In Russia, a long time ago, the traditional idea of ​​the iron German order, that the German “does not steal,” was established. This idea also extended to the years of the Great Patriotic War - the Germans supposedly had order in everything. One of the heroes of Viktor Astafiev’s novel “Cursed and Killed,” for example, reflects: “And they won’t rob, they won’t rob their German brother - they are strict with this matter - they’ll be put on trial.”

But according to the recollections of the Germans themselves, not everyone was afraid of the trial. They were stolen by the headquarters and quartermaster “heroes” in such a way that their colleagues from other armies could envy their scope and shamelessness.

Horse meat for the comfrey, Belgian chocolate for the staff

This is what Major Helmut Welz had to face when he found himself in the Stalingrad cauldron. After the remnants of his engineer battalion of the 16th Panzer Division were disbanded, he, along with several surviving soldiers, waited at army headquarters for a new assignment. Here, as he was convinced, they did not suffer from malnutrition at all: “A bright lamp is drowned in clouds of cigarette smoke. It's warm, one might even say hot. At the table are two quartermasters, smoking like factory chimneys, in front of them are glasses of schnapps. One of the six wooden bunks is occupied, with a sleeping soldier stretched out on it. - Yes, you can settle down. The room is being vacated today, we are leaving in half an hour.

Wouldn't they have a cigarette for us too?

“Of course, Mr. Major, here’s a hundred for you!” - And the quartermaster thrusts a large red packet into my hand. Austrian, "Sport". I frantically open the package. Everyone gets it. Baisman holds out a match, we sit down, enjoy the smoke, and take a deep drag. It's been a week since we smoked our last cigarette. The troops used up their last supplies. To smoke enough, you had to go to the highest headquarters. There are a hundred here - you live a great life! Apparently, there is no need to save money here...

It's full of treasures that are long gone. Cans of canned meat and vegetables gleam from two half-open bags. From the third come packs of Belgian chocolate of 50 and 100 grams, Dutch bars in blue wrapping and round boxes with the inscription “Shokakola”. Two more bags are filled with cigarettes: Attica, Nile, English brands, the best varieties. Nearby lie flour tortillas, folded exactly according to the instructions - straight in Prussian style, lined up in columns in a row, which could feed a good hundred people to their fill. And in the farthest corner there is a whole battery of bottles, light and dark, pot-bellied and flat, and all full of cognac, Benedictine, egg liqueur - for every taste. This food warehouse, reminiscent of a grocery store, speaks for itself. The army command issues orders that troops must save in everything possible, in ammunition, gasoline and, above all, in food. The order establishes a lot of different categories of food - for soldiers in the trenches, for battalion commanders, for regimental headquarters and for those who are “far behind.” Violation of these norms and disobedience to orders is punishable by military trial and execution. And they don’t just threaten! The field gendarmerie, without further ado, puts people against the wall, whose only fault is that they, succumbing to the instinct of self-preservation, rushed to pick up a loaf of bread that had fallen from the car. And here, at the army headquarters, which, without a doubt, in the category of food belongs to those who are “far behind”, and from whom everyone expects that he himself strictly carries out his orders, it is here that lies in whole stacks, which for the front has long been a mere memory and which is thrown as a sop in the form of pitiful grams to the very people who lay their heads down every hour….

The full staff of the headquarters at the table set for breakfast - and the thinning ranks of soldiers every day, whose teeth are frantically sinking into horse meat - such are the contrasts, such is the abyss that is becoming wider and more insurmountable...”

After reading such memoirs, the idea of ​​​​the vaunted German honesty and order involuntarily undergoes significant adjustments.

By the way, before Major Welz could enjoy the luxurious headquarters supplies, he had a chance to visit the hospital and appreciate the food there: “The adjacent room - a former school classroom - is occupied by those suffering from malnutrition due to hunger. Here doctors have to encounter phenomena unknown to them, such as all kinds of swelling and body temperature below thirty-four degrees. Those who died of hunger are carried out every hour and placed in the snow. They can give very little food to the exhausted, mostly boiling water and a little horse meat, and only once a day. Blankmeister himself has to travel around all nearby units and food warehouses in order to get something edible. Sometimes you can't get anything. Bread has almost been forgotten here. It is barely enough for those in the trenches and guards; they are entitled to 800 calories a day - a starvation ration on which they can only survive for a few weeks.”

As they say, taste the difference between horse meat and Belgian chocolate. But perhaps Major Welz encountered an isolated, atypical case? However, the Soviet military also noted that the situation of the wounded in German hospitals was simply catastrophic. For example, Gleb Baklanov, appointed commandant of the Factory part of Stalingrad after the surrender of Paulus, was shocked that the German doctor did not even know how many patients in his hospital were alive. And other Germans who survived Stalingrad also recalled the striking “contrasts” in the provision of food to those fighting on the front line and staff members.

German soldiers will start shooting at German soldiers

Here, for example, is what Colonel Luitpold Steidle, who commanded the 767th Grenadier Regiment of the 376th Infantry Division, saw at the headquarters of the Sixth Army literally in the last days of defense: “I open the door without knocking or reading the inscription on it. I find myself in a large room lit by many candles, among a dozen officers. They are tipsy, some are sitting at two tables, others are standing with their elbows on the chest of drawers. In front of them are glasses, bottles of wine, coffee pots, plates of bread, cookies and pieces of chocolate. One of them is just about to play the piano, lit by several candles.”

Just a few minutes before this, the colonel, whose regiment by that time included 11 officers, 2 doctors, 1 veterinarian and 34 soldiers, unsuccessfully tried to explain to his superiors the condition of the soldiers on the front line and even tried to scare them with the possibility of internecine fighting inside the cauldron: “ You will have to reckon with the fact that soon here, yes, precisely here, in the courtyard and in these basement corridors, German soldiers will begin to shoot at German soldiers, and perhaps even officers at officers. Perhaps even hand grenades will be used. This can happen quite unexpectedly.” But in the presence of chocolate and wine, it was difficult for the staff to understand the mood of the trench soldiers. In general, in the German army, with a truly excellent organization, a regularity, inevitable in any military structure, was still in effect, formulated by Jaroslav Hasek in the immortal book “The Adventures of the Good Soldier Schweik”: “When ... lunch was distributed to the soldiers, each of them found in his bowler two small pieces of meat, and the one who was born under an unlucky star found only a piece of skin. The usual army nepotism reigned in the kitchen: everyone who was close to the dominant clique enjoyed the benefits. The orderlies walked around with their faces shiny with fat. All the orderlies had stomachs like drums.” Well, just the 6th Army of the Wehrmacht in the Stalingrad winter.

It should be noted that German memories of the theft of their quartermasters are confirmed by the observations of representatives of the Soviet side during the surrender of the 6th Army. The winners noticed that, given the extreme exhaustion of most of the prisoners, some of them “were in full body, their pockets were filled with sausage and other foodstuffs, apparently left over after the distribution of the “meager rations.”

What would the owners of the sausage say about discussions about how they “will not rob or eat their German brother - they are strict with this matter”? They would probably laugh at such naivety of the Red Army soldier. He thought too well of the German rear.

Motorcycles were taken out instead of the wounded

But not only did the quartermasters and hangers-on around headquarters “live beautifully” inside the ring at the expense of the fighting soldiers. At the same time, utter chaos also occurred during the organization of return flights from Stalingrad to the “Mainland”.

Who seems to be in similar situation should be evacuated first? It would be logical to take out the seriously wounded first. They still cannot fight, but they need the delivery of medicine and food. But there was not always a place for the wounded:

“There is a feverish rush at the airport. The column enters, everyone quickly gets out of the cars, the planes are already ready to take off. Security does not allow outsiders on the field. While an air battle is playing out above us and one Messerschmitt deftly tries to rise above two Russian fighters, the doors of the gray and white aircraft open, and now the first officers are sitting inside. The orderlies can barely keep up with them. Carrying boxes, suitcases and laundry bags, they trot after him. Two motorcycles are loaded onto the planes. While they are being dragged up - and this is not easy, because they have a considerable weight - I manage to talk with the staff clerk, in whose eyes the joy of unexpected salvation shines. He is so intoxicated by this joy that he is ready to give the most detailed answers to all questions. The general wants to immediately after landing - presumably in Novocherkassk - move further west as soon as possible, according to the order, of course. Unfortunately, you can’t drag a car into such a small plane, so we’re carrying two motorcycles, both filled to the very top.”

Taking out the general's motorcycles and the underwear of staff officers instead of the wounded is a strong move. Given this behavior of the authorities, is it necessary to be surprised that at the Stalingrad airfield Pitomnik the evacuation turned into a complete disgrace? “At the very edge of the airfield there are large tents of the sanitary service. By order of the army command, all seriously wounded are transported here so that they can fly out in vehicles delivering supplies. Army doctor major general medical service Professor Doctor Renoldi is here; he is responsible for dispatching the wounded. In fact, he is powerless to restore order, since many lightly wounded people also get here. They are hiding in empty trenches and bunkers. As soon as the car lands, they are the first to arrive. They mercilessly push away the seriously wounded. Some manage to slip onto the plane despite the gendarmes. Often we are forced to clear the aircraft again to make room for the seriously injured. It takes the brush of Bruegel, nicknamed the painter of hell, or the power of Dante’s words to describe the terrible scenes we have witnessed here for the last ten days.”

How can soldiers demand order during an evacuation if they see the general and officers taking out motorcycles and junk instead of the wounded?

I don't mind wearing Russian pants

Is it any wonder that already in December 1942, a few weeks before the end of the battle, German soldiers completely forgot about the notorious Prussian bearing? “Intelligence officer Alexander Ponomarev delivered a prisoner to the division headquarters, whose whole appearance could serve as a convincing illustration of the thesis “Hitler kaput.” On the Nazi’s feet are something resembling huge felt boots with wooden soles. Tufts of straw emerge from behind the tops. On his head, over a dirty cotton scarf, is a holey woolen balaclava. On top of the uniform is a woman's jacket, and a horse's hoof sticks out from under it. Holding the “precious” burden with his left hand, the prisoner saluted each Soviet soldier and loudly shouted: “Hitler is kaput!” - Ivan Lyudnikov recalled during Battle of Stalingrad commander of the 138th Infantry Division, defending in the area of ​​the Barricades plant.

