Path of Thorns: Soviet Mennonite Life under Communist and Nazi Rule 9781442664401

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgments
Maps
Introduction and Analysis
Part One Five Years in the Gulag, 1933–1939
1 Arrest and Interrogation, 1933–1934
2 Marking Time, 1934
3 Railway Building in the Far East, 1934–1935
4 Managing a Pig Farm in the European Far North, 1936–1939
5 Coming Home, 1939
Part Two Tiefenwege: Soviet Mennonite Life and Suffering, 1929–1949
Section One: New Directions and Shattering Experiments, 1928–1939
1 Stalin’s Upheaval
2 A Day in the Gnadenfeld Kolkhoz “Karl Marx”
3 The Establishment of Collective Farms
4 Getting Rid of the “Kulaks”
5 Stalin’s Impact on the Mennonite Character
Section Two: World War II, the End of Bolshevik Rule, and the German Occupation, 1941–1943
6 Outbreak of World War II
7 The Last Days of Bolshevik Rule
8 German Occupation and Rule, October 1941–September 1943
Section Three: The Great Trek, 1943–1944 (based on personal diaries)
9 By Wagon Train across the Dnieper
10 West to the Polish Border
11 Refugee Life in Western Ukraine and the Warthegau (Poznania)
Section Four: Germany’s Collapse, 1944–1945
12 Pell-Mell by Horse and Wagon to West Germany, 1945
13 The End of Hitler’s Reich
Section Five: Allied Occupation and Emigration, 1945–1949
14 Come Look, The Tommies, 1945
15 Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949
Part Three A Memoir-Letter from Jacob A. Neufeld to His Wife, Lene (Thiessen) Neufeld, on the Occasion of Their 25th Wedding Anniversary
Notes
Index

Citation preview

PATH OF THORNS Soviet Mennonite Life under Communist and Nazi Rule Jacob A. Neufeld

Within a span of three decades under Bolshevik and Nazi rule, nearly one-third of all Soviet Mennonites – including more than half of all adult men – perished. In the 1930s, a large number were exiled to the gulags by the Soviet secret police (NKVD). Later, during the Second World War, many fled westward on long treks, seeking refuge in Germany. At war’s end, however, the majority of those refugees living in Soviet-occupied Germany were sent to the gulags, where many died. Path of Thorns is the story of Jacob Abramovich Neufeld (1895–1960), a prominent Soviet Mennonite leader and writer, as well as one of these Mennonites sent to the gulag. Consisting of three parts – a gulag memoir, a memoir-history, and a long le er from Neufeld to his wife – this volume mirrors the life and suffering of Neufeld’s generation of Soviet Mennonites. In the words of editor and translator Harvey L. Dyck, “Neufeld’s writings elevate a simple story of terror and survival into a remarkable chronicle and analysis of the cataclysm that swept away his small but significant ethno-religious community.” harvey l. dyck is a professor of history emeritus at the University of Toronto.

TSARIST AND SOVIET MENNONITE STUDIES

JACOB A. NEUFELD

Path of Thorns Soviet Mennonite Life under Communist and Nazi Rule

Edited, with an introduction and analysis, by Harvey L. Dyck Translated from German by Harvey L. Dyck and Sarah Dyck

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

© University of Toronto Press 2014 Toronto Buffalo London www.utppublishing.com Printed in Canada ISBN 978-1-4426-4609-4 (cloth) ISBN 978-1-4426-1420-8 (paper)

Printed on acid-free, 100% post-consumer recycled paper with vegetable-based inks. Tsarist and Soviet Mennonite Studies Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Neufeld, Jacob A., 1895-1960   Path of thorns : Soviet Mennonite life under Communist and Nazi rule / Jacob A. Neufeld ; edited, with an introduction and analysis, by Harvey L. Dyck ; translated from the German by Harvey L. Dyck and Sarah Dyck. (Tsarist and Soviet Mennonite studies) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4426-4609-4 (bound).  ISBN 978-1-4426-1420-8 (pbk.) 1. Neufeld, Jacob A., 1895-1960. 2. Mennonites – Soviet Union – Biography.  3. Persecution – Soviet Union – Biography. 4. Communism – Soviet Union – Biography. 5. World War, 1939–1945 – Personal narratives, Russian. 6. Soviet Union – History – German occupation, 1941–1944. 7. Mennonites – Canada – Biography. 8. Immigrants – Canada – Biography. 9. Virgil (Ont.) – Biography.  I. Dyck, Harvey L. (Harvey Leonard), writer of added commentary, editor, translator II. Dyck, Sarah, 1924-. translator III. Title. IV. Series: Tsarist and Soviet Mennonite studies BX8143.N49A3 2014    289.7092   C2014-906595-4

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for its publishing activities.

Contents

Acknowledgments vii Maps ix Introduction and Analysis, Harvey L. Dyck 3

Part One Five Years in the Gulag, 1933–1939  1 Arrest and Interrogation, 1933–1934 53 2 Marking Time, 1934 81 3 Railway Building in the Far East, 1934–1935 93 4 Managing a Pig Farm in the European Far North, 1936–1939 107 5 Coming Home, 1939 140 Part Two Tiefenwege: Soviet Mennonite Life and Suffering, 1929–1949  Section One: New Directions and Sha ering Experiments, 1928–1939 1 Stalin’s Upheaval 153 2 A Day in the Gnadenfeld Kolkhoz “Karl Marx” 160 3 The Establishment of Collective Farms 168 4 Ge ing Rid of the “Kulaks” 178 5 Stalin’s Impact on the Mennonite Character 184

vi Contents

Section Two: World War II, the End of Bolshevik Rule, and the German Occupation, 1941–1943  6 Outbreak of World War II 195  7 The Last Days of Bolshevik Rule 207  8 German Occupation and Rule, October 1941–September 1943 218 Section Three: The Great Trek, 1943–1944 (based on personal diaries)  9 By Wagon Train across the Dnieper 235 10 West to the Polish Border 259 11 Refugee Life in Western Ukraine and the Warthegau (Poznania) 288 Section Four: Germany’s Collapse, 1944–1945 12 Pell-Mell by Horse and Wagon to West Germany, 1945 307 13 The End of Hitler’s Reich 321 Section Five: Allied Occupation and Emigration, 1945–1949 14 Come Look, The Tommies, 1945 333 15 Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949 345 Part Three A Memoir-Le er from Jacob A. Neufeld to His Wife, Lene (Thiessen) Neufeld, on the Occasion of Their 25th Wedding Anniversary 

Notes 409 Index 425 Illustrations follow page 254

Acknowledgments

I am deeply grateful to many institutions and individuals for help in the creation of this book. The staff members of Robarts Library, University of Toronto, the Mennonite Heritage Centre, Winnipeg, and the Library of Conrad Grebel University College, University of Waterloo provided ready access to archival and print materials. My institutional home, the Centre for European, Russia, and Eurasian Studies of the School of Global Affairs, University of Toronto, granted me space, support services, and financial assistance to bring this project to fruition. Sarah Dyck, Waterloo, Ontario, an instructor in English literature and composition, assisted me in the translation of this volume from German into English. Over many years, Aleksandr Tedeev, the gi ed and genial Director of the State Archive of the Zaporizhe Region, placed its rich Soviet sources on relations between Mennonites and the Soviet regime at my disposal, cheerfully commented on my work, and gave Neufeld’s son, also a Jacob, access to once-secret police interrogation files relating to his father’s arrest and exile to the gulag. At conferences and in private conversations colleagues deepened my understanding of Jacob Neufeld’s writings, seeing them as a window on the larger story of the fate of ethno-religious minorities under Stalinist rule. I would especially, in this regard, thank Svetlana Bobyleva, Aleksandr Beznosov, Oksana Beznosova, and Nataliia Venger, all of the Dnepropetrovsk National University, as well as Peter Klassen, Professor Emeritus, State University of California at Fresno, my wife Anne Konrad Dyck, John R. Staples, State University of New York at Fredonia, and John B. Toews, Professor Emeritus, Regent College, Vancouver. Weldon Hiebert, University of Winnipeg, drew the maps for this book. I am indebted to Richard Ratzlaff, a book editor at the University

viii Acknowledgments

of Toronto Press, and his colleagues for their skill, care and good humour in bringing this volume to publication. My good colleague and friend, Jacques Kornberg, Professor Emeritus of history, University of Toronto offered encouragement at every stage of the project. My greatest thanks goes to two of Jacob Neufeld’s children – Jacob J. Neufeld and the late Erika Neufeld Thiessen – for permission to include their father’s most important writings in this volume. This is a riveting memoir of his arrest, imprisonment, and life in the gulag; a chronicle of the suffering of his family and community during the turbulent 1930s and 1940s; and a long, tender autobiographical le er to his wife, Lene, wri en at the time of the family’s residence in post-war Germany as refugees. The two children opened their father’s collection of le ers, papers, notes, manuscript dra s, photographs, and memorabilia to my use, responded to queries and comments and were otherwise untiring in their encouragement and support. Toward the end of my research, I also met Neufeld’s long-lost son, Heinrich, who, in 1941, as a 16-yearold, had been torn from his family at the start of German–Soviet hostilities. A er having survived his long ordeal in the gulag, Heinrich (called Heinie) emigrated to Germany in the 1990s. There he shared his evocative recollections of the life and times of his father with me. Although Jacob Neufeld’s daughter Erika did not live to see the publication of her father’s book, to which she had contributed so much, a manuscript copy of it lay on her bedside table in the days before her death. Jacob Neufeld o en mentioned his daughter in his writings and this volume is dedicated to her memory.

Maps Map 1. Villages in the Molochna Mennonite Se lement, circa 1900. Source: William Schroeder and Helmut T. Huebert, Mennonite Historical Atlas; revised, with permission, by Weldon Hiebert.

x Maps

Map 2. Soviet deportations and places of exile of Mennonites. Source: Weldon Hiebert, in Anne Konrad, Red Quarter Moon, p. xviii.

Map 3. Gnadenfeld group of villages on trek to Germany, 1943–5. Source: Jacob A. Neufeld, Tiefenwege, revised by Weldon Hiebert.

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Introduction and Analysis a rvey l. d y ck

Jacob A. Neufeld (1895–1960), a prominent Soviet Mennonite leader and writer, provides a rich human story of the fate of Soviet Mennonites under Bolshevik rule and Nazi occupation. Through crisp images of his eventful life, the lives of fellow Mennonites, and the tumult that ripped apart their world – a vivid, original contribution – Neufeld elevates a simple story of terror and survival into a remarkable chronicle and analysis of the cataclysm that swept away his small but significant ethno-religious community.1 In Search of a Home 8 March 1949. Jacob Neufeld, his wife, and children stood on the deck of the Empress of Canada and watched as the Nova Scotia coast slowly took form. As the ship slipped into Halifax harbour, Neufeld, leaning on a cane he had cut from a sapling in a gulag forest during his exile in the 1930s, saw ice-encrusted tugboats and snowy roo ops – and, as he later recalled, thought, “Woe is me.” Porters distributed copies of a Welcome to Canada pamphlet and packs of Navi Cut cigare es, the la er of which the Neufelds soon passed on as tips to the ship’s crew. An agent of the International Refugee Organization (IRO) issued $10 to each family member for pocket money. A quick lunch aboard the ship was followed by registration, and a hurried stop at Canadian customs and immigration. Then the family – Jacob, 54, his wife, Lene, 49, his daughter, Erika, 27, and his 16-year-old son Jasha (a second son, Heini, had disappeared into the gulag as a 16-year-old boy) – boarded a day coach for the 36-hour train trip to St Catharines, Ontario.2

4 Path of Thorns

Threatened by Soviet agents in post-war Germany with forcible repatriation to the USSR, the Neufelds spent five-and-a-half anxious years as refugees in post-war Germany. Having arrived in Canada, Neufeld wrote: “We have le behind a Europe churned up and shaken to its foundations. Caught in the a erbirth of World War [II], it fights for its life. Will the New World receive us? Will it save us from the desolation of Europe?”3 During the following decade, until his death in 1960, Neufeld sought answers to these and other questions, and composed much of this book. Neufeld’s first impressions of Canada were mixed. He rhapsodized over the train’s “snow-white, so -as-co on-wool” Canadian bread, which he found truly “like cake,” and exclaimed, “What don’t Canadians permit themselves in foods?” Neufeld described the Quebec homes he passed by as “dainty,” and remarked that he would one day drink in Canada’s “magnificent scenery,” including “the beauty of the St Lawrence.” At the same time, he could hardly find words strong enough to criticize the engineer’s handling of the train; jolts and bumps sent passengers flying. This, he wrote, would not occur “even in Russia,” and “certainly never” in Germany. And while praising the mechanical progress reflected in Canada’s cars and farm machinery, he reproached Canadians for leaving them outside to rust: “This alienates me deeply.” The Neufelds were to make their home in the Mennonite hamlet of Virgil, near St Catharines, Ontario, where they arrived in a heavy snowstorm. Greeting them at the train station were Neufeld’s brother-inlaw, Jacob J. Thiessen, a leading Elder in the Saskatchewan Mennonite church, and Abram A. Wall, a cousin and lifelong friend. The three had parted company a quarter century earlier in the USSR – forever, they then believed. Welcomed into the home of the Walls, amid lively conversation, laughter, tears, and prayers, the family listened raptly as Elder J. J. Thiessen read Psalm 107 with its words of promise and hope: They wandered in the wilderness in a solitary way; they found no city to dwell in. Hungry and thirsty, their soul fainted in them. Then they cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and He delivered them out of their distresses. And He led them forth by the right way, that they might go to a city of habitation.4

Introduction and Analysis 5

Would Canada become for the Neufelds that long hoped-for place “of habitation”? Within days, furnishings, pots, pans, and other paraphernalia for a new household were collected and the Neufelds moved into cramped a ic quarters in the home of a Mennonite farmer. Neighbours dropped off eggs and preserves, and stayed for a chat. Quickly the Neufelds joined a nearby German-speaking Mennonite church. Daughter Erika was hired on as maid in the home of a wealthy Mennonite businessman, and young son Jacob – once “Jasha,” now “Jake” – found work in nearby orchards to help replenish empty family coffers. A er two months in Canada, Neufeld was still undecided about his new Canadian home. He had praise for Canada, of course, but he also had reservations. He wrote: “Hard-working, honest, and courageous Russian Mennonites in Canada retain basic traits of their past. Yet they are so immersed in their work that they might well desecrate the Sabbath were it not for the constraints of ‘strict and firm traditions.’” He applauded the survival of traditions such as “neighbourly Sundaya ernoon visiting,” but missed what he considered to be more serious topics of conversation. He sensed a more fundamental problem: the widespread “abandonment” of the age-old Mennonite principles “to live modestly, without the display of pomp and ostentation in foods, housing, and dress.” The fault, he wrote, lay in a lack of leadership – not from the elders, whom Neufeld considered “intelligent” and commi ed – but from a lack of a spiritual and intellectual focus. “I am deeply disappointed,” he noted, “at the absence [here] of a spiritually developed community with an intellectual centre where essential ideas appropriate to a [changing] Mennonite society are generated and refined in the leading Mennonite centres as they once were in tsarist times.” A community’s religious and secular development, Neufeld felt, “requires initiative and guidance.”5 Neufeld’s sharp critique of facets of his new Canadian home, judged against an idealized vision of his own society in tsarist times, was rooted in careful observation and a many-sided experience. Noting conflicts between refugees and their Mennonite sponsors, Neufeld was most deeply disappointed in his own poor prospects. Would his family, he asked himself, be able to adapt to Canadian Mennonite conditions and values? Would he find for himself a role in public life? Given that his health was poor, would he be able to land a job and help feed his family? Above all, would he find time and inspiration to transmute his

6 Path of Thorns

bi er experiences under Communist and Nazi rule into vivid stories and analyses for the benefit of an audience larger than his immediate family? His “Germany – Canada Trip Journal” ended on a sombre note: It is now two months since we arrived here. We are se ling in, and have managed to look around somewhat. Still, our first impressions are not the best. … This is unquestionably because of our position as newcomers, the unaccustomed circumstances and the raw wintery weather. Yet for me there is additionally the isolation from the outer world and the absence of responsibilities. It is now clear that I will not be able to do any work here as a contribution to our maintenance. Sometimes, therefore, despite feelings of joy and gratitude, I am overcome by loneliness and a sense of worthlessness. My feelings are further conditioned by my infirmity, which gradually gets worse and can leave me despondent.6

Among the Neufelds’ refugee se lers’ effects – scuffed suitcases and packing crates with pots, dishes, cutlery, threadbare bedding, a clutch of family photographs, the detritus of refugee life, and son Jake’s gleaming new green-and-grey-painted German bike – was a crate of books, le ers, and papers. The books, which were gi s from friends in Germany and in North American Mennonite relief organizations, were mainly historical, religious, and devotional in content. A quarter century of isolation in the gulag, then living on a collective farm, then trekking out of the USSR and as a refugee had awakened in Neufeld an unsated thirst for knowledge. Endowed with great intelligence and an eye for detail, he could now, at his leisure, explore the Mennonite past, the nature of the Soviet and Nazi upheavals, World War II, and subjects of the mind and the spirit. His personal papers became starting points and early dra s of many sections of this volume. Dating mainly from the German occupation of Ukraine and the early postwar period, they included vivid memoirs of the last days of Soviet rule and the start of the German occupation in the area where the Neufelds had lived in southern Ukraine. There were also evocative diaries of the flight of Mennonites from Ukraine to Germany in the years 1943–5, which form essential parts of this book and notes about his family’s stay as refugees in West Germany. The most conspicuous of Neufeld’s se ler’s effects, however, was a used, hand-propelled German three-wheeled wheelchair. Clumsy to Canadian eyes, the wheelchair a racted much a ention on the street

Introduction and Analysis 7

of Virgil for years. Since Neufeld could otherwise barely shuffle along with a cane, the wheelchair would come to symbolize both his physical incapacity to hold down a “real” job and the threat that his infirmity would prevent the completion of his life’s task: “to witness to the suffering of his people.”7 The infirmity to which Neufeld alluded was a crippling case of rheumatoid arthritis. Contracted during his incarceration in the subpolar gulag in the mid-1930s, the disease worsened steadily in the years following and would plague him for the rest of his life. The arthritis first appeared in the small bones of his ankles and feet, making unassisted walking difficult. It then surfaced in his wrists, his hands, his fingers, and his neck. Eventually his knees became so inflamed that they were locked permanently in a si ing position and had, upon his death, to be broken to fit his body into a casket.8 By the time he returned home from a Soviet labour camp in 1939, his appearance – gaunt, bearded, dressed in ta ered prison garb, and hobbling on a cane – sent shockwaves through his bewildered family. His then six-year-old son Jasha recalls drawing back in horror on first meeting his father upon his return from the gulag in 1939.9 Soon, villagers nicknamed him “the lame Neufeld.”10 By the fall of 1943, when Mennonites trekked out of Soviet Ukraine by horse and wagon, Neufeld’s malady had worsened to the point where he could no longer set up camp or haul fodder and water for his family, a cow, and a team of horses. Reduced to a coachman on the family wagon, we see him, reins held taut in gnarled and painful hands, guiding his horses across crumbling bridges and icy country roads and pulling a wagon across areas of the Ukrainian steppe, their knees deep in gumbo. Evenings in camp, and during rest and recovery stops, Neufeld kept a diary. Severely restricted in the daily tasks he could perform, he felt redundant and confessed to feelings of helplessness and shame. During the family’s 10-month stay in western Poland, in the then-Germanoccupied Warthegau, Neufeld was declared medically unfit for German military service.11 He also spent years fruitlessly seeking a cure or relief in massage therapy, X-ray treatments, a tonsillectomy, injections, and many potions, and he also visited doctors, hospitals, and health “spas” in the gulag, southern Ukraine, German-occupied Poland, and West Germany. In his many years of personal and professional correspondence, Neufeld o en alludes to his condition. A er the death of Stalin, Soviet labour camps were disbanded and émigré Mennonites in Canada

8 Path of Thorns

sought out long-lost relatives and friends in remote areas of the USSR. From 1955 onwards, Neufeld wrote to his stepmother and two sisters in exile in Kazakhstan in which he also described his condition: As for me personally, I must regre ably report that my rheumatism has le me much the worse for wear. In the morning Lene washes and dresses me and brings me onto my wheelchair and in the evening back to bed, as we once did our grandmother. When things are bad, Erika and Lene tug me back and forth and since they are not so strong themselves everything becomes so painful. I can hardly bear to sit anymore, my bu ocks are so sore. I very much regret being such a burden and feel humiliated to be dependent on Lene at every step, particularly since she is o en not strong herself and complains of heart trouble.12

To the editor of a Brazilian Mennonite paper he wrote: I have the advantage of a cheerful disposition, a broadly interested mind, and my eyesight. I have the further advantage of tranquillity and being cut off from the bustle of the world. I try repeatedly to li myself out of my misfortune and suffering, and am grateful to be advantaged over so many others. Writing and some typing remains the li le that I can still manage in my condition and so I will continue to do it gladly.13

Ironically, Neufeld’s chronic and debilitating rheumatoid arthritis did not impede his mission as an author but, rather, became a strategic condition for his success. For one thing, it likely saved his life twice – first in 1941, when, because of an inability to work, the NKVD seems to have passed him over for a second deportation to the gulag, and then in 1944, when a German military board declared him medically unfit for service in the military.14 Stints in a Soviet labour camp or in the Wehrmacht (armed forces of the Third Reich) might easily have cost him his life. Moreover, in German-occupied Ukraine, on the trek out of the USSR, and during his life in Canada, his infirmity gave him the priceless gi of forced leisure, which he used to think and to keep a diary, and a compelling story that defined and sustained his deepest feelings of compassion for the sufferings of his Soviet Mennonite community. He saw his life as a symbol of the Mennonite tragedy, and commented: “There is li le le of me other than a physical and partly a mental wreck. The same can be said of the rest of our society: broken physically, weak in mind and in spirit – this is the end result of a tyranny that has accomplished its work of untrammelled destruction of us.”15

Introduction and Analysis 9

The Organization of This Book Divided into three parts, this book consists of a free translation from German into English of Neufeld’s most important writings. The parts reflect the great variety of Neufeld’s life, his changing self-awareness, the astonishing range of his writings, and the monumental events through which he had lived. The first part, “My Path of Thorns,” is a distinguished, previously unpublished memoir of Neufeld’s interrogation and his five years of hard labour in the gulag.16 From 1933–9, Neufeld was a gulag inmate, first in an eastern camp double-tracking the Trans Siberian railway and then, improbably, as manager of an NKVD experimental pig farm in the subpolar European north. Neufeld was one of a disproportionately large number of Mennonites torn from their families in tightly knit, religious, Low German-speaking villages and plunged into a strangely unfamiliar Russian-speaking gulag world. Camp life was marked by arbitrary rules, rampant criminality, hunger, untreated maladies, insuperable work norms, brutality, and crass dehumanization. Above all, camp life demanded acquiescence in a camp morality of bogus production figures and an anything-goes mindset that shook Neufeld to his core. According to a camp saying approvingly quoted by Neufeld, the gulag rested on foundations of “cursing, connections, and bullshit (mat, blat i tu a).” Wri en with verve and consummate skill, this memoir brings to life the distinguishing features and atmosphere of the gulag during the relatively poor-documented mid-years of its existence, from 1933–9. With candour it documents the muddled state of much of the gulag’s organization at the time and the impossible moral dilemmas that confronted inmates on a daily basis. A treasury also of Mennonite piety, it captures Neufeld’s struggle with his identity and faith in a world of unbounded evil that offered few moral options. Illuminating of the life of the gulag and of one of its smallest but best-known ethno-religious minorities, Neufeld’s memoir, with its fresh images, deep understanding, and powerful emotions, merits inclusion with significant camp memoirs in the broader literature. The book’s second major part, “Tragic Passages” (Tiefenwege), is a notable memoir history of Mennonite life in the Ukrainian SSR from 1929–49. It examines an afflicted Mennonite generation under assault from all sides in what Neufeld calls “a single path of suffering.” Chronologically, the path extended from the Russian Civil War to the end of Stalinist times. The part first appeared, unedited, in 1957 as a German-language memoir in a small private Canadian

10 Path of Thorns

printing.17 It appears here, somewhat abridged – especially in its early chapters – reorganized, translated and edited, and, for easier reading, divided into parts and chapters. Smaller repetitive parts have been deleted and wordy paragraphs abridged. Tiefenwege focuses on the disintegration of Mennonite religious life and of Mennonite village communities under the lash of Stalin’s “revolution from above,” and terror, in the 1930s. Neufeld similarly portrays Mennonite life under the Nazi occupation of Soviet Ukraine starting in 1941 and the Mennonite trek out of the USSR in 1943, again under German protection. Tiefenwege ends with the Nazi defeat, the Allied victory, the Soviet deportation of large numbers of Mennonite refugees from Germany to work camps in the USSR, and the migration of a small remnant of some 12,000 Soviet Mennonite refugees still in Germany to South America and Canada in the late 1940s and early 1950s. The la er, as noted, included the Neufeld family. In the hands of a less gi ed writer, Neufeld’s historical memoir might well have turned into cliché or survey. Instead, Neufeld presents, with a sharp eye to larger Soviet, German, and Mennonite contexts, a highly personal chronicle and analysis of his life, his family’s lives, and the lives of the village community as they tried to navigate a tortuous path through massive upheaval. All this he presents in a sharply focussed microcosmic study of the life of his larger Mennonite society; a society that was destroyed by the Soviet system. He similarly relates how the Nazis, despite liberating the Mennonites from Stalin’s iron grip and embracing them as a part of the favoured Volksdeutsche (ethnic German) minority, undercut their reviving corporate and religious life through ignorance, a lack of sympathy, and a triumphalist spirit that offended many, including Neufeld. Part III is a long, highly personal and informative autobiographical le er Neufeld wrote to his wife Lene on the occasion of their 25th wedding anniversary. Much of it was wri en during the refugee phase of Neufeld’s life in Germany in 1947, while he was a convalescent in a Mennonite health centre. Completed later in Canada, it bears the tender inscription, “I have nothing else with which to gladden your heart.”18 The Soviet Mennonite experience, as reflected in Neufeld’s gulag memoir, memoir-history, and autobiographical le ers, provides a clear, coherent, comprehensive, and highly personalized in-group case study of the vicissitudes of a small but significant Soviet ethno-religious minority under Stalinist and Nazi rule. While naturally confirming many of the tragic themes in that larger story, it adds to that familiar portrait detail, colour, nuance, and a novel ethno-religious perspective

Introduction and Analysis 11

that allows the reader to view well-known and unusual themes through the prism of a unique, marginalized, suffering, and silenced ethnoreligious community. Finally, Neufeld’s portrait places his community at the extreme end of a continuum of Stalinist terror and in so doing suggests much about the larger spectrum of Soviet repression. Childhood and Youth Neufeld grew up in tsarist Russia in two distinct though overlapping worlds: a small but prominent estate and a traditional Mennonite village. The 450-acre Felsental (this translates to “rock valley”) estate where he was born in 1895 – as the first child in a family of four boys and two girls – lay picturesquely along a small steppe stream, the Tokmachka, at the northern edge of the largest Mennonite se lement in the USSR, the Molochna Mennonite se lement in southern steppe Ukraine. Except for craggy granite outcroppings running alongside the stream bed that gave it its charm and name, Felsental lay on a flat steppe. The estate bred ca le, horses, and oxen; possessed a wind and a water mill; grew grains; and developed model gardens and wood lots.19 Its chief claims to fame, however, were its lush orchards and a tree nursery. The latter was widely praised for its high-quality saplings. In spring and fall during Neufeld’s childhood, he watched, intrigued, as caravans of oxdrawn carts hauled forest- and fruit-tree saplings to the Molochna settlement rail line, from where they were shipped to clients spread across southern Ukraine and beyond.20 For more than a dozen years throughout the 1890s and the early twentieth century, Neufeld’s father, Abraham, managed the Felsental estate under direction of its kindly owner, Tante Trudchen Reimer. Niece of the founder of the estate, an aged, single woman, Tante Trudchen devoted her life to fostering Felsental’s commercial and religious traditions. In her youth, Tante Trudchen and several of her girlfriends had taken a vow to remain single, celibate, and to serve their Lord. They were called Gemuetsfreundinnen (soul friends).21 Radiant and devoted of spirit, Tante Trudchen was chock full of upli ing sayings for every occasion, buoying up her manager’s spirits with half-humorous aphorisms such as, “When you swim against the stream you’re probably headed in the right direction.”22 Celebrated for her deep piety, she supported the needy in nearby Ukrainian villages. The Neufelds lived in the manager’s residence across the street from the manor house. When not engaged in household chores, one can imagine Jacob and his playmates clambering over rocky cliffs, shinnying up

12 Path of Thorns

giant poplars, and riding bareback along tree-lined roads and trails. During hot summer days they would have swum in the stream and its pools or play at benches and tables sca ered among shade trees. Rambling among stables, barns, and tree nursery sheds, the children would have warmly greeted the Mennonite and Ukrainian workers. On her rounds, Tante Trudchen might have asked the children questions or offered words of cheer. Then, as the estate’s fame as a place of beauty spread, Felsental became a choice destination for villagers out for a buggy ride on a Sunday a ernoon or for school groups on daytrips. All were warmly received. In Neufeld’s view, his much-beloved Felsental had been nothing short of an idyll, a “children’s paradise.”23 In the revolution of 1905–07, however, the peace of Felsental was shattered when it was a acked by masked revolutionaries. They shot dead the Ukrainian watchman on the steps of the manor house, demanded large sums of money, and exploded a bomb in the entrance hall of the manor that “raised the roof.”24 Throughout the ordeal, Neufeld’s father stood protectively beside Tante Trudchen in the drawing room, while across the street, 12-year-old Neufeld and his mother looked on anxiously. Soon a er the a ack, a police investigation, and a change in ownership of the estate, Neufeld’s father le his employment at Felsental, rese ling to the nearby Mennonite village of Klippenfeld. There the family resumed farming and prospered. In the 1920s, a er the end of the civil war, Neufeld, in an act of filial piety, returned on foot to visit the estate where he had spent some of the happiest years of his life. Shaken, he found its buildings gone or in ruins, and its fields overgrown with weeds.25 Years later, taking a longer view and looking back on tsarist days from a secure perch in Canada, Neufeld described Felsental as an elegant symbol of the role that his Mennonite community had played in helping to spearhead the modernization of the frontier areas where they had se led. He described Mennonite se lements with their flourishing villages, estates, modern factories and mills, well-tilled fields, large barns, brick homes, treed streets, and wood lots as having greatly enhanced the beauty and economic and social development of the steppe landscape, culture, and economy.26 He placed Felsental foursquare in this se ing. Equally, Neufeld described Felsental as a centre of quietist pietism within the Mennonite world. Radiating its spiritual presence outwards well into the twentieth century, it had powerfully shaped the religious direction and deepest outlook of his community, his family,

