YEARS WITHOUT HOPE
Werner I. Juretzko
Smashwords edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press
© 2012 / Werner I. Juretzko
Condensed translation of original manuscript
Die Nacht begann
am Morgen
Copy-edited by: Darren Pulsford
Cover Design By: David Dodd
Images used under the terms of the GFDL
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I dedicate this book to...
Bandelow, Burianek, Kogel, Miesera and dozens of other men and women, convicted "cold war spies," who lost their lives on the guillotine, and to the memory of all my fellow comrades in chains who spent years of agony in prisons behind the "Iron Curtain."
Several names and locations in this book have been changed, although the story is true.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter Two — The First Encounter
Chapter
Three
— The Mission
Chapter
Four
— The Trap
Chapter
Five
—
Behind Bars
Chapter
Six — The
Trip
Chapter Seven — Cell Thirty-three
Chapter One:
THE RETREAT
It was Christmas Eve in 1944 with the eastern sky dancing with flickers of light and distant rumbling disturbing the sounding of the bells from our church at Rydultau in Upper Silesia. There was a weird foreboding in this muted display which diminished the usual holiday joy.
The roar of the guns moved closer and the people whispered of imminent defeat. Since Stalingrad, Germany's military might had dwindled alarmingly. It could no longer be concealed that the Red Army was approaching the German border, and a counter-offensive was merely wishful thinking. Every day fleeing civilians came west with carts pulled by tired horses, carrying women and children and presenting a pitiful scene. This retreat of frightened people and animals continued and swelled to an endless stream, for the fear of being overtaken by Red soldiers haunted everyone. Rumored reports about Red brutalities gave these homeless people strength to carry on and to continue to flee. The war had created a new army—refugees. Before long, I too would have to join this host of disowned humans, condemned to roam all over Europe for decades and longer. Freedom was their fervent plea, plus a little luck.
In the middle of January, another army was on the march, with its ghost-like humans on the move nightly. Three in a row, and in every fifth line a kerosene lamp was carried for illumination, making this convoy a grim affair. Slow motion was the speed, but insulting commands, re-enforced with bayonets and rifle butts, drove them on. They were inmates of prison camps being moved westwards away from the front. For them, every step west meant ruin and destruction. They prayed to be overtaken by the Russians, but when shots rang out around this ghastly procession their ranks were decimated.
One morning my father and I stumbled over a protruding mass slightly covered with snow which we recognized as dead bodies. Their open eyes still begged for the mercy they’d never received. Bullets brought their lives to an end in our own field. At that moment I could not imagine that I would face similar atrocities in the coming months ahead. They were the first dead humans I had seen in my young life, spanning only twelve and a half years. Like all youngsters my age, I belonged to the Hitler youth. We were convinced Germany would win the war with its secret wonder weapons.
Our village was a beehive of activity and, fascinated, I spent much of my time watching military re-enforcements moving up to the front. Nearby, weapons and munitions were stored openly. Being in uniform, I received attention from regular troops. Previously, I had served as a messenger with civilian air defense groups and was permitted to wear a steel helmet. The head gear I wore made my appearance semi-military. Because of the winter, the regulation army helmets were painted white to blend with the elements. I followed suit but left the emblem, the eagle with swastika, untouched.
An official report mentioned that a Hitler youth, aged eleven, had participated in street battles somewhere and destroyed three Soviet tanks with a bazooka. Hitler had personally decorated him for his deed, making us youngsters jealous and spurring us on to greater heights of patriotic fervor. A sham battle was staged near our school, simulating a defense of our village. A Russian tank attack was to be stopped right there ,and armed with bazookas we marched towards a ravine close to an old wooden shack serving as a target. We fired our weapons effectively and within minutes the shack was reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble. With a feeling of revenge, we went home.
Late in January of 1945, Red troops came to within a few miles of our village, causing panic to set in, and people fled following the leader. My parents hurriedly hitched up the horses and buggy, loaded a few possessions and our whole family left the homestead. The roads were jammed, and in one hour we only covered one meager mile. Finally, at night, we crossed the Oder River and discovered a remote farm house which was our shelter for a few days. We learned that the Russians had been repulsed. My sisters left our parents and continued west via railroad. I alone remained behind to help my parents.
It was dangerous to travel during the day because low-flying Soviet aircraft attacked any moving object, making the death toll horrible. The Russians had complete air superiority. To move faster we had to exchange our heavy cart for a smaller but lighter one which meant discarding some valued goods, but we would move faster when attacked.
Slowly we slipped into the mountainous territory of East Moravia, and it was here that my parents decided to quit the running. Because of their age, they could no longer tolerate this strenuous flight. At home, their life had been a turbulent one near the border, with German and Polish domination alternating constantly and the respective flags being alternately recognized. My grandfather remembered being an Austrian subject until Prussia took over. Every generation was affected somehow, and my parents became resigned to the reality of eventual Soviet occupation and were prepared to wait for them and to obey them.
I differed greatly from these views. I still believed that Germany would win in the end. To bolster this belief, I was bent on becoming a full-fledged soldier. The opportunity presented itself when German troops, on their way to the front, camped near our shelter. I approached a young officer and, being in the uniform of the Hitler youth, found him most receptive. His glowing appraisal of Germany's future was a convincing pitch. I was ready to join the fighting force of my country.
Parting with my parents was a painful procedure. My father was definitely against it; my mother was simply speechless, for I was the only child left. My brother and sisters had parted in different directions, with their whereabouts unknown. The disapproving attitude of my parents made it imperative to sneak away. A military outfit passing by accepted me readily, and my knowledge of the Polish language was helpful in being recruited.