Moreover, the prisoner turned out to be not a private, but a sergeant major (!). It took a lot of effort to bring the German sergeant major, who has long been considered the living embodiment of order and discipline, to such an obscene state... The commander of the 13th Guards Rifle Division, Alexander Rodimtsev, in his memoirs, with undisguised pleasure, quoted the order of the commander of the 134th German Infantry Division:

"1. The Russians seized our warehouses; Therefore, they are not there.

2. There are many excellently equipped transporters. It is necessary to take off their pants and exchange them for bad ones in combat units.

3. Along with the absolutely ragged infantrymen, soldiers in patched pants present a gratifying sight.

You can, for example, cut off the bottom of your pants, hem them with Russian fabric, and patch the back with the resulting piece.”

4. I don’t mind wearing Russian pants.”

Colonel Steidle's prediction did not come true - internecine fighting in the Stalingrad cauldron never broke out. But it is no coincidence that it was the German prisoners from the Stalingrad cauldron who became the backbone of the anti-fascist organization Free Germany. Should we be surprised by this?

The enemy's field mail was sent to Moscow to GlavPURKKA (Main Political Directorate of the Workers' and Peasants' Red Army), and from there to a small Special Group created at the beginning of the war at the Marx-Engels-Lenin Institute under the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party of Bolsheviks, consisting of scientific employees who knew well German. The group’s workers sorted out, read and, if necessary, translated letters, diaries and other records seized from soldiers and officers of the German army, and prepared publications on their basis for Sovinformburo reports, thematic collections of materials, and collections.

I present to the reader a small part of the “confessions of the enemy.”

“...Equipped with the most modern weapons, the Russians deal us the most severe blows. This
This is most clearly evident in the battles for Stalingrad. Here we have to in heavy
battles to conquer every meter of land and make great sacrifices, since
Russian fights stubbornly and fiercely, until his last breath..."
From a letter from Corporal Otto Bauer, mailing address 43396 B, to Hermann Kuge. November 18, 1942

“...Stalingrad is hell on earth, Verdun, red Verdun, with new weapons. We
We attack daily. If we manage to occupy 20 meters in the morning, in the evening
The Russians are pushing us back..." From a letter from Corporal Walter Oppermann, p/n 44111, to his brother, November 18, 1942.

“...When we came to Stalingrad, there were 140 of us, and by September 1, after
two weeks of fighting, only 16 remained. All the rest were wounded and killed. U
We don’t have a single officer, and the command of the unit was forced
take over the non-commissioned officer. From Stalingrad it is transported daily to the rear to
thousands of wounded. As you can see, our losses are considerable..."
From a letter from soldier Heinrich Malchus, p/p 17189, to Corporal Karl Weitzel. November 13, 1942

“...You can’t show yourself from behind cover during the day, otherwise you’ll be shot down like a dog. U
Russian has a sharp and accurate eye. We were once 180 people, there are only
only 7. Machine gunners No. 1 used to be 14, now there are only two..."
From a letter from machine gunner Adolf to his mother. November 18, 1942

“...If you only had an idea of ​​how quickly the forest of crosses is growing! Every
Many soldiers die every day, and you often think: when will it be your turn?
There are almost no old soldiers left..."
From a letter from non-commissioned officer Rudolf Tichl, commander of the 14th company of the 227th Infantry Division, to his wife.

“...Yes, here you have to thank God for every hour that you remain alive.
No one can escape their destiny here. The worst thing that happens
wait resignedly until your time comes. Or by sanitary train to
homeland, or immediate and terrible death to the other world. Only
a few lucky ones, chosen by God, will safely survive the war on
front near Stalingrad..."
From a letter from soldier Paul Bolze to Maria Smud. November 18, 1942

“...I was at the grave of Hillebrond of Ellers, who was killed near
Stalingrad. It is located in a large cemetery where about 300
German soldiers. There are also 18 people from my company there. So big
cemeteries where exclusively German soldiers are buried are rare
maybe not every kilometer around Stalingrad...” From a letter from Corporal August Enders, p/p 41651 A, to his wife. November 15, 1942

“...It’s pure hell here. There are barely 30 people in the companies. Nothing like us
We haven’t worried yet. Unfortunately, I can’t write you everything. If
Fate allows it, then I’ll tell you about it someday. Stalingrad -
grave for German soldiers. The number of soldiers' cemeteries is growing..."
From a letter from Chief Corporal Joseph Zimach, p/n 27800, to parents. November 20, 1942

«… December 2. Snow, just snow. The food is dirty. We are hungry all the time.
December 6. Portions have also been reduced...
December 8. With food it becomes more and more deplorable. One loaf of bread for seven people. Now we have to switch to horses.
December 12.Today I found a piece of old moldy bread. It was real
delicacy. We eat only once when food is handed out to us, and then 24
We've been starving for hours..."
From the diary of non-commissioned officer Joseph Schaffstein, p/p 27547.

«… November 22-25. Russian tanks bypass us and attack from the flank and rear. Everyone's in a panic
are running. We make a 60-kilometer march through the steppes. Let's go in the direction
on Surovikino. At 11 o'clock Russian tanks and Katyusha attack us. All
they run away again.
December 6. The weather is getting worse. Clothes freeze on the body. We didn’t eat or sleep for three days.
Fritz tells me a conversation he overheard: the soldiers prefer
run away or surrender..."
From the diary of field gendarmerie sergeant Helmut Megenburg.

“...Yesterday we received vodka. At this time we were just cutting up the dog, and the vodka
came in very handy. Hetty, I've already killed four in total.
dogs, and the comrades just can’t eat enough. I once shot
magpie and cooked it..."
From a letter from soldier Otto Zechtig, 1st company
1st Battalion, 227th Infantry Regiment, 100th Light Infantry Division,
10521 B, Hetty Kaminsky. December 29, 1942

«… December 26. Today, for the sake of the holiday, we cooked a cat.”
From the notebook of Werner Clay, p/n 18212.

«… November 23. After lunch we were incredibly bombarded by Russian planes. Nothing
We have never experienced anything like this before. But not a single German plane is visible.
Is this called air superiority?
November 24. After lunch there was a terrible fire. Our company lost half of its strength.
Russian tanks are driving around our position, planes are attacking us. We have
killed and wounded. This is simply indescribable horror...”
From the diary of non-commissioned officer Hermann Treppmann, 2nd Battalion, 670th Infantry Regiment, 371st Infantry Division.

«… November 19. If we lose this war, we will be avenged for everything we have done.
Thousands of Russians and Jews were shot with their wives and children near Kiev and
Kharkov. This is simply incredible. But that's why we have to strain
all forces to win the war.
November 24...In the morning we reached Gumrak. There's real panic there. They are moving from Stalingrad
a continuous stream of cars and convoys. Homes, food and clothing
are burned. They say we are surrounded. Bombs are exploding all around us. Then comes
message that Kalach, captured by the Germans, is again in the hands of
Russians. There are supposedly 18 divisions arrayed against us. Many hanged
heads. Some are already saying that they will shoot themselves... Returning from Karpovka,
we saw parts that burned clothes and documents...
December 12... Russian planes are becoming more and more daring. Shooting at us from
air cannons and also dropped time bombs. Vogt is killed. Who
next?
January 5. Our division has a cemetery near Stalingrad, where over 1000 people are buried. It's simple
terrible. People who are now being sent from transport units to the infantry,
can be considered sentenced to death.
January 15. There is no way out of the boiler and there never will be. From time to time, mines explode around us..."
From the diary of officer F.P. of the 8th light rifle and machine gun fleet of the 212th regiment.

“...How wonderfully we could live if there was no this damned war! And now
I have to wander around this terrible Russia, and for what? When I'm about
I think I’m ready to howl with frustration and rage...”
From a letter from Chief Corporal Arno Beets, 87th Artillery Regiment, 113th Infantry Division, 28329 D, to his fiancée. December 29, 1942

“...You often ask yourself the question: why all this suffering, has humanity descended
crazy? But you shouldn’t think about it, otherwise it will come to mind
strange thoughts that should not appear in a German. But I
I save myself by thinking that 90% of those fighting in the world think about such things
Russian soldier."
From a letter from Corporal Albrecht Otten, p/n 32803, to his wife. I.I.1943

«… January 15. The front has collapsed in recent days. Everything is left to the mercy of fate. Nobody
knows where his regiment, his company is, everyone is left to his own devices
to yourself. Supplies remain poor, so the moment of defeat
it cannot be delayed.
In recent days it has been like this: we are under attack.
six or nine SB-2 or Il-2 with two or three fighters. Not
have time to disappear before the next ones swim out and cast their
bombs. Each car has two or three things (heavy bombs). This music
is heard constantly. It seems like it should be calmer at night, but there's a buzzing
doesn't stop. These fellows sometimes fly at an altitude of 50-60 m, our
I can't hear the anti-aircraft guns. The ammunition is completely used up. Well done shooting
from aircraft coils and sweep our dugouts off the face of the earth.

Driving through Gumrak, I saw a crowd of our retreating soldiers, they
trudge around in a wide variety of uniforms, wrapping themselves in all sorts of
items of clothing just to keep warm. Suddenly one soldier falls into the snow,
others pass by indifferently. No comments needed!
January 18. ...In Gumrak along the road and in the fields, in dugouts and near dugouts
there are dead from hunger, and then frozen German soldiers..."
From the diary of the liaison officer, Oberleutnant Gerhard Rumpfing, 96th Infantry Regiment, 44th Infantry Division.