Introduction and Analysis 13

and himself. Traditionally, life in the manor house had revolved around what he termed “a living faith of deep pietistical devotion.”27 In the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, this devotion had drawn Mennonites to the estate as a place of religious contemplation. Visitors would drop by for up to several days of reflection and prayer. They might dip into the estate’s well-stocked library collection to read classics of European pietism by men such as Jacob Boehme, among others. A er some light work they might stroll through orchards, gardens, and woodlots and along the Tokmachka stream, and then return to the manor house for reading, conversation, reflection, and prayer. In this se ing young Neufeld encountered Mennonite leaders, including the esteemed Mennonite chronicler and religious leader Peter M. Friesen.28 Encouraged by his stern but devout father and following in the footsteps of Tante Trudchen and her Felsental pietist friends, a mature and self-critical Neufeld came to cultivate a warm, marked inwardness, a seriousness of purpose, a yearning to understand the ups and downs of his own spiritual life, a tolerance of human differences, and a strong sense of surrender to the will of the Almighty in his daily life. These identifiable pietistical traits helped Neufeld to navigate through many of the storms of his later life that are recorded in this volume and filled him with a sense of obligation to chronicle the tragic story that he and his community had experienced. With one foot planted firmly in the soil of pietistic Felsental, Neufeld’s other was as resolutely set in the prosperous and plain-speaking Mennonite village of his youth. Neufeld came from a long line of village landowners with traditional full holdings of around a quarter section of land each. Because Felsental offered no schooling, young Jacob had spent periods boarding with close relatives in the nearby Molochna se lement village of Liebenau. There he a ended primary school during the week while joining his family in Felsental on weekends and in summers. As a 12-year-old boy, Neufeld came to identify with the village landowners, the Wirten (proprietors) of his boyhood village home of Klippenfeld, seeing their practical outlook and values, as the backbone of traditional society – a kind of Mennonite yeomanry. “The Mennonite Wirt,” he wrote in Tiefenwege, “was a man of ‘innate self-confidence and independence’. … He was born to be master and not slave, managing his Wirtscha [farm] like a small king without tolerating interference. … [He was] a man of courage, energy, pithy good humour, resoluteness and simple honesty.”29

14 Path of Thorns

For Neufeld, the world of Felsental, a prosperous estate, and Klippenfeld, a modern village, with their varied outlooks, would profoundly shape the perspectives from which he viewed his Tsarist and Soviet worlds. They would also define goals for Mennonites to pursue and later establish standards against which Neufeld could measure the precipitous material and moral decline of his own society under Bolshevik and Nazi rule, as well as the distance its refugee remnant would have to climb to recover its identity, self-reliance, and spiritual integrity. A er completing village primary school, Neufeld enrolled in the Gnadenfeld Secondary School (Zentralschule), a distinguished Mennonite institution in tsarist times, from which he graduated shortly before World War I. Deemed well-educated by the standards of the time, he may well have contemplated for himself a future as perhaps a bookkeeper, a miller, a teacher, a Wirt, or a university student. At the Heart of War, Revolution, and Civil War, 1914–1920 Whatever his life’s work might otherwise have been, in October 1914, 19-year-old Neufeld went off to war with young fellow Mennonites as a volunteer, noncombatant medical orderly. He was, as he wrote, animated “somewhat by feelings of patriotism but more by a thirst for adventure and a desire to see and experience a larger world.”30 During World War I, Mennonite men like Neufeld, as members of a state-recognized pacifist religious community, volunteered or were conscripted into branches of non-combatant service. Half would work as forestry workers, hospital staff, guards in state forests, or labourers in plants and on road-building crews, while the other half served as noncombatant orderlies, volunteers, and conscripts, gathering up wounded from the war fronts on horse-drawn wagons and delivering them to field hospitals or, if it was a larger group, as medical orderlies on hospital trains ferrying wounded from the front lines to inland hospitals. Because Mennonite servicemen made up some 13 per cent of the total Mennonite population, hardly a Mennonite village family was le untouched by their wartime absence or without knowledge of the larger imperial world that they served. Neufeld first served for several years as an orderly on the Zemstvo Union’s hospital trains stationed in Moscow and then as a staff member at headquarters, again in the same city. In 1914, given the weakness of the tsarist military organization and its inability to run a halfway-respectable hospital train service, Russian public organizations had stepped in to take over the medical service’s

Introduction and Analysis 15

creation and funding. The organizations included the Russian Red Cross, unions of cities and of the nobility, and, the largest and most prominent, the All-Russian Union of Zemstvos (an institution of provincial and district self-administration), through its Department of Hospital Trains. This hastily organized department, headquartered in Moscow, ran trains to and from Russia’s western war fronts. A high proportion of its orderlies, office staff, and supervisors were Mennonites. Neufeld served first for several years as an orderly on the Zemstvo Union’s hospital trains and then as a staff member at headquarters in Moscow At its peak, out of Moscow, the Zemstvo Union operated some 75 hospital trains of 30–40 cars apiece. Every train was staffed by two doctors, three to five nurses and several dozen mainly Mennonite medical orderlies, one in each car. The trains ferried wounded soldiers from combat areas and field hospitals to Moscow and other cities far removed from the front. With gravely wounded patients aboard, orderlies observed heart-rending suffering and death. “Our duties and wishes,” one group of orderlies wrote, “were to alleviate the horrors and hardships of war and to heal wounds, thus serving our neighbours.”31 Neufeld, more ma er-of-factly, wrote: “Since I could not remain indifferent to the misery of the war I experienced, I took life seriously, and faithfully rendered what medical assistance I could to the gravely wounded.”32 Overall, the work of Mennonite orderlies and staff was warmly applauded by superiors and observers. Tikhon Polner, head of the Department of Hospital Trains, knew his men be er than most other senior officials, and termed them “excellent workers who performed their duties conscientiously and gallantly.” Count Aleksei Tolstoy agreed: “The wounded are cared for by Mennonite orderlies with a sense of such duty and concern that upon leaving the train, they depart from them as brothers, kissing them in tears.” In Russkiia Vedomosti, Russia’s leading daily newspaper, Leo Tolstoy’s sister Alexandra described a visit to a hospital train: “Everywhere I heard fiery praise for the work of the Mennonites.33 And what I saw confirmed the rightness of the acclaim. These are amazingly hard working, energetic, and selfsacrificing individuals who treat the wounded with remarkable care.”34 Fla ering as such lavish praise may have been, it must have grated on the sensitive ears of Mennonite servicemen like Neufeld when contrasted with the harsh treatment meted out to Mennonite leaders and families by tsarist officials and police at all levels back home. In wartime villages, police and officials subjected Mennonites to pe y chicanery and harassment for speaking Low German in school, at work, and on

16 Path of Thorns

village streets and High German in church. Mennonites winced when authorities exacted bribes, when chauvinist books and articles on a national level impugned their loyalty, or when police conducted house searches for concealed weapons. Was it fair, Mennonites asked, to condemn their exemption from military service when medical corpsmen served their wartime homeland avidly and with distinction? But what struck the greatest fear into Mennonite hearts were relentless wartime efforts of chauvinist officials, members of the State Duma, and jingoist newsmen to cra and implement a policy that would have divested German-speakers of their large village and estate landholdings and banished them to remote corners of the realm.35 Yet despite such threatening initiatives most Mennonite corpsmen reveled in the new opportunities that wartime service opened up to them through their alternative medical service, which became for them a schoolhouse of knowledge and understanding about the empire, its landscapes, ethnic communities, and classes, crying administrative and social ills and political options being fought over by leading groups in Russia’s revolutionary intelligentsia. Through service, men like Neufeld eagerly sought to perfect their spoken Russian and looked forward to the biannual furloughs. They might find their work out on the field or at headquarters half-wearisome and half-memorable, but freed of the relative isolation of their villages on the dry, flat steppe, they marveled at the novelty and beauty of forested landscapes through which their hospital trains passed. Rubbing shoulders with staff and patients from every walk of life, they o en established easy relations with both while immersing themselves in the Russian life and culture of the cities to which they were posted. Typically, on days off in Moscow, Mennonite orderlies and office personnel were exposed to metropolitan newspapers and books.36 They hung out with colleagues, wandered streets, gawked at streetscapes and historical sites, and shopped. Some visited theatres, museums, and concerts, or even the opera.37 There were also cases of venereal disease worriedly discussed in confidence at meetings back home. (Two decades later, in 1939, on his way home from a five-year subpolar exile, Neufeld remembered his wartime medical service with undiminished clarity and fondness.)38 A memoir by Julius Klassen, a close service buddy of Neufeld’s, provides a glimpse into this novel and stimulating world: We clerks lived in a district among villas of the wealthy and the aristocrats. My friend Jacob Neufeld and I crisscrossed Moscow in every direction.

Introduction and Analysis 17 There was much of interest to see. In the morning on our way to the office to work we passed through the Kremlin. First we saw the Cathedral of Christ the Redeemer, a marvel of Byzantine architecture. An unforge able experience was the Easter midnight mass. A sea of lights and candles were mirrored in the golden adornments of the walls and the iconostasis. The wonderful choral music was overpowering, and is something we will never forget. And then there were the historic monuments in and around the Kremlin. We saw the place of execution as well as the spot from which Ivan the Terrible viewed the gruesome scene. Today at this place on Red Square, stands the Lenin Mausoleum. Through Nicholas Gate into the citadel, under the portal, was the Nicholas icon. When the Reds shot it up during the October Revolution, devout Russians gathered up the shards of the sha ered icon and kissed them reverently. My friend and I stood and watched the spectacle. We were also keenly interested in the Tretiakov Art Gallery with its rooms of famous paintings. Who could forget the painting by Repnin of Ivan the Terrible killing his son? The Tsar holds the head of his son with the wound at his mouth while blood trickles down his beard. And if we wanted a panoramic view of Moscow, we ascended the Sparrow Hills. From here Napolean is said to have viewed Moscow as he approached the city. An overwhelming sight – Moscow the city of 1,000 churches with their golden domes that glistened in the sun.39

This relatively peaceful phase in the life of everyday wartime Moscow came to an abrupt end when the monarchy fell in March 1917. There followed a tumultuous four years that did not conclude until Bolsheviks had seized power, Russia had passed through civil war and a raging famine, and peace in Russia had been reimposed by force of Bolshevik arms. Neufeld and his colleagues had front-row seats on the revolutionary upheaval unfolding in Moscow that Johann Rempel, a fellow corpsman (later a distinguished churchman in Canada) captures dramatically in his memoirs.40 The euphoria that greeted the collapse of tsardom was broadly shared by Mennonites in Moscow, Rempel writes, and there was not a single Mennonite serviceman “who did not wholeheartedly experience all of this.” Mennonite wartime servicemen like Neufeld felt that they were at the centre of a world in convulsive transition. In the first days a er the fall of autocracy, with hospital train headquarters in Moscow in turmoil, Mennonite servicemen tagged along behind wave a er wave of demonstrators that surged past the Bolshoi Theatre and Butyrki prison

18 Path of Thorns

to celebrate on Red Square. Far into the night they listened raptly as speakers at street corners, parks, and monuments expatiated on the “bloodless revolution,” democracy, brotherhood, and Russia’s glorious future.41 Mennonite orderlies tended to believe that the peace for which they yearned would follow quickly in the wake of the collapse of autocracy and that they would soon go home. Many, moreover, hoped that the promise of the new provisional government and a separation of church and state would permit them to hold religious services again in their own language and maybe even establish a Mennonite seminary, a long sought-a er goal. Some with a penchant for missionizing even hoped that the new government would permit them to evangelize among their Orthodox neighbours. The overthrow of monarchy was followed by months of frantic activity in which workers and soldiers throughout Russia organized themselves into work-related councils, famously called “Soviets.” These would achieve worldwide renown, first as forums of fierce debate and centres of revolutionary action and then, reconstituted and centralized under state control, as organs of Soviet power. Other employee groups followed suit, including the Zemstvo Union’s Department of Hospital Trains in Moscow. In half-rapturous and half-exhausting meetings in the department’s mess hall and dormitory, hospital train doctors, nurses, orderlies like Neufeld, train crews, and kitchen staff set up a Soviet of their own. It would become a forum of spirited, o en rancorous arguments over issues of the war, equality in relations among train staff, elections to the Constituent Assembly, and the deteriorating social and political scenes. Mennonite servicemen also expected that the state’s threat to strip Mennonites and Colonist Germans of their landed property would now cease. In these meetings speakers even tried to stir up class hatreds between doctors and administrators on one side and orderlies and other staff on the other. To keep hospital train crews abreast of broader trends, Soviet organizers invited party speakers to present their o en conflicting visions for the future to sessions of their organizations. At such meetings Mennonite orderlies tended to reject the radicalism of many of the socialists and monarchists while sympathizing with the more moderate and liberal political speakers. Gradually, in 1917, as spring turned to summer and summer to fall, the elation of Mennonite orderlies about the end of tsarism waned. It was replaced by a sinking feeling that all was for naught. What might

Introduction and Analysis 19

follow? During breaks, over tea, Mennonite orderlies, with firsthand knowledge from their work, reported that conditions at the front were dire and worsening daily. The worrisome trends included soaring numbers of soldiers with self-inflicted wounds, runaways, floggings, acts of insubordination, and murders of officers by conscripted men. In the cities the social harmony seemingly present in March had dissipated in summer’s blistering heat. There were demonstrations and food riots. With rival groupings at one another’s throats, the Bolsheviks seized power in October 1917. The sharpest armed conflicts were in St Petersburg and Moscow. In the la er, Neufeld again bore witness to the revolutionary cataclysm. His good friend Julius Klassen recorded the climactic stage of the Bolshevik seizure of power in Moscow and the tangential role that he and his comrades (including Neufeld) had played in it: My friend [Jacob] Neufeld and I were eye-witnesses to the October Revolution, and were even, so to speak, a part of it. Organized into Red Cross units, each consisting of two orderlies with stretchers, two nurses and a doctor, we gathered up wounded from the streets and brought them to safety. The ba le lasted two weeks, day and night. The cadet defenders barricaded themselves in the Kremlin. From there they directed their fire while the Bolsheviks shot into the Kremlin. The former surrendered and the Reds were in power.42

In spring 1918, Neufeld was mustered out of the Zemstvo Union’s medical train service in Moscow and returned to his beloved home in southern Ukraine.43 There, a er his baptism into the Mennonite church (Mennonites believed in adult baptism), he was at once conscripted into the White Army – again as a medical orderly – and dispatched to the southern Ukrainian front of what he termed this “accursed war.” At the time, Southern Ukraine, in the Lower Dnieper basin, had descended into a vortex of civil chaos. The area was a strategic vacuum, sucking in heavily armed forces of decidedly varied groups. Also drawn into the melee were a few small, largely inept Mennonite armed self-defence units that desperately tried to protect their villages from Ukrainian peasant revolutionary groups.44 (This lapse into armed self-defence of members of the Mennonite pacifist community would later, in Canada, cause much internal soul-searching and controversy among Mennonite immigrants).45 As civil war fronts shi ed back and forth across Mennonite villages, the armies, revolutionary bands, and

20 Path of Thorns

brigands le in their wake a ravaged and impoverished countryside and boundless despair. Within less than half a year of the start of his service with the White Army, Neufeld contracted typhus and was reported dead to his family. When fighting tailed off, with the Bolsheviks triumphant, he returned home to undergo a lengthy convalescence. A er nearly five years as a medical orderly in both the Imperial and the White armies, Neufeld was now a much more mature and experienced young man of independent views, broadly knowledgeable about his larger world. He returned to his community eager to take on responsibilities for its difficult future. Upon Neufeld’s recovery, seemingly in recognition of his budding reputation for leadership, villages in the Gnadenfeld district appointed him head of a hastily assembled local Land Commi ee.46 In 1921–2, the Commi ee watched uneasily as the new regime stripped Mennonite villagers of roughly half their land, some of which was distributed among Mennonite landless. The Soviet-Mennonite Context in the 1920s The 1920s played a shaping role in the life of Neufeld and his larger Mennonite world as well as in the relations between that world and the new revolutionary state order. How diverse and clear-eyed are the records concerning this subject? In the West there has long existed a matchless body of émigré Mennonite sources in this regard. Many Mennonites, convinced they were living through a tragic, though bracing, watershed in human and Mennonite affairs, put pen to paper in privately collected diaries, le ers, reports, stories, sketches, studies, and in newspaper articles. These comprise an exceptionally rich ingroup record of that revolutionary age. Neufeld’s writings are a distinguished example of this genre. Yet some might question whether these sources alone offered a sufficiently rounded portrait of Mennonite life during the 1920s. Did they reveal only one side of the reality, perhaps a caricature close to the hearts of Mennonite establishment émigré memoirists and writers who had turned their backs on the USSR in the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s as emigrants and refugees? Was it possible that the larger 70–80 per cent of Mennonites who remained in the Soviet Union, with sharply contrasting experiences and perhaps political preferences, developed other, broader views? How many le ist Mennonite friends of the regime had existed in the 1920s and 1930s? How many “sympathizers,”

Introduction and Analysis 21

“activists,” even Communist Party members? Surely their untold stories were needed to flesh out the narrative. And what might one conclude about Mennonite village society generally? Had it, in the 1920s, remained basically united at the time, a tightly knit group clinging to its Mennonite identity, as émigré accounts maintained? Or had it become bi erly fractured in an unreported internal class struggle rooted in tsarist Mennonite history? Finally, had senior and other Bolshevik leaders in the 1920s really become as deeply engrossed in the “Mennonite question” as émigré writers, among others, suggested? With the unexpected collapse of the USSR in 1991, Soviet archive doors were flung wide open, and out tumbled the documents. For two decades, starting in 1990, I immersed myself in state, Communist Party, and secret police records of the State Archive of the Zaporizhiia Region and other archives in Southern Ukraine. As I dug through archival sources on the Mennonite story, I was amazed by what I found.47 Despite great World War II losses, surviving archival documents about Mennonites in the 1920s alone constitute a huge number. There are hundreds of collections, tens of thousands of files, hundreds of thousands of pages. Yet more startling than the numbers is the tone and content of the documents. I discovered, among much else, that membership lists of local Communist Party organizations in the 1920s and early 1930s, including records of the Communist Youth League (Komsomol), contained few Mennonite names. “Why are you surprised?” Aleksandr Tedeev, the well-informed director of the State Archive of the Zaporizhzhia Region asked me, somewhat baffled, as I shared my findings. “I thought you’d know. Mennonites didn’t join the Party or mass organizations, except relatively few. Their behaviour was quite different from that, say, of Ukrainians, and of many of Russia’s other ethno-cultural minorities, including the German Colonist minority.”48 I had also assumed that Soviet officials at the national, republican, regional, district, and village levels during this time would have applied transformative policies to Mennonites, a small group, routinely, as with other national and religious minorities, mentioning them by name, incidentally, if at all. The Mennonite story told briefly in the margins of Soviet history – this I expected to find. To my u er surprise the opposite proved true. From the early 1920s until well into the 1930s, top state and Communist leaders in the USSR wrestled with the Mennonite question almost continuously as a thorny issue. The regime sent out scores of public and secret commissions to

22 Path of Thorns

investigate Mennonite villages, se lements, and organizations. Their detailed reports were analysed and repeatedly discussed at state and Party levels locally, regionally, in Moscow, and even at the highest party and state levels in Kharkov, the then-capital of the Soviet Ukrainian Republic.49 The Bolshevik preoccupation with Mennonites, which put them under relentless microscopic scrutiny, seemed close to a fixation. The records further showed that, as part of this seeming mania in the mid-1920s, the regime diverted considerable human and financial resources from other groups to “sovietizing” what it stereotyped as these stubborn religionists, these kulak- and clergy-dominated common people. They, according to Bolshevik lights, needed to be brought quickly to heel by integrating them into state administrative and economic networks and assimilating them in their basic values. Symptomatically in the mid-1920s, the All-Ukrainian Central Executive Commi ee of Ukraine, the locus of political authority in Ukraine, kept a file on Mennonites that was reportedly more than 1,000 pages long and growing quickly.50 The decade of the 1920s (1921-9) constitutes a unique chapter in the story of Mennonite life in Soviet times. Earlier, from 1917–21, an age of war, revolution, and civil war, and later – from 1929 until the death of Stalin – a time of terror and forcible change, Mennonites were largely reduced to bystanders and victims in repeated upheavals that were among the deadliest in world history.51 The years a er the end of the Russian Civil War in 1921, however, were markedly different. While keeping a tight grip on power and seeking the basic transformation of society, Bolsheviks permi ed their citizens greater personal freedoms, reduced coercion in national life, and a partly restored commercial marketplace as a motor of the economy. At the same time, the regime sought to sovietize and integrate ethno-cultural minorities into national life, granting minorities extensive cultural rights, including, principally, the use of their own languages in local affairs.52 Under these circumstances, Soviet Mennonites returned briefly to the historical stage as actors. They mourned their dead from the civil war, famine, and epidemic diseases and tried to rebuild their sha ered multi-village agrarian se lements as an act of self-preservation. At the same time they sought to navigate their way through the limited alternatives otherwise open to them. The situation for many Mennonites at the outset of this interval of halting recovery in the early 1920s, as described by observers, was grave. German and Mennonite se lements in the Dnieper region recovered

Introduction and Analysis 23

painfully from the ruin into which the civil war had plunged them. In the worst case of crisis-related deaths for instance, the Khortitsa Mennonite Se lement had suffered a mortality rate of ten per cent of its pre-war population. As the largest peasantist and anarchist revolutionary group in southern Ukraine at the time, the Makhnovites had leveled villages to the ground and subjected their Mennonite inhabitants (also nearby ethnic German and Jewish villages and urban centres) to robbery, murder, and arson. The unparalleled famine that followed magnified the woe.53 The seven or eight years of recovery a er the end of the Civil War in 1921 were collectively called the period of the New Economic Policy (NEP). During this time, generally, Mennonite leaders, to ensure a future for their people, evolved a two-track policy They negotiated emigration possibilities to North and South America for members of the community who fearfully wished to leave the USSR. The Mennonites destined to stay behind painfully adapted to the new and unfamiliar Soviet world. Limited Mennonite – Bolshevik cooperation in the countryside developed around the goal of economic recovery. To press forward on this front, a new generation of Mennonite lay and religious leaders emerged. Many young men, like Neufeld, as previously described, had spent the war years serving in state afforestation camps or, more importantly, as orderlies on medical trains. Administratively experienced, steeped in the values of their community, yet now intimately familiar with a much broader Soviet world and its vocabulary, they easily stepped into positions of leadership. Fluent in Low and High German, as well as Russian – Neufeld and many others also knew Ukrainian – they proved themselves adept in briefly steering a path for their post-revolutionary society through the tricky currents and crosscurrents of early Soviet times.54 These leaders initially focused their communities around tasks of recovery, relief, reconstruction, and reform in an environment in which dialogue, rivalry, and conflict with the regime were present in roughly equal parts.55 With the grudging consent of a struggling Soviet state, Mennonites were permi ed to found two soon-to-be powerful, statechartered producer, consumer, and financial cooperative unions that played a strategic role in helping to breathe life back into their small and seriously damaged world. One, the Union of Citizens of Dutch Ancestry (popularly known as the Menno Verband [Union]), was centred in Ukraine. The other, the Mennonite Agricultural Society, was a sister organization in the Russian Federation. (The former institution

24 Path of Thorns

that Neufeld helped to lead at the local level will be discussed below.) In tandem with reviving Mennonite church organizations, the Verband organized mutual aid among Mennonites and foreign food and clothing relief from Mennonite agencies abroad.56 The Verband also gave financial support and direction to a small number of financially shaky, now nationalized onetime secondary Mennonite schools and welfare institutions, and helped revive village and community structures. Mennonites even founded a short-lived Bible school for church workers and were permi ed, briefly, as a disarming tactic by Soviet officials to veil their own anti-religious goals, to publish a small monthly, religious German-language paper, Unser Bla (Our News Sheet), and to distribute it across the Soviet Mennonite world. Still partly self-contained in some 400 villages, the Mennonite world stretched from southern Ukraine and the Crimea to the NorthCaucusus, Trans-Volgan, Central Asian and Western Siberian areas. Mennonite negotiations and cooperation with the regime had narrow ideological limits, however, and already from the early 1920s onward, the regime, in its efforts to mount transformative programs of sovietization, flooded village reading halls, schools, youth, and other circles with atheist curricula, programs, and propaganda, staged crude parodies of religious ceremonies, o en on religious holidays, and demanded the explicit public support of teachers, cultural leaders, and administrators for these educational programs and methods. Villagers, offended and full of fear, soon felt the results. Already by the mid-1920s Soviet officials were routinely sacking Mennonite teachers who would not toe the Party line. They increasingly rejected applications from Mennonite inductees for conscientious objector status and non-combatant alternative service. Proscribing religious instruction of children, they sharply curtailed religious freedoms. In the mid-1920s a general council of Mennonite churches in Russia – a loosely structured group of most Mennonite religious groups in the USSR – responded to these increasingly aggressive Soviet moves with a courageous formal appeal to the government for firm guarantees of religious liberty.57 The initiative, however, failed totally, drawing down upon the Mennonite world the disdain, censure, and hostility of official circles. Mennonites will oppose the regime as long as it opposes religion was the understandably widespread response of many Mennonites who were themselves caught up in a spiritual renewal – a wide-spread religious revival in the mid-1920s that swept across many parts of the Soviet Mennonite world.58

Introduction and Analysis 25

Starting in 1927 and more quickly in 1928 and 1929, an increasingly radical Soviet regime ended NEP. It tightened central controls, demanding strict conformity. Finally, with great harshness, it imposed a policy of forced collectivization and militant atheism, including terror in the villages. In this larger process, it first crippled and then destroyed the Mennonite regional and national organizations that it had chartered only a few years earlier, including the two Mennonite economic and cultural unions just mentioned. By the late 1920s and early 1930s, the lay and religious structures and leaders that had helped shelter local Mennonite communities from radical Soviet policies were gone. Naturally other minority communities were hard hit as well. The end of regular Mennonite community life – which had revived spasmodically and briefly – was imminent by the fall of 1929. With Stalin at the helm, collectivization at the doorstep, and Mennonite leaders isolated, disenfranchised, or under arrest, droves of leaderless Mennonite families from across the USSR fled their villages, streaming into Moscow by train. Their explicit goal was immigration to Canada through the mediation of Germany, which, at that time, was friendly with the USSR. Over several months a remarkable 10–15 per cent of Soviet Mennonites from across the Soviet Union, many from its Trans Volgan and Siberian areas, a large fraction of them village poor, stormed the Soviet capital. The period ended with many Mennonites encamped in Moscow suburbs, on trains en route to Moscow or harnessing teams of horses and packing bags in their Ukrainian and Russian Mennonite villages to join the exodus.59 This story of large-scale, passive resistance to collectivization and related Soviet policies, widely covered in the western press, fits into the larger topic of village opposition to rural Stalinism. The Mennonites’ 1929 pell-mell flight from the countryside to Moscow was finally halted at village exits and train stations by local officials and by regular and secret police. Of the refugees, a lucky minority of some 3,500 Mennonites found refuge abroad. The majority, perhaps as many as 14,000, were sent back to their fitfully collectivizing villages or into remote gulags.60 What outlived the cataclysmic denouement of Mennonite-Bolshevik relations, however, were sharp images on both sides. In newspaper articles and secret party, state, and police memoranda, the Soviet regime typecast Mennonites as the ethno-religious minority that had rejected the anti-religious, anticlerical, and out-casting facets of sovietization more effectively than almost any other. Mennonites were accordingly demonized as a conspiratorial group riddled with “kulaks and counter-revolutionaries.” The noted

26 Path of Thorns

flight of Mennonites to Moscow in 1929, one of the most striking acts of passive defiance to forcible collectivization by any Soviet group, was headline news for months in late 1929 and early 1930. Many Soviet Mennonites, by then suffering as so-called kulaks in the remote areas to which they had been exiled – or carrying on, shellshocked in collectivized villages – took comfort in thinking that as participants in a world – historical drama of good against evil, they had not bent their knees to Baal. They had, as le ers to relatives from the gulag affirmed, remained faithful to the end.61 What troubled state officials most was that, against determined efforts to break Mennonite unity by pi ing Mennonite social strata against one another – and unleash a class war in the villages – Mennonites had somehow managed to preserve much of their solidarity throughout the 1920s. (That ethno-cultural and ethno-religious unity would only crumble in the early 1930s when efforts to emigrate were harshly quashed and terror was injected into village life through the arrest and exile of many so-called Mennonite kulak families.) In a state campaign that picked up steam from the mid-1920s to the early 1930s, religious Mennonites were accordingly defamed, typecast as a people whose solidarity rested on conspiratorial foundations. Their unity, as propagandists averred, had been inspired by kulak leadership and backed by the clergy. Unity, it was alleged, had also been cemented by class interests, religious fanaticism, an unwavering pacifism, and the financial and moral help and inspiration of friends, relatives, and co-religionists in Canada, Germany, and the United States. During NEP, Mennonites, fighting to preserve bits and pieces of their previous autonomy under the tsars, became for the regime one of the most difficult groups to tame and control. Many provincial Soviet archival sources in the 1920s underscore the regime’s belief that Mennonites had become by far one of the toughest groups to integrate into the Soviet order.62 The “Menno Verband” in Ukraine (Union of Citizens of Dutch Ancestry in Ukraine), 1922–192763 In 1922, at the start of this momentous chapter in Soviet Mennonite life, Neufeld was drawn into the remarkable and ultimately fateful work of the above-mentioned Mennonite cooperative enterprise, “The Union of Citizens of Dutch Ancestry in Ukraine,” popularly known among Mennonites as the “Menno Verband [Union].” Despite its