Almost from the moment I enlisted, we were in constant retreat. Czech partisans harassed us with gunfire, and felled trees serving as roadblocks hampered our movements. Our lead vehicle hit a mine and was consumed by flames, but we were unable to rescue anyone because of enemy resistance. Our munitions dwindled alarmingly, leaving us with only enough for self defense or perhaps suicide. We were in no position to take the offensive.
With Hitler's death, disaster befell us. Soldiers and civilians alike had but one aim—to flee Czechoslovakia and to reach the American lines. My military unit was decimated into a helpless gang of fighters, and the Russians were about to overtake us. Czech partisans were everywhere and handicapped us severely. They barricaded roads using damaged vehicles to block us. Hidden snipers singled us out and caused much sorrow. Exhausted and panic-stricken refugees, mostly women and children, fell by the wayside. We loaded as many as we could onto our vehicles and continued west.
At the Czech town of Tschaslau, southeast of Prague, we were greeted by bullets. After fiendish fighting we cornered ourselves in a cemetery, and although dead tired, no one dared to sleep. It was agreed to move again before daybreak, but we never did. During the night a Russian tank force occupied the part of the cemetery opposite us. Daylight revealed this hopeless situation, and when the enemy closed in we waved the white flag. Their commander prevented any shooting, and we were lined up outside the graveyard. Ugly scenes followed. The Russians, devilishly drunk, screamed like mad men. They stripped every captive soldier completely, searched their uniforms and bodies, and stole whatever they found—rings, watches, and medals.
Our women folk until then were not discovered, hiding in trucks near the road. But soon the rampant Russians discovered them and forced the women to come out. As they touched the ground, a pack of Soviet beasts assaulted them. The women screamed and fought but were encircled by brutal mad men. They tore the clothes off the women, attacked and raped them repeatedly until they lay unconscious on the ground. We could not respond to their infernal crying, being heavily guarded by our Russian captors.
Suddenly shots were heard. A Russian major dressed in a long leather jacket and brandishing a pistol, hastened toward his yelling soldiers. In blunt language, he leveled a tirade of condemnations at them. His imposing stature and roaring voice stopped the sex orgy. Only one fiend seemed unconcerned and was about to revive a prostrate woman for another attack. But the major kicked him in the rear, causing the soldier to nearly turn a somersault.
The major then confronted our commanding officer, saluted him and offered his apologies for the unspeakable behavior of his men. As to relieve tension, he reached for his shining cigarette case and invited his enemy to help himself. In fluent German he assured him that the culprits would face a military court. "The war is over." he stressed in an official tone. "You will assemble all your men, mount the vehicles and proceed to the nearest discharge camp. Weapons, including knives, must be surrendered at once. Any violation will draw the death penalty. Women and children will remain here to be processed for immediate release. These are strict orders." Heart-breaking cries rent the crisp morning air as the men were carted away under heavy guard.
We rode for hours, passing formations of Soviet troops unmolested. However, as soon as we entered a village, the native Czechs heaped curses and stones upon us. Some of us didn't escape without injury. One time we were about to pass under a viaduct when a huge crowd congregated jubilantly on top, pointed to us, and as we entered, a barrel of liquid manure was emptied, spreading its contents on us. We were enveloped in horrible stench and practically everyone was hit.
Later we approached the town of Tabor. Our Russian guards were on the alert to ward off vengeful inhabitants who always tried to jump us. But automatic weapons in Russian hands proved reliable. As we moved through the streets, flagged with the white, blue, and red Czech insignia, German civilians were rounded up and manhandled. Cries and moaning mounted as shots were fired. The whole town celebrated victory with blood and crimes. Truly, we owed our very lives to our Soviet protectors!
We were finally settled in barracks on the outskirts of the city. Countless soldiers were interned there; many in rags, barefooted or in socks, and we stayed outdoors for lack of room. Although ransacked many times before, roaming thieves, Russians and Czechs gave us the once over. We were practically forgotten and left to their mercy.
Days went by and hunger began to be felt, but nobody cared. Then one day we were suddenly lined up for inspection and divided into groups, each consisting of one hundred men. Within a short time the first group left for the railroad station and—Soviet Russia!
For once I thought fast. I counted on using my age as a key factor in planning my escape. I had managed to find civilian clothing that someone had hidden. Donning this over-size garment, I walked cautiously away from my comrades and towards the main guard. In Polish, I asked him to lead me to the officer on duty. Not being familiar with the language, he seemed to sense the urgency in my voice and brought me before the commandant. Luckily, he understood Polish and encouraged me to tell my story. I did the best I could, with much emotion, and my plea moved him, for he said very decidedly that the Soviet Union did not fight against children. He then called an officer and ordered a complete discharge for me.
Shortly afterwards, I walked through the gate within which I had lingered miserably for days. A few more steps and I was free. I headed for the unknown. After two days of dangerous hiking, avoiding crowds and drunken soldiers, I arrived in Prague. I looked like a professional beggar—and I really was! My health was waning and my face spelled hunger. A cup of water to revive my tonsils, and a bit to eat from Russian soldiers kept me alive. My boyish appearance persuaded them to help me. I met a Soviet cavalry unit going east which adopted me, and for a while, food was no problem. The unit carried plenty of supplies and loot, and was still collecting whatever they could. Their fondness for women was pronounced. Straying female refugees were mercilessly molested. It happened that we headed straight for my home town, and it was there that I left my hosts.