“... In our battalion only in the last two days we lost killed,
60 people were wounded and frostbitten, over 30 people ran away,
ammunition remained only until the evening, the soldiers were completely out of stock for three days
ate, many of them had frostbitten feet. We were faced with the question: what
do? On the morning of January 10, we read a leaflet in which it was printed
ultimatum. This could not but influence our decision. We decided to give up
captivity, in order to thereby save the lives of our soldiers..."
From the testimony
captured Captain Kurt Mandelhelm, commander of the 2nd Battalion of the 518th
infantry regiment of the 295th Infantry Division, and its adjutant Lieutenant Karl
Gottschalt. I5.I.1943

“...Everyone on the battery - 49 people - read the Soviet ultimatum leaflet.

At the end of the reading, I told my comrades that we are doomed people and that
The ultimatum presented to Paulus is a lifeline thrown to us
magnanimous opponent..."
From the testimony of prisoner Martin Gander.

“...I read the ultimatum, and burning anger at our generals boiled up in me.
They, apparently, decided to completely ruin us in this damn
place. Let the generals and officers fight themselves. I've had enough. I'm full
up to our necks in war..."
From the testimony of captured Corporal Joseph Schwartz, 10th Company of the 131st Infantry Regiment of the 44th Infantry Division. II.I.1943

“...since November 21 we have been surrounded. The situation is hopeless, but our commanders are not
they want to admit it. Apart from a couple of spoons of horse meat stew, we have nothing
we don’t receive..."
From a letter from non-commissioned officer R. Schwartz, p/n 02493 S, to his wife. 16.I.1943

“...Russian superiority in artillery, tanks, aviation, ammunition and human resources
- this is the most important reason for the catastrophe of the German troops at Stalingrad.

Russian tanks performed very well, especially the T-34 tanks. Big
caliber of guns mounted on them, good armor and high speed
give this type of tank superiority over German tanks. Russians
tanks were used well tactically in these last battles.

The artillery worked well. You could say that she had
unlimited amount of ammunition, this was evidenced by the strong and
a very dense fire attack from artillery and heavy mortars. Heavy
mortars have a strong morale impact and cause great damage
defeat.
Aviation operated in large groups and very often bombed our convoys, ammunition depots and transport ... "
From the testimony of captured Major General Moritz Drebber, commander of the 297th Infantry Division.

“...Until tomorrow we are in national mourning - the fight in Stalingrad is over.
This is the heaviest blow since the beginning of the war; now they are also going on in the Western Caucasus
hard battles. Now, it seems, the last remnants are being called upon!..."
From a letter from Helga Steinkogler (Steinach) to doctor Albert Poppi, p/n 36572. 5.II.1943.

“...Now all the soldiers are terribly afraid of being surrounded, as happened with German units in the Caucasus and near Stalingrad...
...Recently the number of soldiers who do not believe in Germany’s victory has increased...
...The soldiers were most impressed by the death of the 6th Army at Stalingrad...”
From the testimony of captured Chief Corporal Gottfried Zülleck, 1st company of the 317th Infantry Regiment of the 211th Infantry Division. 22.II.1943

“...The operation to encircle and liquidate the 6th German Army is a masterpiece
strategies. The defeat of the German troops at Stalingrad will have a great impact
influence on the further course of the war. To make up for the colossal losses in
people, equipment and military materials suffered by the German armed forces
forces as a result of the death of the 6th Army, enormous efforts will be required and
a lot of time..."
From the testimony of captured Lieutenant General Alexander von Daniel, commander of the 376th German Infantry Division.

Some of these letters were found on the chests of Wehrmacht soldiers killed in Stalingrad. They are kept in the “Battle of Stalingrad” panorama museum. Most of the messages, yellowed by time, to relatives and friends from the war, the author of the book is a Doctor of Historical Sciences, Professor of the Department of History of Volgograd State University Nina Vashkau found in the archives of Frankfurt am Main and Stuttgart.

Letters from Wehrmacht soldiers show the evolution of the consciousness of ordinary “pawns of war”: from the perception of World War II as a “tourist walk around the world” to the horror and despair of Stalingrad. These letters leave no one indifferent. Although the emotions caused by them may be ambiguous.

Suitcase of letters

In Germany, they are now very careful about “history from below,” seen through the eyes of ordinary people, eyewitnesses and participants in the events, said Nina Waschkau. Therefore, starting in the 90s, when the generation of grandchildren of World War II soldiers grew up, and they began to ask “What did you do in the war, grandfather?”, a real turning point began in Germany public consciousness. The mentality of the German people also contributed to this: it is not customary there to throw away old documents.

How many Volgograd families today keep and re-read letters from their grandfather from the front, even letters from Stalingrad? And in Germany, when some elderly Frau died, her grandchildren were sure to find her husband’s letters from the front tied with twine in her suitcase.

Many took these letters - evidence of history - to museums and archives. Some were not too lazy to publish them at their own expense in the form of a book of memoirs or a brochure.

In the picture: history professor Nina Washkau

Like a true historian, having copied everything she could from the archives and libraries of Germany, Nina Washkau appeared at the border with a suitcase of papers. The weight was eight kilograms. The German customs officer was very surprised when he opened the suitcase and saw only a bunch of papers there: “What is this?” The history professor explained. And... here it is - respect for history in modern Germany! The German customs officer, who strictly observed the letter of the law, let the excess through for free.

The war is real and “glossy”

Today there are many attempts to rewrite history, especially the history of the Second World War, which is so inconvenient for many. Let’s not mention the recent “pearls” of politicians that everyone saw on television. Here is another incident that occurred even before the well-known events in Ukraine.

As a member of the Russian-German Historical Commission for the Study modern history Russia and Germany, Nina Washkau, at the invitation of the German side, took a group of VolSU students to Berlin. They ended up at the photo exhibition “German Soldiers and Officers of the Second World War.”

Black and white photos from family archives show smiling Wehrmacht officers hugging French, Italian, mulatto and Greek women. Then came the huts of Ukraine and dejected women in headscarves. And that’s all... “How can this be! Where is Stalingrad?! - Nina Vashkau began to be indignant, - Why isn’t there at least an inscription on a white sheet of paper: “And then there was Stalingrad, in which so many soldiers were killed, so many were captured - so many?” She was told: “This is the position of the curator of the exhibition. But we can’t call the curator: he’s not here right now.”

In letters from the Stalingrad cauldron, German soldiers write that war is not a fun ride, as the Fuhrer promised them, but blood, dirt and lice: “Those who do not write about lice do not know the Battle of Stalingrad.”

We need to educate on the history of World War II,” Professor Washkau is convinced. - Just like the Americans did when they liberated Buchenwald and the nearby town of Weimar. My students and I talked with a German Frau, who was a girl at the time, but still remembers how the Americans rounded up the entire population of Weimar. All these burghers and their wives, who said that they knew nothing about the concentration camp nearby, and drove them through the newly opened gates of Buchenwald, where the naked bodies of people exhausted to death were piled up and the rare surviving prisoners were still wandering like shadows . The Americans took photos of the spectators of this tragedy “Before” and “After”. And these talking photos still hang in the Buchenwald Museum. A German girl who saw this became a teacher and considered it her duty to take students to Stalingrad and Leningrad and talk about what happened in these cities during the war.

About moral principles local women

In the 90s, the Panorama Museum of the Battle of Stalingrad exhibited letters from German soldiers and officers that are in the museum collection. “I was amazed by the expression on the faces of the Germans who came from Rossoshki to this exhibition,” recalls Nina Vashkau. “Some of them read these letters and cried.” Then she decided to find and publish letters from German soldiers from Stalingrad.

Despite the fact that the soldiers knew about military censorship, some of them dared to say the following lines: “Enough, you and I did not deserve such a fate. If we get out of this hell, we will start life again. I’ll write you the truth for once, now you know what’s going on here. The time has come for the Fuhrer to free us. Yes, Katya, the war is terrible, I know all this as a soldier. Until now I have not written about this, but now it is no longer possible to remain silent.”

The chapters of the book are named with quotes from letters: “I have forgotten how to laugh,” “I want to get away from this madness,” “How can a person endure all this?”, “Stalingrad is hell on Earth.”

And here is what one of the German Wehrmacht officers writes about the women of Stalingrad:

“The moral principles of local women are amazing, which testify to the high values ​​of the people. For many of them, the word “Love” means absolute spiritual devotion; few agree to fleeting relationships or adventures. They demonstrate, at least as far as female honor is concerned, a completely unexpected nobility. This is true not only here in the North, but also in the South. I spoke with one German doctor who came from Crimea, and he noticed that in this even we, the Germans, need to take an example from them...”

Christmas in Stalingrad

The closer it gets to Christmas, the more often German soldiers write about how they dream of homemade pies and marmalade and describe their “holiday” diet:

“Tonight we cooked horse meat again. We eat this without any seasoning, even without salt, and the dead horses lay under the snow for maybe four weeks...”

“Rye flour with water, without salt and sugar, like an omelette, baked in butter - tastes excellent.”

And about “Christmas troubles”:

“Stalingrad can be called hell. I had to dig up comrades who were buried here alone eight weeks ago. Although we receive additional wine and cigarettes, I would prefer to work in a quarry.”

About the proximity of Soviet soldiers:

“The Russians rattle their spoons on the pot. So, I have a couple of minutes to write you a letter. They became quiet. Now the attack will begin...”

About the spirit and strength of the enemy:

"Soldier Ivan is strong and fights like a lion."

And in the end, many regretted their lives being ruined for unknown reasons, they wrote in farewell letters that they hid on their chests:

“Sometimes I pray, sometimes I think about my fate. Everything seems meaningless and purposeless to me. When and how will deliverance come? And what will it be - death from a bomb or from a shell?

Surprisingly, these letters from the vanquished were carefully preserved by their grandchildren. Where are the letters from the victors, the Soviet soldiers?