Introduction and Analysis 27

odd name – chosen at the urging of Soviet officials to distinguish it from an existing German colonist union, and to give it a secular, nonGerman name related to its Netherlandic origins – it became a multifunctional, Mennonite-run, state-chartered cooperative organization whose membership was limited to bona fide baptized Mennonites. In a show of solidarity an astonishingly large number of all Mennonite families in the Gnadenfeld and other regions joined the new organization soon a er its founding. The Verband’s self-proclaimed mission during NEP was to protect and advance Mennonite interests in a revolutionary world. Formally a producer, consumer, and credit cooperative, it would become increasingly involved as an advocate on behalf of Mennonite interests in all areas of village and regional life.64 Over time, the Verband evolved into the most powerful Mennonite institution of NEP times, and its quasi-political activities in support of Mennonite interests became as important to its mission as its economic undertakings. Working in concert with Mennonite religious leaders, it survived longer and more actively than comparable institutions in ethnic German “colonist” se lements. (The Verband’s sister institution in the Russian part of the USSR, named “The Mennonite Agricultural Union,” played a comparable role in that region.) For years, the Verband was the almost exclusive focus of Mennonite hopes and loyalties in Ukraine and its liquidation by state authorities would mark the definitive end of the Mennonites’ once vaunted semi-autonomy. During its lifetime, from 1921–7, the Menno Verband functioned at two levels. At the all-Ukrainian level in the early 1920s, its central office with a chair, commi ees, policy congresses, and an ambitious agenda, struck agreements with an American Mennonite relief organization to distribute emergency food supplies and clothing in Mennonite villages and surrounding areas. A democratic institution with an elected leadership and two elected representatives in every Mennonite village, the Verband spearheaded reconstruction efforts, negotiated foreign loans, and ran stores and cooperatives. It also, as noted, became a prickly and powerful advocate to state and party officials of broader Mennonite interests. These included all of the most significant questions at the forefront of Mennonite public concerns at the time, many of them overtly political. Central organs of the Verband also, for a time, spearheaded the immigration to Canada of, as noted, at least a fi h of all Soviet Mennonites.65 At the regional level, Ukrainian Mennonite villages were grouped in similarly democratic, largely autonomous, locally directed Verband

28 Path of Thorns

branches. Each had its own headquarters, chairs, village representatives, commi ee structures, and heavy local obligations. Thirteen such regional branches emerged in Soviet Ukraine. In the fall of 1922, Neufeld was elected chairman of one of the largest and most important branches in Ukraine, the Gnadenfeld Verband branch. Its responsibility was the economic resuscitation and welfare of 27 villages, half of the villages of the large Molochna Mennonite se lement. Neufeld led this organization until its demise five years later.66 The Verband’s rise to influence and power happened amidst sweeping political, social, and religious developments in Soviet life. A er the close of the Russian Civil War, the new regime reduced by half the land allo ed to Mennonite landholders. This, together with the effects of the civil war and the loss of land, helped to radically level Mennonite society in the villages and challenged its leaders to intensify Mennonite agriculture as a way of accommodating its population on smaller plots of land. During the civil war, the state nationalized Mennonite estates, mills, and factories that had been torched or overrun by revolutionaries. Their estate, mill, and factory owners – a one-time social elite of 3–4 per cent of the Mennonite population – perished or sought refuge in overcrowded villages during the civil war. The result was that during the famine of the early 1920s, many members of a now much more homogenized, less stratified Mennonite society queued up at village relief kitchens as more-or-less social equals for a bowl of soup and a spoonful of kasha provided by an international Mennonite organization. All this contributed much to the seemingly unshakeable ethnocultural and religious unity of the Mennonite community of the time – magnified by the already noted flood of religious revivalism that simultaneously washed over the Mennonite world. Small wonder that when Communist activists sought to turn poor and middling Mennonite villagers against their so-called kulak neighbours in the 1920s and early 1930s, many refused, protesting that as Mennonites, they were spiritual brothers and sisters who did not oppress one another.67 Work in the regional Gnadenfeld Verband became the passion of Neufeld’s life. By 1922 he was married and he and his wife, Lene, and an infant daughter, Erika, had moved to Gnadenfeld where he took up duties as head of the Gnadenfeld regional Verband. Quickly, Verband work came to fill Neufeld’s days with significance and meaning and earned him the affectionate nickname, “Verband Neufeld.”68 Aged 27 at the start of his chairmanship, Neufeld thought himself too green to chair such an important organization, but more experienced

Introduction and Analysis 29

colleagues of an older leadership elite, perhaps with more conservative impulses, stepped in to help. A er all, Neufeld’s youthfulness, as noted, gave him entrée to Bolshevik officials who preferred dealing with such new men. Neufeld’s wartime experiences, grounding in Mennonite life and values, clear convictions, insight into Communist ways, tactical flexibility, a certain gravitas, and a low-key personal style won him the trust of his Mennonite colleagues and helped cement relations within his wider community. Initially, during early NEP, issues of basic survival dominated agendas of the Verband at both the all-Ukrainian and regional levels. It was a tough time, wrote Neufeld: “All were dirt poor, spiritually broken, and living in fear of what the morrow might bring.”69 To alleviate the effects of famine and a raging typhus epidemic, the regional Gnadenfeld Verband distributed emergency food aid from foreign Mennonites through soup kitchens and allocated beggarly rations of grain to destitute teachers. With medical services at a standstill, it restaffed a regional out-patient clinic with a doctor, some nurses, scrounged foreign supplies, and medications. Under Gnadenfeld Verband direction, almost half of all village general stores – shu ered or destroyed in the civil war – were replaced or reopened and integrated into the Verband’s growing agricultural and consumer cooperative network. The stores also bought and sold produce like milk, bu er, and eggs from local farmers. To replace ta ered clothes and footwear, villagers, with Verband encouragement, reverted to earlier practices of self-help. Destitute but enterprising families acquired small flocks of sheep and were soon spinning wool and fashioning garments. With a glance back to their Dutch heritage, they also cut clogs and sandals from blocks of wood. To work up soil and cultivate gardens they fashioned scrap metal into novel man- or cow-pulled tillers and cultivators. Given the catastrophic shortage of dra animals and seed at the time, Mennonites harnessed cows and people to plows and wagons as short-term measures while the Verband sent out buyers to distant regions to barter for horses, seed, and supplies. Li le by li le, life began to seep back into a ravaged Mennonite village world. Finally, with rains and the introduction of a new Soviet currency that helped stabilize and galvanize the agricultural economy, be er crops returned in 1923. Now the Gnadenfeld Verband could review challenges and nervously plan ahead. What might the future hold? Would NEP evolve into a long-term moderate Soviet strategy, as Mennonites desperately hoped, or be superseded by the nightmare of radical

30 Path of Thorns

high-speed industrialization and the collectivization of agriculture imposed by decree, compulsion, and terror? His colleagues, as Neufeld wrote, were of two minds about the Verband’s potential: “Many older individuals were pessimistic. Those of a younger generation were more sanguine … I was inclined to share the la er views. I thought a Mennonite association that pursued economic and cultural goals might help us defend our existence in the long run.”70 As abstracted from the words and actions of Neufeld and his colleagues, the medium-term objective that emerged out of this difficult situation was a determination to keep Mennonite society intact, united, its future open, and its economy growing, all the while awaiting either the collapse of the Soviet system from within or the blunting by time and circumstance of Bolshevism’s most extreme revolutionary impulses. It was a hope that might seem quixotic in hindsight, but it was logically entertained by many in the USSR and in the world at the time. To succeed, as Verband leaders believed, such a defensive posture required shrewd short-term measures to maximize economic growth and stability while limiting the spread of Bolshevik ideas within the Mennonite world – in short, to stop the sovietization of Mennonite society, especially of its children and youth. “In general,” Neufeld wrote, “[Soviet authorities] sought to retain the initiative and to inject ideology into every possible situation. We tried to prevent this from happening, adhering naturally to judicial decrees where they existed, but with the intention of walling off our [Verband] undertakings from the destructive and antagonistic spirit of Bolshevism. That spirit had no place in our initiatives if they were to spring to life and ease the lot of our Mennonite villagers.”71 A er the emergency phase of the early 1920s had ended, the Verband plunged into the supreme task of adapting the just described Mennonite economy to the new reality of the post-revolutionary political and economic scene. That scene consisted of a more equalitarian Mennonite society, severely reduced land holdings, and changing markets for farm produce. There was also an overabundance of workers due to large Mennonite families and much reduced agricultural land holdings. Wheat growing would remain a part of the economic order, to be sure, but needed to be down-graded and supplemented by more labour-intensive activities. In the mid-1920s, to foster diversity and adaptation in the rural economy, the Gnadenfeld regional Verband, under Neufeld’s direction, leased and restored the empty hulk of a large, now nationalized, flour

Introduction and Analysis 31

mill to humming service. They built from scratch a large modern oil press and grist mill to supply Soviet and foreign markets with oil and to cater to the market needs of new small-holder growers of sunflowers as a cash crop. Both enterprises bought up farm produce in significant quantities and generated a large number of jobs. More importantly, Neufeld’s Gnadenfeld Verband branch pioneered a new advanced, scientifically-based Mennonite dairy and ca le breeding industry. To stimulate the export of quality bu er, a small dairy established a network of several experimental milk separating stations in nearby villages that grew rapidly as a labour-intensive enterprise. With Verband encouragement, other producers soon followed suit and within a few years, networks of such separating plants sprang A thriving cow – calf breeding operation on Mennonite land was developed as a parallel activity with like results. Mennonites also introduced a rational system of feeding and breeding and before long, thousands of valuable young bulls, bullocks, cows, and heifers annually le the Gnadenfeld district as breeding stock. Early in the 1920s, it became clear that herds of Molochna Mennonite villages contained a nucleus of “red cows” brought along from West Prussia in pioneering days. The best milk producers in the region, the red cows were favoured for breeding by farmers and officials. Registered in Soviet stud books as the “German red cow,” they were praised to the heavens in Soviet publications.72 These varied initiatives increased employment and income in the Gnadenfeld region and provided Mennonites with a more balanced, labour-intensive rural economy. By the mid-1920s, many Mennonite villagers were guardedly optimistic about the future. While not approaching prewar living standards, their village economies, under Verband leadership, had achieved modest levels of stability and well-being. The capstone to the Gnadenfeld Verband’s 1920s program of insulating Mennonite society somewhat from Bolshevik ideological influence while adapting small holdings to a more diversified agrarian economy was the founding of a specialized post-secondary agricultural school in Gnadenfeld. (It was one of three such schools created and run by Mennonites in Soviet Ukraine in the 1920s.) Founded and largely controlled by the Verband, its purpose was to provide Mennonite communities with highly qualified agricultural specialists from their own ranks. A er consultations throughout the Gnadenfeld region and with the grudging permission of state officials, the specialized school was established with a three-year program in 1923. One of the proudest creations of Neufeld’s Verband career, it was the product of community

32 Path of Thorns

support and of o en frustrating trips by horse-drawn cart to negotiate school issues with Communist decision-makers in widely dispersed urban centres in southern Ukraine.73 The school, as Neufeld noted, “was as free as possible of Soviet influence and under the authority of teachers whom we could influence.”74 How did Neufeld and his colleagues manage to achieve these ambitious projects under such thorny circumstances? Of key significance was skilled community leadership, democratic practices of the Verband down to the village level, and the remarkable solidarity of the Mennonite community described above. There were also broad consultations among Neufeld’s constituents and a rural, still largely religious community that yearned for strong political and economic leadership in an unstable world. Equally essential were official, though o en circumscribed and grudging, endorsements of projects by state and Party negotiators.75 The negotiating successes of Neufeld and his colleagues demonstrated, in his words, that “The lower ranks of Party and bureaucratic officials were full of poorly educated and bumptious officials possessed of an inflated mistrust. When possible, central and regional organizations of the Verband therefore tried to bypass lower echelons of Soviet power and to negotiate Mennonite interests and negotiate arrangements directly with regional or national authorities, o en to the astonishment and disgust of officials at lower levels.”76 The la er must o en have been upset, even infuriated, at what they interpreted as Mennonite presumption. Later, many such radical and largely unle ered lower-rung officials across the USSR flocked to Stalin’s proletarian colours in a deadly intra-Party contest that would elevate him to supreme authority and put local interests, such as those of the Mennonites, at grave risk. The formidable administrative and leadership skills that Neufeld developed and brought to bear on the management of the Gnadenfeld Verband in the 1920s provided him with deep insights into the outlook and workings of the Communist system. They would also later equip him in the 1930s with the interpersonal, political, and technical skills needed in the gulag to head up an experimental pig farm. This job, as well as a gulag boss’s qualified protection of him, probably saved his life several times. Moreoever, Neufeld’s deep knowledge of the Mennonite community and the Soviet system equipped him to fathom many sides of the political and socio-economic niceties of the time and informs every chapter of this book.

Introduction and Analysis 33

Liquidating the Verband, 1926–1927 Since the founding of the Verband in the early 1920s, Soviet Party and state officials, with few exceptions, had tracked its successes nervously and with mounting concern. This was hardly surprising in light of the regime’s supreme domestic ideological objective at the time – the “sovietization” of all of society. Sovietization, according to Party lights, and as trumpeted from the roo ops by officialdom in the 1920s, was envisaged as a transformative process that would secularize society in its fundamentals; sweep it clean of bourgeois, religious belief, and prejudice; impregnate it with a collectivist outlook; bu ress it with a modern statist economy; and harness it to the creation and nurturing of an egalitarian society of new Soviet men and women. This fundamental makeover was to be spearheaded by the Communist Party and state officials who would shape society through relatively moderate socioeconomic reforms, class conflict in the villages, radicalized police and security organs, sovietized schools with militant anti-religious agendas and aggressive mass organizations for children, young people, women, and poor peasants. Fundamental to the Party’s sovietization program was the redefinition of society as consisting of antagonistic classes. Leading members of the once-be er-off-strata-of-society – allegedly hostile elements dubbed kulaks(onetime more affluent peasants) plus clerics and others’– were to be isolated and disenfranchised in a village class war that would pit poor and middle strata of society against onetime be er off so-called kulaks. At the same time, the regime implicitly offered the poorer and middling strata of society a radical bargain, promising them privileges if they would abandon their historic, ethno-religious identity and interests as “Russian Mennonites” and embrace a new identity as secularized “Soviet Germans.” These privileges, in keeping with the regime’s innovative national and minorities’ policies at the time, would include German as the language of education, and culture in areas where Mennonites lived. A slogan of the time proclaimed that MennoniteGerman culture, as that of other cultural groups, would be “national in form and socialist in content.” Under Verband leadership, the overwhelming bulk of Mennonites at the time, while gladly embracing the benefits of the regime’s linguistic policies, responded coldly to this implicitly proffered social compact. Rebuffed, Party and state officials were strengthened in their basic view

34 Path of Thorns

that Mennonites were a self-isolating, religiously fanatical community led by the Verband. Indeed, the la er, they concluded, had in essence become no less than a “religious organization masquerading as an agricultural cooperative.” It had blocked the sovietization of Mennonite society. Its leaders – former people, has beens (byvshie liudi), as all such persons were publicly denigrated – had exploited the concessions of NEP to take firm control of Mennonite society’s internal life and protect it from the initiatives of militant Bolshevism. The government’s preoccupation with the tiny Mennonite minority in southern Ukraine in the 1920s reflected a simple Communist apprehension that the Verband had treacherously exceeded its authority. While stimulating the emigration of Mennonites abroad, it had illicitly created an autonomous or semi-autonomous economic, political, religious, and cultural space for Mennonites in some two dozen multivillage se lements sca ered in the European, Trans-Volgan, Central Asian, and Siberian parts of the USSR. The Verband in Ukraine and the already noted sister organization in the Russian Republic (the RSFSR) had defended Mennonite economic interests, social unity, spiritual values, and worldview with such skill and assiduity as to establish extraterritorial direction over the entire Mennonite world, from Ukraine to Siberia. Such was the officially voiced fear. Although the Verband felt itself vulnerable and believed its survival hung by the thread of grudging official sufferance, the conspiratorial Bolshevik views at the time puffed up Mennonite accomplishments until they were perceived as parts of a hostile, potentially contagious group development that had to be stopped in its tracks. In the Soviet view, the Verband was guiding Mennonite life towards ethno-religious, community-minded goals that stood in sharp conflict with the objectives of sovietization and Communist control. Indeed, the Soviet Mennonite experience was perceived as an infectious example that might well encourage similarly aberrant behaviour among other ethnic and ethno-religious minorities. By the mid-1920s, such doctrinal and political reckonings – bolstered by daily experience with Mennonites – increasingly gave strategic direction to increasingly militant Bolshevik a itudes towards the Verband. These culminated finally in the fateful decision to dismantle, reorganize and, to all intents and purposes, liquidate the Menno Verband. To legitimize a policy of liquidation, the All-Ukrainian Central Executive Commi ee (VUTsIK) established a Commission to examine the activities and financial accounts of the central and regional organs

Introduction and Analysis 35

of the Verband. A er several months, the Commission concluded its secret report with a not unexpected but devastating critique. The Verband, it alleged, had vastly exceeded its authority as a cooperative by opposing and thwarting Soviet objectives. It had transformed itself into a maid of all work that meddled in every facet of community life, many of them reserved to state authority. Cultivating intimate ties with powerful Mennonite bodies in Germany and Canada, it had, moreover, so the Commission indicated, inspired and organized the already noted mass immigration to Canada of a fi h of the Mennonite population. This “counter-revolutionary” act kept Mennonite se lements in a state of never-ending agitation and had given the USSR a huge black eye internationally. By rechanneling energies from its cooperative work into the allegedly illegitimate advocacy of community issues before state bodies, the Verband had also vastly exceeded its authority. Finally, the Verband had demonstrably neglected to extend to its members, as required by its charter, the full benefits of its officially sanctioned modest role as an agricultural, consumer, and credit cooperative.77 With this devastating appraisal in hand, authorities at the highest levels in Kharkov and Moscow approved the “reorganization” of the Verband – to all intents and purposes, as said, its abolition. The regime planted slanderous anti-Verband articles78 in the local and metropolitan press, including Visti, the central organ of the Executive of the Ukrainian Central Commi ee, and organized public meetings in the main Mennonite centres to denounce the policies and legitimacy of the Verband. “Reorganization” involved two strategic changes: the abolition of the Verband’s central office in Kharkov, the then-Ukrainian capital; and the breaking-up of its regional branches into separate agricultural and consumer cooperatives and their absorption into Soviet cooperative networks. This policy was brutally imposed by state officials at the final all-Ukrainian congress of the Verband that assembled in Kharkov in February 1926. Neufeld was present as chair of the regional Gnadenfeld Verband that he headed, and reported for the last time on the work of his organization.79 The Verband leadership, for its part, was given no choice but to submit to official demands. Over the following year the all-Ukrainian level of the Verband was abolished. Dispirited, Neufeld worked, as enjoined, to help implement the integration of individual cooperative units of the Gnadenfeld Verband into the Soviet system. All other regional branches of the Verband were similarly torn apart. The process was completed by mid-1927.80

36 Path of Thorns

The abolition of the Verband in 1926–7 had a bi er personal sequel for Neufeld himself. In late 1927 he and several of his onetime Gnadenfeld Verband colleagues were summoned to appear before a court in Molochansk, one of the most important urbanizing centres in the Soviet Mennonite world at the time. They were to answer to charges that they had misrepresented the distribution of income from one of the Gnadenfeld Verband’s enterprises – a flour mill – thereby denying the state its rightful tax revenues.81 Given, as Neufeld thought, the insignificance of the offence, and expecting no more than a brief appearance in court, a rap on the knuckles, and a nominal fine, Neufeld and his colleagues were sha ered to find themselves in the eye of a storm. Shouted down by an assembled crowd at a court hearing, denied the right to speak, they quickly recognized that this was nothing less than a show trial. Found guilty on serious charges of misdirecting funds, they were sentenced to varying terms of imprisonment at hard labour. Neufeld’s sentence was three years. Although he served only six months of this long sentence on a nearby prison farm, the episode engulfed his family in grief and overcast Neufeld’s future. Treated as a political ex-convict upon his release, Neufeld was disenfranchised, prohibited from participating in local affairs, and became an execrated and marked man. How unique, how special in the 1920s, one might ask, was the history and baleful end of the Verband within its Soviet context in the 1920s? Clearly Soviet officials during those years came to view the Verband as a particularly pernicious example of autonomy that had survived within the NEP environment and needed now to be crushed. What invests the Mennonite case with special interest is that the Verband, with the strong support of its village communities, had, more successfully than most local organizations, self-consciously and successfully broadened what li le remained of the Mennonites’ autonomy in the 1920s to oppose and push back powerful forces of sovietization that were then threatening to flood and transform Mennonite economic and religious life. It was an extreme example of such efforts. In the longer term, however, the Verband strategy was doomed to failure. Stalinized socio-political policies in the late 1920s and early 1930s, instead of becoming more moderate (as many Mennonites had fervently hoped), took a radical turn towards total control and dashed Mennonite hopes. The seriousness of this development was compounded by Hitler’s rise to power in 1933. This electric event, with its avowed threat to the territorial integrity of the USSR, seems to have triggered Soviet fears that its

Introduction and Analysis 37

German-speaking population might, under new and threatening conditions, emerge as a militant fi h column within the USSR. Demonizing the Soviet Mennonites With the demise of the Verband in 1927, Neufeld, other onetime Verband leaders, and the larger Mennonite community faced times of great uncertainty. Upon his release from prison, Neufeld found a job as a bookkeeper with a modest Gnadenfeld co-op store that had earlier operated as a Gnadenfeld Verband enterprise. The job ended abruptly in the early 1930s when a state purge of employees led to his brusque dismissal on spurious charges of malfeasance. Marginalized, he hunted fruitlessly for work until a close friend, Peter Dirks, found him a job as bookkeeper with a public health laboratory of a local branch of the Red Cross in Molochansk. The world around Neufeld was meanwhile undergoing a seismic shi . In the fall of 1929, Stalin unleashed his already mentioned revolution from above, a well-known program of mammoth social and economic engineering that took the form of a high-paced drive to industrialize and a headlong rush to collectivize agriculture. Moreover, following the abolition of the Verband, the extraordinary unity that had characterized Mennonite life began gradually – under the threat and reality of terror – to disintegrate. With the Verband as a protective, all-embracing institution gone, it was a time in which increasing numbers of Mennonites in Mennonite-inhabited areas assumed elective and appointive positions in the Soviet administration of district and village institutions and in newly-formed collective farms (kolkhozy) in Mennonite-inhabited areas. When Stalin’s sweeping agrarian policy was proclaimed they were required to implement its cruel terms in Mennonite areas. Some, as state and Party records reveal, did so with alacrity; many others balked, pleading acute illness or emotional distress. Still others simply “deserted their posts” (Fahnenflucht). But a not inconsiderable number grudgingly followed orders, o en under threat from militant Party members who were recruited in cities and dispatched into rural areas to crack the whip.82 In Neufeld’s view, Mennonite officials in villages “chose to pull their weight in support of coercion, acting in violation of their consciences. A split had opened among us. The tragedy had begun.” By late 1929 and early 1930, Stalinist policy had resulted in many Mennonites being declared kulaks (exploiters), kicked out of their

38 Path of Thorns

homes, dispossessed and exiled to barren regions that were nearby or in distant Siberia. Few ever returned. Overall, around 2–3 per cent of agricultural families in the USSR were dekulakized. For Mennonites (and presumably ethnic German Colonists), that figure, according to informed studies, was probably around 7–10 per cent; several times the Soviet norm. (Poles, Greeks, Finns, and others suffered disproportionately as well.)83 The high figure reflected the onetime relative well-being of Mennonite society, but equally, as suggested, its stubborn resistance to the supreme objectives of sovietization through efforts to expand Mennonite freedom of action in the mid-1920s and the demonstrative flight of a high percentage of Mennonites to Moscow in late 1929. Collectivization did not leave the Neufeld family unscathed. In the early 1930s, Jacob Neufeld’s parents, together with two of their children still at home, were “dekulakized.” Thrown out on the street with a few personal possessions, le to fend for themselves, they moved in with the Jacob Neufelds. When Party bullying did not stop, the parents sought shelter for themselves in a dugout (zemlianka) of an obscure Ukrainian village. There they lived impecuniously until the outbreak of war in 1941 when they were deported to a work camp in Siberia where they died. At the same time, Jacob Neufeld’s blind brother, Hans, also living with the Jacob Neufelds at the time, hanged himself in the Neufeld’s barn in Gnadenfeld. His despair, as Neufeld’s daughter Erika believed, was triggered by the dekulakization of his family and a failed romance.84 (This sad event was never spoken of publicly and is mentioned obliquely only once in Neufeld’s correspondence.) Then, in 1932–3, a catastrophic famine struck Ukraine and parts of Russia. Faced with near-confiscatory compulsory grain deliveries, millions of peasants starved to death. Mennonite se lements, many close to the famine’s epicentres, suffered extreme hunger as well, as did the Neufeld family. But a Mennonite tradition of mutual aid plus modest money transfers from recently immigrated friends and relatives in Canada seem to have averted a mass dying. To amplify the misery, during the height of the famine, Neufeld’s wife Lene gave birth to twins. Son Johann died as an infant and his twin brother, Jacob (Jasha), lived into manhood and appears o en in these pages. In a final blow, on the night of 30 October 1933, answering a sharp knock on the door of his office, Neufeld was confronted by secret police. Arrested, he was lugged off to NKVD headquarters. In disbelief, as he movingly describes in his gulag memoir, he was charged with membership in a covert “counter-revolutionary” Mennonite organization pledged to the support of Nazi Germany in the event of a German

Introduction and Analysis 39

a ack on Soviet Ukraine. Arrested with Neufeld, and charged with similarly grave offences, as he indicated, were some 100 other onetime Mennonite leaders. Most had earlier been closely associated with the administration and wide-ranging programs of the Verband and were, for this reason, placed under arrest. These arrests that focused on the Verband marked a turning point in the relations between the regime and the Mennonite Community. Of Neufeld’s some 100 Mennonite co-arrestees in 1933, his cohort consisted of 25 men and one woman who were rounded up and treated as members of a single conspiratorial organization working under Nazi command in the Mennonite Molochna Se lement. (I have not yet succeeded in tracing the names and the fate of the some 70–80 remaining Mennonite arrestees.) Members of a Mennonite elite, professionals, mainly leaders and active one-time participants in the Verband, they were tried as participants in a single anti-Soviet plot. (In 2008, Neufeld’s son Jacob was given access to the secret police materials relating to this case. I have read through the large interrogation and other files, totaling 1,660 pages, relating to it.) The average and mean ages of the arrested were 43 years. All had children. Each arrestee was isolated from others in the group and questioned separately. The goal was to play one inmate off against another, extract confessions to heinous anti-Soviet intentions and acts from each, implicate the Verband in their activities, and indict the broader Mennonite community. Chief investigator (sledovatel), Litman (his first name and patronymic are not included in any of the files I have accessed), a senior officer in the regional secret police, conducted and orchestrated the interrogations of the 26 in late 1933 and early 1934. Dogged, clever, o en cruel – a entive or bullying by turns – Litman was highly successful in his efforts. Over a period of several months he cowed and humiliated his wards, robbing them of their psychological equilibrium and achieving his purpose. Virtually all members of Neufeld’s group of 26 confessed to membership in a non-existent anti-Soviet conspiracy. All but one in the group were sentenced to hard time in the gulag – about a third to 10 years; half to five years; and a fi h to three years.85 Through much of the ordeal, Neufeld, o en at the edge of his endurance, in despair, stuck bravely to the resolve he had made at the time of his arrest that he would never confess to crimes he had not commi ed, never endanger his family through his actions, and never betray his fellow inmates. In time, however, even Neufeld’s will was broken. He too signed a confession. More than five years later, in early 1939, Neufeld returned

40 Path of Thorns

home from the gulag tarred as an ex-convict with a permanent record of counter-revolutionary activities. Together with his crippling illness, this “record” would gravely compromise his status and future employability in the Soviet Union. In his gulag memoir printed in this volume, Neufeld noted that during months of grilling, he had endured 22 gruelling nigh ime interrogations. Secret police archival transcripts, however, contain minutes of only three, gathered together close to the end of his file.86 The first transcript documents Neufeld’s adamant denial of any wrong-doing. A er months of relentless interrogation, he stood by many of the views he had voiced at the time of his arrest. Ordered to list actions he “had undertaken against Soviet power,” Neufeld courageously replied: “I was an opponent of Soviet power because I could not agree with its agricultural policy that resulted in the ruin of agriculture. Collectivization, far from improving the material state of the peasantry, had made it worse. I opposed dekulakization because I considered dekulakized individuals as working people. And I could never agree with the Soviet regime’s policy in regard to religion … [However], I did nothing against Soviet power.”87 The second minuted interrogation, that same day, recorded a mortifying confrontation sprung on Neufeld by Litman, in which Peter Dirks, a co-defendant, close friend, wartime buddy in the medical corps, and best man at Neufeld’s wedding, appeared suddenly and bare facedly accused Neufeld of participation in an alleged “counter-revolutionary” plot.88 The third and last interrogation transcript – Neufeld’s resistance having finally been broken by his friend’s devastating charges against him – recorded Neufeld’s “confession” to membership in the alleged secret organization that had taken the form of the spreading of German nationalist propaganda to a brother-in-law and a friend.89 As Neufeld’s memoir reports, his confession signed a er first averring his innocence was remarkably thin. Referring vaguely to his having engaged in very limited propaganda activities, his confession was apparently minimally sufficient to satisfy the frustrated chief investigator and to earn Neufeld a stiff five-year term in the gulag. (It should be noted that a comparison of these three minuted interrogations with Neufeld’s memoir of these same hearings confirms the accuracy and depth of Neufeld’s powers of recall generally, as mirrored in the pages of this volume.) The three-part charade of Neufeld’s interrogations – denial, confrontation, confession – was replicated in the experiences of many of Neufeld’s cohort. Fighting for their honour, and as they thought their

Introduction and Analysis 41

lives, the accused were deprived of sleep, food, medical a ention, and – as typified in Neufeld’s case – threatened with torture, execution, and, perhaps most seriously, the immediate exile of their families. The latter, monstrous threat – to confiscate family property and banish loved ones to barren regions of the country – seems to have been the strategic trigger behind the confessions of many of Neufeld’s co-accused and, almost certainly, of Neufeld himself. What, if anything, was the logic of this travesty? The timing of the arrests on grave charges of espionage and treason on behalf of Nazi Germany seems to have represented a “preemptive strike” against mainly onetime Mennonite Verband leaders. Coming half a year a er Hitler’s rise to power in Germany, the arrests were meant to deter former Verband colleagues and the larger Mennonite community, as well as the German colonist population, from conceivably engaging in the kinds of pro-Nazi, fi h column acts that Neufeld and his associates had been falsely accused of. The arrests – news of which spread quickly throughout the Mennonite community – unquestionably heralded a concerted and deadly assault on German-speakers. The interrogations were essential to cra ing an incriminating anti-Mennonite police narrative to legitimize the harsh treatment meted out to Mennonites generally. Litman’s task was a delicate one. To bring it to fruition he forced many in Neufeld’s 26-person cohort into re-jigging their stories again and again – an essential step if they were to be fi ed tightly into the chronicle of a single, seamless Mennonite web of conspiracy, espionage, and treason. The product of this exercise was a starkly simple story that might be termed the “Litman Mennonite narrative.” At the heart of this narrative stood the Verband. The “star witness” to the Verband’s genesis, evolution, and “crimes” was Filip Cornies, the distinguished onetime vicechair of the Verband throughout its existence. In his late 40s at the time of his arrest in the summer of 1933, Cornies was a university-educated, onetime teacher, then agronomist. He was a calm, somewhat aloof, and introspective man, acknowledged as a natural leader with high moral standing throughout his community.90 Intimately conversant with the Verband’s history, outlook, and onetime ambitious economic, cultural, and political activities and goals, he was Litman’s prime catch. The precise circumstances surrounding Cornies’ submission to Litman’s wheedling and his agreement to work with his captors are hard to pin down. No doubt deeply anxious about the fate of his wife and children, Cornies, some months a er his arrest and following

42 Path of Thorns

dozens of excruciating interrogations, may well have suffered an emotional collapse. Perhaps threatened with execution if he balked and promised his life, a reduced sentence and safety for his children if he submi ed, Cornies, a er months of interrogation, is recorded as having confessed to playing a key role in the organization of a secret antiSoviet conspiracy and divulged details of its fictional activities in six minuted interrogations that followed. In these humiliating hearings, he provided Litman with a wealth of information concerning the workings of the Mennonite Verband and of its allegedly treasonous activities. All this Litman reshaped into the centerpiece of a deeply incriminating anti-Mennonite story. The first of the minuted interrogations of Cornies preserved in his files, coming a er months of questioning, contains an abject confession: “I acknowledge the futility of my opposition to Soviet power, and have therefore decided to make a clean breast of things … I have been active in counter-revolutionary activities for a long while. These activities have, over the last years, involved massive and widespread efforts among the German population of southern Russia to organize active counter-revolutionary cadres to assist Germany in the event of its occupation of Ukraine.”91 As the most senior one-time Verband leader still in the USSR, a man known for his integrity and a hero in the eyes of his colleagues, his testimony and confession proved of inestimable value in shaping Litman’s general case against the group of 26 arrestees. It seems also to have prompted many of his colleagues into following Cornies’ collaborative lead. Cornies’ behaviour, it should be noted, would seem to have differed li le from that of many of his colleagues. They too confessed to absurd charges and entangled their associates and the Verband in their alleged crimes. I focus here on Cornies’ behaviour because of his onetime prominence in the Verband and the high status assigned to his depositions in Litman’s case against the Mennonite arrestees and, by extension, against the Mennonite community. Ultimately, Cornies’ depositions, contained in 128 single-spaced typed pages, consist of transcripts of six interrogations (the full interrogation record must have comprised many multiples of this number).92 All pages of the interrogation minutes were signed by Cornies, affirming their accuracy as to what had been said. Cornies also volunteered the names of dozens of his associates as co-conspirators, including, on several occasions, the name of Jacob Neufeld himself. Later, in harrowing interrogations, Litman would taunt Neufeld (and his colleagues) with choice morsels of Cornies’ incriminating depositions against him.

