My dear grandchildren,
I might have skimmed Dad’s story about his first love, but I read with keen interest as he described his summons to the railroad station and his trip to Munzig Labor Camp.
This is the beginning of the tragic journey that I believe defined my father’s life. As you read this, remember that Thomas had just turned sixteen. He entered Munzig labor camp as a naïve teenager, but what would transpire over the next few months would define him as a man.
Thomas writes:
I felt good as I rode my bike home from a private tutoring session with Dr. Piltzer. While in public school, I’d done poorly in math, but now all of a sudden many of the mysteries seemed to fall into place and the cleanliness of mathematics was beginning to leave an impression on me. Anyone could learn the dry formula a2 + b2 = c2, but to follow the simple elegance of Pythagoras’ proof was exciting to me.
“Well, you’ll end up as an engineer yet!” Dr. Piltzer exclaimed when I submitted my assignment, a cross-section drawing of a steam engine. Ever since my older brother had aimed in that direction, the engineering profession had gained a shiny halo for me. Not that I had any particular leaning toward technology, but it had always bothered me that I was less apt than my older brother at anything technical.
Mother had wanted me to become a bridge builder, a romantic, strictly ideological notion, having little to do with structural engineering and much more with building bridges between people and nations. My father visualized me as a Protestant parson somewhere out in the country — an equally romantic and idyllic vision, born out of the daily association with the artist Ludwig Richter -- the good shepherd with staff and dog, contentedly puffing his pipe, sitting on the carved old bench in front of his whitewashed house at sunset. Recognizing the “two souls in my breast,” they may have known me better than I knew myself, but certainly they knew their own unfulfilled dreams.
Ludwig Richter. I heard this name often as I grew up, along with names like Menzel, Winterhalter and Genelli. These were artists in my grandfather’s collection. As we grew up, we were given pieces from Carl’s collection as gifts for milestone events in our lives. For my wedding to Tom Snider in May, 1983, Dad gave us a series of 15 drawings by Ludwig Richter who was one of Carl’s favorite artists.
And what did I want? I wanted to work and live with animals. Years ago, when I was only ten, I had made up my mind that I would become a veterinarian, come what may. I had held on to this dream steadfastly, even as Dr. Piltzer made that flattering comment about my rather amateurish drawing of a steam engine.
As soon as I arrived home and took off my coat and my tie, all thoughts about my future profession were cut short by the realities of the day. A postcard had arrived for me:
YOU ARE HEREBY DIRECTED TO PRESENT
YOURSELF NEXT WEDNESDAY AT 5:00 AM AT THE
MAIN RAILROAD STATION FOR LABOR DUTY.
HEIL HITLER!
(Chemnitz train station in the 1940s.)
At the railroad station, the eastbound train steamed through the first wet snow of winter. It was not until late morning that it became clear to me what the fifty or so men who gathered here had in common. I didn’t recognize any of them. I thought I caught a glimpse of Dr. Piltzer in the crowd, but he disappeared into a different car. The men were of all ages. Some must have been at least 60, and I was younger than most, if not all, of them.
There was much conjecture, much guessing, much fear about where we were going. The officials who accompanied us were not wearing a uniform. There was no hint from them about where we were going. All we knew was that we were headed east. Poland? Russia? What for? For how long? Why?
One man in my small group had the face of a veteran street fighter and the body of a thin and frail old man. The corners of his mouth were turned down into a sneer. He called himself Wagges and spoke more and louder than anyone else. He had a devil-may-care attitude about him that was impressive, but his presence was dangerous for everyone. If this guy doesn’t shut up and quit making those derisive remarks about the Party and the war, we’ll all be in a lot of trouble. Him for saying it, and everybody else for not denouncing him.
At one point, Wagges blurted out: “Ich hab’ ‘nen Webfehler[1] .”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, my old man was one of those dirty Jews.”
“Really? I’m half-Jewish too!”
“Me too, I’m also a Mischling! ”
That, at least, solved part of the mystery, except for poor Horst Reiszmann, a pudgy, somewhat slow young man. “You are all crazy!” he insisted. “I’m German, I’ve got nothing to do with you guys. My Dad is Hungarian, not a Jew!”
“So? It just means you’re a Hungarian Yidd! Look at yourself, you look like a whole ghetto, just like the character on the poster over there.”
Wagges pointed at a poster on the wall of the train, showing a distorted, semitic-looking face behind a door, and the caption “PSST! Feind hört mit![2]”
Horst stared out the window, fighting back tears. Then he borrowed a piece of paper and wrote a letter to his mother, with one burning question.
There was a long wait in Dresden, hours of stomping around on the platform trying to keep warm. War songs and marches blared from the PA system, interrupted only by occasional announcements that war news of the greatest importance could be expected at any minute.
What now? The war had been going badly for Germany. Day and night, the radio and newspaper touted a miraculous Final Victory for the Führer, but many knew that the war was already lost, and had been lost ever since Stalingrad last year. It could only be a matter of months now until total breakdown would become inevitable. No one could talk about it, of course, but many saw it, and even more longed for it.
Peace, just peace, any peace.
When the news finally came, there were no cheers from this group. To us, the news could only mean one thing - more uncertainty, and for a longer time. Germany now had its miracle weapon, advanced rockets that were flying at this very moment across the Channel toward London The V-2[3] was here and the great turn-around of the air war had begun.
Night was falling as we were ordered into two separate cars of a local train, heading north along the Elbe river. Less than an hour had passed when the train stopped again as it had several times before.
“EVERYBODY OUT!”
It was a small rural station without a building and, of course, without lights because of the general total blackout. Through the drizzle, I could make out the chipped paint on the sign:
MUNZIG
(Thank you, Alamy.)
What the hell is Munzig?
We were ordered to form a marching column and moved out into the November night. The landscape had no details, only the trees and bushes along the road.
Thirty minutes. My pack became heavy and the cold drizzle seemed to go right through to my skin. Even the World-War-I gaters Uncle Heinz had bestowed upon me were completely soaked through.
One hour. Everybody was too tired to talk. In front of us we could see the outline of a high fence with the gate open. We were ordered across a wide-open field into an unlit barn.
“Everybody -- find some straw and lie down!”
The straw was wet, the rain was dripping through the roof, and the wind was blowing in from everywhere, but I slept more deeply than I had for many a night.
[1] “I have a weaving defect!”
[2] “Hush! The enemy is listening!”
[3] The “V” designation stood for “Vergeltungswaffe” -- the “weapon of revenge”
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