Modest school museums where 2-3 letters from Soviet soldiers are kept. Many letters are kept in archives. But long time Texts containing patriotic phrases and appeals to fight until the last breath were in demand and published. And simple soldier triangles, in which there is anxiety for relatives, and regret that he did not have time to reroof the house, harvest the crops, and anxiety for the family in a distant evacuation...

The book “At least once I’ll write you the truth...” was published in Moscow by the reputable publishing house “Russian Political Encyclopedia - ROSSPEN” with a circulation of 1000 copies.

I think the book is needed by school teachers in the Volgograd region; by analyzing such documents we could talk about everyday life." little man at war,” says Nina Vashkau.

Below is an article by Jochen Hellbeck "Stalingrad face to face. One battle gives birth to two contrasting cultures of memory." The original article is posted on the website of the journal "Historical Expertise" - you can also read other interesting materials there. Jochen Hellbeck - PhD, Professor of History at Rutgers University. Photos - Emma Dodge Hanson (Saratoga Springs, NY). First publication: The Berlin Journal. Fall 2011. P. 14-19. Authorized translation from English.

Every year on May 9, when Victory Day is celebrated in Russia, veterans of the 62nd Army gather in the northeast of Moscow in a high school building. It is named after Vasily Chuikov, the commander of their army that defeated the Germans at Stalingrad. First, the veterans listen to poems performed by schoolchildren. Then they go around the small war museum located in the school building. Then they sit down to festive table in a solemnly decorated room. Veterans clink glasses of vodka or juice, tearfully remembering their comrades. After many toasts, the sonorous baritone of Colonel General Anatoly Merezhko sets the tone for the performance of military songs. Behind the long table hangs a huge poster of the Reichstag burning. From Stalingrad, the 62nd Army, renamed the 8th Guards, moved west through Ukraine, Belarus and Poland and reached Berlin. One of the veterans present proudly recalls writing his name on the ruins of the German parliament in 1945.

Every year on one Saturday in November, a group of German veterans of Stalingrad meets in Limburg, a city located forty miles from Frankfurt. They gather in the austere premises of the community center to remember departed comrades and count their dwindling ranks. Their memories over coffee, cake and beer last until the evening. The next morning, on the National Day of Mourning (Totensonntag), veterans visit the local cemetery. They gather around a memorial stone in the shape of an altar with the inscription “Stalingrad 1943”. In front of him lies a wreath, into which are woven the banners of the 22 German divisions destroyed by the Red Army between November 1942 and February 1943. Representatives of city authorities make speeches condemning the wars of the past and present. A German army reserve unit stands guard of honor as a lone trumpeter plays the mournful melody of the traditional German war song "Ich Einen Hatt "Kameraden" ("I Had a Comrade").

Photo 1. Vera Dmitrievna Bulushova, Moscow, November 12, 2009.
Photo 2. Gerhard Münch, Lohmar (near Bonn), November 16, 2009

The Battle of Stalingrad, which lasted more than six months, became a turning point in the entire Second World War. Both the Nazi and Stalinist regimes threw in all their might to capture/defend the city that bore the name of Stalin. What meaning did the soldiers of both sides put into this confrontation? What motivated them to fight to the last, even against the odds of success? How did they perceive themselves and their opponents at this critical moment in world history?

To avoid the distortions inherent in soldiers' memories, in which the war is viewed in hindsight, I decided to turn to wartime documents: combat orders, propaganda leaflets, personal diaries, letters, drawings, photographs, newsreels. They capture intense emotions - love, hatred, rage - generated by war. State archives are not rich in military documents of personal origin. The search for documents of this kind led me to meetings of German and Russian “Stalingraders”, and from there to the thresholds of their houses.

Veterans willingly shared their war letters and photographs. Our meetings revealed important facts that I had initially overlooked: the enduring presence of war in their lives and the striking differences between German and Russian war memories. It’s been seven decades since the war became a thing of the past, but its traces are firmly ingrained in the bodies, thoughts and feelings of the survivors. I discovered that area of ​​military experience that no archive can reveal. Veterans' homes are steeped in this experience. It is captured in photographs and military “relics” that either hang on the walls or are carefully kept in secluded places; it is noticeable in the straight backs and courteous manners of former officers; it shines through the scarred faces and mangled limbs of wounded soldiers; he lives in the everyday facial expressions of veterans, expressing sadness and joy, pride and shame.

To fully capture the presence of military experience in the present, the recorder must be complemented by a camera. Experienced photographer and friend Emma Dodge Hanson kindly accompanied me on these visits. Over the course of two weeks, Emma and I visited Moscow, as well as a number of cities, towns and villages in Germany, where we visited about twenty veterans’ homes. Emma has amazing ability take pictures in such a way that people feel at ease and hardly pay attention to the presence of the photographer. Using natural light whenever possible allowed the reflections reflected in the eyes of those being photographed to be captured. Richly nuanced black and white photos make it possible to see how the furrows of wrinkles deepen as veterans laugh, cry or grieve. Combining hours of voice recordings and a stream of photographs made it possible to notice that memories represent for veterans the same reality of everyday life as the furniture around them.

We visited both modest and luxurious houses, spoke with high-ranking officers, decorated with numerous awards, and with ordinary soldiers, observed our hosts either in a festive mood or in a state of silent grief. When we photographed our interlocutors, some of them were dressed in ceremonial uniforms, which became too large for their shrunken bodies. Some veterans showed us various trinkets that supported them during the war and captivity. We observed two contrasting memory cultures at work. The haunting specters of loss and defeat are common in Germany. A sense of national pride and sacrifice prevails in Russia. Military uniforms and medals are much more common among Soviet veterans. Russian women, to a greater extent than German women, declare their active participation in the war. In German stories, Stalingrad is often marked as a traumatic break in personal biography. Russian veterans, on the contrary, even when recalling personal tragic losses during the war, as a rule, emphasize that it was a time of their successful self-realization.

Soon, Stalingrad veterans will no longer be able to discuss the war and its impact on their lives. It is necessary to have time to record and compare their voices and faces. Of course, their current reflections on the events of seventy years ago should not be identified with the reality they experienced in 1942 and 1943. Each person's experience represents a linguistic construct that is maintained by society and changes over time. Thus, the memories of veterans reflect the changing attitude of society towards the war. Despite this, their narratives provide important information both about the Battle of Stalingrad itself and about the fluctuating nature of cultural memory.

800 thousand women served in the Red Army during World War II. We met two of them. Vera Bulushova was born in 1921, the eldest in a family of five children. She voluntarily went to the front after learning of the German invasion in June 1941. At first she was refused, but in the spring of 1942 the Red Army began to accept women into its ranks. During the Stalingrad campaign, Bulushova was a junior officer at the counterintelligence headquarters. By the end of the war she was promoted to the rank of captain. Bulushova and another female veteran, Maria Faustova, showed us the scars from shrapnel wounds that covered their faces and legs, and they also talked about the amputations that often disfigured their fellow soldiers. Maria Faustova recalled a conversation on a commuter train shortly after the war: “And I also have a lot of wounds. There are mine fragments in the leg - 17 stitches. When I was young, I wore nylon stockings. I’m sitting, we were waiting for the train, and the woman sitting opposite me asks: “Baby, where did you run into the barbed wire?”

Answering a question about the significance of Stalingrad in her life, Bulushova answered briefly: “I walked and fulfilled my duty. And after Berlin I already got married.” Other Russian veterans also tend to recall personal sacrifice for the sake of state interests. A striking manifestation of this was the photograph of Bulushova standing under an embroidered portrait of Marshal Georgy Zhukov, who led the defense of Stalingrad. (Bulushova was the only one who refused to meet at her home. She preferred a meeting at the Moscow Association of War Veterans, where this photo was taken.) None of the Russian veterans I spoke with were married or had children during the war . The explanation was simple: in Soviet army Leave was not provided, and therefore husbands were separated from their wives and children during the war.

Photos 4 and 5. Vera Dmitrievna Bulushova, Moscow, November 12, 2009.

Maria Faustova, who was a radio operator during the war, claimed that she never fell into despair and considered it her duty to encourage her fellow soldiers. Other Soviet veterans also spoke about their war experiences in moral terms, emphasizing that strength of will and character was their mainstay in the fight against the enemy. In this way, they reproduced the mantra of wartime Soviet propaganda that increasing the enemy threat only strengthened the moral fiber of the Red Army.

Anatoly Merezhko came to the Stalingrad Front from the bench of the military academy. On a sunny August day in 1942, he witnessed most of his fellow cadets being pulverized by a German tank brigade. Merezhko started as a junior officer at the headquarters of the 62nd Army under the command of Vasily Chuikov. The culmination of his post-war career was the rank of colonel general and the position of deputy chief of staff of the Warsaw Pact troops. In this capacity, he played a key role in the decision to build the Berlin Wall in 1961.

Anatoly Grigorievich Merezhko, Moscow, November 11, 2009

Stalingrad holds a special place in his memory: “Stalingrad for me is the birth of (me as) a commander. This is perseverance, prudence, foresight - i.e. all the qualities that a real commander should have. Love for your soldier, subordinate, and, moreover, this is the memory of those dead friends whom we sometimes could not even bury. They threw the corpses, retreating, they could not even drag them into craters or trenches, cover them with earth, and if they did cover them with earth, then the best monument was a shovel stuck into an earthen burial mound and a helmet put on. We could not erect any other monument. Therefore, Stalingrad for me is holy land.” Echoing Merezhko, Grigory Zverev argued that it was in Stalingrad that he was formed as a soldier and officer. He began the campaign as a second lieutenant and ended it as the youngest captain in his unit. When we met with Zverev, he laid out several sets of military uniforms on the bed, doubting which one would look better in our photographs.

Photos 8 and 9. Grigory Afanasyevich Zverev, Moscow, November 12, 2009.