Introduction and Analysis 43

Cornies’ forced testimony, o en revised and expanded at Litman’s behest, traced the story of the Verband’s leading role in conspiracy and espionage through two allegedly distinct but interconnected phases: one “legal,” from 1921–7, the period of the Verband’s existence; and the other “illegal” and subterranean, from 1927–33. Early in the minuted hearings, Litman is reported to have demanded that Cornies describe “the anti-Soviet role of the Verband” during its period of legal existence. This Cornies did in a short listing of Verband undertakings – a blend of truths, half-truths and falsehoods dating back to the time of the Verband’s existence from 1922–7. Amidst the lies are nevertheless to be found doctored but succinct summaries of many facets of the work of the onetime-Verband. He wrote: From the beginning to the end of its existence, the Verband was a counterrevolutionary organization, and in its work resisted the policy of Soviet power and of the Party carried out in the German villages. Generally its activities consisted of the following: it prevented the Sovietization of the villages; it introduced into the broad masses the need to emigrate abroad; it carried out an active struggle against Communist influence in the German villages; it opposed the national policy of Soviet power; it conducted [German] nationalistic propaganda and prepared public opinion of the colonists for intervention against the Soviet Union; it oriented the colonists toward Germany through [Benjamin H.] Unruh,93 its representative in Germany; and it systematically informed the German Ausland-Institut94 of our activities. It had connections with the German Consul in Kharkov to whom and through whom it transmi ed data of an espionage character to Unruh. In our activities we also relied upon a number of peripheral organizations that were linked to us for the purpose of realizing the above-mentioned tasks. They were regional branches of the Verband, [Verband] cooperatives, and authorized representatives of the Verband in the villages.95

In Litman’s narrative, the Verband had not, however, vanished from the scene in 1926–7, but gone underground, “reinventing itself for the illegal phase.”96 There had allegedly followed a litany of criminal initiatives. The Verband, Litman charged, had bolstered its ranks, retaining its former administrators and village representatives as a core group while recruiting new people into leadership and rank-and-file positions. It had intensified relations with German governmental and non-governmental agencies, opening wide channels for the receipt of

44 Path of Thorns

German directives, on the one side, and for the dispatch of reports back to Germany on their implementation, on the other. Feeding lurid stories about Soviet atrocities in Mennonite villages to the German press, the Verband had also allegedly sparked a public outcry in Germany against Soviet power at a time when the USSR still leaned heavily on Germany for international support. As well, the Verband had given inspiration and leadership to the previously noted flight of Mennonite villagers from collectivizing villages to Moscow in 1929. Headlined in the western media, the events leading up to that year’s frenzied onslaught of Mennonites on Moscow had explicitly questioned the stability of the Soviet countryside and the legitimacy of Soviet power in the western world. This, Litman concluded, was a slander that undermined the worldwide reputation of the USSR. In January 1933, according to Litman’s narrative, in the midst of political ferment in Germany, Hitler had become German chancellor, an event, in Cornies’ coerced depiction, “of colossal significance for Soviet Mennonites.”97 Clearing its decks for action, the now allegedly underground Verband had quickened its efforts to weld together all German-speaking Soviet groups, regardless of religious affiliation, into a single pan-German movement, all the while seeking to draw all facets of village life into its orbit. In a final, fateful step, Cornies is quoted as saying we “discussed the possibility of creating an independent Ukraine under the protection of Germany.”98 To sharpen Cornies’ testimony, a Mennonite co-defendant spelled out details: “At first our counter-revolutionary work sought to organize counter-revolutionary cells oriented towards Germany. But starting in 1932–3, we decided to create armed cells for a military uprising against Soviet power that would coincide with a [German] intervention.” The “Prosecutorial Conclusion” in the case, a er months of questioning, in which confessions of “guilt” were forced from all but one of the 26 arrestees in Neufeld’s cohort, was relatively brief. It was also rife with menace for the co-defendants and the larger Soviet Mennonite community alike – then and in future. Almost certainly dra ed by Litman, the “Conclusion” ended with an absolutely chilling finale. “Mennonites,” it read, “had been the main base for the carrying out of counter-revolutionary fascist activities. They are the most reactionary part of the German population.”99 This stereotype of Mennonites as a people who had spearheaded an ethnic German anti-Soviet conspiracy in the USSR would long resonate in official state, Party, and secret police circles and compromise

Introduction and Analysis 45

Mennonites of any origin and socio-economic status throughout the Stalinist era. Undergirding this “Conclusion” were important allegations that deserve to be cited briefly: The Special Department of the Dnepropetrovsk Oblast Section of the GPU has discovered and liquidated a German counter-revolutionary fascist organization whose activities embraced 29 villages in the territory of the Molochansk, Bolshoi Tokmak and Zaporizhiia districts of the Dnepropetrovsk Oblast. With its activities oriented to German fascism, the organization’s aim was to provide comprehensive assistance in the occupation of Ukraine and to raise an armed revolt when an armed [German] intervention took place. This was done by means of: 1) a broadly nationalistic, pan-German work and an increase in the propagation of fascist ideas among the German population; 2) The wide dissemination of these ideas among the German youth and their all-round insulation from Soviet ideas; 3) The placement of rebellious cells in the villages of German districts; 4) The organization of reconnaissance and spying activities; 5) The organization of opposition to the authorities through sabotage on the collective farms. Over several years and during the latest period, the counter-revolutionary nationalistic and spy organizations carried out their rebellious activities under the direction of German reconnaissance organs from abroad and German diplomatic offices. … Hence many counter-revolutionary cells were created. Spying and reconnaissance actions disrupted numerous Soviet economic and political measures in German districts. The work of the “Union of Citizens of Netherlandic Extraction” was guided chiefly through representatives of the German Ausland Institut in Germany. Professor B.H. Unruh, former teacher and citizen of the Molochansk district Established contacts with the leaders of the Verband through special couriers and through the German General Consulate in Kharkov. The Verband’s aim was to compromise the USSR abroad and prepare public opinion and government circles for intervention against the Soviet Union. With this aim in mind there emigrated abroad in the first place landlords, kulaks and former entrepreneurs, hoping to continue their antiSoviet work.

46 Path of Thorns They collected and sent to Germany through the consulate in Kharkov information about the economic and political situation of the German population [in the USSR] that would be used by organizations abroad for their machinations against the Soviet Union. The organization quickly established connections with German nationalistic centres and the German General consulate in Kharkov that were periodically informed about organizational work and received and carried out further instructions.

AĴitudes towards Germans, Ukrainians, Poles, and Jews In his storied life as a medical orderly in World War I, as head of the Gnadenfeld Verband in the 1920s, as an inmate in the Soviet gulag in the 1930s, and as a refugee fleeing from advancing Soviet military forces in World War II, Neufeld rubbed shoulders with members of a bewildering array of ethno-cultural and ethno-religious communities. There were the be er known nationalities of course—Russians, Ukrainians, Poles, and Jews—but he also crossed paths with members of smaller groups such as the Chechens, the Kirghiz and other peoples of Siberia, Central Asia, and the Caucasus. Such encounters broadened his understanding of the complex ethno-cultural tsarist and Soviet worlds, broke down his own ethno-religious insularity, and enlarged his compassion for the repressed and the downtrodden people of the USSR. During Soviet times, no country was featured more prominently in Neufeld’s consciousness than Germany. On the one hand, Neufeld and his fellow Mennonites, in 1941, greeted the advancing Wehrmacht into their villages as liberators. Their arrival put a definitive stop to the deportation, then already well underway, of the entire Ukrainian Mennonite community eastward into Siberia. Two years later, German forces, now in retreat, organized the evacuation by horse-and-wagon trek of German-speakers in Ukraine into areas of western Poland conquered by the Nazis. For this Neufeld was equally grateful, as he was later for the o en warm reception accorded Mennonites as refugees in a shattered and occupied Germany. But Neufeld’s gratitude to Nazi Germany was tempered by experiences equally close to the bone. Mennonites, he wrote, “resented” the Nazi war on religion evidenced by the failure of German occupation officials to allow for the teaching of religion in Mennonite village schools. He bridled at the typically “military-Prussian command style” of the occupation,100 the insensitivity of German officials to the culture

Introduction and Analysis 47

and values of the Mennonites, and the propagandistic initiatives of the Nazis to insinuate their worldview into Mennonite life through “festivals, films and entertainment in newly-established ‘German houses.’”101 Neufeld was equally critical of Germany’s high-handed and cruel treatment of Ukrainians under wartime occupation. In his diary he expressed sympathy for the Ukrainian goal of national independence and showed understanding for the inevitability of violence if this were to be achieved. During the flight of the Mennonite community from Ukraine in long treks under German protection in 1943, when Mennonites were themselves under daily threat of a ack by Ukrainian partisans, he termed the Ukrainian partisans “freedom fighters.” Germans, he confided to his diary, “have no understanding of the partisans and resist them tooth and nail, to their own damage and that of the civilian population.”102 Neufeld identified even more closely with Poles under harsh, o en murderous, German occupation in onetime western Poland, renamed the Warthegau by Nazi officials. There large numbers of Mennonites had been temporarily se led in 1944. The Nazi expulsions, mistreatment, and murder of Poles in this area, he termed “strange, incomprehensible, and offensive.” He concluded, “We, who were long humiliated, persecuted and enslaved in Soviet Russia ourselves are not of a mind to regard Poles as our enemies or to treat them as such.”103 The story of Neufeld’s relationship to Soviet Jewry is somewhat more complex, entwined as it is with the subject of anti-Semitism. Historically, as David G. Rempel writes, “While anti-Semitism was common throughout southern Russia [in tsarist times], and even Mennonites were not immune, within my experience it never reached the virulence seen outside our community, and during pogroms Jewish residents from nearby cities o en found asylum in local Mennonite homes.”104 In this Mennonite world of relatively benign anti-Semitism, tempered by active sympathy for victimized Jews, Neufeld came of age, not surprisingly somewhat of two minds in his own a itudes. On the one hand, he had no compunctions about using time-worn stereotypes in his identification of his interrogator in the Dnepropetrovsk NKVD headquarters, Litman, referring to him “as blond, but his face betrayed the Jew, something that his name, Litman, later confirmed.”105 Similarly, he identified the director of the gulag camp UKHTPECHLAG in northern European subpolar Russia as “the Jew Moras”106 and the head of the Gnadenfeld kolkhoz, again explicitly, as “the Jew, Abba Abramovich Gurevich.”107

48 Path of Thorns

At the same time, given Neufeld’s moral predilections and the Mennonite tradition, as said, of providing protection to Jews under assault, Neufeld, in the gulag, befriended a fellow inmate Goldberg, an Orthodox Jew, exchanging opinions with him about Old Testament passages and protecting him from the mockery of fellow inmates during Goldberg’s prayers and other religious exercises. In fact, given Neufeld’s impressive knowledge of the Old Testament, Goldberg had difficulty believing that Neufeld was not himself a concealed Jew.108 Similarly, in 1941, Neufeld expressed compassion for destitute Jewish refugees fleeing before advancing Wehrmacht units.109 Later, during the German occupation, his wife Lene, as son Jake told me, hid a Jew in the Neufeld home during a SS sweep of the village. And during the German occupation, Neufeld forbade his family from accepting “gi s” of clothing and footwear from the SS that he correctly assumed came from the mass slaughter of Jews in southern Ukraine.110 Neufeld naturally knew of “the Holocaust,” which he abhorred. While a handful of youthful Mennonites in Soviet Ukraine undoubtedly participated in the persecution and murder of Jews during World War II,111 Neufeld himself, while still under Nazi rule, denounced it in his journal in coded language as the cardinal sin perpetrated by the Nazi regime against humanity. His knowledge of the slaughter of the Jews, coupled with his deep religious faith, drove him to the conclusion that Germany’s collapse and ignominious defeat was God’s righteous judgment upon the German people for the mass extermination of the Jews.112 In later speeches before Mennonite audiences in Canada he mentioned the Holocaust on many occasions, asserting repeatedly that it had been “a barbaric act” that Mennonites could only think of with the greatest “horror and revulsion.”113 Summary From the time of the Russian Civil War until the early 1930s, Neufeld’s life and the Mennonite story had thus passed through four distinct but overlapping phases. During the first phase, civil war and famine in southern Ukraine had descended upon Mennonite se lements like a fierce storm. Figuratively, with squirrelly, hurricane-like winds and crosswinds tearing out trees, knocking down barns and dwellings, and exacting other massive material and human losses, the civil war had le Mennonite villagers dazed, destitute and bere – playthings of outside forces they could neither control nor influence.

Introduction and Analysis 49

A second phase coincided with NEP. When civil anarchy ended in 1921, Mennonite leaders like Neufeld picked up threads of their former life and through the Menno Verband, a state-chartered producer, consumer, and credit union, achieved a partial economic recovery of their se lements. In the Verband’s early years, this was done partly in concert with state officials. Gradually, however, in order to insulate Mennonite society more from increasingly persistent Communist ideological incursions into its life, Verband leaders embraced a much wider agenda of non-economic questions that they tried to negotiate with Soviet leaders. These included such overtly political issues as the allocation of land to Mennonite villagers, the teaching of militant atheism in elementary and secondary schools, health care, state policies towards Mennonite churches, disputes over the status of Mennonite pacifist recruits, and the immigration of masses of Mennonites to Canada. In time, state and Party leaders concluded that Verband initiatives far exceeded the Verband’s competence, abridged the state’s freedom of action, and were hostile to the supreme Soviet official goal of sovietizing Mennonite society. The fateful upshot was an official decision to destroy the Verband. Accomplished in 1927, this policy ushered in a third phase in Mennonitestate relations. At one stroke, the state neutered a leadership including Neufeld that had long helped shape and direct Mennonite life since the early 1920s. From this time onward a now largely leaderless Mennonite society came under increasingly pervasive direct state and Party control at the village and district levels. The government ordered that the publication of the Mennonite religious paper, Unser Bla , cease. It denied increasing numbers of applications of young Mennonite men for exemption from military service, and put a full stop to Mennonite immigration to Canada. Coupled with the early stages of collectivization, these and related measures triggered the already mentioned spontaneous flight of Mennonites to Moscow in the fall of 1929. The final stage in this story was marked by the arrest of 100 onetime Mennonite leaders in 1933, including Neufeld. This action mirrored a strategic shi in Soviet images of Mennonites. In the 1920s Mennonites had suffered for what they had done in stubbornly resisting Soviet efforts to sovietize them. In the 1930s they suffered for what they were, Germanspeakers who had allegedly assumed leadership of an underground Soviet pan-German movement under Nazi command that was bent on the dismemberment of the USSR. Somewhat later, in 1937–8, the Soviet secret police arrested almost half of the entire adult Mennonite male

50 Path of Thorns

population. Charged with the capital crimes of conspiracy, espionage, and sabotage, a huge percentage of this number, some 80 per cent, were summarily shot.114 This treatment of Soviet Germans, as well as German colonists, in Terry Martin’s informed opinion, was an early case of “ethnic cleansing.”115 The fateful stereotyping of Mennonites as a fi h column in the early 1930s had a further consequence. Suffering arrest and execution as “Germans” in the 1930s, Soviet Mennonites came themselves to embrace a German identity as their own. By the time Neufeld’s daughter Erika, then in her early 20s, fled the USSR in 1943, she and her friends had totally forgo en their onetime identity as “Mennonites” and embraced a self-image as “Germans.” Only much later, as refugees in Germany and immigrants to Canada and South America, did she, and many like her, slowly reacquire a Mennonite identity as their heritage.116

PART ONE Five Years in the Gulag, 1933–1939

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Chapter One

Arrest and Interrogation, 1933–1934

The German government’s hostile a itude towards Communism and Communists, the suspicious burning of the Reichstag, and the subsequent persecution of German Communists, provoked aggressive Soviet countermeasures. Although Soviet protests abroad were necessarily limited, inside the USSR the Soviets could unleash a wave of unrelenting Soviet rage and vengeance. Using whatever means were needed, the regime was determined to root out national movements that it thought active everywhere among its suppressed peoples. Russia had close to two million German-speaking citizens at the time, who were still anything but firm in their a achment to Communism. Germans in the USSR had o en suffered persecution and suppression, tended to nourish longings for freedom (the same was true of Ukrainians and Poles), and weakly gave voice to these sentiments from time to time. Soviet action against Germans began sometime in August 1933 when various men, as well as women, who had recently occupied public positions suddenly vanished unobtrusively into the cellars of the NKVD. They were mainly medical doctors, teachers, preachers and otherwise once-influential German workers and office employees.1 Purges [In 1933] I had just survived a dangerous, hair-raising purge from my position as a bookkeeper in the Gnadenfeld consumer cooperative. Because of my previous public activity [as head of the Gnadenfeld district branch of the Mennonite Verband], I had held this position for three years as a second-class citizen. Working quietly out of the limelight, my job had allowed me to support my family through plain and

54 Five Years in the Gulag, 1933–1939

honest work, to the satisfaction of the cooperative’s administration. Bookkeepers in the Soviet system had highly responsible jobs. Through the direction of financial resources, they were o en responsible for the health of an enterprise. The Gnadenfeld cooperative, with three or four additional branches in nearby villages and under the direction of a competent German-speaking administration, had, with a limited turnover and small allowable markups, achieved considerable success in its efforts to distribute scarce goods fairly, without deficits. The main purpose of the recurring purges against economic and administrative structures was to cleanse them of “political aliens,” “non-proletarian background,” and otherwise “pernicious elements.” The investigations that accompanied the purges were to expose and root out anti-Soviet, “counter-revolutionary” intrigues. By permitting the oversight of all Soviet enterprises in this way, the purges were essential to the Soviet drive to “foster socialist construction.” They also supplied the NKVD with the manpower it needed for its labour camp projects. Eventually the purges embraced the personnel of the Soviet Union’s entire cooperative network. The administration of our enterprise employed 15 people. I was unaware of having commi ed any offence and as the recipient of a recent commendation from my superiors, was sure that I had nothing to fear. All seemed well. Yet when the purge commission began its work, it was exactly I who was placed in the stock as a black sheep, a “hostile element,” “a creeping vermin,” and meanly and brutally dismissed from my job. How could this have happened? Fi een years earlier, in the period of revolution and [anarchistic] bands, a German self-defence unit close to our village had executed three bandits.2 Although the miserable episode had dire consequences for a few young men later on, it seemed safe to think that it had meanwhile lost its importance as a culpable offence or been forgo en. Yet someone had turned up with a wri en accusation that I was the Neufeld who, on that occasion, had shot his brother. It was an outrageous charge that nobody, and least of all I, had expected, and everybody was struck speechless. The accusation, if brought to trial, could cost me my life. The Purge Commission proceeded without mercy. It hardly let me speak or be heard. It was useless to point out that I could produce 100 witnesses who would testify that I had never been part of a self-defence effort or even been present in Ukraine at the time. The Commission found it convenient to turn against me without further investigation.

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In the absence of any criticism of my work, the case was a pretext for firing me from my job. If the Commission had failed to turn up anyone to blame, it would have had a hard time giving a plausible account of its work to the Party. I was thus let go from the labour collective of the cooperative – in disgrace, saddled with the most monstrous charges, with the assembly’s agreement (the proceedings were public), and without the least a ention to the serious consequences that might follow for me. In such ways the purges were conducted in various institutions, right into the upper reaches of the Party. It was a way for an involved functionary to get rid of undesirables whom he did not like for personal or other reasons and provided labour for the NKVD camps. The masses, naive and still partly believing, were to be deluded into thinking that what passed as acts of justice and concern served their collective well-being. A er being treated with such spite, and seemingly without the possibility of rehabilitation, I was for a time without work and lived in fear of being hauled off to court again. (I might have been able to rehabilitate myself through the NKVD but that would have involved “selling” myself into its service.) Thanks to friends, I finally found a job in Halbstadt, in the lion’s lair. No one dared to be without work, so I was happy to find something even though it hardly suited me and offered no board during that time of famine. My office doubled as living quarters and I brought what li le food we could spare along from home. Working quietly and unobtrusively, I simply tried to forget the terrible things that had happened to me. I made no contacts locally except with an old friend and comrade from my days of wartime medical service, Peter P. Dirks, then a public hygiene worker in Halbstadt. I found it a relief to be on visiting terms in at least one home. But a er some time the disaster hit. The local NKVD summoned Dirks and he simply vanished. I soon heard of a number of other men in public positions who had disappeared in like fashion, some from Halbstadt, some from Ohrloff and other places, including the head of my own office and the brother of P.D[irks’], Dr W[ilhelm] Dirks, head doctor in the Ohrloff hospital. Yet life and work continued as though nothing had happened, except for family members of the disappeared for whom everything had suddenly stopped. I thought it my duty to visit Mrs Dirks as o en as I could, but she was down-hearted, pessimistic, and warned me not to drop by lest I endanger myself and my family.

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A er Mrs Dirks found out that her husband was imprisoned in Dnepropetrovsk, I offered to use the occasion of a business trip there to bring him a change of linen and news of his family. She warned me not to. Fearful? Over-cautious? No. Although I had no fear and wanted to do my friend Peter Dirks a good turn, I later had to admit that my visit had been unwise. Immediately upon handing over the linen, I was closely examined, and it would have taken very li le more and I would have been arrested on the spot. Another month passed and summer with its harvests and heat was followed by autumn. I had meanwhile managed to work myself into my job and surroundings a li le, rushing home every other weekend to be with my family. They were happy to see me a er the long separations. The two older children, who were hard at work in school, shared many of their experiences and feelings with me out of sympathy and longing. They already sensed the deep divisions and capriciousness of the time. The two youngest, twins, who had recently been born during my absence in Halbstadt, were looked a er by their busy mother and lay in their cradles, innocently, inquisitively, and unsuspectingly peeking out on this world of tears. There was much to do at home. My parents, a er being evicted from their village, had moved in with us and my father accepted our duties and problems as his own. At 2:00 a.m. one early Monday morning, I quietly slipped out of the house and rushed to the distant train station to make it to work on time. Happy and unsuspecting, I had spent my last Sunday with my loved ones. My Hour of Destiny One day a er finishing work as usual, the hour of my destiny struck. Around midnight, a er tossing about briefly in restless sleep, there was a knock on the door. I immediately awoke and let in two NKVD functionaries. They spent some time looking through my belongings and around the room, and then told me I would have to come with them to the NKVD office. Should I pack some belongings? That would be unnecessary, they replied. I would be back within an hour. Quietly, without disturbing anyone, we le the house and wandered through the silent, gloomy streets of Halbstadt [renamed Molochansk], everything in deepest peace. Several others vanished that night as well. When we got to the NKVD office, my particulars were noted and I had to turn over belongings such as a jackknife, a Bible I had stuffed

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into a pocket, and my belt. Without further discussion or explanation I was led into an empty room, a cell. It was locked and I was in prison. Woe was me. So that was it. Everything had proceeded routinely, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. But what was its meaning? Despite many experiences in life, I had to admit that sometimes I was still very naive, continuing to find the horrors of the NKVD incomprehensible and unbelievable, occurring far away, somehow at the edge of my world. Had I commi ed a transgression, were the questions of the purge to be reopened? I comforted myself with the thought that there could be no hearings at night. That was when people slept, and everything would be cleared up in the morning – to everyone’s satisfaction. I sat on bare, filthy, smelly bedboards, absorbed, anxious, and in prayer, the cell with its broken window pane freezing cold, and I could not sleep. Yet morning brought no greater clarity. I exercised patience. When I was served a watery soup at noon, I demanded to know when I might have an opportunity to be heard. Be patient, I was given to know, it would be in due course. Yet that day and the following night passed without me being summoned. The puzzle remained. I racked my brain. There was nothing to see or hear, except for some shouting in the other cell. On the third day the mistress of the house sent along an overcoat, pillows and a few provisions. Someone outside obviously knew where I was, but could anyone help? My family would now also learn of my whereabouts – with pain and dismay. My wife would suffer torments, wondering how to assist, what to do? This thought as well as the crude deprivation of my freedom and the accompanying uncertainty weighed heavily on me. Perhaps I would be torn from my family for a long time. How could they manage without my support? The poverty, the children. It was scarcely imaginable. Was the great God who wished to help us no longer on His throne? I cried out, I wrestled, I pleaded, I was repentant but confident that the Lord and Father in Heaven, the Ruler of all destinies, could and would help. A er all, once before I had suffered the disgrace of imprisonment for six months [the sentence had been three years and Neufeld served only half a year], then together with men who were strong in their faith. Now in my solitude I remembered a host of personal experiences and saw with what folly, obstinacy, and lovelessness I had treated my family and fellow man. Ashamed and remorseful, I begged God to forgive

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me and to save me from this pit. Still, I had overstepped no limits. I had broken no law towards the state or my fellow man. My conscience was clear. Early that evening the door was suddenly flung open and I was ordered to gather up my belongings and come along. My captors had not ignored me a er all. My problems had likely already been resolved in my absence and I would now be released with an apology. Excited, I did as I was told. A guard escorted me to the exit ... and ordered me to get into a car. Two other guards accompanied me on the hurried drive to the train station. From there, as one of them said, I was to be taken to Dnepropetrovsk. Dear God have you deserted me? With frayed nerves and crushed hopes, my soul grew faint, and everything around me turned dark and empty. In the NKVD Cellar Among regular passengers who turned away from me, the train trip was a degrading experience. At the transfer station [of Fedorovka] I met an acquaintance and asked him to tell my family of my arrest. [In Dnepropetrovsk] we boarded a streetcar and finally got out at the enormous, modern and impressive NKVD building, outwardly grand and respectful.3 Only insiders really knew what was “going on in there,” the spiritual anguish being unleashed in its enormous cellar and hundreds of interrogation rooms. I was brought to the reception, registered, and made to wait until evening. A sergeant of the guard then ordered me to follow him to the basement. There, in whispered tones, I was again registered. The door to cell number one opened almost noiselessly and I had to enter. How truly depressing. In the narrow, dimly lit cell were some 10–12 shadowy, unkempt and poorly clad men who sat or stood, hardly looking at me. At first I was happy to be with people, not to be alone, yet these chiefly older men made a sad and dreary impression. They had been brought from the large city prison for further examination and had, like me, been torn unexpectedly from their places of work and their families. Yet once they realized I was a recent “arrival” from the world of “freedom,” there was much they wanted to know. Inwardly I was so upset, so troubled and ridden with anxiety and pain that the last thing I wanted to do was to share my experiences. I would gladly have sunk into the ground if that could have ended my humiliation. Around midnight, a er most of my cellmates si ing or lying on the floor had dozed off, everything abruptly started to stir. The door

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opened repeatedly and one by one the men were taken upstairs for questioning. A er falling asleep I was awakened and pushed into cell number eight. Here prisoners sleeping on their iron bedsteads roused themselves enough to again ask questions. Some inmates were called out for questioning. I was shown to some empty bed boards with dirty straw ticks where I again dri ed off, only to be suddenly reawakened. It was 6:00 a.m., we were told, and time for our exercise. In a small lamplit courtyard surrounded by a high fence, we were given a few minutes to walk back and forth, watched over by two guards with drawn guns. Talking was forbidden. One’s soul could cry out at such cruelty and injustice, but the moon kept its silent vigil. The cell had meanwhile been aired and swept by a prisoner who had stayed behind. On our way back we were taken to the toilet and soon therea er given our tea. For dinner at 3:00 p.m., I had a bowl of barley soup, 400 grams of bread, and later some tea again. These were unusually thin rations, as I soon discovered. Apparently cell number eight was to remain my dungeon for some time. Most of my cellmates were a sympathetic and comradely lot who taught me prison routine and tried to li my spirits. Don’t take too gloomy a view of things, they said. Life and families were not simply finished because of our arrests. The important thing was to look reality in the face and remain strong. This approach to personal misfortune was good for me. In our pitiful situation, it was a Ukrainian cellmate by the name of Litovchenko, in particular, an intelligent, humane, and likeable high school teacher, who managed to keep up his courage and inspire bravery in others. Other cellmates were a German bookkeeper of about thirty, a Dr Abrahams, whom I had go en to know earlier, and an elderly Pole, a worker in a large city enterprise. All had been under investigation for some time. I was astonished at their composure and spark. Did they perhaps assume that they would soon be let out? Certainly not, they replied. That would not happen easily to anyone who had fallen into the hands of the NKVD, including me. The words filled me with dread. If I were kept here for months, how would my wife and children manage to cope and what would people think? Merciful God, be gracious to me. Yet how could my captors really condemn me? I had done no wrong? Yet I would soon be taught a painful lesson otherwise. Late that day I, too, was led upstairs and surprisingly found myself in a well-furnished office, where secretaries cla ered away on typewriters and unusually well-dressed and well-fed NKVD officials sat busily working behind solid desks. My appearance made a poor impression

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and I felt terribly uncomfortable, humiliated. An official motioned me over and offered me a chair. I was again asked for my particulars, those of my whole family, our origins, and my work record. He then placed a bill of indictment before me and asked me to sign. I was taken aback. How so, an indictment? Who had accused me and why and in what regard? There must be a mistake. I was beside myself with anger and pushed the grisly paper from me. This could hardly have been the first time this man had met such a deeply scandalized or, in his eyes, naive individual. Calmly and ma er-of-factly he assured me that what I said might well be so, but the investigation would establish the truth. Besides I was only being asked to confirm in writing that the charges had been communicated to me. I read the fateful document. My hair stood on end. I was charged with having actively participated in a secret counter-revolutionary organization established to clear the path for Hitlerian fascism in the event of a German a ack on the USSR. The activities of this cabal would include sabotage and diversionary actions such as armed a acks and destruction. I was speechless and felt ill. Gracious God in heaven. Were they trying to kill me? Had I landed in a nest of thieves? How could they level such accusations at me? I could have cried out for help. I thought of my wife and children. The official urged me to calm myself. Nothing could be done. The bill of indictment would stand. With feelings of woe and disgust, I signed, acknowledging that I had been shown the statement. Yet, why the formalities? Why the farce? Close to suffocating, benumbed, the duty guard returned me to my cell downstairs. My cellmates did not need to be told anything. They already knew in detail what was “going on” upstairs. For me unpleasant interrogations were certain to follow, all intended to force a confession, but what then? The net and noose were waiting for me. How cruel? And the purpose? To satanically destroy my life? But whom would that serve? To plunge my poor and innocent wife and children into the abyss? But to what end? My soul, tortured, flayed, and buried in dust, was in pain and outrage and on the verge of fading away. Was there no way out of this devilish cunning and deceit, this den of evil? Prayer? My heart was empty, on the edge of despair. Since my cellmates rejected divine consolation, they could offer me no comfort or strength and played dominoes for diversion. Was it a spectre perhaps, a bad dream that would go away? Or was the net and noose already too tightly constricted for prayer?