Deep disappointment overcame me when I entered the old homestead. Other people occupied it now. There was no trace of either my parents or relatives. Some neighbors recognized me and offered a little food, and I was warned that the Polish militia were on the lookout for my whole family. I left in a hurry and found shelter in a nearby village with relatives. I slept in the barn and sneaked into the house for meals.
It was late in the summer when two of my sisters showed up. They looked miserable and felt even worse, just as I did. Being homesick, they had left the secure American zone to return home. It was a fatal move, a grave mistake. After a hasty discussion, we decided to leave together and re-enter the American zone. We started out at once. Roaming over Soviet occupied territory, we had to surmount many hardships, but fortunately, friendly Poles were always kind to us and fed us. After many weeks, we finally reached the Thuringian-Hessian border. Although the American zone was within sight, it was impossible to cross over. The "Iron Curtain" had, in the meantime, been erected.
Our several attempts to sneak across failed miserably. The demarcation line was guarded too heavily. We had to retreat to the nearest town of Muehlhausen, about fifteen miles distant. With another winter approaching, in fact the coldest one on record, we were lucky to find shelter in the attic of one of the townspeople's homes. With spring in the offing, I was bent on breaking through the border alone. Reports leaked through that two of my other sisters were safe in the American zone, living at Eschwege. This news furnished me with the courage and inspiration I needed to make my crossing a success. Arriving at Eschwege, more joy awaited me, for my brother, just released from a British P.O.W. camp, greeted me unexpectedly. Two sisters and two brothers were united under strange circumstances, and for a short while our happiness seemed unending. I talked about returning east, back through the Iron Curtain, but only my sister Elfriede agreed to go with me. Surprisingly we crossed into the Soviet Zone unmolested.
After a short reunion with the sisters I left behind, Elfriede longed for her sister and brother in the American zone. Carefully we studied how to go about it and set out to find a loosely guarded area where we could make our crossing. We were on our way, with less than a mile to go when disaster befell us. "Stoi!—Stop!" A Russian soldier with an automatic pistol confronted us, Bushes had concealed him. "Dokument! —Your papers!" We obliged and saw our documents disappear in his pocket. "Dawai! Poschli! —Let's go!" He pointed the way with the barrel of his rifle. A half hour later we reached the border control office set up in a farm house. We were locked in the cellar where several families were already being held. Like us, they too were captured trying to cross the border. We were told we would have to wait until the next day when the commandant was expected. This meant we had to spend the night in that dismal dump. The women and children were frightened and the men folk talked about escape. But the windows were boarded up.
In the evening a soldier brought a bucket of hot soup and handed out spoons. We gathered around the steaming pot and devoured the questionable substance. Above us, mealtime also seemed to be in progress. Spirited talking was getting louder and singing began. We heard typical Russian folk tunes—with alternating parts for a soloist and chorus.
Our Russian hosts started dancing and the whole floor vibrated. Our women tried to calm their children and prevent them from crying. An animated soldier came down to the cellar. Apparently he had gotten his share of vodka. He pointed to several women—"You, you, and you—Dawai!" One of them was my sister. I was terrified because I knew what this meant. The women sobbed. Suddenly, in a friendlier tone, the soldier said, "You peel potatoes!" But when he saw that the women made no effort to respond, he shouted, "Dawai—Let's go!" I pushed myself between him and the women and spoke in Russian, "Comrade, I'll help to peel the potatoes." He seemed surprised but had no objections.
Upstairs, Russian rowdies greeted us. We were forced to sit at the table which was loaded with food. The drinking and singing continued. After a while one of the women, fairly drunk, left with a soldier. When they returned another comrade asked for her company. She wavered but finally gave in. Soon it was my sister's turn, and two soldiers argued over her. My sister clung to me, but she was pulled away by one of the Russians. Another one pushed me into a chair and in a friendly manner invited me to eat. I heard my name being cried aloud from the next room. I raced to my sister's aid and saw her pulled down to the floor. Her clothing was ripped off. I threw myself on top of her attacker and screamed. That brought his comrades to his rescue. I was beaten, spat upon and thrown out the door into the yard. There the guard applied his own treatment, kicking me before I could rise and flee. Finally, I found myself alone on the road. As I fled from the farm house, still shaken by what I had seen, I swore vengeance.
After a few more days of brutal assaults, Elfriede was free to go. Her deteriorating physical condition prevented any fiend from violating her again. Tuberculosis had infested her body because of sufferings during the war, but the bestial behavior of the sex crazed soldiers was what further hastened her early death. We managed to meet soon after the ordeal, and I stood by her until the end approached. In her final hours, she confided to me the almost unspeakable injury and abuse inflicted on her in that border outpost.
Soon she was laid to rest in a little cemetery at Eschwege. At her graveside, once again, I swore eternal revenge. I became intensely anti-Soviet and never missed an opportunity to cause them trouble. I always spoke against them. It was this burning hatred of the Soviets and their foul system that later led me to become a dedicated spy.
Chapter Two:
THE FIRST ENCOUNTER
Four fearsome years under Soviet domination gave me ample opportunity to study conditions and all of their ramifications. I talked with people in every walk of life, only to realize that not one individual dared to express himself openly. Distrust and outright suspicion could be felt, and to think independently was taboo. To turn the clock back and revive memories may prove fatal, and to ponder the future could easily lead to forbidden thoughts. The older generation had fewer scruples, for their lives simmered down to a few more years; they had no choice but to stay put. Some remember the summer of 1914, when Russians overran East Prussia, although only temporarily. It was a catastrophe, nevertheless. Tears tormented the old folks who had survived with their precious lives. They had lost everything else. Others went through the horrible holocaust thirty years later when Soviet soldiers, victory drunk, came westward and took over completely from a defeated Germany. These new masters demanded admiration and servility was expected.