Compare the unbroken morale and pride of the Russians with the nightmares that haunt the German survivors of Stalingrad. Gerhard Münch was the battalion commander of the 71st Infantry Division that led the attack on Stalingrad in September 1942. For more than three months, he and his men fought hand-to-hand combat inside a giant administrative building near the Volga. The Germans held the entrance to the building on one side, soviet soldiers- on the other. In mid-January, several of Munch's hungry and demoralized subordinates decided to lay down their arms. Munch did not give them a court-martial. He led them to his command post and showed them that he lived on the same tiny rations and slept on the same hard and cold floor. The soldiers swore to fight as long as he commanded them.

On January 21, Munch was ordered to report to the army command post, which was located in close proximity to the besieged city. A motorcycle was sent for him. That winter landscape was forever etched in his memory. He described it to me, pausing between words: “Thousands of unburied soldiers... Thousands... A narrow road ran among these dead bodies. Due to the strong wind they were not covered with snow. A head stuck out here, a hand there. It was, you know... It was... such an experience... When we reached the army command post, I was going to read out my report, but they said, “That's not necessary. You will be evacuated this evening." Münch was selected for the General Staff officer training program. He flew away on one of the last planes to escape the Stalingrad cauldron. His people were surrounded.

Photo 10. Gerhard Münch, Lohmar (near Bonn), November 16, 2009

A few days after the evacuation from Stalingrad, Münch received a short leave home to meet his young wife. Frau Münch recalled that her husband could not hide his gloomy mood. During the war, many German soldiers saw their wives and families regularly. The army provided exhausted soldiers with furloughs to restore morale. In addition, soldiers during home leave had to produce offspring to ensure the future of the Aryan race. The Munchs got married in December 1941. While Gerhard Münch was fighting in Stalingrad, his wife was expecting their first child. Many German soldiers married during the war. German photo albums of that time contain luxurious printed announcements of wedding ceremonies, photographs of smiling couples, the groom in his unchanged military uniform, the bride in a nurse's outfit. Some of these albums contained photographs of captured female Red Army soldiers with the caption "Flintenweiber" (Woman with a Pistol). From the Nazi point of view, this was evidence of the depravity that reigned in Soviet society. They believed that a woman should give birth to soldiers, not fight.

Photo 11. Gerhard and Anna-Elisabeth Münch, Lohmar (near Bonn), November 16, 2009

Tankman Gerhard Kollak married his wife Lucia in the fall of 1940, so to speak, “remotely.” He was called to the command post of his military unit, located in Poland, between which a telephone connection was established with the marriage registration office in East Prussia, where his bride was located. During the war, Germans, unlike Soviet citizens, were much more active in creating families. Therefore, they had something to lose. Kollack was on home leave for several months in 1941 and then briefly in the fall of 1942 to see his daughter Doris. After that, he again went to the Eastern Front and went missing at Stalingrad. The hope that her husband was alive and would one day return from Soviet captivity sustained Lucia at the end of the war during her flight under bombs from East Prussia through Dresden to Austria. In 1948, she received official notification that Gerhard Kollak had died in Soviet captivity: “I was in despair, I wanted to smash everything to smithereens. First I lost my homeland, then my husband, who died in Russia.”

Lucia Kollak, Münster, November 18, 2009

Memories of the husband she knew for two short years before he disappeared almost a lifetime ago haunt Lucia Collac to this day. For her, Stalingrad - a city, a battle, a burial place - is a “colossus” that crushes her heart with its entire mass. General Munch also notes this heaviness: “The thought that I survived in this place... apparently, fate led me, which allowed me to get out of the cauldron. Why me? This is a question that haunts me all the time." For these two and many others, the legacy of Stalingrad is traumatic. When we first contacted Münch, he agreed to be photographed, but made it clear that he did not want to talk about Stalingrad. But then the memories flowed like a river and he spoke for several hours in a row.

As we said goodbye, Münch mentioned his upcoming 95th birthday and said that he was expecting a guest of honor - Franz Schicke, who had been his aide-de-camp during the Stalingrad campaign. Münch knew that Chiquet was in Soviet captivity in February 1943, but he further fate remained unknown to Münch until a few years ago when Chiquet called him. After spending seven years in a prison camp, he ended up in communist East Germany. Therefore, I got the opportunity to find my former battalion commander only after the collapse of the GDR. Laughing, Munch instructed us not to discuss with Chiquet about his rather strange political views.

When we visited Schieke's modest apartment in East Berlin a few days later, we were struck by how his perceptions of the war contrasted with those of other Germans. Refusing to speak in the language of personal trauma, he insisted on the need to reflect on the historical significance of the war: “My personal memories of Stalingrad have no meaning. I am concerned that we are unable to come to an understanding of the essence of the past. The fact that I personally managed to get out of there alive is only one side of the story.” In his opinion, this was the history of “international financial capital", which benefits from all the wars of the past and present. Chiquet was one of many German "Stalingraders" who proved susceptible to Soviet post-war "re-education". Soon after his release from the Soviet camp, he joined the SED, the East German communist party. Most West German survivors of Soviet captivity described it as hell, but Chiquet insisted that the Soviets were humane: they treated the severe head wound he received during the siege of Stalingrad and they provided prisoners with food.

Franz Schicke, Berlin, November 19, 2009.

An ideological divide still exists between West German and East German memories of Stalingrad. However, the shared experience of experiencing the hardships of war helps to form close personal bonds. When Münch and Chiquet met after decades of separation, the retired Bundeswehr general asked his former adjutant to address him as "you."

German and Russian survivors of Stalingrad remember it as a place of unimaginable horror and suffering. While many Russians attach deep personal and social significance to their combat experiences, German veterans struggle with the traumatic effects of rupture and loss. It seems to me extremely important that Russian and German memories of Stalingrad enter into dialogue. The Battle of Stalingrad, which marks the turning point of the war and looms large in the national memory landscapes of Russia and Germany, deserves this.

To this end, I created a small exhibition presenting portraits and voices of Russian and German veterans. The exhibition opened at the Volgograd Panorama Museum, which is dedicated exclusively to the memory of the Battle of Stalingrad. The massive concrete structure, built at the end of the Soviet era, is located on the elevated bank of the Volga, on the site of fierce fighting in the autumn and winter of 1942/43. It was here that Gerhard Münch and his adjutant Franz Schicke fought for several months in an effort to gain control of the river. A few hundred meters to the south was the command post of the Soviet 62nd Army under the command of Chuikov, dug into the steep river bank, where Anatoly Merezhko and other staff officers coordinated the Soviet defense and counteroffensive.

According to many, the blood-soaked soil on which the museum stands is sacred. Therefore, its director initially objected to the idea of ​​hanging portraits of Russian and German soldiers side by side. He argued that Soviet "war heroes" would be desecrated by the presence of "fascists". In addition to him, some local veterans also opposed the proposed exhibition, arguing that the “unstaged” portraits of war participants in their home environment, often without full dress uniform, smacked of “pornography.”

These objections were removed to a large extent with the help of Colonel General Merezhko. One of the most senior living Soviet officers, he specially flew from Moscow to visit the exhibition. At its opening, Merezhko, dressed in a civilian suit, gave a touching speech in which he called for reconciliation and lasting peace between two countries that had previously fought with each other more than once. Merezhko was joined by Maria Faustova, who undertook a nineteen-hour train journey to recite a poem dedicated to Victory Day. The poem spoke about the hardships and losses that befell Soviet citizens during the four long years of war. When Maria reached the stanza dedicated to the Battle of Stalingrad, she burst into tears. (Several German veterans also wanted to attend the exhibition, but poor health forced them to cancel the trip.)

In terms of human losses, Stalingrad is comparable to the Battle of Verdun during the First World War. The parallel between the two battles was not lost on contemporaries. Already in 1942, with a mixture of fear and horror, they called Stalingrad the “second” or “red Verdun”. On the territory of the Verdun Memorial, managed by the French government, is the Douamont Ossuary, where the remains of 130 thousand unidentified soldiers from the fighting armies are buried. A permanent exhibition has been created inside it, presenting huge portraits of veterans of both sides - Germans, French, Belgians, British, Americans, who are holding their photographs from the war. Perhaps one day a similar monument will be created in Volgograd, which will honor the feat of Soviet soldiers, for the sake of memory of the human cost of the Battle of Stalingrad, and will unite them in dialogue with the faces and voices of former opponents.

Details

I was a member of the British Communist Party until it collapsed in 1991.

I want to say that I do not consider myself a historian. I was born into a poor working class family. I only received public education and today I don’t speak my native language...

The main part of my story will be devoted to how I, a boy from Schleswig Holstein, ended up taking part in the “Napoleonic” defeat in Stalingrad. Sometimes I wonder why history doesn't teach us? Napoleon attacked Russia in 1812. His army of 650,000 invaded from East Prussia and began to advance towards Smolensk and Moscow, but was forced to withdraw. The Russian army pursued the retreating and when the French returned to Paris, their army numbered only 1,400 soldiers. Of course, not all 650,000 were soldiers, and only half of them were French, the rest were Germans and Poles. To many uneducated peasants, joining Napoleonic army seemed like a great idea. We too when attacking Soviet Union according to the operation plan code name Barbarossa thought that we were the strongest and smartest, but we know what came of it!

I was born in 1922 in Schleswig Holstein. My father was a laborer. Until 1866, Schleswig Holstein belonged to Denmark. Bismarck and the Prussian Army declared war on Denmark, after which Schleswig Holstein was ceded to the Germans. During my service in Russia, the temperature on the coldest day dropped to -54 degrees. I then regretted that Denmark did not win that war, and I had to go with the Germans to Russia and suffer from this terrible cold in 1942. In the end, despite our nationality, we are all one big family. I know this now, but I didn’t understand it then.

1930s in Germany

Until I was ten (from 1922 to 1932) I lived in the Weimar Republic, which emerged after the overthrow of the Kaiser in 1919. I experienced this when I was a little boy. Obviously, I didn’t understand what was happening at all. My parents loved me and did their best, but I remember that time of troubles- strikes, shootings, blood on the streets, recession, 7 million unemployed. I lived in a working-class neighborhood near Hamburg, where people had a very hard time. There were demonstrations with red flags, in which women carried their children, pushed baby carriages and chanted: “Give us bread and give us work,” while workers shouted “Revolution” and “Lenin.”