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Dear God, speak to my despairing soul. Let me hear thine voice and feel thy strong arm. Another night and day passed. It was the eighth night. Although my comrades related li le of their own experiences, I could see that the hours spent “up there” were gruelling. Not one of them, however, had given up his resistance or yielded an inch. Well then, I thought, I would try to resist every a empt to turn me into a criminal with whatever strength I could muster. I would, moreover, do nothing to knowingly plunge my family into misery, and would withstand every a empt to force me to lie or bear false witness against my fellow man. Agonies of Interrogation Late that night I was again led upstairs and into a room where I was received by a well-fed and cared for NKVD official (that was especially conspicuous during the famine in 1933, then still raging), an examining magistrate (sledovatel). He was blond, but his face betrayed the Jew, something that his name – Litman – later confirmed. Composed, quietly, he asked me to sit down across from him and, as if to affirm his friendly disposition, he addressed me by my last name, my patronymic, and my first name. With his invariably derisive mask (until overcome by rage), this man was to become my long-time tormentor. It was his job to tighten the noose around his victim’s neck, but I naturally did not know this at the time. In an earnest tone he began roughly as follows: The establishment of certain facts had revealed ma ers that regre ably had resulted in my arrest and imprisonment. The depositions of various individuals, including, he gathered, some known to me, had brought very disagreeable ma ers to light. He mentioned a number of names, asking if I knew them, and I truthfully answered that I did. I knew more in this regard than he did, he said, but he had in his possession a mass of material that seriously incriminated me. This must be terribly embarrassing for me as a respected and educated man who, as he knew, loved his family and work. It was now his responsibility to get to the bo om of the ma er, uncover the truth, and help me to deal with it. Given my intelligence and understanding, I could spare the two of us much unpleasantness by freely and openly confessing my involvement in the ma er and expressing remorse. Such an honourable gesture would be highly prized by the Soviet government since it was less interested in punishing the

62 Five Years in the Gulag, 1933–1939

wrong-doer than in his be erment. The government would treat penitent offenders generously but respond with great severity to incorrigible resistance. My acquaintances and friends had gratifyingly long since made such confessions and with unburdened hearts awaited an end to their cases and the government’s mercy. He would give me pen and paper and I should sit here and without interruption record the story of the creation of the secret organization and its operations in collaboration with circles abroad. I had listened to the hypocritical speech without interruption but with sighs and bi er anger. I was outraged by this web of lying accusations, but had to admit that it would be hard to counter such a shrewd and experienced NKVD official who was clearly out to ensnare people. A simple denial of the accusations would obviously not do. I was terribly downcast and felt the earth giving way under my feet. Yet “truth must remain truth,” I reminded myself. I could not confess to ma ers that had been fabricated and were untrue, or if true had been done by others without my knowledge. Dear God, I sighed again and again, but with li le hope, let my faith not be in vain. To begin with I expressed my astonishment at how he could have come up with such suspicions. I knew nothing of any ma er he had insinuated and certainly no one could prove that I had participated in any counter-revolutionary, anti-state activities and organizations. I had no interest in politics, being fully occupied simply trying to provide for my family in difficult times. Nor would it have crossed my mind to do anything so monstrous and criminal against the state and government, especially given the severity with which it avenged and punished such activities. I could see how li le the man was touched by anything I said. He interrupted me impatiently to say that I should stop feigning innocence and wrapping myself in a cloak of sanctimony. It would be much be er for me to make a clear and simple confession. My rebu al was without merit since the contrary was proven fact. I should just write, he exhorted me. I could see how difficult a struggle I faced. Would I survive? How could I avoid the trap that would mean the destruction of my family and of me? If I could have shown that I had been away, say, on the moon [during the alleged conspiracy], that might have sufficed. Yet I was here and among people he claimed had given him material that compromised me. He could be simply telling a pack of lies, of course. Yet how easy for a schooled manipulator to combine fantasy with reality, work

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in the claims of a denunciation, and muddle everything together that had been thought and said and done. The experience filled me with the terrible apprehension that I could easily be entrapped. I resolved to exercise extreme caution: to keep off thin ice, to relate as li le as possible, and to stick closely to the facts. Litman then turned to the subject of my involvement, referring, above all, to the long-since liquidated Menno Verband (Union of Citizens of Netherlandic Origin),4 which he described as a pronouncedly counterrevolutionary and espionage organization. Its economic activities in the country had been a cover, a camouflage, for a well thought-out program of subversion and sabotage against the Soviet government and of espionage through the Study Commission (Studienkommission) led by Professor Unruh in Karlsruhe and his organization, ‘Brueder in Not.’5 (My, my, the man knew all sorts of things.) Espionage for Hitlerian Germany and the organization of the emigration had compromised the soviets. As an active participant and council member of the Verband, I had been deeply involved in its work at the time. I tried to set the record straight. [In the 1920s], the Menno Verband had been a legally sanctioned, statutorily-established and state-controlled economic and cultural organization, I began. Out of economic necessity and in agreement with the government, it had helped a few thousand refugees from devastated [Mennonite] villages immigrate to Canada during the civil war and period of recovery. Relatives and churches had helped them make a new start. In the USSR, the quasi-independent local district branches of the Verband had energetically and successfully pursued exclusively economic and cultural initiatives that had facilitated the recovery of deeply depressed [Mennonite] village agriculture, along with other ventures to revive schools, medical care, hospitals and charitable institutions. I had overseen activities of this kind as Chairman of the Gnadenfeld District (raion) Verband. I concluded that all this must be familiar to the comrade and could easily be verified. With a withering look, the interrogator simply dismissed my refutation as a tedious repetition – more of the same old story – and beside the point. He urged me to judge ma ers rather from his viewpoint, as he had asked me to do, and confess and rue my complicity, sensibly, and honestly, as those before me had done. Then the ma er could be correctly ended. Besides, this was not the only issue that was incriminating for me, he alleged. I had also conspired with the Dirks brothers and many others (whose names I would confirm to him), in a fascist organization

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that had demonstrably planned acts of sabotage to smooth the way for the entry of Hitler Germany into Ukraine. I should take my rest for today, he concluded, consider my situation carefully, and return to make an open and honest confession. I already knew that hardened wrong-doers would receive harsh punishments, while contrition would be followed by clemency and mercy. Still ever so composed and polite, he had me led away. Our “conversation” must have lasted two-and-a-half to three hours. Exhausted, confused and deeply depressed, I returned to my cell and lay down for the remainder of the night to rest. At 6:00 a.m. the new day began with the unpleasant “promenade,” the ablutions, the latrine, the tea water, etc. It was a gloomy day for me. My heart and soul were deeply troubled, and I spent much time thinking about my wife and children. What did the man up there want anyway? I racked my brains. How should I respond? To make a confession was out of the question. Should I admit to criminal behaviour and then beg for grace and mercy? That was morally repulsive, besides offering no benefit. I knew from long experience that in political cases mercy was never extended. At midnight the iron door ra led and I was again led upstairs. My soul cried out for strength. If my tormentor had applied reason and persuasion the night before, he now did the opposite. A er first politely asking me how I felt and was doing (it was clearly important for him to know that I felt miserable, which I freely granted), he expressed the hope that a er reflecting on my situation I would now calmly make a deposition. But when I replied that I could find nothing in my behaviour to implicate myself except what would clearly be false, he became enraged. Waving a revolver back and forth under my nose, he poured down a terrible stream of threats and obscenities upon my defenceless head. I was the genuine thing, he shouted, a real Judas and a traitor, a hardened criminal and a hypocrite. Soviet power had given him the authority to cut me down a peg or two and to compel me to own up. Did I know of the torture chamber below? I did? Then I should behave accordingly for it would give him great satisfaction to stand me up against a wall and shoot me. Nobody would care in the least. A er working me over in this way for an hour my inquisitor le the room and I remained si ing for a long, long while. I was worn down and tense but the break gave me time to recover a li le and to pray. I knew I could not long endure such savage treatment, but the man was false and I would continue to defend my innocence and my efforts to convince him. Could I call on witnesses? As my teacher cellmate had

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said, it was like proving that a rabbit was not a camel. What was elsewhere self-evident to everyone could scarcely be proven here. When he returned, he again tried, now in a calm voice, to persuade me of my mistaken thinking. It was totally senseless to speak of my innocence when I had long since been unmasked and exposed. The only way to ease my own and my family’s dilemma was to make a contrite confession as the others had done. He let me sense that Dav. Friesen, J. J. Nickel, F. Cornies, the Dirks brothers, and many others had behaved properly in this regard. He also showed me F. Cornies’ long-since signed confession with its inclusion of my name. He then ordered that I be led away, insisting that I return the next day with a signed confession. The brutal, vulgar manner of the interrogation, with its coarse profanities, crushed me and le me desolate. No one had ever treated me as savagely as this outwardly refined and polite Jew with his mocking countenance. If I had then known that this monster would torment me for a further 20 nights – yes, 20 – sometimes gently, sometimes brutally, I would have broken down from the start. Some of my cellmates were also in distress, including the courageous teacher. Had we all been delivered into the hands of monsters from Satan’s underworld? At first one did not want to believe that it was true, but experience said otherwise. Small wonder when a er hours of abuse, of devilish mistreatment, people weakened and grew fainthearted. Sometimes they went insane and took their own lives. Yet I was still convinced that God would not abandon me to such iniquity. I had broken no law. Would my faith hold? Was I deeply enough anchored in the rock and shelter of my faith that when my strength failed, I would still be able to cry out, ‘Lord, thy will be done. Thy will is holy.’ At the time I had still not surrendered myself fully to God and lacked a sense of complete trust and security (Geborgenheit) in Him. I would resist, I thought, God would give me the strength to endure, and then I would be returned to my family. There was nothing deserving of punishment in anything I had done and my purpose was pure. The longer I ruminated thus longingly and full of love, the more wonderful the prospects appeared. Yet how deeply would I need to sink, to be humiliated and crushed, before my situation would become clear to me in all of its brutality. At the following interrogation I again declared all of the earlier allegations to be untrue. Was I then religious and did I believe in God? When I answered in the affirmative, Litman said that surely my behaviour

66 Five Years in the Gulag, 1933–1939

and impenitence must be seen as anti-God since the facts clearly spoke otherwise. Though I was obviously no idiot I sometimes seemed to play that role when I insisted on running into a brick wall head first. Try it, he said. It seemed almost a command. See what it gets you. I replied that if I had done anything traitorous or unjust I would long ago have made a confession. I could not, however, saddle myself with a lot of lies that would inevitably spell my own ruin. Nor would he or anyone else do so. He gave me a long, penetrating, and withering look. He started to ask me about my family, the number of my children, their ages, address, how they were doing. He wrote down everything, including the address. Then, with a threatening voice, he let me know that since I was such an obtuse counter-revolutionary and traitor, had no understanding or consideration either for myself or my family, to his regret, I, and in particular my family, would have to bear the consequences. He would immediately order the village council to evict my family from our home, and confiscate all of our belongings. “This is the end result of your stupidity.” Then he le the room. He must have seen how worried I was about the fate of my family. What if my behaviour thrust them into a life of misery and desolation and cut them off forever from my care? How terrible. In my mind’s eye I could see how my loved ones, horrified and mute, were driven off our yard by the demonic persecutors. No, no, only not that. Litman soon returned. He read the finished document addressed to the Halbstadt Village Council that turned threat into edict, and signed it. I shuddered. Yet as I watched him closely, an inner voice said to me: The monster lies. It is a trick to force you to make the admission he wishes. Do not believe him. Moreover, such a confession will destroy not only you, but those most precious to you. Had I thought otherwise, I would gladly have given my life to save theirs – those of my beloved wife and four children. Yet I struggled my way through to a clear “no” and informed my already triumphant tormentor that while I regre ed his threat of inflicting such horrors on my quite innocent wife and children, I could still not falsely confess to a crime I had not commi ed. I was near collapse. With a distorted and raging face, he screamed: “Riff raff like you can only be exterminated like noxious vermin. That is the only right thing to do.” Then he ordered that I be taken away. When I reached my cell, dizzy and exhausted, I threw myself on the bed-boards and lay there overwhelmed by terrible worries, thoughts, and fears. What would finally come of this? The noose around me

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seemed to be tightening and behind it stood these monsters with leering and mocking faces. I was terribly tired physically and spiritually. Following a restless night with troublesome dreams, it was again 6:00 a.m. Time for the usual routines. Cellmates My cellmates encouraged me in my resolve to stand firm, especially Litovchenko, the courageous and intelligent teacher, who had been given a rough going over himself. Dr Abrahams was very withdrawn and soon therea er was transferred, no one knew to where. We thought he had been released, but that was probably not so. The Polish worker’s place was soon taken by a peasant, a former Makhnovite leader who had already been a Ukrainian nationalist under Makhno and understood the difficulty of his present position. He was a frank and cunning Ukrainian, not easily intimidated even when subjected to electrical shock torture. He had sometimes been cross-examined by three or four interrogators at a time. We could see the effects of all this when he returned, o en teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. Perhaps one needed a coarse chisel to work rough wood, but we, for our part, admired the man as an unyielding and unshakable sufferer. Later he is said to have experienced a spiritual collapse and made the required confession. Another original character and sufferer was a 50-year-old Ukrainian gardener, Palaianichka, whose memorable name meant “wheat bun.” He was a quiet, modest individual, who appeared quite timid. The all-powerful NKVD had dragged him in as a witness, more correctly informer. As a gardener at a large middle school whose teachers had o en met socially in the garden, his assignment was to give evidence that would compromise a number of them. As a scrupulous man he was disposed to reject this role. He also suspected that the NKVD would renege on its solemn promise to immediately release him once he had given his testimony. A er he refused to bear false witness against any of the teachers, the enraged monsters upstairs responded with extreme cruelty, repeatedly (among other things) forcing him to run headlong into a wall as a sign of the futility of his resolve. When Palaianichka was returned to his cell towards morning, weak and exhausted, he would sit through the day, groaning and withdrawn. He became indifferent even to Litovchenko’s otherwise successful efforts to provide comfort. His cellmates had deep sympathy for the man whose words and thoughts

68 Five Years in the Gulag, 1933–1939

sometimes became very confused. I was not there when his case ended but he is said to have gone mad. This was terribly upse ing for me but also a lesson in perseverance. In the following days I was haunted by thoughts of my dear family. How might they have responded to my disappearance weeks ago? What would happen now? Everything seemed quite insane and without hope. How far were the monsters upstairs likely to take matters? What did they want? What happened to people who confessed to crimes they had not commi ed? We were stuck in a tomb-like cellar out of reach of even the faintest sound, even from the corridor. But around 10:00 p.m. the li began to move back and forth and its hum told us that the inquisitors were gathering upstairs in hundreds of interrogation rooms of this outwardly a ractive building to subject their assigned victims to hours of anguish. For me time and conditions were becoming more and more hopeless. The hearings – really extortions – went on without interruption, calmly or full of rage, until a er hours of torment I was again led off without resolution. Or did my inquisitor see progress? He witnessed my decline day by day, how I grew weaker and more depressed. He was a master of his cra , spinning his web ever so finely. He could combine the real with the possible so skilfully that I had, in all honesty, to grudgingly make some admissions. I granted, for example, that most Soviet government undertakings had displeased me and that in my convictions I had therefore been an opponent of Soviet power, wishing it over the farthest hill on more than one occasion. But that hardly made me subversive. I had never li ed a finger against the government or participated in any kind of secret organization. Yes indeed, he replied, but the road from thought to deed was a very short one. He also asked me for my views on the severe famine of 1932–3, the consequences of which had been especially dire in Ukraine and the Caucasus. Had it been unavoidable or had the famine been purposely created by the Soviet government? I replied that like most everyone else I considered what had happened a serious offence and injustice on the part of the Soviet government that could have been prevented. In that case, he interjected; I must surely have expressed such views to my friends and confidants. And who might they be? I was shocked. Had I gone too far? A sly fox, much more than sly. If these excruciating hours in the hands of my inquisitor le me ever more disheartened, this was not the case with him. He was schooled in pursuing a clear goal with dogged persistence. Since his victims were

Arrest and Interrogation, 1933–1934 69

varied, he needed diverse methods as well as the skill to always find new tricks to “checkmate” his “client.” For him it was a sport. If only there had not been that certain “quota” for him to fill. While other of his colleagues had perhaps already overfilled theirs, my stubborn resistance might delay his success. That could be irritating for him, but he would not fail. Be On Your Guard Beyond eliciting the desired confession, it was also the job of the inquisitor to squeeze me into informing on my friends and foes, into betraying them to the “people-friendly” NKVD. That was how all of us had been dragged in. Cooperation in this regard by me, he explained, would contribute to the struggle on behalf of a just cause, be chalked up to my credit, and improve my situation considerably. Yet it seemed a horror for me to suffer not only misfortune myself, but to plunge others into grief. Not that, dear God, not that. I realized that something like this could happen unwi ingly when I replied to the tricky questions of the inquisitor, who never let up. On my way to the hearings, I always prayed, Almighty Lord, keep me from betraying anyone. I had already forfeited my own life, it seemed to me. What weighed more heavily on me than that was the possibility of having the lives of others on my conscience. I resolved to hold fast – for others and for myself – with God’s help. But was this even possible? Over a period of several weeks, I concluded that maybe it was not. I had already deteriorated seriously mentally, having quite lost my self-confidence. Sometimes I trembled on meeting my inquisitor. I was physically weaker as well. The daily piece of bread and the soup was hardly enough to keep body and soul together. To add to my misery, painful sores had appeared on my legs, large boils that tormented me for months. I was without medical care and suffered accordingly. In my condition even climbing stairs was very painful and I appeared before Litman in a fever. Things were so bad that he even stopped asking me about how I felt. At times Litman appeared to me in a vision as the taunting face of Satan. For some time, I was unable to speak. About a month passed. I knew that people in the world outside, including family and friends, must still be alive, but everything out there seemed unreal, distant, without shape or form. The reality was here where evil and destruction had sunk deep roots and people who had landed in Satan’s grasp were

70 Five Years in the Gulag, 1933–1939

losing their lives. It was a world that reeked of blood, where people lost their sanity. I knew Christmas was somewhere being celebrated and would be a joyful occasion, but in this world there was no trace of joy, peace, or love, only lies and snares. Everything led downward to the abyss – to work camps, desolate death-like imprisonment, and to executions. Freedom at Last? One gloomy day something strange happened. Unexpectedly I was told to gather up my things and come along. Transfer to another cell? In the corridor, at the sentry station, my name was stroked through and I was taken to the administration office (Kommandantur) where I had first been registered. What could this mean? The unusual event caused me to tremble. My cellmates quickly shook my hand, thinking I might now be released. Yet nothing further happened. I waited, hour a er hour, grasping at the slender hope that my release was being delayed till nightfall so that it could be done less conspicuously. I hoped that nothing incriminating had turned up and was comforted to think that I had not signed a “confession.” The delay lasted almost till midnight and I felt miserable. Then a few entries were made in the books and a guard accompanied me down a corridor to a row of people who stood with their belongings, facing the wall. I and a few others were told to fall into line. A nearby door opened and we were ordered into an enclosed vehicle – the notorious “Black Maria.” The door was slammed shut and we were off. But to where? Perhaps it was a railway station and freedom? The grim, self-absorbed faces of my fellow prisoners suggested otherwise. It would have been nice, dear God, but it was not to be. In the Dnepropetrovsk City Prison Given the oppressive mood, we exchanged few words in the Black Maria. Who trusted whom? Besides it would soon become clear what was afoot. Finally, the vehicle, swaying as it passed through a vaulted entrance of a just-opened iron gate, came to a stop. We soon found ourselves in the registration office of the large city prison. What a huge letdown. It was all busyness, back and forth. Cell number 21 on a long corridor of cells was unlocked. I was shoved in. I found myself in a large, gloomy cell with some twenty people who were asleep on plank bed boards along the walls. The “cell elder” showed me to an empty

Arrest and Interrogation, 1933–1934 71

place next to the excrement pail and told me to arrange my affairs. I sat down. It was a totally new situation, but what did it mean? Had my interrogation ended without a decision? Was it preparatory to my release? My thoughts were jumbled, my heart and mind in torment. I searched for faint hope. Where were my loved ones? They seemed distant, at times almost as though they had been rubbed out. How had my darling Lene borne up? My dear father? Had he been struck down with the horror? Several sleepless inmates questioned me about my “whence” and “whither.” Had I just arrived from the world of “freedom?” Was I a close compatriot? What were the allegations against me? Had the interrogations ended? I did not feel much like answering but knew I had to say something or I would be thought stuck-up and uninvolved [in the fate of others]. New Acquaintances and Monotony Every Day What followed were several months of monotony every day. It was as if I had been forgo en. I might have used the hiatus to recover physically and emotionally had it not been for the uncertainty, the insecurity, the eternal questions, the longing, the poor and scanty food, the painful sores. Unlike the others, I never received food and a change of clothes, or news, from outside. It was part of the blackmail, it was surmised. The day started at 6:00 a.m. with a wake-up call. That was followed by the cleanup, airing, a “promenade” (here 15 instead of 10 minutes), and tea with a spoonful of sugar. The long days were spent brooding, sleeping (if you could), playing cards, or, for the more spirited, singing and conversation. Despite gloomy and fetid cell conditions, things here were generally freer and much less tense. There was less oversight, and greater comradeship with mainly Ukrainian cellmates. Some Ukrainians tended to see ma ers less bleakly than the rest of us, were more optimistic, and exuded a greater joy in life. Briefly, I also had two Mennonite cellmates, an Epp from Schoenau and an Aron Regehr, a preacher, from Zagradovka. These la er contacts provided a li le diversion but did not result in deeper conversations. For that we lacked the needed mood and courage. Weeks passed of one and the same thing – a monotonous, unfocussed life. Once, however, I was again sent for, locked into the Black Maria and brought to the office of the NKVD. The whole trip seemed to revolve around no more than a hearing about a few formal and trivial ma ers.

72 Five Years in the Gulag, 1933–1939

I did not meet my inquisitor and even wondered whether he had given up on me? On my return trip I noticed a small woman half leaning in a corner of the dark, windowless vehicle. She seemed frail, sad, and downhearted. Had I seen her before? She turned out to be a Janzen who was married to a Wiebe, and the daughter of the Ohrloff-village deaf-and-mute school teacher. Her few comments shook me deeply. Torn from a happy marriage and family life, she had been forced to leave behind a young son, her husband Johann, and had already spent several months incarcerated and under interrogation. I knew that she came from a well-known and respected Christian intelligentsia family. As I found out later, she had been “compromised” through her work for the well-known German scholar, Professor Lindemann. Other than his profession as a scholar and teacher at the Agricultural Academy in Moscow, the professor, who had died a few years earlier, had stoutly defended the Russo-German minority throughout the period of its severe harassment and persecution during World War I. He had emerged in debates of the Imperial Duma as the most courageous and important opponent of the [German land] Liquidation Law that had nevertheless finally been approved.6 During the last years of his life, already blind and in retirement in the tranquil [Mennonite] village of Ohrloff, he had continued to write articles and carry on an extensive correspondence, assisted by his secretary, Irene Wiebe. Upon his death the Soviet government had honoured him with a state funeral and speeches lauding his accomplishments. But he had apparently also corresponded with the Deutsches Ausland-Institut in Stu gart, a connection that later also proved compromising for several other Germanspeakers in Russia. Was this unquestionably guiltless woman who had assisted Lindemann in his then perfectly legitimate activities now to be held responsible and suffer for them? This was indeed how the ma er ended as we later learned, to our disgust. She gratefully accepted my feeble efforts to offer a li le comfort, clearly touched by the words of a sympathetic person out of her own community. I promised to keep her in my prayers. She was, like me, returning to the city prison from a hearing and was put in a cell on the same corridor as mine. Hers and similar cases shocked me. I o en remembered her – this delicate, profoundly unhappy young woman – with the deepest sympathy. Her terrible fate, moreover, made my own seem more bearable and diminished a li le my own feelings of hostility and rage.

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Betrayed by a Friend A er several more weeks that swung back and forth between hope and despair, I was forced to undergo a crushing experience myself. One day I was again stuck in the Black Maria and driven to an interrogation [at NKVD headquarters]. My inquisitor had tried every means to get me to confess, including the help of his colleagues who had from time to time urged me to be less stubborn and obdurate. Now Litman seemed to have prepared himself for the final, decisive blow. It was one I could not side-step. A er several questions about this and that, I sensed that there was something up. It started when another senior official, an interrogator, appeared at the interrogation and directed several, in his way, serious and exhortative questions to me. Don’t needlessly worsen the situation for yourself and your family, he began. Neither he nor I could unfortunately undo what had happened. As I knew, he continued, the government would match a contrite confession with appropriate accommodations and goodwill. The government, he concluded, did not seek vengeance but the improvement of its citizens. Following this introduction – and to my u er amazement – my friend P. Dirks was ushered in.7 Emotional but on his guard, he greeted me with a handshake (as ordered) and then took his seat opposite me, across the table, seemingly in be er spirits than I. The two interrogators sat down beside us, one on each side, saying they would pose questions that we should answer. The session would be minuted. I immediately concluded from Dirks’ first replies that he had already made a confession in which he had probably mentioned my name. But whatever the case, in response to further queries he said openly to my face that I had ‘collaborated’ with him in activities of a secret, illegal political organization. Our conversations had o en been about ma ers that endangered Soviet power and could easily be interpreted as counter-revolutionary. If we were honest we could not conceal our subversive thoughts and desires. But we should not take ma ers too tragically. He was firmly of the view that if we acted in good faith, Soviet power would generously temper justice with mercy and that genuine cooperation on our part would give both of us an opportunity to wash away our guilt. The fundamental desire of Soviet power was to maintain and educate its people whom it urgently needed for its development program. It was clear to me that this rubbish had previously been cooked-up and agreed-upon. Yet the sight of my friend with his dissembling and

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cheerful face paraded before me for show le me unspeakably sad. I was quite nervous. Looking at him reproachfully from time to time, I shook my head. I was still far from making a false confession. Yes, we had always been opponents of Soviet power, and had expressed ourselves in a variety of ways, but there had never been talk of active resistance, of a conspiracy, of inciting people to action. That I would never confess to. Soon therea er we were led off in opposite directions. Had my fate now been sealed? I Collapse I can scarcely describe my feelings at that time. My thoughts were perplexed and muddled. Brought to my cell, I finally collapsed. Trust in people, in myself, even in God who had failed to show mercy to my family, my children – all had crumbled. My innermost was suddenly a blank. I had lost my footing. With devilish contempt, an abyss had been opened up before me. How o en had I begged the Lord for deliverance, above all for my loved ones? Was there no deliverance for me? Would I have to throw myself into the arms of my enemy? I lay under my covers, desperately brooding. A shadowy void seemed to draw me down into a bo omless pit. My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? A wave of convulsive sobbing swept over me. I cried for some time. My cellmates came and went, but I could not u er a word. A er hours of such turmoil I gradually became more calm, and heard a voice that seemed to whisper, “You have caused me much labour with your sins and trouble with your wickedness, Jacob. You are not as good as you think. Yet I will wipe out your wickedness for my own sake, and not be mindful of your many sins … because I have thoughts for you of peace and not of affliction … ” In the stillness, the Lord in His mercy started to speak to me. I was too weak to dispute or argue and perhaps I deserved the severity. Had I not o en gone my own way, unmindful of the Lord’s word or will? When had I submerged my will fully in His and demonstrated this in my own life? My self-willed “I” had set the tone for my life. It had been given pride of place even on those occasions when I had made solemn promises for the future, at the time of my baptism and in the various crises of my eventful life. In my mind’s eye I could see the stages of my life passing by unhindered and recognized how o en and seriously I had failed. Finally my soul ba led its way through to a remorseful plea: Lord, my wickedness deserves punishment, but help me for thy name’s sake. Be merciful Lord. Forgive

Arrest and Interrogation, 1933–1934 75

me. May thy will, and not mine, be done. ... As tears of contrition ran down my face, I suddenly had a feeling of being safe and secure (geborgen) in the Lord and Saviour who held everything in His hand and had promised: I am the first and the last. There is no God beside me. Yes, He had made the great sacrifice at Golgatha, redeeming me in love and compassion. As though moved by the spirit, I felt a prayer rising up in me: Take Thou my hand, O Father, And lead Thou me, Until my journey endeth, eternally. Alone I will not wander one single day. Be Thou my true companion and with me stay.