My upbringing rebelled against this stalemate between freedom and tyranny. I confided to my girlfriend Ingrid my innermost intentions—to defect to the West. Her reaction was over-sentimental, but I insisted. Carefully, I combed every possibility. The Berlin blockade was in effect and many more obstacles had to be surmounted.
I discovered that a Soviet train route touched the American zone for several blocks. But this train was not permitted, under any conditions to slow down or stop. I was determined to risk my life and jump from the speeding train.
A last rendezvous with Ingrid at this very location, singled out for daring departure, provided the chance to study the terrain. Uneasiness had to be suppressed when I watched the moving train pass by. I assured Ingrid I would manage this feat without mishap.
Days later we said good-bye, privately, for I feared that her tears would betray me to onlookers if she accompanied me. Passengers on this train were under strict surveillance. Shoot to kill orders were in force, for many attempts were made to leap while passing the American zone. To my amazement, Ingrid met me at the station and promised to be a model passenger. We sat apart and exchanged serious glances, giving me comfort and courage.
I was preparing for the plunge. No luggage was in the way. I wore plenty of clothing to reduce possible injuries and moved towards the entrance door when I encountered a woman with a baby buggy ahead of me. I sensed that she harbored the same intentions as I. But if she failed, I would also fail. My conscience confused me, for I worried about her and about myself, too. Frantic seconds slipped by. In a frenzied state of mind, I tore the baby from its buggy, opened the door and kicked the buggy out. The mother followed instantly, assisted by a shove from me. With the baby in my arms, I dashed out, closely behind the woman. We painfully landed on American occupied territory, shaken but unhurt! Promptly, an American jeep was in sight. The crew, with blue and yellow stripes on their steel helmets were border police. They were always nearby when a train was scheduled to pass, knowing that escapees were on every run, but many of them never succeeded.
We were heartily greeted and invited to ride with them to the next American station. Battered knees and aching bones did not matter as bystanders congratulated us. The woman held her baby in her arms again and spilled thanks, joyously. She confessed that my instant action had made the escape a success.
My goal was the city of Kassel, where the locomotive industry flourished. I was lucky to have been accepted as an apprentice there and to learn a lucrative trade. My limited education was again of use and new friendships were made. My future seemed assured. To add to these blessings, I was informed that my parents were still alive somewhere in Poland.
My pronounced anti-Communist attitudes received attention. A very attentive friend engaged me in confidential conversation. Word of my anti-Soviet sentiment had reached police officials in Kassel. They would like to meet me. I parried superficial questions to his liking and accepted his invitation. Several days later I was introduced to Dr. Brandt of the West German press. I had my doubts as to his identity. He seemed familiar with my circumstances and even my private affairs.
My relations with the other sex were also an open book to him, and apparently I was under strict observation without being aware of it. Dr. Brandt laid the cards on the table and stated clearly my possible usefulness in a special field. The factory where I was employed would become the starting point of my activities. The many thousands of workers there were exposed to Communist agitation that would pose serious problems before long. Dr. Brandt asked me if I would be willing to counteract these doings.
I hesitated at first. Many times Soviet behavior had aroused my deepest aversion. One incident especially can never be erased from my mind—the violation of my younger sister. I was forced to witness the beastly attack that almost drove me insane. Thus I agreed to carry out the wishes of Dr. Brandt. Before we parted, he stressed pertinent points to be focused on. My entire behavior was to become anti-government, anti-American. I must arouse suspicion that I was pro-Communist. He disclosed hangouts I should frequent and mentioned pseudonyms that might prove helpful. One last sentence Dr. Brandt uttered lingered on, "Your mission demands idealism and sacrifice. Financial gains or compensation are taboo!"
I became a fully-fledged informer, and went into action eagerly. From now on I was agent A-1 working out of Kassel. Friends were stunned and bewildered by my provocative attitude, and former friendships dwindled. Some showed their contempt drastically, spitting out before me. I was invited to appear in workers' circles and large gatherings and develop skill in controversial discussions. In fact, dedicated Communists advised me to use more restraint. A radical youth group, F.D.J. was no longer tolerated and was prohibited by law. However, they went underground. Dr. Brandt insisted that I join them, and before long I was a member. A complete membership roster was requested of me, and I was to report illegal meetings in private homes. Arrests were ruled out for the time being.
Dr. Brandt disclosed his identity; he was chief of the political section of the secret police. His real name was Guenther Rogowski. I had his confidence, and he was not stingy with praise. An important affair cemented our relationship. The youth of the German trade unions scheduled a national congress to be held at Frankfurt. Delegations from many cities were instructed to make demands insinuating Red leanings of government spokesmen. Disguised as a Communist, I made preparations to disturb the coming congress. On a scheduled day, a genuine Communist and I waited near a terminal for the ring-leader, Akiarius. But Chief Rogowski had him arrested while leaving his home and forced him to lead him to the waiting fellow members. He had to point out his clan including me. As pre-arranged, I protested and denounced Rogowski as a fascist. A minor scandal ensued and Rogowski ordered his deputy to hand-cuff me. A huge crowd yelled when a patrol car carried us off. People who recognized me shook their heads. At headquarters we were told we were in custody until the mass meeting was terminated. Meantime a question period was staged and I continued to insult Rogowski, calling him a Wall Street servant, war-monger and Nazi. Not informed that this was a sham, our police guard supported their chief and threw invectives at me. Hours later we were released. My well rehearsed role impressed the Communists. They hated Rogowski and I rose in esteem after this incident. One thing become clear, there was a leak among the police force. A change of strategy took place, favorable for future assignments. Soviet sympathizers shunned old meeting places and congregated in the suburbs.