My father was left-wing and explained a lot to me. The German ruling class was frightened by the events taking place and decided to do something. I saw street fights from which I was forced to run, but they seemed to me to be part of ordinary life.

On Christmas Eve 1932 I was 10 years old. A little later, on January 30, 1933, a bomb exploded in the Reichstag. Soon Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany. My mother kept asking how Hindenburg allowed this to happen, because we knew that the Nazis were scumbags - a party of racists who only talked about revenge and beatings.

It all seemed interesting and exciting to me, even though my mother told me that they were just bandits. I constantly saw such impressive stormtroopers in brown uniforms marching through the streets of cities. As young men, we sang their songs and walked proudly after them. In the last three columns, at the end of the marches, garbage men arrived and if people on the sidewalks did not salute the flag, they forced them. Later I joined the Hitler Youth, and I was ashamed to show myself to my mother.

Hitler was appointed to suppress the working class.

Hitler became Reich Chancellor. Ten years ago no one had heard of him. The name "Nazi" (derived from the National Socialist Workers' Party of Germany) attracted a sufficient number of people who were disillusioned with traditional political parties. Some were sincere socialists who were willing to give Hitler a chance, believing that he could not be worse than the old parties. When Hitler and his henchmen made a speech, it always concerned the return of Germany to its former greatness, attacks on the Jews as inferior human beings who needed to be dealt with. Consequently, establishing order in the world became the God-given mission of the German people, whether they wanted it or not.

There were no elections. Hitler was appointed overnight. Elections were abolished in order to give power to Hitler. For what? The Nazis were not traditional political party. So who gave them the power? Hindenburg represented the ruling class - the military, arms manufacturers, Ruhr barons, bankers, clergymen and landowning aristocrats. When Hitler came to power, his father said that he was only a servant of the rich. Now I know he was right. They gave Hitler the power to crush the rebellion of the working class against poor living conditions. Hitler was not even a native of Germany. He was an army corporal, a vagabond from Vienna. He had no education, he simply called for revenge. How did it become possible for a man like Hitler to come to civil and military power in such a highly developed and educated country as Germany? He couldn't do this alone. His party was nothing. Behind this were the customers who did this in an effort to prevent a repeat of the Russian revolution.

Hitler had executive branch, but was not a dictator, but only a figurehead. He was not smart enough to manage such a complex mechanism as the German state.

The Nazis created concentration camps. My father always said that workers need to fight for their rights, because the scoundrels employ us only to make a profit, and the only way to scare them is by an uprising, which could develop into a revolution. One day, storm troops arrived in two cars at 3 a.m. and took away our neighbor, the chairman of the trade union. He was taken to a concentration camp. My mother told me about this, and from then on my father told me to remain silent about his views, otherwise he would go to a concentration camp. The arrest of one person from our neighborhood served as a good tactic to intimidate and intimidate all its residents. I was 11 or 12 then and I thought he was just an idiot, but I knew everything. My father thought that nothing could be done, and he had no other choice but silence. The communists were the first to be taken to concentration camps, and then even progressive priests and everyone who spoke out against the regime began to be arrested. Once you open your mouth, you disappear. Nazi power was based on fear and terror.

Hitler Youth

I ended up in the Hitler Youth. A law was passed allowing only one youth organization to exist, and the youth group at my church became the Hitler Youth. I liked him. All my friends were in it. My father said that I should stay there because under the circumstances it would be worse for both of us if I left her. When I left school at 15, my father, a railway worker, got me an apprenticeship with a mechanic on the railway. The first question on the job application was: “When did you join the Hitler Youth?” If you had never been a member of this organization, most likely you would not have been hired - this way there was indirect pressure (not through the law) to force young people to join the Hitler Youth. But I have to admit that I liked it there. We were poor, I had few clothes, and my mother sewed them for me. And in the Hitler Youth they gave me a brown shirt. My father would never have bought it for me, since we had no money, but next meeting I was given a package which I took home. There were two shirts in it. My father hated the uniform, but he had to watch me wear it. He understood what this meant. We Hitler Youth marched proudly with drums and swastikas, accompanied by fanfare. All this took place in an atmosphere of strict discipline.

I liked the camps, which were located in beautiful places, such as Thuringen Castle. We young men now have the opportunity to play a lot of sports. When we wanted to play football on the street in our poor neighborhood, no one could afford to buy a ball, but in the Hitler Youth we had it all at our disposal. Where did the money come from for this? Most likely from funds donated by weapons manufacturers. Hitler was given the power to prepare for a war that could save Germany from economic collapse.

I remember the time when there were 7 million unemployed. Eighteen months after Hitler came to power, there were very few people left who were not employed. The construction of a fleet began at the docks - warships - the battleship Bismarck, the cruiser Eugen, submarines. In Germany there was even a shortage of workers. People liked it, but my father said that if all the work was just preparing for war, then something was clearly wrong.

In the Hitler Youth we learned to shoot and throw grenades, attack and occupy. We played grand war games. We were taught around the fires, where we sang Nazi songs: “Let Jewish blood drip from our knives” and others. Our parents were shocked by our descent into barbarism. But I didn’t doubt anything. We were being prepared for war.

A few years later, the Germans occupied vast territories 4-5 times the size of Great Britain. These territories were held due to the fact that German youth were trained in Hitler's camps. I believed that we Germans could fix the mess the world was in.

In a tank division

At the age of 18, I was drafted and sent to the panzer division. I was very proud that in such early age I was selected for the tank division. The exercises were very difficult. I came home in my uniform and thought everything was going great. Our instructors told us that they would knock the individualism out of us and create a Nazi socialist spirit in its place. They succeeded. When we approached Stalingrad, I still believed in it.

Our officer corps in the Wehrmacht consisted almost entirely of landowning aristocrats with the prefix “von”. War propaganda was constantly intensifying. We learned that “we” had to do something about Poland before they attacked us, to stand up for the free world. Now history has repeated itself with Bush and Blair. We attacked Poland on September 1, 1939. When the bomb exploded in Berlin, we were told that it was an act of terrorism committed against us, freedom-loving people. The same thing is being said now, when we are being prepared for a new war. The same atmosphere of lies and misinformation.

I was called up in 1941 when Operation Barbarossa began on June 22. I was on an exercise at the time. When they declared war against the Soviet Union, tank division was in France. At first, the German army and its discipline were far superior to the armies of other countries from a military point of view. Our troops entered the Soviet Union relatively easily. My 22nd Panzerdivision was transported there by train only in the winter of 1941. In France the weather was tolerable and the first part of the trip was pleasant despite the time of year. It was colder in Germany and snowing in Poland. In the Soviet Union everything was white with snow.

Then we believed that we should accept it as an honor to die fighting for the Fatherland. We passed through a city in the Soviet Union called Tanenburg. Earlier there was a battle involving tanks. Before us stood a picture that 18-year-old people were not ready for. We didn't know what we were going through, just that we had to follow orders. I began to think: despite the fact that most of the burned tanks were Russian, one of them was German, just like mine, and I could not understand how the tanker managed to survive, because it is very difficult to get out of a burning tank. But then I realized that he probably didn’t get out, but died right in the tank.

For the first time I realized that I didn't want to die. It’s interesting to talk about great battles, what are they like in reality? My National Socialist spirit will not shield me from bullets. This is how the first doubts overtook me.

We entered Crimea as part of Manstein's 11th Army. The offensive began in late winter/early spring. I went through my first battle. We won. But one day, while I was driving a tank, a sobering event occurred. I was taught to never stop him. Stop it and you're dead. I approached a narrow bridge that needed to be crossed. As I approached, I saw three Russian soldiers carrying their wounded comrade, accompanied by German guards. When they saw me, they abandoned the wounded man. I stopped so as not to run him over. My commander ordered to continue moving. I had to move the wounded man, and he died. That's how I became a killer. I considered it normal to kill in battle, but not defenseless people. This gave me doubts. But constantly hesitating about this can drive you crazy. After the battle we were given medals. It was wonderful. We took Crimea. Victory over the enemy army, capturing villages - all this seemed very exciting. Then we were transferred by train to the mainland to join the units of General Paulus. This was in the spring of 1942. I took part in the advance to the Volga. We beat Tymoshenko. I personally participated in many battles. Then we moved to Stalingrad.

Along the way, from time to time political commissars gathered us for operational reports. Our commissar was the major of our unit. We sat on the grass, and he was in the center. He said there was no need to stand in his presence. He asked: “Why do you think you are in Russia?” I began to think where he was trying to catch us. Someone said: “To defend the honor of our Fatherland.” The major said that this is nonsense that Goebbels is telling, and we are not fighting for slogans, but for real things. He said that when we defeat the proletarian army of scum, our battles in the south will end. Where do we go next? The answer was - to oil deposits in the Caucasus and Caspian Sea. After? We had no idea. Let's say if we moved about 700 km south, we would end up in Iraq. At the same time, Rommel, fighting in the Nile Delta region, would move east and also enter Iraq. Without capturing these important oil resources, he said, Germany could not be a leading power. And now, looking at the current situation, everything again comes down to oil.

“Shocking impressions” of communicating with a communist prisoner of war

At some point I was seriously wounded. I ended up in the hospital, where doctors determined that I was no longer fit for active combat.

I will now quote excerpts from my book “Through Hell for Hitler” (Spellmount, Staplehurst, 1990, p. 77-81), a new edition of which should be published soon:

“We were taken by ambulance train to the hospital in Stalino. Despite the fact that at first my wound did not want to heal, I liked the hospital. A few weeks away from the front seemed like a gift from above.

Most of the staff at this hospital, including surgeons, were Russian. The care for the patients was quite satisfactory by war standards, and when it was time to be discharged, the Russian doctor said goodbye to me with an insidious grin: “Come on, go further to the East, young man, after all, this is what you came here for!” I didn’t even understand whether I liked this remark and whether I even wanted to go further to the East. After all, I was not yet twenty, I wanted to live and did not want to die at all.

