’ ‘Where?’ ‘In Russia.’ ‘All the winter? Why were you called up, then?’ ‘I volunteered a year ago, Sergeant-Major.’ ‘… to hang about out there? Did you ever see a Russian?’ ‘I have the Iron Cross, class I, Sergeant-Major.’ The gaze of the young prisoner involuntarily shifts to the left breast of the Sergeant-Major, which displays only the unspotted, well-pressed, green cloth of a new uniform. Then he looks the Sergeant-Major straight in the face and is amazed that he looks so strikingly young, healthy and well-fed. The Sergeant-Major senses this and becomes uncomfortable. ‘The Iron Cross, class I?’, he blusters. ‘Then why aren’t you wearing it?’ The Sergeant-Major looks with contempt at the faded, torn uniform of the prisoner. ‘I took it off myself after I was arrested.’ ‘Iron Cross class I? Took it off yourself?’ The Sergeant-Major roars with laughter. The sergeant intervenes: ‘Sergeant-Major, the Iron Cross class I is entered in his paybook.’ ‘In his paybook? You fool,’ screams the Sergeant-Major, beside himself. ‘Don’t you know that these jokers forge their paybooks, too? Serious falsification of documents. That, too. You wait, my boy, we’ll show you.’ The prisoner is silent. He looks dreadfully tired and tormented, but his flickering eyes bore deep into the smug face of the Sergeant-Major. ‘Where were you arrested?’ ‘I don’t know, Sergeant-Major. I was lying unconscious in the snow.’ ‘How long were you on the way?’ ‘About twelve hours; then I couldn’t do any more.’ ‘Where did you want to go?’ ‘I don’t know. Only away from the front. I simply ran away. I was out of my senses. The others had all run away too.’ ‘Then how did those who found you know that you were a deserter?’ ‘Because I told them.’ ‘Why did you do that, you idiot? Why didn’t you say that your unit was on the retreat?’ ‘Because I had left the post in which I had been placed without orders. Anyone who runs away from the front is cowardly in the face of the enemy and a deserter.’ The Sergeant-Major is taken aback. ‘What is your father?’ ‘An officer.’ The
Sergeant-Major gives the sergeant a sly glance. ‘Take the prisoner back to his cell.’ The chains clank as the prisoner comes to attention. The door closes.