Four Years of Nazi Torture

By Ernst Winkler

Ernst Winkler, a soldier and pilot under the Weimar Republic, resigned when Hitler came into power and accepted a position as one of the leaders of the Catholic Youth Movement. In 1934, he was arrested by the Gestapo when he refused army service because, as a devout Catholic, he opposed the Nazis, and subjected to a series of concentration camps and all manner of physical brutalities.

On his return to his family in 1938, Winkler found them divided, his brothers Nazified. He left home and became part of the underground movement, broadcasting from mobile Freedom stations. Eventually, he was forced to escape to Switzerland, then over to France, and from France into Spain; his wife followed, and they reached their final destination by steamer: the United States.

Four Years of Nazi Torture, which was first published during World War II in 1942, is author Ernst Winkler’s gruelling personal account of punishment without crime under the Nazi regime.

“A terrible story—simply told”—Kirkus Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Borodino Books
• Release date: Dec 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781789126099

Ernst Winkler

Ernst Winkler (pseud.) was a devout Catholic and a former officer of the German Luftwaffe who escaped Nazi terror and moved to New York in October 1941. Once safe in America, he spent the following years speaking out at various gatherings, from colleges to town meetings to executive clubs—to deliver the true message of what was taking place in Germany.

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Text originally published in 1942 under the same title.

© Borodino Books 2018, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

FOUR YEARS OF NAZI TORTURE

BY

ERNST WINKLER

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT 4

Illustrations 6

Chapter One 7

Chapter Two 11

Chapter Three 15

Chapter Four 20

Chapter Five 25

Chapter Six 27

Chapter Seven 32

Chapter Eight 41

Chapter Nine 46

Chapter Ten 53

Chapter Eleven 60

Chapter Twelve 67

Chapter Thirteen 75

Chapter Fourteen 87

Chapter Fifteen 96

Epilogue 101

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 105

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

I want to express my gratitude to the editors of The American Magazine for allowing me to publish in this book those sections of my autobiography which originally appeared in its pages; and to the American people for providing my family with a refuge from Nazi oppression. To protect my friends and relatives still living in Germany, I have been obliged to change several names of persons and places. May the day soon come when such anonymity will no longer be necessary!

ERNST WINKLER

To conceal his true identity, the author has adopted a false name. His pseudonym of Ernst Winkler is purely fictitious, and no reference or allusion to any person by that or any similar name is intended. Likewise, except for prominent personalities in political, religious, military and economic life, all characters appearing in this book have been given fictitious names, and no reference or allusion to any living persons by those or similar names is intended.

The world is too small to provide adequate living space for both Hitler and God

—FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT

Message to Congress, January 6, 1942

Illustrations

The author, his wife, and daughter in their New York apartment

Storm troopers mopping up after a street fight in Munich

Moabit Prison

Prisoners stare out of the windows of their cells at the concentration camp, Oranienburg

Nazi officials inspect newly arrived prisoners at Dachau

Prisoners at Dachau, most notorious of all German concentration camps

Cardinal Faulhaber

Letter from Sir Samuel Hoare

Chapter One

They came for me at four o’clock in the morning, an hour when men of good conscience are asleep.

When I heard them hammering at the front door, I sat bolt upright in bed, every nerve taut.

Who’s there? my father shouted.

The laconic answer set my heart thumping.

"Gestapo."

I leaped to the window. Our whole front yard, like some unearthly stage, was ablaze with lights. In both directions, as far as I could see, stretched a cordon of Storm Troopers, their leaders barking crisp orders.

Escape was unthinkable.

Strangely, this wasn’t a moment of terror, but rather of tension, almost of exhilaration. Now that the suspense was over, I seemed suddenly endowed with extrasensory capacities that enabled me to survey my crisis almost dispassionately.

My mind worked like lightning. The evidence against me lay in a corner drawer of my desk. It was the list of members of our Catholic Youth Movement. Months before, the Nazis had declared our organization illegal and branded us all as traitors to the German people. But we had carried on the fight under ground.

I was the local leader—hence this visit at the zero hour. The Gestapo generally chooses to whisk away its victims with a minimum of disturbance to the neighbors. They simply wake up in the morning and find that Paul or Ernst or Maria has disappeared, no one knows exactly where—until the relatives receive a curt note from the authorities, or perhaps a pathetically small box filled with ashes....

I seized the list and glanced around the room for a hiding-place. Bureau, bookcase, bed—no, they’d be sure to search them all. Finally my eyes lit on a half-empty tea-pot on my desk. I slipped it inside, replaced the top, breathed a prayer.

Now there was nothing to do but wait for the inevitable knock on my door. When it came, a few seconds later, I opened promptly. Outside stood my father and mother, both in bathrobes, accompanied by four Storm Troopers in black uniforms and glistening boots.

A man in civilian clothes shouldered his way into the room. I recognized him instantly—Aloys Lange, a thin-faced Bavarian agent of the Gestapo who had been sent into our province some time before to clean out treasonable elements. He smelled faintly of stale beer, and his jaw was covered with a fine gray stubble.

Herr Ernst Winkler?

Yes, what do you want?

Lange smiled apologetically. It’s really nothing at all, he said smoothly. Nothing at all. We’ve been ordered to search the house, but you can save us the trouble.

How? I asked.

By just handing over your list of members and your weapons.