Anti-government slogans on prominent places and buildings annoyed the authorities. Thick white letters read: "Hands off Korea— Germany for the Germans—Arai go home—Down with Adenauer—NATO is nonsense." This artistic provocation was our doing. In groups of three and four people, armed with buckets of white paint, we spread out in darkness to arouse the morning shoppers to comment.
Efforts to erase our mischievous pranks failed miserably. We composed an ingenious solution by adding to every bucket of paint a quart of lye from salt fish barrels. The freshly applied liquid engrained itself into the cement or stone background and actually hardened the slogans like fresco paintings. To remove our new type bill boards posed problems galore. Excavating the surface was perhaps the only means to delete our scribbling. This however meant disfiguring the building. Some of our writing remained visible because washing proved futile.
I always volunteered to carry out risky jobs such as defacing police and military headquarters. Chief Rogowski aided me whenever I pleaded for support. He managed to keep me unmolested while I indulged in illegal deeds. My frolics were soon rewarded. A Communist underground man offered me the opportunity to participate in a secret training course lasting two weeks. Rogowski was pleased with this confidential offer. He conferred with my employer in the locomotive factory to obtain sick leave, and the necessary papers were issued by a physician without my being examined.
My Red host, known as Paul, enlightened me before I started out. His instructions were penned on thin paper; in case of emergency I was to swallow it. We rehearsed a little until my lines pleased him: 9 P.M. in Frankfurt bus line A. Mickey Mouse paper in left hand. A gentleman will confront me, holding a Mickey Mouse paper in his left hand. I was to say, "The time is 8:13." If he answered, "No sir, it is 8:11," I would know that I had made the right contact. Chief Rogowski was informed and his henchmen were nearby when the meeting took place. This I learned much later.
My rendezvous was successful. The undercover man and I boarded a train. After several hours we alighted and a waiting bus took us for a shorter ride. A little spa near Bonn on the Rhine was our goal. We entered a sanatorium for heart patients. We were now one of them. Doctors and male nurses were instructors. Strict rules governed us. We addressed each other by the first name. No one was permitted to reveal his home town. Leaves were taboo. Every other day a concerted walk was staged. We were located in an area of many similar rest homes, but ours alone was dedicated to political purposes. Soon after the war, the French Intelligence headquarters had occupied this building for some time.
Our curriculum was called W and 5, meaning work and social science. We studied Karl Marx and Lenin to comprehend Communist thinking. I graduated with honors. Rogowski congratulated me, and rushed to this Red college to convince himself of its existence. It was later abolished. My enriched background advanced me rapidly in the Red movement. One incident hitherto hardly known gave me a star role.
The president of the German Republic, Dr. Heuss, was scheduled to deliver the key address on May Day before a multitude of workers in Kassel. The Communists were bent on preventing his speech and to ridicule him before his own people and the entire world. Many small delegations rushed to this city to plan the undermining of the event. Rogowski was empowered to forestall any disturbance. I was among the selected few to collect vital information concerning this sinister plot. It was an ingenious plan: the disguised Red delegations were cleverly distributed among the hundred thousand and more spectators. They were in close touch with the actual leadership nearby. A half hour before the scheduled address, these group leaders received final instructions from a designated place nearby. Upon speedy return to their comrades, a decision was formulated as officially sanctioned. This was decreed: the very minute the chairman of the mass meeting was about to introduce the President Dr. Heuss with the customary sentence, "My dear countrymen, ladies and gentlemen," all left wingers, socialists and Communists and paid demonstrators will start singing with mighty force the anthem, "Brothers, Liberty is Life and Sun" The innocent audience was expected to join the chorus and countless voices would prevent the message of Dr. Heuss from being heard.
May Day 1953 lured a multitude of people to crowd the Frederic Square and vicinity. The opposition was ready for their coup d'etat, but government officials were on the alert. Fanfares sounded and several minor speakers mounted the rostrum to deliver short greetings. Trumpets demanded silence as an esteemed union leader appeared on the platform. His familiar voice commanded attention as he began, "Fellow workers and everyone present, let's greet the president of the German Federal Republic with our favorite song, "Liberty is Life and Sun."
Spontaneously, a selected chorus intoned that favorite song and many joined and more participated until the entire audience sang, including the Communists. It was their battle cry. Before the last words of the rousing song had died away, President Dr. Heuss raised his arms and voice and delivered an oration uninterrupted by nasty invectives but applauded to many times. The Communists were speechless. They were beaten to the punch. It was impossible to repeat the song now. They realized a crucial battle was lost. The entire press pointed out that never before was Dr. Heuss greeted with the worker's own song. But details were omitted!
My mentor Paul visited me frequently, always unannounced. His undercover activities for the Communist Party were rated highly. Rogowski appealed to me for more details. Luck played into my hands when Paul asked me to join him riding a motor bike. Previously he always let me off before he reached his goal and picked me up later on his return. One day he dropped in and made a concrete proposal to visit a certain town suggesting I should use my own motor bike. I informed Rogowski at once. He demanded I should improvise an accident and run down Paul seriously enough to hospitalize him. Rogowski vetoed his arrest, merely wishing to have an opportunity for close observation. This confirmed my suspicion that Paul was an important counter agent.