I had sung this hymn o en before but never as a prayer of surrender. Lord, let me not suffer disgrace, strengthen my faith that thou art still on thy throne and in control also of my affairs. O cover with Thy mercy my poor weak heart. Let every thought rebellious from me depart.8

Amen, Amen, a thousand times Amen. Slowly peace, tranquillity, and trust entered into my tortured heart, now calm in its surrender and suffering. As for the song, it became a hymn of hymns for me, having given me such help during my encounter with God (as it had earlier its author). So passed that day with its two noteworthy and critical experiences. The following days and nights crept by slowly. They were dark January days. In the cell with its obstructed view we could catch sight of only a small patch of sky and it always seemed dusk. With the poor ventilation and heating, the cell air was stuffy and fetid. From time to time people were called out for questioning or simply vanished. In the la er case, their place was taken by someone new. Off and on somebody received a change of clothes and food, and usually was permi ed a brief reunion with loved ones. Yet such normally important occasions o en evoked more sadness than joy. Otherwise no sound penetrated our world from outside. Were full lives still being lived anywhere out there? There were no deliveries of clothes or food from my family for me as tokens of life and of love. I was ra led by the uncertainty. How could I have known that Litman had expressly forbidden the acceptance of

76 Five Years in the Gulag, 1933–1939

deliveries for me or that friends, the Harms had several times tried to drop off something from my dear wife. It was part of the effort to wear me down and render me docile. Boils kept reappearing on my legs and I could easily have toppled over. Yet deep inside I also had a sense of peace and surrender that helped me endure. I walked the cell, 12 paces there, 12 paces back, hundreds of times a day, thinking of my family or humming a tune. Fr. Regier and the Wiens from Schoenau had been removed from the cell with their belongings. In the belief they were being freed (everyone clung to this straw), I had passed on my address to them with the request that they contact my family. Yet no one had appeared and my wife, parents, and larger family remained ignorant of my fate. It is terribly hard for a thoughtful, caring, and busy person to be suddenly torn from his workaday world and stuck in prison for a long time where he has neither work nor ties. It is doubly hard when his prospects are so appalling. Yet despite worries and a longing for my loved ones, I had become more calm, knowing that the fate of my family was in the hands of the Lord, who had brought me back from the edge of despair and perdition, and not for the first time. I was, moreover, personally more at ease even at the prospect of forfeiting my own life so long as we, and especially my family, were under divine guidance. Perhaps martyrdom might even be a necessity. But for what and for whom? That was the question. The Final Charge One day several weeks later9 I was again commanded to gather up my belongings and follow. Although it was midnight, most of my cellmates arose, thinking I might be freed. A momentary flash of light always kindled hope. I was equally excited. Secretly, fellow prisoners gave me addresses to look up or messages to be transmi ed. How gladly I would have obliged. There were leave-takings, farewells, and I went downstairs where my name was stricken from the office register. Yet instead of exiting through the gate, as I had hoped, I was directed back into the Black Maria and deposited at NKVD headquarters. It was something I accepted resignedly and humbly. Anything else would have been too fine. A er the usual wait and formalities, I was again led downstairs into the grisly cellar. What might this portend? A cell door opened and I found myself among sleeping prisoners. I reflected a li le, and took my place on the free bedframe. My cellmates stirred and to my delight and

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amazement I discovered three were [Mennonite] Germans and one a Ukrainian. One of the former was even a close acquaintance and onetime fellow worker, J. J. Nickel, of the Menno Verband. A second was Khortitsa A. Lepp, an engineer and chemist, and the third, E. Artess, a bookkeeper from Halbstadt. There were questions, conversation. What struck me was that these comrades and co-sufferers were not caught up in their plight as deeply as I was in mine. They did not view it so sadly. Or were they just pretending? All three had long since concluded their interrogations and were awaiting their sentences. They tried to cheer me up and comfort me. What exactly did they think was the logic of our common dilemma? Their views seemed strange to me and I found them unconvincing. Yet the three were of one mind and, as I had to admit, they were intelligent and experienced individuals. They thought that the accusations against us were part of a Soviet strategy to publicly expose the Hitler regime as fomenting Soviet German fascist intrigues behind the scenes in Russia. According to this interpretation, disclosing the “fact” of such German incendiary meddling could be a trump to force Hitler to so en his harsh persecution of Communists in Germany. We were, so to speak, a pawn in Soviet policy and diplomacy and might ultimately be treated leniently. This was their reasoning. We were neither political criminals nor plo ers and this was as well known to the NKVD as to us, they said. All this sounded fine, of course, and my tortured soul desperately needed assurance, but I remained strongly sceptical. We kept talking until early in the morning, as the guard watched us through the peephole and would report to the administrator upstairs later on. Still, it had been important for me to spend this time with my people. A year before, Nickel had been closely questioned when he returned from a business trip to Holland and Germany on behalf of the “Netherlandic Concession” on the Molochna, his employer. Despite bi er experiences at the time, he had been let go, a fact that no doubt encouraged him in his belief that we would be treated similarly now. Regre ably we would experience how mistaken these men were regarding the question of “punishment.” It was a ma er in which the Soviets would pursue a clear and harsh policy through until the bi er end. I Sign a “Confession” That morning I was unexpectedly summoned upstairs to meet my all-too-familiar tormentor, Litman. I found that strange. My soul, as

78 Five Years in the Gulag, 1933–1939

always, prayed for help and courage. Please Lord, above all, keep me from betraying anyone. My interrogator, who had treated me so disgracefully during 20 previous sessions, received me now with great politeness. Ever so solicitously, he asked a er my well being. Did I have any complaints to make about my treatment, etc.? Undoubtedly with great satisfaction, he could see how miserable and ill I felt. A er all, for months, he had forbidden the guards to accept any foodstuffs or linens from my family on my behalf. Was it not time, he asked, to conclude my case? Yes, I replied, for my part the ma er could have been se led long ago had he not been so intent on entangling me in a thicket of lies. The ma er should be ended, one way or another. Be er, it seemed to me, a horrible end than horror without end. My tormentor dra ed a short statement and handed it to me. I was surprised how li le it contained. Yet even that was too much. For the last time, I declared my innocence and then signed the document.10 Had I signed away my own life? There was, of course, also the incriminating material supplied by others. I had, in any case, surrendered myself to the Lord over life and death, whose will was holy for me. I would suffer what others had suffered and accept what others had accepted. Why should I be be er? I felt a certain relief as I was led away. At least I was out of the hands of this hangman and had succeeded in not betraying anyone. For this I thanked God. It had been an eventful and upse ing day in the monotonous grind of the past several weeks. I was returned to the city prison that I had so hopefully le (as I thought forever) the night before and put back in cell number 21. It was clear now why I had been put in the cell with my friends. Thinking me free, my return was a disappointment for them. Most of the occupants of cell number 21 had been taken away one by one, never to be heard from again. Had they been released? Only a few cases involved individuals accused of crimes such as the embezzlement of money or goods from places of employment, etc. Most were charged with “counter-revolutionary, political offenses.” They included Ukrainian peasants as well as employees of businesses and factories. Most, like me, first learned of their “crimes” while under investigation in prison. A number of those accused did not flinch. They decided not to betray their lives, their integrity, their respect in their own eyes, and not to be trodden underfoot. Some respected party people were determined not to forfeit their reputations or lose their faith in Soviet power. All of us were deceived and betrayed. It seemed as though evil itself was reaping its harvest, surely to the great damage of the Soviets

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themselves. Was this not the real betrayal? That was certainly the opinion of many a Party man. I was relieved to finally be le in peace. The weak watery soup containing a few stinking green tomatoes and a 600 gram piece of heavy black bread, le me so weak and exhausted that li le interested me. The bedbug plague and boils contributed to my mood. Only a longing for family and my strengthened trust in God kept me going. During the day I paced back and forth in the cell, brooding or so ly singing a familiar song – 12 paces one way and 12 paces the other, a kilometre and a half daily. I refused to abandon my routine because of the hunger and weakness. It was a change and gave me the needed exercise. Several times I tried to contact my family through departing cellmates, but, as I later learned, only once successfully. I was ignorant of their fate, and I continued to worry about them. Condemned with Acquaintances And so 6 March [1934] arrived. Spring with its sunshine and warmth spread over the land. Somewhere where life still continued, people would be preparing for garden and field work. A total of 114 days and 114 long nights had passed during which, to my great sorrow, I had been torn from my family without knowing what had happened to them. It was hard, very hard. Was all that torture intentional? But to what purpose? To whose satisfaction? Only Satan and his nearest worldly accomplices could take pleasure in people, in their estrangement from God, plunging one another into misery and death. On 6 March the cell door opened again, my name was called out, and I was ordered to step into the corridor with my belongings. Again leavetakings and prophesies of freedom. Only too gladly did one succumb to hope. It was natural to play down the implications of many previous disappointments. Since the fate of me and my family was in God’s hand why should it not as well be freedom? That was the thought. Above all, my conscience did not torment me. For the last time I appeared at the door of cell number 21, a door that for long, for far too long, had contained me. It was the cell in which I had experienced much anguish and many disappointments. The half-dark, raw cell, with its cold, damp walls and cement floor, largely screened from natural light, reeked of human sweat and the excrement pail. Its bedboards crawled with bedbugs. The peephole of its steelcovered door had never been le una ended. All this summed-up the

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shared fate of many different people, a mixture of comrades who suffered and were separated from their sorrowing families. For all of us the cell had become an unforge able memorial. This was true in a special way for me. During my period of greatest discouragement and disappointment, I had encountered a gracious and merciful Lord over life and death in a new way and experienced an inner strengthening. I had submi ed myself to Him afresh as the Lord and Shepherd of my soul and the immoveable pole of my existence.

Chapter Two

Marking Time, 1934

As I walked down the passageway and was led to its far end, I saw a long row of men with belongings, suitcases, etc., standing along the wall. To my considerable surprise I recognized F. Cornies, in his wellknown fox pelt, the [former] vice chairman of the Union of Citizens of Netherlandic Origin (VBHH), then Joh. J. Nikkel, A.A. Loewen, H.H. Friesen, D.A. Friesen, the ex-chairman of the Halbstadt District (Raion) Branch of the VBHH, David D. Goerz, the treasurer, teacher A.P. Ediger, and Gerh. H. Funk, ex-chairman of the Khortitsa District (raoin) Branch of the VBHH, and others – all Mennonites. They had been brought here from various cells and lined up. All had experienced roughly what I had. No one said a word. Their faces, however, hardly suggested that they expected to be freed. When we were taken to the office downstairs we met other Germans, again including Mennonites. It was a busy scene. Above all, everyone had his sentence read out. In most cases it was brief, laconic, no more than a few sentences prepared by the NKVD in Kharkov on the basis of material from the “examining” agents here. The sentences varied greatly – from three to ten years for acts hostile to the state – conspiracies, sabotage, and other counter-revolutionary activities. There were no death sentences read out. Not present were P[eter Dirks], the medical doctor W[ilhelm] Dirks, or a number of other wellknown individuals. They had been transferred to Kharkov, the capital, and there, as we learned later, had been sentenced to death. Then, a er all, they were amnestied.1 My sentence, as most, read “five year’s imprisonment in penal camps in remote areas of the Soviet Union.” That was understandable: Robbed of freedom, cut off from loved ones, we had been sentenced to slave labour in the Siberian taiga. That was

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the sum and substance of our long spiritual torture. Yet why this farce, with its tormenting interrogations if, at the end, we were simply to be banished by the police without a hearing or trial (ohne Red und Recht)? It was a mockery of justice and humanity. There were various formalities. We were finger-printed, measured, weighed, and so on. Meanwhile we greeted one another and exchanged some news. As each of us heard his sentence, the terrible pressure of uncertainty seemed to li somewhat. The full magnitude of our situation would become clearer only on reflection and discussion with fellow sufferers later, but the last flash of hope for freedom was finally gone for long, perhaps for ever. We again met the young woman Irene Wiebe, nee Janzen, the only woman in the group. Likewise sentenced to five years of slave labour, she had received her sentence calmly and resignedly, at least outwardly, yet each of us could not help to restrain feelings of deep, sympathetic and furious grief at the sight of her. Her circumstances aroused extreme pity in all of us. We could all easily imagine our wives in her place, stuck in unimaginably indecent and inhuman circumstances, surrounded by crude and depraved women and in the hands of NKVD inquisitors who o en summoned such hyenas from this underworld to help them ‘work over’ their female victims. We were now transferred to another prison block under the control of the director of the prison and placed under a somewhat lighter regime. This meant we could have visits from members of our families and receive parcels. We were around 100 Germans, [mostly Mennonites], who were placed in various cells but permi ed to meet in groups. Having learned to appreciate any concession, we found this deeply gratifying. Our needs had also become extremely modest. All of us were almost certainly relieved to have been absent at our sentencing and spared the accompanying anguish and spiritual torment. And however uncertain and dark our future might be, many of us tried to help li up one another to lives of greater courage, prayer, struggle, and endurance. Since we had not forfeited our lives, which rested in God’s hands, our watchword became, “trust, courage and peace of mind.” Yet without access to the living Word of God, we found it difficult to achieve the clarity and comfort that we needed in every situation. The only help we could find were the Bible verses, hymns, and a number of Psalms that we managed to dredge up out of our memories over time. How grateful I then was to recall the instruction of my pious parents and teachers.

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First Reunion with My Wife The news of our sentencing spread like wildfire in the Old Colony and Molochna se lements. To our great surprise, three days later, there gathered unexpectedly at the entrance gate of the prison some 30 women, seeking admi ance. Simultaneously, all of us were summoned to a visit. The women had already made a first contact through the delivery to us by prison staff of gi s of linen and some foodstuffs that they had brought along. But what would we say to our heavily afflicted women? What should we tell them? How comfort them? Both sorrow and joy stirred our hearts. We were permi ed to take our places separately in a large room. All eyes focussed anxiously on the barred gate where the women were to appear. We watched as the careworn women streamed down the walk and then through the entranceway, their eyes feverishly seeking out their own – the visit was only for a few minutes. In the blink of an eye they found one another, surely in greater and more holy affection than ever before. Through a glance, a grasp of the hand, a kiss, the couples expressed compassion, forgiveness, pity, longing, faithful love. The women wished to maintain their composure but failed to quite master their feelings. Quietly, as they and their menfolk reported briefly to one another, tears streamed down both sides of their drawn faces. Who can really describe such a scene? The officials quietly drew back and watched the goings-on with wonderment. Perhaps they had never before witnessed such a mass reunion, and, far from interfering, they extended the usual ten minutes by another five. A thousand questions agitated our hearts on both sides, but few of them could be weighed and decided in such a short time. Besides, so many of the questions would have to rest on the shoulders of the women, for their decision alone. They were, in our eyes, martyrs and heroines at the same time. Resigned, the women absorbed the truth of the impending separation implicit in our sentences. Certain preparatory steps, changes in their lives, would now have to be made. A number of women had already started to look for work. My wife, who was also present, was tied down with childcare. Heartbroken, she told me of the recent death of one of our darling boys. She had had to bear the sorrow, which she still felt, alone, without me. I had known nothing about this. Moreover, our only cow, the provider for our children, had fallen. Despite my trouble in fully comprehending these difficult changes, I wanted to give my wife

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a li le consolation, a li le support for the future. And then our darling, darling children. They tore at my heart. These innocent ones, who were now to atone for our plight, would have to forfeit the love and care of their father which they so much needed. Still, we wanted to remain strong in our trust in God and in prayer, to bear the burdens of one another, and to place our hope in God, who could one day grant us a reunion despite everything. The few short minutes of reunion had nevertheless been precious for all. Although the pain, the hurt of separation and thoughts of future insecurity had again been churned up, we parted from one another in a closer bond strengthened through mutual understanding and new ties. The gracious Lord of eternal love and faithfulness – so freshly revealed to me – would also strengthen and carry my darling wife, strengthening her to continue the ba le and to endure. The bell sounded. Quickly a grasp of the hand, an ardent kiss, a long trusting look, and my wife had disappeared through the door. The door closed and we were alone. Everything had gone so quickly. Had we perhaps seen our loved ones for the last time? Then we were back in our cells. Everyone was on their bedsteads, alone in their thoughts, reliving the minutes, going over in detail everything that had been heard and felt. It had all been so new, yet so close to the bone. For long we had had no news, been so taken up with our interrogations, feeling ever more distant from the details of life on the outside. Now suddenly everyone had moved tangibly near, to the centre of our a ention. Our wives’ cares were again fully ours, the children with their questioning eyes before us. For a time we were captivated by the gi s and foodstuffs from home, but soon we were again buried in the dismal reality of prison life and our sad future. Then we heard that we were soon to be sent off, at the first opportunity – a “dispatch by stages,” as it was called. For this reason we had received permission for our reunion so quickly. Well if it had to be, then the sooner we departed these gloomy walls and atmosphere of subjugation the be er, away from the oppressors and murderers. We were eager to take up work again, in order, as we were told, to live in more humane circumstances where people could find greater self worth, independence, and self-consciousness. In addition to providing us with honest labour, all this could also lead to a shortening of our sentences. In fact within days a number of German Mennonites were sent off in such a “dispatch by stages.” We were therefore happy and grateful before our long impending separation to have met our faithful, compassionate

Marking Time, 1934 85

partners, our wives, to have spoken face-to-face. All of them wanted to “play their role” (ihren ‘Mann’ stehen) as best they could, and care for the children until we met again. Yet here, too, these courageous, loving, sacrificial heroes were thinking chiefly of our fate. God the Lord would stand by them and sustain them and the children. More Time in Prison The days of imprisonment a er sentencing were markedly different from those at the investigative stage. The tensions were gone. Our fate had been sealed for now and there was nothing to change. We had been permi ed to see our wives, offering one another mutual courage and comfort, and had re-established contact with families. At these glimmers of hope and life our bodies and souls had come alive. Since our lives had not ground to a stop we were bent on again taking up the struggle for survival. We dared not risk failure for the sake of our families who would have to shoulder the main burden in those dark and calamitous Soviet times. Yet now we had a clear goal – the end of our incarceration, sooner or later. Hard and effective work could bring it closer. We assumed we could manage in the distant camps with their hard life and work as long as we were given, as we had been told, access to privileges and a reduction in our sentences. Our incarceration seemed less frightening, moreover, because we had thus far managed to stick together as friends and acquaintances. Shared suffering, shared support, the exchange of ideas – we would be grateful if all that could be continued in the labour camps. The teacher Nicholas Janzen, F. Cornies, and others tried to fill in time with engaging historical and scientific lectures. Hans Janzen, an artist, made pencil drawings, including pencil portraits of cellmates as mementos of their prison days. Word of his work leaked out and even the prison director arranged to sit for his portrait.2 All this brought small privileges and more considerate treatment. Our morning wash up, for example, was no longer so rushed. We were also permi ed to use the wide and airy corridor for small exercises. Nicholas Janzen, the teacher, was the leader. While the a endant accompanied occupants of another cell to wash up, we did our workouts. Seen from the side, we pitiable, desolate figures at our exertions were a woeful sight. But we were desperate to restore minds and bodies, to prepare for further demands that might be made of us. We were expecting soon to be on our way.

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Death Claims Its Victims Meanwhile we were witnesses of grisly, shocking events. About once a week, in addition to our small diversions, visits, and the receipt of packages of linens and food, a major night-time commotion was set off by the arrival of the Black Maria in the rear courtyard at the entrance to our block. The hangman and his associates had come to pick up someone sentenced to death. There were also several “death cells” along our corridor. First there was a tomb-like silence. We knew what was afoot and listened, tense, disturbed, trying to figure out who it was. The hangman naturally knew, but tried to conduct his ghastly business as quietly as possible. They were a much experienced lot. In the silence we sensed the opening of certain cells. Then a dull thud, the sounds of resistance, smothered cries, thro ling, dragging. Death was claiming another victim. There was the hum of the Black Maria and death had claimed a new victim. Everyone had been wide awake. For some time it was quiet in the cells. We felt a terrible dread as we followed the vehicle in our thoughts, perhaps imagining we might be next. Who had the victims been? Where were they taken? What was their offence? Secrets of the hangman. Everyone lay quietly for a long time and only a faint tapping betrayed the efforts of experienced inmates to discover whom the tragedy had struck. One case involved a young woman who had been housed alone in a neighbouring cell. She was the descendant of a noble family. As a result of an audit she was discovered to have embezzled funds at her place of work, where she had been a longtime cashier. She was later found guilty and sentenced to death. The unbelievably harsh sentence had shocked everyone. No one had believed that the sentence would be carried out, including the woman. Brave, in good spirits, she had already waited for a long time to be amnestied or, perhaps, to have her sentence confirmed. Her longing was for her beloved five-year-old daughter for whom she begged a nice pencil-portrait of herself from Hans Janzen. For good conduct she had also been permi ed to spend longer periods in the corridor where we occasionally talked. Late one night we again heard the hum of the approaching Black Maria, followed by a ruckus on our corridor. So ly the door to the adjoining cell was opened and the woman was quietly led away. Only as she stepped outside did she realize that her hour had come. There was a brief cry of despair, “Farewell comrades!” (proshite tovarishchi). Doors slammed shut and the monster rumbled off the prison yard.

Marking Time, 1934 87

A feeling of shock and dismay gripped everyone. Cruel death had come within an inch of us. Yet it had bloody mindedly snuffed out a young life – all because barbarians and murderers in their delusion of meting out “revolutionary justice” had arrogated to themselves the right to rid the land and people of “vermin” in this way. For a long time, everyone was ra led and appalled and lay wide awake, lost in thought, deeply aware of their helplessness and lack of rights. The feeling would continue for many years. Aborted Departure During this time acquaintances had been sent off in batches to different prison camps. On a very warm April day it was our turn. The group that had been held back consisted of Abram A. Löwen, the well-known singer, David D. Goertzen, F.D. Cornies, Ed. Artess, and me. Suddenly we were ordered to “Get on your way, collect your belongings” (davai, sobirais veshchami). We quickly gathered our few belongings essential to survival, and stepped into the corridor. We were happy to be off. A few days earlier our wives had brought us small but important items and some foodstuffs. Pauperized, they gave us what they had denied themselves – they wanted to sustain us, to give us their support. We were quite shocked to suddenly find ourselves with a large group of totally naked men. We were ordered to “undress” and a detachment of some 50 GPU guards entered the room to “receive” and accompany the prisoners. Then the guards conducted an unimaginably thorough inspection of belongings and bodies that was hardly delicate, especially in regard to parts of bodies where nothing was normally carried or concealed. Such a procedure was new and incomprehensible to us and seemed more than usually mean-spirited. Only later did we understand its urgency. In among the some 200 prisoners were many repeat offenders with lots of experience from the so-called underworld; blatnie (thieves) who were hardly strangers to the prisons and camps. On the stage-by-stage transports they occasionally escaped and to facilitate their flight tried to smuggle along small tools. Such people could not be treated with kid gloves. Hence there was the meticulous inspection. They were brutal and insolent thieves and recidivists who were ready to exploit any opportunity at an instant. This meant that no transport was immune to surprises of the worst kind. Before a transport le all conceivable objects had therefore to be surrendered: every knife, fork, steel object, metal spoon, razor blade, penholder, pencil (chemical ones),

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all documents, books, etc. Every object that might have been important to its owner was mercilessly thrown on a pile, and no corner or seam of clothing remained without painstaking scrutiny.3 Finally, a er we had again put on our clothes and gathered up our belongings, we were escorted to the yard. To keep us alive for the trip, we were each given a loaf of bread and several dried fish. Finally the command rang out, “Fall in. Pay a ention. During your escorted march to the station you will remain strictly in line. Do not cry out or talk. Any deviation from your column will be seen as an escape a empt and met with instant gunfire.” The transport’s destination was not named. The main gate opened and from behind high prison walls we emerged onto the street in quick step, heading towards the train station two or three kilometres away. We were surrounded by convoys of guards, guns at the ready, and a line of snarling dogs on leashes. It was hardly an elegant procession. Consisting of half-ragged, wasted, wild-looking individuals with sacks on their backs, our band tro ed down the street, accompanied, at a distance, by a number of careworn, sobbing women. They had already gathered at the gate to hand over goods and now followed, hoping to exchange a few words with their loved ones and wish them, for one last time, their farewells. As timid and horrified pedestrians on side streets tried to squeeze past this sad and ghastly spectacle, we were relieved that our womenfolk had not been permi ed to witness it. By the time we reached the freight depot and the already-waiting train, we were exhausted and bathed in sweat from the glaring sun. The prisoners were quickly distributed among the freight cars and our group of 25 locked up in its boxcar. The sun beat down on the tin roof and we feared that, without ventilation and in the confined space and bodily exhalations, we might die of thirst. No water was distributed. Towards evening the train began to move and it became more bearable. Late at night the train came to a stop in Kharkov, the then-Ukrainian capital. There, a er leaving the car, we were inspected, accounted for, and put under the oversight of a new detail of guards. For some unknown reason, however, the head of the operation found us five Germans unacceptable for forwarding to a specific prison camp, and we were told to step aside. The others were led away and we were returned to the wagon. What was the meaning of this? Since we were treated as no more than producer goods, no one naturally owed us an explanation. In fact we were brought back to Dnepropetrovsk, our old location, and in the morning, exhausted, unstrung, and disappointed, moved back into the old cell we had le only the day before. A misunderstanding?

Marking Time, 1934 89

Back to the City Prison Now began for us a series of dispiriting days, weeks, and months with li le variety or change. While we were stuck in prison doing nothing during the warm summer months, other prisoners had long since taken up useful work somewhere else and were piling up workdays to reduce their sentences. We took li le comfort in our added privileges – the right to fetch and distribute food to inmates along our whole corridor and to spend more time in the exercise yard. The idleness le us impatient and depressed. It was also a time in which the gangsters (blatnie) intermi ently tormented us. This degenerate society of gangsters had originated in the “underworld” to which it had been consigned by the devastating conditions of Soviet life. There its members had established themselves as thieves and murderers without the slightest timidity or conscience. Indeed they competed in their willingness to promote their “cra .” The most daring, cunning and merciless were admired the most and had no difficulty in enforcing their leadership. They had their own gangster language, their own songs, their own detestable moral concepts and their own world. The betrayal of a comrade was considered the worst possible offence and demanded the merciless revenge of death. These thieves, for their part, were obliged to support comrades in their “cra ,” at whatever cost, including their own lives. A series of unwri en laws kept the group tightly knit together. Prisons and camps were their familiar terrain where they could always count on help and support. Relations with the outside world were so close and well-organized that the gangsters never had to suffer hunger. Should support from outside falter there were always enough fellow prisoners to rob. Woe to anyone who was the recipient of “generous” gi s from outside, and failed to share them with the blatnie. He was labelled a “smart aleck,” came under a cloud, and could be sure of something terrible befalling him. The thieves always had many women along as accomplices. Card-playing was their only regular pastime, although cards were prohibited and confiscated when found. When their money ran out, as it frequently did, they simply gambled away a shirt or pair of pants, including that of a fellow prisoner whom they bullied into surrendering his garment. If it was his last or the la er complained, one of the players might well throw him one of his own. Oddly in such cases they felt a li le sympathy for their victim whom they would otherwise happily have strangled. These criminals were dangerous fellows, hard to get along with, and a heavy burden on the prison administration where

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they o en had accomplices. It was especially difficult for the be er “political” sort of prisoners who found relations with the blatnie – with their crude and vulgar manners, uncivil speech, cursing, and constant turmoil – not only hazardous but repugnant. The thieves were well known to camp administrators, who kept them under sharp supervision, but they were harder to control on transfers to camps during which they o en did their dirty, bloody business. These be er inmates considered the staged transports simply disasters. The foregoing description is essential for an understanding of the range of vexations, including psychological ones that also made life in the camps more difficult and o en turned it into a hell for us. To be sure, camp administrations were less than pleased to have to accommodate the blatnie, who constituted nearly half the inmates. They treated them severely or gently. They might grant them generous privileges for good work and good behaviour. Some overseers turned a blind eye to their intrigues, sometimes out of dread – for they too feared for their lives. Many also understood, quite rightly, that the thieves were products of the shipwreck of the revolution and of the numerous famines, persecutions, and banishments that had followed in their wake. Russians had so , compassionate places in their hearts. Severely persecuted by the police in freedom, the thieves were now to be re-educated in the camps and prisons. But the difficulty, even impossibility of accomplishing this, was implicit in the means employed, including work, privileges, and “cultural work” like theatre, movies, etc. In our eyes as Christians, we pitied all of them, both educators and pupils. Neither group acknowledged higher moral or Christian principles or any responsibility to the supreme judge and creator of all. There was for them no higher righteousness, no love that is the only salvation for depraved mankind that has gone astray and is entangled in sin – the love that first loved us, the love of God in Christ Jesus. The prison administration tried to keep us free of daily association with these parasites but that was not always possible since cells normally held 12–24 inmates. Moreover, however friendly we were towards them they immediately noticed that we were on our guard and mutually supported one another. Still, they were so cunning, brazen and experienced that they nonetheless o en managed to rob us without mercy, and then express pity at our loss without moving a muscle or otherwise le ing on that it had been them. The warmer weather brought many an improvement a er the ghastly winter [of 1933–4]. We had survived the winter on soup with

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sour, green tomatoes. It now gradually changed to cabbage soup with, finally, even a few potatoes. In winter we had suffered extreme famine. This meant 200 grams of bread a day. Dead prisoners were removed from the cells every day. But o en prisoners would also conceal dead cellmates under covers for several days to allow the living prisoners to receive and divide up their rations. Unspeakable conditions. Certainly it was still bad enough in summer but now prisoners had other means of support to escape starvation: the aid of families and the possibility to buy a li le extra bread. Both choices had not been possible during the previous winter. Promenades were now also more agreeable, as were the weekly showers, compared to winter when cold and dra s, insufficient warm water, and o en night-time schedules had made them a torment. Constant airing made life in the cells be er as well. Only bedbugs were a greater plague than in winter, despite efforts to get rid of them. We four remaining Mennonites had begged the prison administration to give us steady, useful work, but this had never happened. We had likely been labelled “unreliable” in our files. For months on end, until mid-August, we were thus forced to stick to our cell. During this time, F. Cornies, E. Artess, D. Goertzen, and I (A.A. Loewen had meanwhile been sent off ) had become close friends, exchanging views, and encouraging and supporting one another. Strangely, however, we almost never talked about our arrests, interrogations, and the motives behind our imprisonment. Were we too timid or too ashamed to touch on this ma er or was the disgrace too painful? Maybe we were also reluctant to risk disturbing the psychological balance that we had meanwhile managed to re-establish in our lives. Today all this is too difficult for me to comprehend. The least open of all was F. Cornies, an authority for all of us. He appeared to us as a stoic, refusing to parade his suffering, his feelings, and revealing neither discontent and despair nor pleasure and happiness. Maybe he had been hit the hardest of any of us. Suddenly in July he was informed that, a er a short illness, his wife had died and been buried. His two foster children, whom he loved as his own (the son was only ten), were living with other people, their home destroyed, their future without hope. It took courage and strength to bear such tragedy with fortitude and we felt the deepest compassion for him and his fate. The man always remained friendly, helpful, and comradely and I remember with particular gratitude how he anxiously stood by me during my [later] serious bout with dysentery. He remained my friend for a long time. Then there was Frau Irene Wiebe-Janzen, whom we

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saw and spoke to several times over a longer period. Like us, she had been kept back in prison, but had then been given work in the library that provided her greater freedom to move about. Although she was resigned to her fate, we felt great pity for her. Her husband, with infant in arm, visited her regularly. Although we had become terribly tired of our existence behind prison walls we tried to recover something of our physical well-being and spiritual balance. We could not, to our very great regret, draw strength from God’s Word. What we managed to recall in this regard was too li le. I was grateful for the comradeship of my friends and the improved conditions, compared to the previous winter. Moreover, we all took great satisfaction in again having contact with our families. However infrequent and brief, we were permi ed visits from our wives who periodically brought food and a change of clothes. I would have given anything to see the children, to embrace them – the longing was so great. Yet I found it gratifying even to know that they were close by. The Dnepropetrovsk prison was a huge complex of dark, two-tothree-storied blocks, some of them unfinished and standing empty. The la er structures, with open, shadowy window cavities, seemed eerie. The occupied blocks, with their barred windows and howling, melancholic singing, and bored prisoners looking out upon a larger world, offered an equally distressing sight. The surrounding four-metre high walls surmounted by watch towers with sharpshooters heightened the sad impression. These memorable scenes will remain forever imprinted on my mind.

