POW in Siberia

By Ralf Becker

A true story about a German soldier who endured the extreme conditions of the Gulag system in Siberia after the Second World War. These are his recollections and memories, written shortly after his return home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ralf Becker
• Release date: Aug 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476400266

Ralf Becker

Born at 20.May 1956 at Frankfurt a.M. Germany.

Book preview

Ralf Becker

POW

In

Siberia

- The only thing that counts is the will to survive...-

Copyright 2012 Ralf Becker

Published by smashwords.com

* * * * *

That’s it then, I thought as the bearded old Russian on the plank bed next to the cell door called for the nemets [1]. I had been day-dreaming. A little piece of blue sky that shone through our barred cell window on this early spring day of 1947 seemed like a bridge to me. I had quite forgotten the ragged, louse-ridden figures, whose language I didn’t understand and who were crouching with me in the overcrowded, stifling cell of the Minsk NKVD prison[2]. The bridge stretched far away and back home, a home I had last seen in 1944 on leave as a German private.

An interpreter was standing at the cell door: You will be put before the Soviet court martial in the next few days. Do you have any requests?

Can I have a defence lawyer? I ventured to ask.

Yes, you will, he replied without hesitation. And shut the cell door.

I reflected. What could they accuse me of? I hadn’t done anything; hadn’t set fire to any houses; hadn’t killed anyone. Could it be because I’d escaped from the POW camp for the second time? All because I missed Germany?

I never promised I wouldn’t run. Perhaps they objected to the fact that I had broken open a few potato clamps and taken a few spuds on the way? Food theft at most! I had to have something to eat.

The Russians in the cell seemed to guess my thoughts. When you go before war court – good! Only so many years! They held up five fingers.

I asked what five years was in Russian. "Piat let, they answered and grinned. Three days later I was fetched from the cell and taken into a medium-sized room. Sitting at the table in front of me were two officers in NKVD uniform, with an interpreter in civilian clothing to the right. Sit!" they barked. Then followed the usual brief registry of personal details.

All I needed to do was say yes.

What were you in the war? translated the interpreter. I told him I’d been a machine-gunner. How many Russians did you shoot? the officer wanted to know. I hadn’t counted, I said. The interpreter translated. Fascist! remarked the NKVD officer.

I quickly glanced around, but couldn’t see a lawyer anywhere. Where’s my defence lawyer? I asked the interpreter. The three Russians gibbered to each other. Then the interpreter stated:

A defence lawyer was not considered necessary.

Despite the seriousness of my situation, a derisive laugh escaped me. The Russian officer in the middle got angry and reprimanded me.

What did I eat during my escape, the Russians wanted to know. I told them I had taken some bread I had saved out of the camp with me.

And when you had eaten it, who gave you food? Give us the names of all the people that gave you food or lodging! said the Russian.

I soon realised that they were more interested in the people who had helped me than in me. I also knew that one small, thoughtless word could have got a lot of people into a lot of trouble. So I denied having had any help and kept to my story even when the Russians threatened to haul me along the whole escape route and confront me with all the people that lived there.

But then the NKVD officers changed tack: So if nobody helped you, then you must have stolen your food. Is that what you did?

There was nothing for it but to admit the truth that I had occasionally opened a potato clamp and taken a few spuds. I even admitted to killing and eating a dog once, out of sheer hunger. Confessing to theft rather than getting aid didn’t matter anymore; it was going to be a maximum sentence either way.

After a few minutes, the grilling was over. The Russians spoke among themselves for barely a minute. Then I had to stand up. The officer with all the medals on his breast took a slip of paper and read something out in Russian. I didn’t understand. But my ears caught the words: "...piat let..." Five years’ forced labour!

The interpreter translated. Then he asked if I accepted the sentence.

No, I answered simply.

You have the right to send an appeal to Moscow within three days, said the interpreter. And then I was lead away.

We didn’t go back to my old cell, but to the other wing of the big prison – the part reserved for those who had already been sentenced. When the guard had bolted the door behind me, I remained standing at the entrance. My first impression: the stench. Thick, stale air in a large cell with three plank beds, one above the other. A small barred window. A bucket in the corner. And wherever I looked, fully shaven, ragged men.

Some of them grinned at me: "voenniy plennik?" [POW?]

"Da!" [yes]

How long you get? I brought out my latest Russian knowledge and announced: "piat let! General laughter: Oh, malo! [little]. Only later did it become clear to me that five years’ forced labour in the Soviet Union is a soft" punishment.

I looked at my cellmates one by one

Loud Russians. You’ll have to learn Russian! I told myself. Soon I had found a cellmate with whom I could communicate quite well. He spoke German because he had served as a police officer in the Ukraine during the German occupation. He’d got ten years’ forced labour for that. He was to become my interpreter and my source of knowledge regarding Russian prisoner sociology.

No two forced labourers are the same

First there were the normal ones. Quiet people that dumbly surrendered to their fate and caused no harm to anyone. They were comradely and helpful when it came to the little things. Typical ‘nichevo’[3] Russians – not harmful, not dangerous.

Then there were the blatnye [bandits] - usually big, powerful men; brutish and argumentative, and feared by all cellmates. I came across one or more blatnye in almost every cell - they were the kings of the cells and their word was law. If you didn’t listen, you would be beaten mercilessly.

You also found an assortment of shelmas in every cell. They were like hyenas; mostly younger men, brash and cowardly little fellows. They would never dare attack a cellmate openly like the blatnye. But they stole surreptitiously by ripping open the sacks in which their cell mates had stashed away their few belongings. Pickpocketing was the order of the day among the shelmas: they’d thieve anything that wasn’t nailed down. I was