I met Paul as arranged and headed for disaster. We rode through a small town, toward a particular section, where accidents were notorious. My instructions to involve Paul in the planned accident stated that it should transpire right there. But I failed miserably. My nerves refused to aid me. Close by, I noticed a car with Rogowski and others. No doubt he was disappointed. Having all my bones unbroken gave me some satisfaction. On our return trip Rogowski's car overtook us. As we neared the city limits, traffic control stopped us. Personal papers had to be shown. We both dismounted and our brakes were checked. A short time later we continued home. My next meeting with Rogowski clarified the incident. He showed me several pictures, taken while delayed by traffic police. Paul was no longer the mystery man. These photos furnished proof of his real identity.
My assignments were getting more difficult. To match the local Communists demanded alertness; I was now given the task of contacting political friends in the Soviet Zone. I knew some had advanced rapidly within the State Police. A seemingly harmless correspondence produced results and valuable clues to aid me. It became clear that the Youth Organization, F.D.J., posed a threat. This fifth column was not yet exposed. Their devotion to the Communist cause was considerable. Just one daring deed deserves to be recorded here. After the Berlin Blockade, the Allies realized rather late the Soviet designs to expand westward. To prevent this, American engineer troops installed dynamite chambers on all bridges in their territories, important for military purposes. Near Kassel were several such crossings. The one near Wehlheiden was singled out by fanatic friends of the Soviets to nullify American intentions, namely to blow up the bridge. Preparations proceeded nightly, and extreme caution was exercised.
Guards, disguised as lovers, moved back and forth, and guided the boats bringing in equipment, such as stones and cement, etc. Successfully, they covered these dynamite chambers with cement and rendered them useless. This strategic bridge was safe anytime the Russians chose to cross. When Americans discovered this accomplished exploit, it was too late. To remove the solid concrete covering without damage remained a serious problem. An American military court sentenced a ring leader, Karpfenstein, to four years in prison. Others fled to Soviet territory.
Rogowski decreed to round up the gang and destroy it. I was honored with preferred assignments. Intimate relations with females, known as associates of the Soviet movement, were to be cultivated. I was to photograph my girls in the nude. Later Rogowski used these pictures to win the models for his purposes. It amounted to extortion. In case of refusal, he made it clear that these photos would be distributed among the victims' relatives and friends.
I was present in Kassel when a German Soviet friendship organization was founded. The place was the medical office of a well-known skin specialist. Up to now, my infiltration of Red groups had been successful. I was slated for a more important task, to move within the Soviet zone. My new instructions concerned military espionage. Leave of absence was arranged, and I visited friends behind the Iron Curtain, having been away for years. Everything had changed drastically since the June insurrection of 1953, suffocating the hopes of the people. Some friends fled to the West, others remained and made peace with the new regime. In fact, they climbed the ladder and rose to responsible positions as officers in the army or in the party. I returned with valuable information.
A serious love affair overshadowed my professional doings. I tried to resist, but to no avail. Helga simply captivated me, and I surrendered. She was intelligent, to say the least. We spent much time together, and words would only minimize our happiness. At Christmas time, I visited her family and surprised everybody by announcing our engagement. Costly rings re-enforced my intention. I was aware that I had just celebrated the most meaningful holiday season of my life. Helga did not know about my private life. She had her doubts when I was late for dates, but I dispelled her worries again and again. Unpleasant scenes would be unavoidable.
Chapter Three:
THE MISSION
Rogowski and I met at a suburban restaurant where I was introduced to a newcomer. I recognized a foreigner, although manners and speech could be interpreted otherwise. He praised my cooperation with Rogowski and stressed future friendly relations. We talked mainly about the Soviet Zone. I was invited to join him, but was warned that delicate missions were in the offing that might jeopardize my life. A new chapter of my life was about to unfold. So far idealism was the prime motive of my doings. Now adventure was to be added and a complete change in every respect enacted. My connections with Communist circles ended abruptly. New living quarters were found, and my superiors demanded that I sever ties with Helga, which I opposed. I merely enjoyed a temporary respite, but I had to tell them minutely all about us. Her family and relatives were investigated and put on record.
Helga was still in the dark about my real activities. I tried to convince her that I was a press photographer, stalling for time, just in case I was detained unexpectedly. In the coming weeks, I underwent rigid training. Fluent reading of maps to be copied was on the agenda. How to recognize aircraft, Soviet vehicles. This enabled a trace-back to what outfit was involved, etc. I learned details of photography—how to develop film under most primitive conditions, using acid and pencil and a paper cup. Documents and long distance objectives received special attention. Secret inks and specially prepared paper came into display. How to elude a pursuer and many other special skills were learned. I learned and practiced these and many other gravely important matters and was complimented in the end.
My first mission behind the Iron Curtain was due at last, and was to take a full ten days. My visa denoted me as a visitor. I was to familiarize myself with existing conditions and contact people who, in case of emergency, would aid me. Upon my return from this first mission, I was congratulated. My findings and observations were highly valued.
More training was heaped upon me. This time Soviet air might was to be dissected. I learned how to describe in detail an airport. Maps and air photos were studied. I was able to notice every single tree, every road and geological character on the ground. My real name was erased and a pseudonym engraved in my mind. From then on this substitute overwhelmed me like a huge menace. Even in my deepest sleep, I did not react to my former name any longer. My dressing habits, too, had to be changed. No longer was it feasible to appear in fashionable western attire. My territory was soon to be behind the Iron Curtain where people lived in dire circumstances. Their clothing belonged to the past, and up-to-date fashion was out. I had to dress accordingly to achieve my aims. Helga noticed this strange change and was not in the mood to visit places we had frequented before. We avoided crowds.