Chapter Three

Railway Building in the Far East, 1934–1935

Finally We Depart We were just finishing off our job which the prison director had obligingly entrusted to us four Mennonites and had almost lost our longing for the outside world, so zealously had we pursued it. The job was to rid the some 10 cells on our corridor radically of bedbugs. These vermin were an insurmountable, never-ending plague throughout our imprisonment. During the summer of 1934 they had vastly multiplied, making the nights intolerable. We were to wash down not only the bed boards but walls and floors with hot water. The four of us took on the mission with pleasure and an unheard-of thoroughness, dragging in huge quantities of hot water that we forced into every crack and hole with a pump and a ached hose. Thousands of the brutes were flushed away. From now on we and the other cells were to have our peace. But events suddenly turned otherwise. On 20 August, we were again commanded to “gather up your belongings and proceed.” Our preparation followed the pa ern of our sendoff in April, except we were now a much smaller group. It included Frau Irene Wiebe-Janzen and several other women. In quick step and escorted by a heavy guard with dogs we were again taken to the rail station. To our surprise and later satisfaction we were placed together in a regular passenger car, except for a barred partition and barred windows. The car was then a ached to a passenger train which meant that we could also count on travelling more quickly. It seemed that the authorities had finally found a place for us. But to where were we now being sent? With mixed feelings we le our place of fate that had confined us for so long and subjected us to so much

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suffering. It had deranged our lives and those of our families, reducing us to criminals and labelling us as such. It had ordered us exiled and enslaved to who knows where, tearing us from our loved ones, perhaps forever. Should it be damned? We did not do so. There had also been many good experiences here. Personally, it had become for me a milestone in my outer as well as inner life. Here, at the time of my deepest misery, I had experienced in new ways the grace of my Lord and Saviour and embraced it for my further pilgrimage and path of suffering. Despite many a temptation, doubt and act of disloyalty later on, I knew where to seek the guide and sustainer of my life and where I was secure. It was He who gave me safekeeping, faithfulness, and the strength to bear hardship, to the present, this despite weakness and many an act of faithlessness. To Him be honour and thanks in all eternity. The reader’s interests would be badly served if I were now only to report briefly that a er exactly a month of wanderings (that sounds quite peaceful), our “dispatch-by-stages,” we landed up in Eastern Siberia, some 1,000 kilometres beyond Lake Baikal. Our greatly varied experiences en route included both disappointments and pleasant surprises. It was, equally, a bewildering movement back and forth that exposed us to the contradictions of the Soviet bureaucratic “planning” mill. The start was really quite satisfactory. Although we were on a long journey into a vast, unfamiliar, and remote area, we were well looked a er. The guards patrolling the aisles were “decent,” neither demeaning nor harassing us with unseemly demands. We were mostly “politicals” and were not crowded, everyone having his own seat and bed. The large windows permi ed adequate ventilation. Frau Irene had the obvious joy and satisfaction of being close to fellow believers whom she knew. She could talk to us. She was delicate and modest, le the deepest impression on us, and aroused our particular sympathies. In my eyes she symbolized the peaceable sufferer and martyr, of whom there had been so many in the early history of our Mennonite fellowship [in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries]. Would it cost many more? Here she felt herself quite secure (geborgen), free of the hideous molestations and accompaniment of the women of the “underworld,” the blatnie (criminals). They were, in some respects, worse than their male counterparts. A er several days of travel without particular incidents via Kharkov, Voronezh, and Pensa, we unexpectedly had to leave the train in Sysrani. It was night-time and we were taken about two

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kilometres to the stopping-place prison. That was hardly a pleasure. The severely crowded barracks-prison was exceptionally primitive and dirty. The blatnie loafed about making us feel ill at ease, but who would pay the slightest heed to our welfare or wishes? Why had we stopped here, and for how long? No one gave us an accounting. We stuck closely and alertly together. How might Frau Irene be managing? The Prison in Petropavlovsk, Siberia A er several days we were as suddenly taken back to the train station, returned to a similar special car and resumed our journey farther east, across the Volga, Slataust, the Ural Mountains to Cheliabinsk. Around midnight we came to another stop in Petropavlovsk, Siberia. Loaded down with our belongings, we were off into the dark, across the steppe, surrounded and pushed on by the convoy. A er a seemingly endless march of some three or four kilometres, we were on the verge of collapse when several structures and a high wall with a large vaulted gate suddenly loomed up before us and we were brought to a halt. A er loud knocking, the large gate facing us opened and to our surprise, instead of being commanded to enter we were greeted by a gigantic camel. Bleating without stop, the camel tro ed through the gate pulling a large cart mounted on two huge wheels and filled with rubble and garbage. Almost frightened, we drew back. Everything that would follow later regarding the prison, its administration, and its occupants would fill us equally with astonishment. We were in Asia. We were taken into the prison compound, everything without formality, and six or seven prisoners were led into each cell. In the dim candlelight, the cells, with high small peepholes through thick outer walls, resembled caves. Exhausted and without immediate further interest in our surroundings, we lay down to rest on the bare floor. Surprised that the cell was not locked and fearful that we might be robbed at night, we asked the guard to fasten the lock, but it was broken. Remarkable situation. In the morning we found the toilet and a er breakfasting on bread we had along and water, we looked over the old structure dating back to the reign of Catherine [the Great, 1762–96]. The prison had two floors and a cellar dungeon – the already-mentioned first floor with cave-like cells as well as primitive toilets, and the second with several large cells where groups of Khirghiz were peacefully drinking their tea. The dungeon was unused, its vaulted structure replete with heavy rusty shackles going back to the time when prisoners had trudged across Siberia in

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clanking chains. We were clearly advantaged, free of chains, and taken to our enslavement by rail. Yet in comparing the thousands of that time with today’s millions who had been condemned to slave labour a er forced confessions of the most heinous crimes, one had to admit that our times were by far the more barbaric. We were curious to examine more closely the cells upstairs. The aging structure was gloomy, in decay and without a trace of cleanliness, order, or oversight. In the large cells, slit-eyed Asiatic Khirgiz in velvet caps sat comfortably, or was it apathetically, on small rugs, crosslegged and stooped, drinking tea or smoking and quietly humming a tune. What could these children of nature from the desert steppes – who proudly called themselves Kazakhs – possibly have commi ed to land them here in such numbers? They were withdrawn and distrustful and hardly responded to our queries. For them we were like Russians, people they held responsible for their misery. Foolishly and brutally, the Soviets had destroyed the Khirgiz’s nomadic life, robbing them of their herds and forcing them into permanent fixed se lements and land cultivation. These nomads were neither suited nor accustomed to the crowded barracks life inflicted on them, and soon a lack of sanitation, famine, typhus, and other ills wiped out many of them. Although the Soviets later accommodated a li le the freer life of the Khirgiz, their remorseless experiment had ruined another national minority. The larger world remained ignorant of what was unfolding and no League of Nations took them under its protection, but the tragedy will one day be revealed before the Great Judge of eternity. We witnessed the persecution and decimation of the Asiatic minorities ourselves. Torn from their steppe homes and yurts, penned up in locked box cars on long trains, they had been deported in masses to various regions in the north. There, during years of unaccustomed climate and forced labour, most had perished. One gathered from their assorted dress that convict transports consisted of Khirgiz, but also of Bashkirs, Uzbeks, Sarts, Tadzhiks, and others. Later I regre ed that we had been so overwhelmed by our own misery that we had failed to learn more about their life and suffering. Yet what would happen with us now? On the second day, lined up in the prison yard, our bags loaded on a camel-cart, we were marched off, our goal a farm some 15 kilometres inland belonging to the prison and growing some of its own food. We moved out in heat and dust with 40–50 Khirgiz, happy for the change. For several days, we gathered a li le grain. The Khirgiz, who were to have dug a winter storage pit for

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potatoes and hoe potatoes, scarcely comprehended the job and were soon sent back. To Moscow A er being told that we were bound for Karaganda, Kazakhstan, and would soon have an appropriate connection, we were marched back to the prison. Then, to our surprise, we found ourselves suddenly a ached to a train heading west. Our guards were decent enough to tell us that Karaganda could not take us and we were going back to Moscow. That was not exactly depressing news since we naturally preferred a labour camp west of the Urals, preferably on the Volga Canal, a project that was just being completed. It offered be er living conditions and was closer to our families than somewhere on the Siberian or Kazakh fringes. But we had again misjudged. The total absence of human rights coupled with the instability of the Soviet system had so thoroughly degraded innocent prisoners that they were tossed back and forth in draining episodes. Cooped up in small, stifling hot, humid box car cells, among foul-smelling Kirgizians, we could neither stand up nor lie down and a week later arrived in much-lauded Moscow in deplorable health. Our li le lords postponed our disembarkation until we were finally led to the bath house and deliverance. Back to Siberia Gradually we regained our balance and anxiously waited for what would happen next. Finally we were ordered to board another train and return to Siberia. “Back to Siberia!?” We looked at one another with long faces. Again disappointed and misled, but why? With its swi ly accelerating “fixed-plan” mass deportations, the backward-and-forwardgroping, confusedly-wandering Soviet bureaucracy was clearly in over its head. On the seemingly endless stage-by-stage transports, thousands upon thousands of prisoners weakened by hunger, thirst, and dysentery had already perished. Many more would follow. Already underway for two weeks, our real “journey” was now about to begin. We grew silent. Would we survive? I was full of anguish. This time we were part of a real prison transport: in freight cars with locked doors and high, small, strongly barred windows on either side. The bedboards were at either end and in the middle of the car was a hole to one side where we could relieve ourselves without having to first beg

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permission. A er several days of waiting, the long prison train set out for the east. Our car was, thankfully, not crowded, nor were the blatnie a majority. They naturally sniffed about for booty but quickly learned that we had no food reserves and were resolved to stick together. Filip Cornies, the strongest and most determined of our foursome, warned them that we would not tolerate force or tricks and that they should behave themselves. Fortunately they were not the worst of companions. If we had been robbed of our meagre rations and other necessities, we would have been in a terrible fix. Still, the trip did not pass without pe y thievery, to which we turned a blind eye. Many hundreds of easily recognizable prisoner transports like ours, with 40–50 cars each, scores of guards and police dogs, tightly locked doors, and barred windows behind which were seen the staring faces of desolate prisoners, could be encountered throughout Siberia. Telephone lines ran the full length of the train. The cars had small iron stoves with tin-topped chimneys. When trains stopped, guards spread out along their length and several times at night tapped off the tops, bo oms, and sides of cars with sticks to prevent breakouts. When it suited our captors, usually once a day, they opened boxcar doors and handed up rations of water, bread and a half-litre of gruel for each prisoner. The stops were infrequent but then o en lasted for hours or days on end. On the long journey our train occasionally halted in larger cities where prisoners were taken to special wash and shower facilities. Such changes in routine were welcome in summer but not in the harsh winter cold. Our clean-ups came during a one-week stop in Omsk and a two-week stop in Krasnoiarsk. Otherwise our journey through endless, unpopulated Siberian expanses was monotonous and held li le interest for us. Passing through stations we o en caught sight of grey figures from nearby labour camps, suggesting that Siberia had almost become a vast prison camp. Day in and day out, the train rolled slowly east through Siberian steppes, forests, deserts, and across mountains, hills, and rivers. Apathetic and exhausted, we lay on our bedboards, incapable of talking above the ra le of the train. Days in the closed wagon remained warm and stuffy, although nights turned noticeably cooler. Fearful and uncomprehending, bystanders watched our train of misfortune pass by. We were tormented by hunger and thirst. When we rolled through rail stations, prisoners erupted in howls of, “Water, water (voda, voda). You dirty dogs are le ing us die!” If the blatnie had felt strong enough to pilfer our beggarly rations of bread and water, many of us could easily have perished.

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Prisoner transports were never hurried, freight trains invariably being given the right of way. Cooped up for three weeks, we travelled through the city of Irkutsk, numerous tunnels, and rocky embankments alongside Lake Baikal, and past the far eastern city of Chita. We finally came to a stop at the small station of Urulga, 1,500 kilometres east of Chita. The four of us, and several others including Frau Wiebe, were set down and the prison train moved on. It was 23 September 1934. Was this our destination? Who could know? In the Prison Camp “BAMLAG” “BAMLAG” was the name of an enormous camp complex along the Lake Baikal-Amur River rail line for the double tracking of the previously one-track line. We were first brought to a nearby encampment, put in a barracks, and given a few days off to “recuperate.” The food seemed be er than what we were accustomed to and although there was widespread grumbling that the soup contained ro en, stinking fish, we found it quite tasty, our piece of bread larger and be er than what we had had. Still, our housing as “politicals” was to be away from the other prisoners, isolated, in a distant, simple, guarded freight car. There we would join others like ourselves. It was another letdown. We had no freedom of movement. There was no choice and we accepted things as they came. We could demand nothing and simply had to summon up our last reserves of strength and courage and try to “earn” back our “freedom” which beckoned from a remote future. We thus took up housekeeping in an out-of-the-way freight car. As a guard stood at the door we were welcomed inside by 18 men who had been here for some time. They included a number of Volga Germans, a few educated Russians, a red army soldier, a Chinese man, and a Turkmen. All, like us, had been sentenced under the “espionage” article, were kept apart from other prisoners, and marched off to work under guard. Except for one pitiable ex-Communist, these were tolerable human beings who adapted themselves to the inevitable and managed to get along together in the confinement and misery of their cramped quarters. The starosta, or foreman, was a good-natured, sensible, and educated man named Lebedev, a former professor at the university. He represented us well in our work and externally to the camp administration. That was worthy of praise. Typically, the isolated prisoners were enormously inquisitive about our “whences and wherefors” and questioned us closely. For our part we learned that our earlier comrades [from the Dnepropetrovsk prison], A.A. Loewen, A.P. Ediger,

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H.H. Friesen, and J.J. Nickel had bunked and worked here until only a few days earlier when they had been sent farther east. This we regre ed. I thought in particular about Fr. Loewen, with whom I had become close friends in the Dnepropetrovsk prison. “You know,” he had said to me intimately when we had talked about Psalm 23, among much else, “it makes me very happy to find there the words, ‘he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.’” Weak, in despair, faltering, we o en felt abandoned. Yet God was faithful even when we were unfaithful and led us “for his name’s sake,” not because of our merit but out of His grace and mercy. As I had listened to my friend Loewen in prison, I had come to treasure him as a mature Christian whom I could believe and trust. His words had been with me since that time, o en li ing me up and giving me comfort. Where might my friend and brother be now? Work on the Rail Line Although the freight car lacked every arrangement or convenience for living and housing, and conditions were correspondingly primitive, our new comrades had no choice but to master the everyday problems in ways that would not drain their health and strength, or risk their liberation. These were principles we soon embraced as well. Moreover, it was a boon for us to realize that our comrades were far from being the worst and that the otherwise unwelcome guard standing at the door protected us from the blatnie with their dangerous moods and thievish ways. Early the following morning, under armed guard, we were marched off in closed ranks to our employment. It was several kilometres to the railway embankment where many prisoners worked. The embankment, which was being widened to accommodate a second rail, was a busy place. Some 1,000 prisoners, a huge ant heap, slaved away here with wheelbarrows, shovels, and spades. Consumed by their efforts, they swarmed up steep paths with loaded barrows and returned empty. There were no machines or horse carts to make things easier. Our group, as part of its job, was responsible for leveling the embankment, but separated from the larger mass. There was a noon break of an hour when soup and gruel were dropped off, distributed, and consumed. The work day was 10 hours. We new prisoners were in a weakened state and unable at first to meet the work norm, not that this was this demanded of us. Professor Lebedev, our

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starosta, ensured that we received our food allotment in the evening like everyone else. So long as the good autumn weather held, the work was bearable and thanks to the be er food, including a large chunk of good bread daily, we slowly recovered our strength and were soon able to pull our weight. Later, when the rain and frost set in, we suffered in our light summer clothing and footwear that we had brought along, as well as from the work. Evenings we always returned to our freight car lodgings bone tired and o en soaked from the long march home through the mud. We took our evening meal by candlelight. Seldom in the evening, however, did we find the mood or strength to talk to one another or to write to our families. Everything was so different from what we had imagined or been promised. For some time we had known nothing of the fate of Frau Irene Wiebe. She had disembarked with us and then been sent on to a farm some 10 kilometres away. This cut off our connection with her and we regretfully never met again, later even losing her trail. This was clearly a loss for her as well. We o en remembered her, this small, delicate, bashful woman, who had heroically endured separation from everything she loved and treasured, including her child. What devotion, faith, and trust in the Lord’s leading. Oh, she was for us a shining example of endurance that o en put us to shame when our hearts would falter and despair despite our good fortune at being among good comrades. Cooped up on her long Siberian journey with depraved women from the underworld, Frau Wiebe had put up with a great deal. Her car had been a ached to ours and we had sometimes overheard the ruckus in the women’s car. In one station we had seen a guard remove a badly ba ered woman from the wagon: “And women will become hyenas … and do the most savage things” – how o en did we think of those words of Schiller [in Das Lied von der Glocke]. Yet as I later learned in Canada, this diminutive, modest heroine of faith survived further years of exile when she was sent to the distant northern coal basin of Vorkuta – a place then terribly feared for its harsh climate and brutal conditions. She apparently ended up later in Karaganda, Kazakhstan, where she was lovingly cared for by her only son. Harsh Winter in Siberia Seen from the outside, our life and work in BAMLAG might seem monotonous and dull. Cut off from life’s larger bustle and flow, we were exclusively tied to the minor details of camp life and work. Our

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sphere of interest was circumscribed, having shrunk to the self-centred objective of endurance and survival. We had become almost obsessively preoccupied with that one thing, steady progress towards the goal of our forced labour – the recovery of our freedom. During the first few months of camp life, we had become accustomed to the work and our isolated quarters in the freight car. Our greatest worry was that we had not heard from our families, and did not know whether they had received the cards we had mailed bi-weekly. We were, moreover, distant from them – the sun rose six hours later there – and we had been separated for a long time from those we loved and for whom we had cared and assumed responsibility. All of us were fathers who could no longer join in the worries, interests, sufferings, and occasional joys of our wives and children. What might this mean? Since we now led separate lives, how far might we dri apart over the years of our imprisonment? Would we still need one another at the end? Would we manage to reconnect a er the long separation? During the lengthening Siberian autumn days these anguished questions sometimes weighed heavily on our minds and spirits. We also managed, thank God, to “li up our eyes to the hills” from whence came comfort and hope. Winter set in early in Siberia. Before we had suffered from rain, mud, and wind, but now it turned bi erly cold. Still, the area had li le snow and our work continued uninterruptedly. Although our li le stove was constantly being fired, o en by the guard, we suffered from the extreme cold, especially at night. Pressed tightly together, we tried to keep ourselves warm. The big Turkmen next to me, from warm Turkestan, suffered the most, shivering in his sleep. By morning our whiskers and bedding were covered with hoar frost. Li le by li le we were issued a meagre supply of clothing. For “warm” footwear we had to make due with low “shoes” woven from hemp, similar to the Russian bast shoes, the laptie. The real warmth was provided by hemp bags that we wrapped and bound around our feet and calves. Together with wool stockings lovingly provided by our wives before we had le Ukraine, we managed to get by. For underwear we were issued co onlined underpants and similar undershirts. Head coverings were of a like composition and design. Our families would have scarcely recognized us in these outfits, but they offered us protection a er a manner from the elements, and not one of us took sick or was frostbi en during that time or missed one day of work. A further circumstance worked to our advantage. It was not always easy for our bosses to find an isolated place for us as a group to work

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under guard. Nearby, however, was a large, separate, guarded-goods depot for the storage of numerous parts needed for rail construction. Such parts were unloaded on arrival and then reloaded for shipment to work camps along the line. The depot was also a storehouse of food for prisoners and other personnel. Here our group of some 20 men was set to work unloading and reloading goods. It was a hard job that demanded strength and agility, especially for the reloading of long, half-ton steel rails and many sacks of flour. Although I seemed to lack the required energy at first, practice gradually equipped me to manage what none of us had ever done before. In the centre of the depot stood a heated board shack where workers were permi ed to warm themselves. Several times a day the duty guard led our work detail into the shelter, where we gratefully unthawed our frozen limbs. Some days the temperature fell as low as 50 degrees below zero Celsius. Thus our work and scanty existence continued, unhappily but without any particular damage or incident. Christmas had again passed, distant from our families and almost unnoticed. On returning from work on Christmas Eve, 1934, most of our comrades, a er swallowing their paltry suppers, lay down to sleep. Tired and in a state of nervous exhaustion from the cold and hard work, everyone throughout the car was soon fast asleep. To ensure that everyone would receive their rations the following day, the professor sat at his small table recording the day’s work. I sensed that David Goerz, next to me, was still awake. “Do you remember that today is Christmas?” I whispered. He said nothing. Had his voice failed him? A repeated sobbing was his reply. For a long time I lay awake, thinking that somewhere in the world children and adults would be rejoicing around a candlelit tree, but in many homes there would be sorrow instead of happiness. What might our families be doing? Were they even at home? We o en heard of cases where, a er the sentencing of their husbands, wives had been exiled and their assets confiscated. This uncertainty was for us the greatest source of anxiety. Soon therea er the first le ers arrived. How happy we were, yet there was also much sorrow mixed in with the joy. Although our families were still at home and managing, with God’s help, we sensed that life had become terribly hard for them. In their poverty, the women were more than courageous, grateful that they had their children with them to share sorrows and to offer comfort. The children had lovingly enclosed a few lines for me. Diligent at school, obedient and useful at home, they helped ease their mother’s pain and longing. I was touched by their love, humbled, endlessly grateful, and comforted. All tried to

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be strong and brave. It was as difficult for my dear Lene to suggest how she was going to survive as it was for me. My father had written endearing and comforting words. He reminded me that God had promised to turn everything to our advantage if we placed our trust in every circumstance and completely in Him. Victory would go to the upright. His words moved and strengthened me. I wanted so much to continue to struggle with my needs and weaknesses and entrust the leadership of my life to our faithful Heavenly Father. We also learned that Frau Goerz had suffered mistreatment at the hands of the authorities. Before his arrest, Goerz had managed a consumer cooperative store. Authorities alleged that shortfalls had been uncovered in the inventory for which he was responsible. That was easy to allege when he was stuck in the camps and unable to prove the opposite. To make up the “damages,” officials had forced Frau Goerz to turn over to them her only cow and some furniture. Otherwise, however, she seemed buoyed up in her courage, offered comfort to her husband, and placed her trust in God. She had found employment in a hospital and would, with God’s help, bring her two young girls through, provided the authorities did not confiscate her home. My dear friend Filip Cornies, however, had more to fret over. His wife was dead and buried, his children placed with relatives and the children poured out their grief to him. How our friend suffered heroically, bearing his grief privately. We gave him sympathy, reverently, as friends. Eduard Artess seemed to suffer least. Or was this only outwardly? He was resigned to his fate, thinking his young wife, who had worked earlier, would somehow manage the challenge. My wife’s later le ers reported that she had joined the village collective and been assigned backbreaking field work that yielded a pi ance. Basically she had joined the kolkhoz out of despair over the children’s lack of milk and decent food. The children had also suffered persecution. Despite her own poor health, she had to take our youngest boy along to work. Nor had she replaced the cow that had died a year earlier. How would the family survive? This remained our worry. I was equally concerned about my parents. A er earlier being “liquidated” as kulaks and tossed out of their home, they had moved in with us. But since my arrest they had again faced new demands and, as disenfranchised persons, been compelled to undertake weeks of hard labour on a paving crew. Finally they had fled to a remote Ukrainian village. Especially painful was that this downward spiral in the fortunes of my parents and family had been played out without my counsel or help.

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The le ers I received were somewhat reassuring, but they also gave a raw edge to the longing and tragedy of our lives and le me very sad. How long would this go on? Would we survive it for five years – in Cornies’ case, ten – or might a new round of persecution destroy us before the end of my sentence? At moments of despair we prayed, “Lord, thou art our refuge for now and evermore. We thank and worship thee.” Thus had our life passed into the late spring of 1935. In the great cold, amidst deprivations, we had marched off to work under armed guard every morning and returned at night ravenously hungry to devour our piece of bread in the closeness of our “chambers.” Meanwhile we had been put back into rail construction. There, from time to time, we caught sight of the exalted “big boss” of the camp passing by on inspection, externally in every detail, the opposite of his convict workers. In his essential being, he in fact resembled the blatnie. Filling the seat of his cabriolet to overflowing with his huge and corpulent body, the NKVD chief had imperiously surveyed his domain as a despot – absolute lord of the project and the men under him. O en the work had to be interrupted to permit military transports to pass by. Every day we witnessed prisoner trains bristling with heavily armed guards and police dogs moving eastwards but never once did we see even one train with prisoners coming back. Was the east really so insatiable? What Was the “BAMLAG”? BAMLAG was a penal camp of the NKVD where prisoners undertook tasks from ordinary labour to that of the chief engineer. The acronym BAMLAG means “Baikal-Amur Camp.” It had been established in 1932 to realize two main projects. The first was to construct a new northern strategic rail line at a time of deteriorating relations with China and Japan that threatened the USSR. This new line was to run north of Lake Baikal and then across the difficult taiga, the huge unpopulated forested region of the north, to the Far Eastern port of Komsomolsk. The second project related to the existing southern one-track rail line from Irkutsk to the Far East, the only link to the Soviet Far East. It ran fairly close to the border. This line was to be double tracked. Yet this project also faced great physical obstacles, running as it did across difficult terrain, partly mountainous and partly swampy. The numerous downpours in summer and cloudbursts and typhoons from the Pacific required, on average, one bridge or water sluice for every kilometre of

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rail line. Since its origins in tsarist times, the building of the rail line had been the most costly in Russia. A few examples reflect the massive time and effort required. In many of its sections, the existing rail line ran hard along the sides of mountains and hills. Double-tracking demanded further blasting and the removal of the resulting rubble, a job that was to be accomplished without any delay in the daily passage of military trains. Before blasting, the existing track had therefore to be securely shielded. This was done with a protective covering of railway ties. A er blasting, the protective ties and rock debris would quickly be removed. Moreover, to permit work to continue through the winter, heaters were employed, not to warm prisoners, but to insulate new concrete structures. The boggy terrain was secured by driving in tree stem piles. In wintertime, the poorly clad and fed prisoners blasted solidly frozen ground before loading the rubble onto wheelbarrows and pushing it up embankments. Given the hard climate and the weak prisoners, these tasks were difficult and dangerous and o en resulted in injuries and sickness. The summer before our arrival, for instance, dysentery had laid low large numbers of prisoners. Because of an absence of medical care, thousands had perished. Perhaps one advantage of the southern double-tracking project was that work could commence, supplied and simultaneously carried out at many spots along its 2,500 kilometre length. This permi ed the use of masses of prisoners, as many as 200,000 men, according to what we were told.1 Authorities ordered that the project be finished in three years, and in the event of early completion promised worker-prisoners the prospect of substantial privileges, amnesties and rewards. In general, every day of labour was to count as two. This encouraged many honest men, spurring them on to harder work, giving them hope that would be largely disappointed later on. We too were charmed by the prospects. In our minds’ eye we could already imagine ourselves back home a er two years of work. Yet whatever the possibilities of shortening our camp time, we were bent on working hard and conscientiously as long as God gave us the health and strength to endure.