Although my condition was satisfactory for discharge from the hospital, I was still not ready to participate in hostilities as part of my division, which was on the front line and making its way towards Rostov. Therefore, I was sent to a unit providing security for a prisoner of war camp somewhere between the Donets and the Dnieper. A large camp was set up in the open air in the steppe. Kitchen, warehouses and the like were placed under a canopy, while countless prisoners of war had to take cover with whatever they could get their hands on. Our rations were quite meager, but the prisoners had it even worse. I must say summer days They were quite nice, and the Russians, accustomed to a hard life, tolerated these terrible conditions normally. The border of the camp was a round ditch dug along the perimeter of the camp, to which prisoners were not allowed to approach. Inside the camp, on one side, there were collective farm premises. All of them were surrounded by barbed wire with one guarded entrance. I and a dozen other semi-invalids were assigned to guard the interior of the camp.

For most combat-ready soldiers, convoy service seemed a stultifying punishment. In addition, it was a very boring task, and everything that happened in the inner part of the collective farm seemed somewhat strange. The key to everything, I believe, was Hitler's infamous “Commissar Order,” according to which all captured political commissars (commissars) and other members of the Communist Party were to be shot. Thus, for the communists, the order meant the same thing as the “final solution” for the Jews. I think by that time most of us had come to terms with the fact that communism amounted to a crime, and communists were considered criminals, which freed us from any need to prove guilt within the bounds of the law. It was then that the thought that I was guarding a camp specifically designed to destroy the “communist infection” overtook my consciousness.

Any prisoner of war who found himself on the territory of a collective farm was never released. I cannot say that they knew about the fate in store for them. Among the prisoners of war there were quite a lot of those who were betrayed by their own comrades from the outer part of the camp, but even in the most unconvincing cases, when the prisoners swore that they had never been members of the Communist Party, were not convinced communists and, moreover, always remained anti-communists - even in such cases they were not released from the camp. But our duties were limited exclusively to the armed protection of the territory, and everything was in charge here of representatives of the Sicherheitsdienst, or SD for short, under the command of an SS Sturmbannführer, which was equal to the rank of major in the Wehrmacht. In all cases, a formal investigation was first carried out, and after it execution, always in the same place - near the wall of a half-burnt hut, which was not visible from anywhere from the outside. The burial site, several long ditches, was located further out on the outskirts.

Having been steeped in the Nazi “school” in educational institutions and in the ranks of the Hitler Youth, this first impression of a direct meeting with real communists initially puzzled me. The prisoners brought here daily to the camp, either singly or in small groups, were not at all what I had imagined them to be. In fact, They were indeed different from the rest of the mass of prisoners in the outer section of the camp, who in their appearance and behavior were very similar to ordinary peasants in eastern Europe. What struck me most about the political instructors and members of the Communist Party was their inherent education and sense of self. I never, or almost never, saw them moan or complain, never ask for anything for themselves. When the hour of execution approached, and executions happened constantly, they accepted it with their heads held high. Almost everyone gave the impression of people who could be trusted without limit; I was sure that if I met them in peaceful conditions, they could well become my friends.

All the days were like one another. We either stood at the gate for several hours with a partner, or walked around alone with rifles loaded and ready to fire on our shoulders. Usually there were up to a dozen or a little more “visitors” under our care. They were kept in a cleared out pigsty, which in turn was surrounded by barbed wire, despite the fact that it was located in the interior of the camp. It was a prison within a prison that was also a prisoner. The security was organized in such a way that the prisoners had no chance of escaping, so we had little to worry about. Since we had to see them almost around the clock, we knew them all by sight and often even by name. It was we who accompanied them to where the “investigation” was taking place, and it was we who escorted them on their final journey to the place of execution.

One of the prisoners, thanks to what he had learned at school, spoke German quite well. I no longer remember his last name, but his name was Boris. Since I also spoke Russian quite well, although I distorted cases and declensions, we communicated without difficulty, discussing many topics. Boris was a lieutenant, a political instructor, about two years older than me. In the conversation it turned out that both he and I were studying to become a mechanic, he was in the Gorlovka and Artemovsk area at a large industrial complex, I am in a railway workshop in Hamburg. During the offensive, we passed through his native Gorlovka. Boris was fair-haired, about eighty meters tall, with cheerful blue eyes, in which a good-natured sparkle flickered even in captivity. Often, especially in the late hours, I was drawn to him and wanted to talk. I kept calling him Boris, so he also asked me if he could call me by my name, at that moment we were amazed at how easily people can get along. We mostly talked about our families, school, places where we were born and where we learned our profession. I knew all his brothers and sisters by name, I knew how old they were, what his parents did, even some of their habits. Of course, he was terribly worried about their fate in the city occupied by the Germans, but he could not console him. He even told me their address and asked me, in case I happened to be in Gorlovka, to find them and tell them everything. “But what could I tell them?” I asked myself. I think we both understood perfectly well that I would never look for them, and his family would never know about the fate of their Boris. I also told him about my family and everything that was dear to me. I told him that I have a girlfriend whom I love, although there was nothing serious between us. Boris smiled knowingly and said that he also had a girlfriend, a student. At such moments it seemed to us that we were very close, but then the terrible consciousness came to us that between us there was an abyss, on one side of which I, a guard with a rifle, and on the other, he, my prisoner. I clearly understood that Boris would never be able to hug his girlfriend, but I didn’t know if Boris understood this. I knew that his only crime was that he was a military man, and a political commissar at that, and instinctively I felt that what was happening was very, very wrong.

Oddly enough, we practically did not discuss military service, and when it came to politics, he and I had no common ground, nor was there any common denominator to which our discussions could be brought. Despite the great human closeness in many ways, there was a bottomless chasm between us.

And then the last night came for Boris. I learned from our SD officers that he was to be shot tomorrow morning. In the afternoon he was summoned for interrogation, from which he returned beaten, with traces of bruises on his face. It looked like he had been hit in the side, but he didn't complain about anything, and I didn't say anything either, because there was no point in it. I didn't know if he realized that he was being prepared to be shot the next morning; I didn’t say anything either. But, being a fairly smart man, Boris probably understood what happened to those who were taken away and who never returned.

I took up my night post from two to four in the morning; the night was quiet and surprisingly warm. The air was filled with the sounds of the surrounding nature; in a pond located not far from the camp, one could hear the friendly croaking of frogs almost in unison. Boris sat on the straw by the pigsty, leaning his back against the wall, and played a tiny harmonica that easily fit unnoticed in his hand. This harmonica was the only thing left with him, because everything else was taken away during the first search. The melody he played this time was extremely beautiful and sad, a typical Russian song telling about the wide steppe and love. Then one of his friends told him to shut up, saying, “You’re not letting me sleep.” He looked at me, as if asking: should I continue playing or should I shut up? I shrugged my shoulders in response, he hid the instrument and said: “Nothing, let’s talk better.” I leaned against the wall, looked down at him and felt awkward because I didn’t know what to talk about. I was unusually sad, I wanted to behave as usual - in a friendly way and perhaps help with something, but how? I don’t even remember how it happened, but at some point he looked at me searchingly, and we started talking about politics for the first time. Perhaps, deep down in my soul, I myself wanted to understand at this late hour why he believed so passionately in the rightness of his cause, or, at least, to receive recognition that it was wrong, that he was disappointed in everything.

What about your world revolution now? - I asked. - Now it’s all over, and in general, this is a criminal conspiracy against peace and freedom and was so from the very beginning, wasn’t it?

The fact is that just at this time it seemed that Germany would inevitably win a brilliant victory over Russia. Boris was silent for a while, sitting on a sheaf of hay and playing with his harmonica in his hands. I would understand if he was angry with me. When he slowly stood up, came closer to me and looked me straight in the eyes, I noticed that he was still extremely worried. His voice, however, was calm, somewhat sad and full of bitterness from disappointment - no, not in his ideas, but in me.

Henry! - he said. - You told me a lot about your life, that you, like me, are from a poor family, from a family of workers. You are quite good-natured and not stupid. But, on the other hand, you are very stupid if life has taught you nothing. I understand that those who brainwashed you did a great job, and you thoughtlessly swallowed all this propaganda nonsense. And the saddest thing is that you allowed yourself to be instilled with ideas that directly contradict your own interests, ideas that turned you into an obedient, pathetic tool in their treacherous hands. The world revolution is part of the developing world history. Even if you win this war, which I seriously doubt, the revolution in the world cannot be stopped by military means. You have a powerful army, you can cause enormous damage to my Motherland, you can shoot many of our people, but you cannot destroy the idea! This movement, at first glance, is dormant and imperceptible, but it exists, and it will soon proudly move forward when all the poor and oppressed ordinary people in Africa, in America, in Asia and in Europe they will awaken from their slumber and rise. One day people will understand that the power of money, the power of capital not only oppresses and robs them, but at the same time devalues ​​the human potential inherent in them, in both cases allowing them to be used only as a means of obtaining material gain, as if they were weak-willed weak figures, and then throws them away as unnecessary. Once people understand this, a small light will turn into a flame, these ideas will be picked up by millions and millions around the world, and will do whatever is needed in the name of humanity. And it will not be Russia that will do this for them, although it was the Russian people who were the first to throw off the chains of slavery. The people of the world will do this for themselves and their countries, they will rise up against their own oppressors in whatever way seems necessary and when the hour comes!

During his passionate speech, I could neither interrupt him nor contradict him. And although he spoke in a low voice, his words shocked me incredibly. No one had ever managed to touch the strings of my soul so deeply, I felt helpless and disarmed in the knowledge of what his words conveyed to me. And to deal me the final crushing blow, Boris pointed to my rifle and added that “this thing has no power against ideas.”

And if you think that you can now reasonably object to me,” he concluded, “then I ask you to do without all the meaningless slogans about the fatherland, freedom and God!