This was the moment I had been steeling myself for. My own calmness amazed me. I don’t believe there was a quaver in my voice as I replied:

"If you are talking about the Catholic Youth Movement, I can’t give you any list. You know that we were ordered to disband long ago. As for weapons, I don’t know what you mean. The only weapons I have are the sword and revolver that I was allowed to keep after my service as an officer in the Reichswehr."

As you wish, Lange shrugged. You understand, of course, that you must bear the consequences of your refusal. Where are your Army weapons?

You will find the sword in my bureau, and the revolver and ammunition in my desk.

Lange nodded to one of the Storm Troopers, who found the weapons and took them out of the room. Once more, he said, evenly, "I request you in the name of the Führer to hand over the list and the hidden weapons."

I have none.

He turned on his heel and ordered my father and mother to leave the room. My mother left quietly, but I noticed that the corners of her mouth were trembling. When my father protested that he had a natural desire to be present if his son were to be questioned, or his home to be searched, he was unceremoniously shoved out into the hall. He was, I might add, seventy-one years old at the time, had served Germany on the Western Front throughout the World War, and retired afterwards with the rank of Major-General.

When the door was shut, Lange seated himself languidly at my desk. Now, my young friend, we’ll get down to business. I’ll give you just three minutes to hand over that list of black swine.

(In Nazi nomenclature, Catholics are black swine, in contrast to the Communists, who are red swine.)

If you don’t turn it over, along with your weapons, he continued, we’ll find them anyway, and then what will happen to you will make your worst nightmare seem delightful by comparison. Besides, if we don’t find them, you’ll have plenty of time to remember where you hid them while you’re rotting in a concentration camp.

After this comparatively lengthy speech, he pulled out his watch and laid it on my desk. Remember, three minutes. I was silent. Every word was a waste of energy. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match on the floor. I watched him and tried to keep from trembling. When the three minutes were up, he slipped the watch back in his pocket, crushed out his cigarette, stepped calmly toward me, and swung.

That first blow landed squarely on my mouth.

Now will you talk, you black swine? His voice was shrill with excitement.

My head reeled. The blood tasted warm and sweet in my mouth. In that instant, I couldn’t have talked if I had wanted to. I prayed for courage and shook my head. Lange’s lips curled contemptuously as he turned to the Storm Troopers.

Soften him up a bit, boys. I don’t think it’ll take long.

They went to work with their fists, impersonally, methodically. Blows rained on me right and left, before and behind. I sank to the floor, but they yanked me to my feet. Blood poured over my chin, and every nerve in my face was electric with agony. Two, three, four, five minutes passed. Then one of the Storm Troopers whirled me around facing the wall. You’ll stand there until you collapse.

Lange pressed a pistol against the back of my neck. If you don’t start using that damned mouth of yours, I’ll send one bullet after another into your damned spine.

From somewhere I summoned a voice to reply: I have no weapons, no list.

A blow from behind, and my forehead crashed sickeningly against the wall. Guess he wants more persuading, Lange said. Again the Storm Troopers went to work, but this time they used whips as well as fists. The blood seeped through my pajamas and dripped to the floor. When I fell, nobody bothered to pick me up, but the whips lashed at me unceasingly—legs, buttocks, back, head. Each blow cut my skin like a dozen razor-blades; each pause was an agony of suspense....

Just before I fainted, I heard my father shouting, hammering on my door.

It was nine o’clock in the morning when the world swam into focus again. A gigantic pair of boots towered above my head. The Storm Trooper hadn’t quit his post. My father stood facing the wall, his hands above his head, his hair matted with blood. It wasn’t until years later that I learned what had happened to him. Lange had opened the door for him. When he saw me lying prostrate on the floor, he had thrown himself on me, trying to protect me from the whips. But the Storm Troopers had disposed of him with a couple of lashes across his skull.

Dimly, I saw that my room looked as if a cyclone had struck. The bed had been ripped apart, pictures and framed diplomas torn from the walls, most of the wallpaper pulled off and the plaster exposed. Desk and bureau drawers had been yanked out, their contents strewn on the floor.

But the tea-pot, blessed little tea-pot, still stood there on my desk, undisturbed. For what seemed like ages, I concentrated on that little tea-pot. I knew there was something terribly important about it, but, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what it was.

Around noon, Lange and the other Storm Troopers reappeared. They had searched the entire house, cellar to attic. Their clothes were caked with dust and dirt, and their faces were black with rage.

A strange peace had settled over me. Perhaps the blows had anesthetized me to thought and pain. I felt as if I were watching some fantastic motion-picture. All this had nothing to do with me—with Ernst Winkler. Later, in the concentration camps, I was often to experience this same sensation of aloofness, of complete removal from reality. On more than one occasion, I think it saved me from suicide.

Lange seized me by the hair, jerked up my head, and looked in my eyes. "The Dreck is coming to, he grunted. Haul him downstairs into the truck."

Two Storm Troopers raised me to their shoulders, carried me through the room and down the two flights. As they were half-carrying, half-pushing me through the front door, I heard my mother scream.

My child, what have they done to you?

I caught a glimpse of her standing in the doorway to the living-room. Her face was white, streaked with tears, her eyes staring. In one hand, she held her little gold cross and rosary beads. Her other hand was across her mouth, as if to stifle another scream.

It was four years and three months before I saw her face again.

Chapter Two

During those years, I had ample opportunity to review the chain of circumstances that finally landed me in the hands of the Gestapo...

Today, my early childhood seems infinitely remote, an idyll dreamed in some forgotten golden age and separated from the present by a chasm that memory can scarcely bridge. I was born