D Day arrived. I carried documents, sets in three different names. I boarded the train and found a compartment almost empty. I needed two tickets for the round-trip because; allegedly I was just a visitor. I merely used the one saying I visited relatives in the West and was now returning to Dresden, my home town. After we crossed the border, I destroyed this paper and pulled out a valid document from a secret pocket in my brief case. According to this sheet, I was on my way to find a job with a building concern as a construction worker. The correct name was given and since the firm was a government outfit, the name should not have aroused any suspicion. The company was commissioned to enlarge and improve a military airfield used by the Red Army. It was my clandestine task to examine every phase of reconstruction going on.
While still on Western territory, travelling towards the Soviet Zone, I grew nervous. Our train pulled into the station, and guards encircled it, locking all the doors, and allowing no one to leave. On each end of the train control officials entered the cars until they met in the center. The guards were in teams consisting of three men each with distinct orders—one checked the amount of money every passenger carried; another one examined the luggage and perhaps gave a very personal check; the third group devoted its efforts exclusively to passport matters—their parts demanding special knowledge and training. Besides these ambitious servants, another detail combed the entire train to detect suspicious travelers. Their uniforms corresponded with the ones worn by the border police. However, they were members of the Security Department. Outwardly, I was unconcerned about all this, for I was supposedly returning home from a visit, but deep inside, I was upset. The busy guards didn't annoy me in the least, although their behavior was loud, and they overly stressed their authority. The special group of Security Department sniffers, however, were dangerous.
Commands resounded, whistles were heard and the train was on its way again. I sighed and realized that I had just experienced my first baptism of fire. This procedure became routine in the coming month, and I learned to improve my behavior. My modest clothing and old luggage made me look authentic.
In West Germany, my appearance put me in the limelight. It happened that while sipping a glass of beer at the terminal, as I waited for my train, the waiter declined when I offered to pay my bill with money issued in the East Zone. In reality, my shabby trunk contained enough money to treat everybody present. On trains in the West, my garments brought me sympathy. Remarks such as "One from the East Zone," filled my ears. The people on this side were well dressed and optimistic in attitude.
The last time that I had returned from the Soviet Zone, I noticed that Soviet subjects had two additional papers to show when the border patrol requested identification. These were duplicated to simplify procedures, and I brought this to the attention of my superior.
Helga and I had planned to spend a week on the Baltic Sea coast. The Cold War was shelved for the time being as we packed our belongings and contemplated taking the first train in the morning. Around midnight, an official caller, Rossbach, appeared at my apartment. Our North Sea adventure was off. I was told to start at once, after a serious discussion. An airfield near Gotha was my destination. Many photos were to be taken, and a descriptive report was expected. Helga was disconsolate, for I had to tell her a tall story, claiming I would be back within three days. I was pressed for time because I had to memorize entries in my forged passport. I reminded Rossbach of the different handling of documents requiring duplicates, but he assured me he had checked on the matter and I could forget it. With mission accomplished, I did return in three days but my nerves gave in. That one hour border stop at Marienborn made me years older.
We arrived there at midnight and the customary control began. I was terrified when I noticed that everyone had a four-sheet document in hand. The only exceptions were travelers from the West. I was somewhat prepared for the routine procedures, with luggage and money control checks behind me, but showing my pass spelled disaster. "What about the other papers?" I was asked. Innocently I replied, "That is all I have." The counter question was, 'When was this pass issued?" "This morning," I retorted. "Unbelievable!" he exclaimed and shook his head. The date was current, but I did not know that three days ago new passports were issued. On the very day I started out on this mission, a civilian came around. I recognized him as a member of the security police, because no traveler is permitted to leave his seat. Amplifiers relayed this all over the train station. The official who had been questioning me handed my passport to the security policeman who led me to an empty compartment where I got the third degree in merciless questioning. My inventive mind went into action. "I operate a tractor. My step brother died and his funeral is early tomorrow morning, but I must be back in three days without fail. It's harvest time." He then asked, "You are not deserting?" I just laughed and surprised him. I revealed how much money I made, telling him about the one-thousand marks prize money I received last spring. I was considered a top tractor man. Why should I leave? I could not find a better place."
I impressed him. My inferior German, purposely applied, convinced him that I was a simple farm boy. However, he insisted he must check my papers and I would miss this train and continue tomorrow. He called the officer to phone Magdeburg where my false passport was issued. I almost fainted when I heard this. He disappeared with my passport and the civilian security man watched me, drilling new questions into me. Minutes seemed an eternity. I doubted that I could control my nerves much longer.
The control check was finally ended and conductors called for readiness. The civilian official was restless, looking for the officer with my passport. Finally he approached, and after several nerve-racking seconds, he handed him my papers and elaborated that checking was impossible because of the ungodly hour. The office was closed during that time. "Sorry, but you can't leave. Those idiots who issued your passport should operate a tractor and not do office work." He saw my astonished look and realized instantly that he had insulted the Soviet system. His arrogant remarks could have dire consequences. Workers and farmers under Soviet management are equal and critical assessments are not tolerated. He was too proud to apologize, being a member of an influential section in the government. With a generous gesture, he gave me my passport, merely saying, "I hope you are on time for that burial."