I almost suffocated from the rage that gripped me. The natural reaction was to put him in his place. But having come to my senses, I decided that he had only a few hours to live and for him this was probably the only way to speak out. I was soon to be relieved of my post. Not wanting to make farewell scenes and say neither “goodbye!” nor “Auf Wiedersehn” to him, I just looked him straight in the eyes, probably there was a certain mixture of anger and sympathy in my eyes, maybe he even managed to notice glimpses of humanity in him , after which he turned on his heel and slowly walked along the stables to where we were located. Boris didn’t even move, didn’t say a word and didn’t move while I was walking. But I knew for sure - I felt it - that he was constantly looking after me while I trudged along with my stupid rifle.

The first rays of the rising sun appeared on the horizon.

We guards also slept on the hay, and I always liked to come from my post, collapse and fall asleep. But that morning I had no time to sleep. Without even undressing, I lay on my back and looked at the slowly brightening sky. Restlessly tossing and turning in different directions, I felt sorry for Boris, and for myself too. I was unable to understand many things. After sunrise I heard a few shots, a short salvo, and it was all over.

I immediately jumped up and went to where I knew the graves had been prepared. It was a beautiful morning in all its summer splendor and beauty, the birds were singing, and everything was as if nothing had happened. I came across a sadly wandering firing squad with rifles on their shoulders. The soldiers nodded at me, apparently surprised that I had come. Two or maybe three prisoners were burying the bodies of those who had been shot. Besides Boris, there were three more bodies, and they had already been partially covered with earth. I could recognize Boris, his shirt was wrinkled, he was barefoot, but he was still wearing his leather belt, covered in blood stains. The prisoners looked at me in surprise, as if asking what I was doing here. The expression on their faces was sullen, but other than that, I could see fear and hatred in their eyes. I wanted to ask them what happened to Boris’s harmonica, whether it was taken from him before the execution, or whether it remained in his pocket. But I immediately abandoned this idea, thinking that the prisoners might suspect that I was going to rob the dead. Turning around, I walked towards the stables to finally fall asleep.

I was greatly relieved when I was soon deemed “fit to fight” and was to rejoin my division, which was fighting on many fronts. No matter how hard it was on the front line, at least there I was not haunted by maddening painful experiences, so I deceived my own conscience and reason.

My comrades were glad to see me back. The Volga was very close, and the Russians fought with all their valor, demonstrating everything they were capable of. Some of my close friends died in battle. Our company commander, Lieutenant Steffan, was shot in the head. No matter how sad it was to hear about the death of my friends, I still understood that this was war. But the execution of Boris did not fit into my head - why? It seemed to me like the crucifixion of Christ.

On the approaches to Stalingrad

We all hoped that the summer of 1942 would be great. We tried to squeeze the Red Army into a pincer movement, but the Russians always retreated. We thought it was because they were cowards, but we soon realized that this was not the case.

In the Donbass region we entered a city where there were many factories. By order Soviet government they were dismantled into parts and all the equipment was moved east of the Urals. Mass production of T-34 tanks, the most successful tanks in world history, was established there. The T-34 dashed all our hopes of victory.

Our army included economic affairs officers who wore green uniforms. These officers were inspecting the factories, and I saw how upset they were to find that there was nothing left there. They expected to be able to take possession of all the equipment.

Before this I had never been to Stalingrad. We were unable to capture a single Russian soldier, as they literally disappeared from view, forming partisan detachments. Foreign troops fought on our side, for example, soldiers from Romania. We used foreigners to guard the flanks behind Stalingrad, but our allies were not properly armed and their discipline was poor compared to our army, so we attacked them. Our unit was positioned behind the Romanians, and we fought with the Russians who had broken through the ranks of the Romanian soldiers. This was in November 1942. We felt something was wrong while standing on duty. The Russian T-34 was the best tank of World War II, I could recognize it by its sound diesel engine, and it seemed to me that I heard a huge number of these tanks driving somewhere in the distance. We reported to the officers that the equipment was approaching. The officers told us that the Russians were practically finished, and we had nothing to fear.

As soon as we came into combat readiness, we realized that this was only the introduction to a grandiose action. The main part of it was ahead. The artillery fire stopped for a moment, and we heard the tanks start up. They began their attack early in the morning, turning on their headlights and firing at us. The tanks came for us. I remembered that officer who thought that it was one tank driving back and forth, but now there were hundreds of approaching vehicles ahead. There was a ravine between us. Russian tanks drove into it and immediately got out easily, and then I realized that we were finished. I took refuge in the dugout like the last coward and, trembling with fear, hid in a corner where, as it seemed to me, the tank could not crush me. They simply drove through our positions. A lot of screams were heard - Russian speech, voices of Romanians. I was afraid to move. It was 6 am. At eight or about half past nine it became quieter. One of my colleagues, Fritz, was killed. The wounded screamed in agony. The wounded and killed Russian soldiers were taken away, but the Germans and Romanians were left lying. I was twenty years old and didn't know what to do.

The wounded needed help. But I didn't know how to give first aid, I didn't have any medicine, and I knew they had no hope of survival. I just left, leaving behind 15-20 wounded. One German shouted at me that I was acting like a pig. I realized that I could not do anything for them and it was better for me to leave, knowing that I could not help. I went to the bunker with the stove. It was warm inside, there was straw and blankets on the floor. When I went out to collect firewood, I heard the engine running in the cliff. It was a broken-down Russian SUV, with some firewood lying next to it. Two officers approached me and I retreated. They decided that I was a Russian soldier who had put on a German coat. I saluted. He gestured that his butt hurt. I lit a fire and slept all day. I was scared to wake up. What was ahead of me?

I prepared to leave as soon as it got dark. In the Hitler Youth we were taught to navigate by the North Star. I went west. I didn’t know what was happening: whether the Russians had Stalingrad, and whether the 6th German Army of the Wehrmacht was defeated. I was walking right to the place where the breakthrough occurred.

I wasn't even 20 yet. Reluctantly, I had to throw all the blankets away. The snow gradually covered the wounded. I took everything I could from my fallen comrades: the best rifle, the best pistol, and as much food as I could carry. I didn't know how far I would have to walk before I reached the German front line. I refreshed myself as best I could and hit the road. For three days in a row I slept in barns and ate snow.

One day I saw a man and he saw me. I knelt down, weapon in hand, and waited. I was wearing a Romanian fur hat. He shouted something. Then he asked if I was Romanian, I replied that I was German. He said that he was also German. We went together and walked another two days. We almost died when we crossed the German front line because the command decided that I was a deserter, so I don’t know anything about what happened to my unit.

I ended up in a battle group under the command of Lindemann. There were no more divisions and regiments. We've lost everything. Then we began to put into practice Hitler’s “scorched earth” tactics. One day we passed through a village consisting of 6-8 houses. Lindemann ordered to take everything that was in the premises and then burn them to the ground. The houses were very modest, they didn’t even have a floor. I opened the door of one of them. It was full of women, children and old people. I smelled poverty. And cabbage. People were sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall. I ordered them to leave the house, and they began to explain that everyone would die homeless. A woman with a baby in her arms asked if I had a mother. An elderly woman stood nearby, and with her a child. I grabbed the child, put the gun to his head and told him that if they didn't leave the house, I would shoot him. Some old man asked to shoot him instead of the boy. Lindemann ordered me to burn the house, even if they did not want to leave. I did as I was ordered. Then people opened the doors and began to run out into the street screaming. I'm sure none of them survived.

We ordinary German soldiers who fought by conscription also got it. The Russians attacked us. Among us there were very young people - even younger than me - who walked through the snow in the hope of joining their unit. Russian Sturmovik planes appeared in the sky as we walked through the snow and noticed our tracks. We even saw the pilots inside. They made a circle and fired at us. The shell hit one soldier and literally cut him in half - his name was Willie. He was good friend. He had no chance to survive. We couldn't carry him, but we couldn't leave him either. I, as the eldest, had to make a decision. Knee-deep in snow, I walked up, stroked his head and sprinkled it with snow. I was a run-of-the-mill killer again, but what else was there to do?

I was wounded again (for the third time). They grabbed me, but I ran away. Then I was taken to a German hospital in Westphalia in 1944. At the beginning of 1945, I again joined the unit at western front to fight the Americans. It was easier to fight with them than with the Russians. Moreover, because of all the brutal crimes that we committed in Russia, the Russians truly hated us, and in order to avoid captivity we had to fight like animals.

I was sent to defend the Rhine immediately after the landing. Patton's army was advancing on Paris. After the defeat on March 17, 1945, we were transported by train to Cherbourg. We - hundreds of German soldiers - were put in open carriages. We were not allowed to use the toilets, but were given enough food. For toilets we used tin cans. When the French at the crossing began to insult us, we began to throw these cans at them. Then we arrived in Cherbourg.

I saw the full horror of devastation stretching from east to west. What have we done! I have seen catastrophic losses. 50 million people died in this war! We wanted to seize territory and 50% of the planet's natural resources, including oil located in Russia. That's what it was.

Looking back now, I salute the Red Army for saving the world from Hitler. They lost more people in this war. Nine out of ten German soldiers who died during World War II died in Russia. I was asked to come to the Memorial near the Imperial War Museum a couple of weeks ago. I gave a speech there in which I paid tribute to the Red Army...

We Germans thought we had the strongest army in the world, but look what happened to us - Americans should remember this. Revolution will happen everywhere, even if it doesn't happen exactly as Boris said. A new awakening of revolutionary forces is inevitable.

The Stalin Society had the honor of meeting Henry Metelmann, who addressed the Annual General Meeting on 23 February 2003, chaired by Ella Ruhl, with Iris Kramer as secretary. He shared memorable memories of his childhood in Hitler's Germany, before he fell at Stalingrad as part of the German army. He drew parallels between fascist German expansionism and today's Anglo-American imperialist aggression against Iraq. This version is compiled from extensive notes obtained during the meeting.