I returned to my compartment, as the train slowly pulled out. I was not myself yet. My eyes wandered into the dark night, waiting for the barbed wire fence where East and West separate. There were only a few miles to go, but it seemed a long way off. My whole body shook, and when we suddenly reached Western territory, I was trying to suppress vomiting and tore off my hat to accommodate my mouth. "Don't worry," a fellow traveler assured me. "Congratulations that you made it too." He reached into his pocket and offered a bottle of brandy. "Help yourself, it's what you need right now." He thought I had defected from the East. I emptied half of the bottle without putting it down.
I left the train and called my superior as instructed. Rossbach was speechless, telling me that I was already on the missing list. Hours after I had left for the East he was informed that all passports had been declared void and new ones were in force. Rossbach relayed a code message to a contact in the Soviet Zone to aid me. It read, "Stay put—don't return—new papers will reach you... " I never received the message. It dawned upon me that I had begun my mission with failure on my side. Although I was successful, I can't explain it.
Helga and I were together for two weeks, enjoying the North Sea Coast. Our happiness was complete. Unwelcome thoughts about my future were put out of mind, for between missions I was always granted furlough, and two solid weeks with Helga made me feel like a normal human being. Every new assignment had rigid demands, and days of preparation were necessary to tackle the job. By now I was fairly well posted concerning air fields in the Soviet Zone. I knew most of them and discovered different approaches in each and every case. Outsiders were always under suspicion. Security guards in peasant clothing covered the airports on bicycles. Only once did I enter a landing field proper. I was to get close-ups of Soviet jets stationed in Brandis near Leipzig. I also knew of radar equipment there. It was impossible to approach on foot. I enlisted the help of a friend to get me a ride on his motorbike, with the privilege to name the way to travel. My disguised detours brought us close enough, but we lost ourselves and were forced to use a private road for military purpose only. This brought us right in front of the main entrance of the airport. A guard opened the gate and without any formalities let us pass. I kept my eyes open and saw plenty to report on later. Our luck was due to fortunate dealings. My friend wore civilian garments with semi-military cut. The material was given to him by a Soviet officer in exchange for desired goods. My friend's suit simulated a Russian officer in civilian clothing. My humble appearance aroused no suspicion. Of course, we left the airfield in record time during which my memory functioned perfectly. Extreme luck was with me again. Had I been searched, a complete set of photo equipment and pair of binoculars would have been found.
On another occasion, I again was on Soviet property, gathering information on an airport in the countryside. I bought a bicycle in town, and in another store purchased a pitch fork and rake. I had noticed that people riding to the airfield were carrying similar tools. I traveled a short distance and stopped at a brook near some bushes and threw my new bike into the water. Then I scattered dust over it. It no longer looked new enough to cause suspicion. My pitch fork was similarly treated, also the rake. These precautionary measures having been taken, I resumed my journey toward the airport, and only Soviet vehicles passed me. A potato field closest to the aircraft offered a fine view of the installations, and in fact was close enough to allow me to hear the radar system in operation. When soldiers spotted me, I went into action with pitch fork and rake to simulate a farmer at work. To leave immediately was not feasible, since it would have given me away. With darkness coming on, I departed and threw my tools aside.
Gradually I reached a small railway station, but hardly any people were in sight. A military patrol was evident, so I decided to skip this stop and continue to the next one. It was rather late, I was dead tired, and called it quits. The entire region seemed to be deserted, with hardly a house in sight and with no light around. When I entered a village, a dog pestered me, but I managed to get rid of him. It was night and not advisable to enter a small town to find a hotel. I preferred to camp in the woods, hiding my bicycle in bushes and sleeping on the ground. in a half-wake condition I spent the night with even the weather in my favor. At dawn I arose, rubbed my eyes and mounted my bike. I reached the city of Neu Strelitz in the early morning where I mingled with workers on their way to Neu Brandenburg, an industrial center. I was hungry, but the terminal served no meals, so I had a glass of beer instead. I, too, boarded the train to Neu Brandenburg. The town was heavily destroyed and new construction or repairs were not yet in progress. On the lake was a public bath house, where I bought a ticket and rejuvenated my body and soothed my thoughts with a refreshing shower. Hours of relaxing sleep followed. It was mid-day as I awoke and people were everywhere, which seemed strange since this was not a weekend, but luckily food was obtainable.
In the afternoon I used my bike to scout around, looking for military objects which always interested me. The three hotels in town had no vacancy. Even bribery failed, but I couldn't leave and still be dutiful, so I meant to stay another day. But where could I spend the night? Looking around once more, I passed a joint from which music emanated. I entered and almost everyone inside was in uniform. I decided to spend hours right here, since it was more sensible than staying outdoors. A girl got my attention and we entertained ourselves in conversation. After midnight we separated—she went home and I returned to a place like yesterday's lodging in the woods. The next day I collected valuable information and left this lonely location in a hurry.
Chapter Four:
THE TRAP
On yet another occasion, I traveled via railroad into the Soviet Zone. The train was crowded with workers, and everyone depicted a typical example of Red management. Their silence was pronounced, and if passengers did strike up a conversation it was about the weather or the passing landscape. It seemed that they all harbored heavy thoughts. Small lakes and pine trees offered little joy and the desire to sleep was great, but the constant bouncing of the cars over worn-out rails interfered. Russians were notorious for this neglect. I stared out of the window and noticed peasants working in the field, for it was harvest time. The sun had set and the rattling of the wheels made me melancholy. Many miles West I had said goodbye to my best girl, Helga. We gave each other unforgettable hours, on foot or with the motor bike, enjoying each other's company. Pure happiness was ours, for a short time.