Chapter Four

Managing a Pig Farm in the European Far North, 1936–1939

Another Move Back As was true everywhere with unfree people like ourselves, one never knew what might happen next. Abruptly we were told to gather up our belongings and prepare for another move, an order not completely unexpected. Still, it le us downcast. It was in the first days of May 1935. To a man, our whole li le group was led to the rail station where we awaited a train. Whither now? Would it be west or would we be sent farther east, perhaps to the Island of Sakhalin or the Kamchatka Peninsula? It had already been rumoured that we “spies” had landed at the wrong place, far too close to the insecure Chinese border. Surely that was it. We would now be sent to a more isolated and secure place. A er the assassination of [Sergei M.] Kirov, a high Soviet functionary and Party leader in Leningrad, on 1 December 1934, controls had been tightened, even in the prison camps. Everyone was to realize that such an exalted person could not be touched with impunity. For Kirov’s death, many thousands had paid with their lives and additional hundreds of thousands with imprisonment.1 When the expected prisoner-train arrived, we were distributed among its cars and off we went – westward. Until recently, the weather had been frosty and raw and we had dragged ice into the ice cellar from the nearby Ingoda River. We departed Urulga with mixed feelings. Despite very hard conditions, we had nourished hopes for a reduction in our sentences. Yet now we were heading west and every kilometre brought us that much closer to home. We learned that we were bound for a prison camp west of the Urals, in the Pechora basin northwards to the Arctic. That was in Europe, not distant Asia, and halfway closer to

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our families – as if that meant anything. In any case, Urulga, BAMLAG, the isolated freight car, with a guard at the door in a endance around the clock, even Siberia, would long remain etched in our memories. Our journey of two weeks was this time less exhausting than before. The whole transport consisted of a “collection” of “spies” like us, no blatnie, only “political” prisoners. We were also less crowded and with three weeks provisions of salt herring and bread were free of worries about food and water. The guards were also less pig-headed, permi ing us to keep the car doors open, in violation of regulations. They seemed to trust us. More humane impulses could sometimes be found even among them. As for the prisoners, we knew one another and arranged ma ers among ourselves, even managing to recuperate a li le from our harsh labours. Feeling personally be er, we were also more of a mind to take stock of the passing scene. Immeasurable Siberia Its distances, heights, the magnitude of its natural landscapes – rivers, mountains, forests, steppes – everything impressed us with its vastness and unique, o en wild beauty. There was the stamp of the primeval, the untouched, the enormous that le a deep imprint on the serious observer. He felt himself smaller and more trifling while the majesty and grandeur of the Creator appeared larger and more intense. Urulga lay on the Ingoda river. Facing east, the Ingoda emptied into the Shilka, the Shilka into the Narym, whose waters helped carve out the massive, navigable, 3,000 kilometre-long Amur River. For 2,000 of those kilometres, the Amur is the natural boundary marking off the two separate worlds of China and Russia. In the opposite direction, westward beyond the headwaters of the Ingoda, lies the Far Eastern watershed, and even farther west the powerful Selenga River and the watershed of Lake Baikal. It is a mountainous and in places rock-ridged area. The Siberian rail line follows the Selenga closely through wildly beautiful, uninhabited, and untouched nature until it empties into Lake Baikal. From there the train track curves [northwestward] around Lake Baikal, the world’s largest and one of its most important inland seas. The lake, whose 800 kilometre north – south length and 40–80 kilometre width, is enclosed by high, wild mountainous banks. It has crystal clear waters of enormous depth that teem with fish, and steep and craggy banks that the rail line follows closely. A peculiarity of Lake Baikal is that some 300 smaller and larger rivers are said to feed it, yet only one, the Angara, manages to break through the mighty rock wall and to roar

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down mountain cliffs on its westward course. For some 500 kilometres the train meanders around a point of the lake, close to the water on one side and hemmed in by a high mountain wall on the other. The train passes through more than twenty tunnels before finally halting at a station picturesquely situated at the outflow of the Angara. This is also the port for a small number of fishing and sail boats that cruise the lake. A number of decades ago, before the rail line’s construction around southern Lake Baikal, the port was terminus for trains from the west that, in summer, were ferried across Lake Baikal to Angara on huge barges (from where they continued eastwards on the TransSiberian railway) and, in winter, were sent across the frozen lake on temporary rails. Irkutsk, close to Lake Baikal, one of the biggest and oldest administrative and garrison cities in Siberia, is a ractive with its many church steeples and large administration buildings. It is an impression partly spoiled by large white prisons and barracks dating from tsarist times that mar its outskirts. For several days we took in this “splendour” from our prison car as we awaited our turn in the bath house. Later, a er resuming our journey, we crossed the broad Enisei at Krasnoiarsk, the massive Ob at Novosibirsk, the almost equally large and impressive Irtysh at Omsk, until we finally passed over the Ishym at Petropavlovsk, the city that had briefly hosted us within its bleak prison walls. Slowly, across thousands of kilometres, we watched the mountain landscapes, fertile plains, and limitless forest regions succeed one another. We entered larger administrative centres with military garrisons, Chita, east of Baikal, later Irkutsk, Krasnoiarsk, Novosibirsk, and Omsk. The la er three were also large river ports. With their enormous grain elevators and warehouses, they provisioned the entire Siberian northland with goods and foods. A unique area of some 500 kilometres was the so-called Barabinsk Steppe, a completely flat, treeless prairie, seeded with waters and swamps and rich in bird life. Only rarely did we chance across human habitation in the form of low, small grass and earthen huts looking forlorn and helpless. Were these the hovels of exiled “kulaks”? There was no tree or bush to be seen. Then we were back in the Urals. For the fourth time our forced path took us over the mountains and Siberia was behind us. Thank God, and please, never again. The Urals at Sverdlovsk, formerly Ekaterinburg, had li le to offer the inquisitive eye, the hills low, rounded, and treed. Spring had meanwhile returned, painting meadows and forests a pleasant green, while birds and their songs restored life to winterly districts and woods. A er the cities of Perm and Viatka – both administrative

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centres of Tsarist Russia – our train turned north to Kotlas on the Northern Dvina River. There we were ordered to disembark and to proceed to the port. At anchor on the Vychegda River was a small, freshly painted steamer whose crew permi ed us to take our places on the deck. I say “permi ed” because normally prisoners were consigned to the lower deck. Our group of some 120 prisoners had won the confidence of the guards and remained on the scrubbed deck above. We imagined the joy that would have been ours had we only been simple tourists reveling in a passing landscape, the spring sun warming us and the passing se lements on our journey. If only. During the final phase of our slow three-day passage up the Vychegda River to Ust Vym, a fever began to overcast my curiosity about the scenery. We wondered, too, where exactly this varied, stageby-stage journey was taking us. We had been told it was to the Pechora camp that embraced and controlled the upper northeast corner along the Urals and the basin of the Pechora and its tributaries to the Arctic. What awaited us? Would we be freed of the perpetual armed guard? Would we four friends in misery stay together? These were important concerns, especially the la er. It, under the circumstances, seemed a vital necessity to us. A er leaving the boat in Ust-Vym we were escorted to a gathering point and given our marching orders to the north. The vast area between the White Sea and the Urals had no rail lines. We had to walk but were permi ed to stow some of our luggage on two small onehorse carts (telegi). I was by now tormented by fever but did not find the first leg difficult. We were still rested, fresh. For night we were put up in a barracks behind barbed wire where rats and bedbugs literally received us, apparently not having had “guests” for days. Along the march roads, the NKVD had sensibly built otherwise empty-standing barracks every 20–30 kilometres for prisoners to take shelter en route. This was a universal arrangement throughout the north where prisoners frequently were shi ed back and forth. The plan was for us to tramp 400 kilometres north to Chibia [later Ukhta], where the UkhtoPecherskii camp had established its new administrative centre on the Ukhta River. Ill and Separated from Friends I now became critically ill. Overnight the fever had go en worse. I was at times in a delirium. During the following two days I dragged

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myself along while my friend Cornies was at pains to help me. From time to time the escort ordered me to ride on the loaded cart. At our third night-time stop, there was a small hut next to the barracks where a supervisor lived. The escort turned me over to his care and I was put into a passable bed. The next morning my friends took leave of me, and I was alone. I watched them depart, heavy-heartedly. Would I ever see them again? There followed anxious days. What was the fever? I lay in quiet seclusion without care, one day and then another. No one bothered me. Naturally I thought more about my family and my future than I normally did. I had time to reflect, to lay my transgressions of neglect and of commission at the foot of the Cross, to strengthen my faith and trust in God’s leading in life and in death. I did not, however, want to die here in oblivion, without ever having seen my family again. A er several days – I felt very lonely – a truck came by and I had to swing myself up onto its box. A few hours later it stopped at a somewhat larger camp se lement, which had a small hospital. There I was dropped off. The doctor diagnosed malaria and treated me accordingly. I felt very miserable. Surprisingly, a er ten days the fever let up. I was permi ed to move about in the warm spring air outside and was released a er a few more days. It was now up to me, in possession of a le er of a estation, to catch up to my transport by hitching a ride with a passing truck. How remarkable. For almost two years I had had no such freedom. Despite my own frailness, I got myself together and wandered through the woods. It felt so good to be alone, without oversight, and my heart filled with thanks. Fortunately the next day I managed to hail a passing overloaded truck on which a Mongol had already taken his place. He noticed my weakness and gave me a hand up. I was grateful to be up and about so quickly and at the prospect of rejoining my friends. The road, enclosed by a thicket of desolate, shedding forests and bogs, seemed endless, and we bumped along towards Chibia for days and nights. The nights were as bright as the days and the air was mild. It was a region that would have no dark nights for months. Chibia [Ukhta] in the NKVD’s Ukhto-Pecherskii Camp We reached Chibia in one piece. The truck driver, to whom the Mongol and I had entrusted our lives, delivered us to the camp. There, in the late, quiet, and peaceful night, I sought out a distant barracks on my own. A low, disgustingly filthy board structure took me in. Sixty to

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seventy dirty people lay stretched out next to one another in the pestilential air. I resolved, instead, to spend the night outdoors in the warm summer air, wrapped in my blanket, my packsack under my head. I was registered the next morning and assigned to a “building and repair brigade,” as it was called. On the doctor’s recommendation, I was permi ed to recuperate for a few days and given a supplemental ration of a half-litre milk per day. Although it was hardly enough to restore me to strength, I was grateful. Life in the barracks was, however, intolerable. It was the domain of bedbugs, rats, and blatnie, who had the greatest freedom. My li le remaining money and few modest, but indispensable, possessions disappeared quietly already in the first days. This was irritating. Already helpless prisoners were thunderstruck and downcast when many of their companions in suffering proved to be thieving jackals. What protection was there against them when in fact we needed them desperately as friends. To have a blatnoi as an enemy was a dangerous business, a risk to one’s very life. My further concern was to be reunited with my friends. But that, to my great regret, proved impossible. I was told that my group had been sent farther north, that I should be resigned to where I had landed, and that there would be other transports later on. For the moment, I was, in any case, too weak for further travel. I chose to spend the warm, mild days outside as much as possible and felt wonderful to be able to walk anywhere, without armed escort. If this were to continue, I was sure I would find the transfer agreeable. This proved in general to be the case. There were no prohibitions on going out, no extra controls, no express precautions against “spies.” This was a great blessing. The camp, in general, made a woeful impression with its extremely primitive barracks and administration buildings. Chibia, on the other hand, the nearby, nicely planned administrative seat with its administrative buildings and residences, had been well constructed by prisoners at a new site on the beautiful river bank. It consisted of a ractive, solidly built houses – some two-storied – and a school, theatre, hotel, and clinic around a central square. All this had been thrown up by the prisoners in a few years – on the side, so to speak. UKTPECHLAG was a huge and varied camp. Soviet camps had much in common, but they also had distinguishing features depending, among much else, on their location, local climate, and the nature of their production. The Ukhta-Pechora forced labour camp produced a great variety of products over a gigantic area, using an abundance and diversity of prison-worker labour. It was a complex quite different

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in its scale and purpose from that of a BAMLAG or the Moscow-White Sea Canal camp. To spell out some of its unique features, including its administration – be er said “ruler” – is also to make clear its grotesque character that can scarcely be found in any other country. Abbreviated as UKHTPECHLAG or UPL, the Ukhta-Pechora-Camp covered hundreds of thousands of square kilometres. It was not the largest but probably the most diverse Soviet camp in its widely sca ered enterprises. The unmarked borders of the gargantuan undertaking enclosed a region extending from well beyond the Arctic Circle and the islands of the Arctic Ocean in the north to the Ural Mountains in the east and to Kotlas and places close to Archangel in the south and west. Probably most of the Samoyed Autonomous Republic lay within its limits. The camp embraced the entire basin of the Pechora River with its broad navigable tributaries of the Ishma and Ussa rivers, and many smaller rivers. In volume, the waters of the Pechora River system exceeded those of the Dnieper River.2 What plans and priorities guided the NKVD in its management of this massive undertaking? Without having direct insight into these matters, I can only surmise that the basic goal was to open up and develop a gigantic, previously undeveloped and worthless corner of the Soviet state. The press kept this quiet at the time. The camp had a strong interest in exploring for oil, as seen in the large number of wooden drill rigs sca ered across the area. Oil was indeed uncovered, in small quantities here and there, but much more significant were rich coal deposits discovered and exploited in the upper reaches of the Pechora basin and chiefly in its Ussa tributary, high above the Arctic Circle. These activities galvanized shipping in the Pechora basin and on the high seas of the Arctic Ocean. The state further took a keen interest in processing mineral waters that yielded valuable radium. Fisheries developed on the lower Pechora, where large numbers of valuable fish, such as the senga, were caught and processed. Even agriculture emerged as an activity on an experimental basis to help furnish the camps with basic foods. This was no small problem if poorly fed and vitamin-deprived prisoners were to be kept free of deadly illnesses, including scurvy, through minimal supplies of vegetables, milk, and meat. This meant bringing in ca le and equipment, clearing forests, and draining swamps. Compared to other activities, agriculture, despite considerable efforts, remained at a swaddling stage, but with good future prospects. Above the Arctic Circle the up-to 100-kilometre-wide Pechora lowlands, subject to spring flooding,

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assured a potential of huge pastures and hay land, and here slaughter ca le were profitably raised. Forests, however, had been indiscriminately cut down and were no longer very abundant. Still usable pine trees were mainly exploited for camp buildings and the structures of various enterprises. The area had more fir trees, but they were less valuable. Numerous ancillary operations such as sawmills, brickyards, charcoal kilns, shipbuilding, shipping, limestone quarries, and road building sprang up locally to support the camps. During my last year in this camp, the administration began construction of a 1,500-kilometre rail line through the UKHTPECHLAG, starting at various points. It was to stretch from Kotlas [in the west] to the coal mines of the Ussa River, and beyond to the shores of the Arctic Ocean. It was an initiative that massively raised the number of people in the camp, until then estimated to number 40,000. Completing the picture was the development of the northern city of Chibia. At the end of the only solid gravel road to the north, it tied together Ust, Vym, and Chibia and, as mentioned, was the administrative hub where all threads of the UPL came together. The supreme command organs of the NKVD camp system in Moscow processed and forwarded all orders and workers to Chibia. Again at Work As said, I was immediately assigned to a work detail. A er three days I was sent out to help with repairs, equipped only with an axe. I was still too weak to accomplish much and things could have gone badly if my kindly foreman had not made allowances for me. The day began at four in the morning when we were awakened for breakfast, consisting of a tiny dollop of porridge which my hungry stomach hardly noticed. At 4:30 a.m. we were led away to work. Except for a break around noon, it continued from 5:00 a.m.–4:30 p.m. in the a ernoon. Only then did we receive our soup, some fish, and a bread ration of 800 grams. The diet was terribly poor. The hunger and debility were the worst. Our meagre food le us weak, our faces drawn, our looks pitiable.3 Following the meal, most prisoners, now dead-tired, threw themselves down on their humble bedboards. How, I thought worriedly, would I ever recover the strength needed to do a decent day’s work? I felt unhappy and lonely. My friends were not there, having been sent ahead immediately upon their arrival. Only I had been kept back. Prisoners naturally had to put up with anything. No one took the

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slightest notice of their personal wishes and requests. Still, I heard that F.Cornies had been employed in agriculture nearby and I looked forward to meeting him. It was hard to be without a friend. Shared sorrow is half the sorrow, and shared joy double the joy – there is truth in this saying. Because of my change in residence and address there was no news from my family, nor would there be for some time. What could have happened to them over the past months? How unspeakably hard it was to live in the oppressive atmosphere of such a prison camp where people’s lower instincts erupted in crude egotism. Everything noble was driven into the background and made invisible. Individuals became wolves, making others into objects of their greed simply to survive. If you were then weak and unable to stand your ground in the covert struggle for existence, you could easily take a wrong turn and falter or, at the very least, become fearful. For the Christian, too, simple survival had become a strong test of one’s faith. It was summertime and I was permi ed to move about freely, without being fenced in by barbed wire or anything else. At night, a er finding a net against mosquitoes, I o en slept outdoors. In my spare time the freedom was equally agreeable and upli ing. On days off I would seek out the solitude of nature. Here, above all, I felt li ed somewhat out of the swamp and misery of everyday camp life and my tortured soul easily found a bond with the eternal. It was a time of praise and thanks to the “secure pole in our insecure existence,” to the Lord of all worlds who also inclined himself to the wretched and burdened soul and had promised: “I will not abandon nor neglect you … be still before the Lord.” Or I walked along the Ukhta River to revive my wounded soul and to rejoice with thanks and adoration: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, though art with me,” my Lord and Father. Support me and my family with thy strong right hand of compassion. Then I was no longer so lonely. Still, it was difficult to be without a companion and I kept a lookout for like-minded souls. Then one day about a month a er my arrival, I unexpectedly ran into Filip Cornies, a surprise and inexpressible pleasure for both of us. He had been appointed a ca le breeder several kilometres from me and was now touring the area looking for grasses suitable for use as silage for dairy ca le. He was satisfied with his work. This was an appropriate job for him, employing his expertise, even if only in a prison se ing. Cornies and I met several times more, but even knowing he was nearby comforted me. Later Cornies was transferred to a remote ca le farm on the Ishma River, a tributary of the Pechora, and since correspondence

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between prisoners was strictly forbidden, we seldom heard about one another. Moreover, he had known li le about the whereabouts of our other two friends. The Camp Workday Time and work crept slowly by. I had been put into a repair brigade that undertook all kinds of renovations as well as finishing work. I did simple tasks like sawing wood, spli ing or peeling wood strips from raw logs to nail as lathe onto walls for plastering, insulating ceiling joists of newly constructed buildings with asbestos, and so on. There were also small masonry jobs. We insulated new log buildings by forcing hemp into cracks, a task that demanded skill. O en I worked alone or with a few fellow prisoners. The work was tolerable and the brigadier or foreman did not harass or push us. In fact, I felt be er at work than in the barracks. In winter I was promoted to glazier, a position of trust. The work was hard to supervise, occurring o en at widely separated spots for short periods. It involved a diamond cu er that needed to be in secure hands. I had always tried to do my work conscientiously, something only possible when I worked by myself on specific jobs.4 Understanding the fundamentals of how the camp system functioned was essential to working in it properly and to one’s own personal survival. It is a point whose importance I can scarcely overstate. An inmate was tightly bound to the mass of other prisoners and always, whatever he did or thought, had to keep their outlook, wishes, and interests in mind. Many never learned this truth. Over the years, the survival instincts and sloth (the la er explicitly among the blatnie) of the prisoners had bred a consensus among forced labourers to quietly sabotage camp work. To scratch a prisoner was to expose this fundamental tendency. This meant that camp work norms were never met or overfulfilled. That happened only apparently, on the surface, while tricks, underhanded dealings, and fraud concealed what really was going on beneath the surface in regard both to prison labour and production. Widespread fraud was universally acknowledged and nowhere more clearly reflected than in an o en-repeated Russian camp saying popularized by the blatnie. It said: “What keeps the camp afloat is mat (cursing), blat (connections), and tuĞa (bullshit/deceiving an overseer).” For a long time I had trouble understanding this truth and its implications. Fellow prisoners considered a person who thought and behaved differently a traitor to the common cause. How could one survive in such

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a world of misrepresentation, cunning, and lies? Given the weakened physical condition of most prisoners, primitive camp conditions, and beggarly food allotments, footwear, and clothing, camp work norms were far too high and scarcely a ainable. It was hardly surprising when prisoners who had been driven to the edge of ruin plunged into the slough of widespread deception simply to secure their meagre heel of bread. It was astonishing sometimes to see the falsity and cra iness that was applied to this end. The so-called blatnie, who were not only do-nothings but dissembled on principle, surpassed all others in this regard. And woe betide anyone who was not prepared to play along with what was going on or might even be inclined to betray the whole system. Besides, if the Soviet public was perennially deceived by fictional numbers, singing the illusory triumphs of all official projects, how could prisoners be expected to behave differently? This behavioural outlook and code poisoned the atmosphere in all camps, and no one, including camp superiors, was surprised at the goings-on. I am sure the practice reached to the very pinnacle of Soviet authority, but it needed to be bridled lest it gain the upper hand. The camp and bosses a acked the “practise,” but without success. This was not surprising. Yet one might well wonder how, despite everything, a great deal had been done over time – although you should not ask at what price. As I personally witnessed, over a span of some three years, something like a city, Chibia [Ukhta], had been stamped out of this forested desert of the far north. Administration and other buildings, schools, a theatre, a hospital, a hotel, wooden houses, and other amenities – to be sure not for the use of prisoners but for people who had served their time and then accepted jobs as “free” workers or who served as special NKVD officials. There was even a stadium, with its gardens a ractively laid out along the river bank. The extent and shape of the city undoubtedly owed much to the vaulting ambitions of the Jew Moras, the camp director at the time. Dubbed “king of the camp,” he would from time to time materialize like a dark thundercloud on the horizon before swooping down and landing his plane on the river and filling everyone with terror.5 To assert himself like other Party bosses, he, too, had to build Potemkin villages. And Then “Chief Herdsman” of the Swine How exactly did this happen? However impossible it is in a prison camp to get one’s own way, it is simple and easy for one’s NKVD superior to

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do so. I must confess to the Lord’s glory that, despite everything, I had recovered somewhat. The fever had not returned and, despite continuing short rations and intolerable barracks conditions, my work in the fresh air under gentle surveillance and encouragement had done me good. Perhaps benumbed by camp conditions or because of relief at hearing from my family again, my soul had gradually found peace. More importantly, I had discovered several German friends. One in particular, whom I unfortunately met too infrequently, was a Lutheran Pastor Wi e from Crimea. He became a spiritual father and adviser to me. Our hours and conversations together strengthened my faith, and became a source of great edification and blessing for me. His words that a Christian had to suffer tribulation to grow, to become stronger, and to enter the Kingdom of God, were truths that, confirmed by Holy Scripture, were to become a lasting blessing for me. Three-quarters of a year had passed since departing BAMLAG with its quite different circumstances. Christmas and New Year’s had gone unmarked, but not without causing sadness and pain among a few prisoners. Then, at the start of 1936, a er serving more than two years of my sentence, I suddenly received an order that, in many regards, would change the direction of my life for the following years. My NKVD nachalnik (boss), a tolerably reasonable and humane individual seldom found in the prison camps, was transferred to a nearby farm. I really had li le to complain about my work as glazier, having successfully cut and installed panes in many windows, but my rations had fallen dangerously. It was an experimental farm but also provided some food for the camp to relieve food shortages. It also bred different kinds of domestic livestock. The precariousness of livestock breeding in the north was obviously linked to challenges of climate and finding fodder. For instance, every nachalnik appreciated that his responsibility for a head of ca le far exceeded that for a prison worker. Equally, every livestock a endant knew that every act of negligence or carelessness in tending the animals, not to speak of the or other loss, would be severely punished. A nachalnik therefore tried to find workers whom he could count on to scrupulously care for their animal charges and thus reduce his obligation and risk. In February 1936 I was transferred into agriculture, to the Ukhta Soviet State Farm (sovkhoz) on the Ukhta River. To be honest, I was happy at the move. There, it seemed to me, I would encounter a more familiar environment, be er air, more space, and, perhaps most importantly,

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given the hard reality of camp life, more and be er food.6 It was an enterprise that raised potatoes and all sorts of other vegetables and bred cows, pigs, and chickens. When I reported to the boss – whom I knew from Chibia – he greeted me cheerfully. “You will assume responsibility for overseeing the pig operation,” he said. I was beside myself with worry. But dared I resist? I tried to voice my reservations but they hardly convinced him. What decided the ma er was a firm promise that he would not neglect our enterprise, take every request and proposal I made regarding the work and animals seriously, and back me up in every difficulty. “Then, in God’s name, let me begin.” With this thought, I faint heartedly took up my new work. At this point the informed reader might well say, “So, you became a pig breeder. Fine, but please, spare us the details. It is hardly an exotic art.” But that would be faulty reasoning. It would make sense only if I had been able to pursue the work in “freedom,” not in the north, or in a prison camp, or as an experimental undertaking – all of which turned everything on its head. Here every trifle, oversight, and blunder could become a stumbling block, bringing a person seriously to fall. But the most risky side of the business was that the relatively large number of swine required many assistants who had to pay close a ention to detail and exercise great caution in every facet of the breeding and care operation. In my long imprisonment I had become used to taking every step under direction and guard, to being dependent on others. Now I was expected to take initiatives and assume great responsibility for others. This meant providing the lead with energy and independent thought and giving direction to my comrades. With many an upward glance and the Lord’s help, I had somehow to overcome every obstacle. Yet God helps the courageous. In my work breeding pigs I encountered much that was varied and interesting, but also huge problems, some threatening to my life. Nevertheless, I lasted in the job for three years, until the end of my term, and in honour, while others were fired and charged with wrongdoings. That I was able to persevere in this way, and as a “spy,” without a fall that could arise from incaution or ignorance, while others were immediately sent farther north beyond the polar circle, was a miracle of preservation. Therefore to Him alone be the glory. Camp life remained typically what it was everywhere, an uncomfortable, primitive, and unhygienic existence in cramped quarters, made considerably more miserable by the presence of thieving blatnie.

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In crude and unpretentious barracks, kitchens, and offices, prisoners lingered on as a mass of grey and resigned human beings. Yet it was agriculture that defined the character of this enterprise, and that pleased me very much. As mentioned ca le breeding in the north was at the experimental stage. All kinds of plans had been made and a group of imprisoned professors charged with the study of all issues relating to the enterprise. Indeed the most important problem in animal breeding related to the fodder supply. Most fodder was brought in from the south and since transportation was normally by barge along rivers in the ice-free season, bo lenecks o en developed that could have baleful consequences. This was true for all kinds of livestock but was especially dangerous for pigs. The task of the swine operation was to breed as many piglets as possible. Some were kept for breeding, the others sent to various camps for slaughter. The facilities were not exactly ideal but they were more than adequate. Two barns next to one another, one for sows with around thirty pens, and the other for the piglets, were spacious and equipped with stoves, fodder kitchens, good ventilation, and generous runs. Visually, the barns dominated the farm. One large barn housed 30–40 cows, a larger barn 60–70 horses, and off to the side were the large barns for the pigs. Barns for chickens, ducks, geese, and rabbits lay a few kilometres away along the river. In their insufficiency, the administrative office and prisoners’ barracks vanished into the surroundings. The administration was not stingy in providing workers. This was of course necessary but workers were o en also quite inadequate and bone-lazy, this at a time when what was needed was a clear focus, feelings of obligation, and genuine understanding on their part. What gave me the greatest doubt were my closest fellow workers, some six to seven men and women. My nachalnik told me to report any I found inadequate and authorized me to select suitable colleagues from the farm’s worker complement. The rest of the operation made a reasonable impression. Exemplary cleanliness in the barns was fostered through the use of coarse and moist sawdust bedding and frequent manuring. Medical service was provided by a German veterinarian who filled me with satisfaction and a renewed joy in creation. Although my own knowledge of pig breeding at first scarcely exceeded that of a competent Mennonite farmer, I was assured that my main task was to closely supervise the workers and imbue them with feelings of obligation. At the time, I could not of course foresee the many obstacles that might cause me to stumble and fall.

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A New Test Thus began a new chapter in my prison life. I still hoped to shorten my prison term through diligent work. For several months I had fitted myself into the job and was happy with the results. They had been quiet months in the winter and early spring. To be sure, there was a shortage of fodder to worry about. The sows had started birthing in early April and the cycle was now in full swing, demanding everyone’s a ention. The staff tried to do their best and I worked around the clock, never leaving the barns. Then unexpectedly, I suddenly came down with erysipelas, a facial rash, and was taken to a distant hospital. The fierce and unrelenting illness came as a complete surprise, and I ended up with a high fever, in a delirium, and for a week hovered between life and death. A er a further three weeks of wretched care and inadequate food, I felt somewhat restored. During my illness I had fervently prayed that God’s will might be done, but nothing could equal my dread at dying alone, without seeing my family or without them knowing about my fate. I thought longingly of my orphaned children and suffering wife. In their lopsided writing, the children’s notes breathed love and longing: My li le Heini had movingly wri en to me, “Papa, I will never forget you. Come home soon. We pray for you. Will you buy me skates? All the boys skate on the Middle Street. I can’t.” Poor, dear Erika, my daughter. She had drawn a garland for me and inscribed it with, “See, I proclaim news of great joy … Aufwiedersehen.”7 She informed me that the school principal had barred her and Heini from the warm breakfast program because of me. Still, both were keen to study and do well. Lene, my darling wife, voiced no complaints, but I knew that her job in the kolkhoz provided the family with nothing but scraps. She tried to comfort me with a hymn: Hope, poor soul, hope and be undismayed, God will draw you out of the pit of sadness, where despair envelops you, Only await the time ...

My aged father sent me words of comfort. “You cannot be a Christian without a cross,” he wrote. “Do not complain. Clothe your soul in patience, the Lord will look a er you.” I recognized how deeply and painfully he had been touched by my fate.

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This I had only recently, for the first time in the Pechora camp, learned in a le er from my family. It had given me courage and strength to work, to endure, and to survive. Now as I lay on my sick- or even deathbed, my situation was crystal clear. I begged, “No Lord, do not let me die here alone and forgo en. The family you have given me anxiously awaits my return. I want to repay their love.” Thus my soul sighed again and again. But my surrender was not quite unconditional, not a “Lord, as thou wilt.” This was weakness on my part, short-sightedness, not other-worldliness. But was it wrong? I had no one to advise me, no Scripture to consult, no friend to correct me: “Whoever loves father or mother or wife or child more than Me is not worthy of Me.” Yet the Lord indulged my human weakness and again helped me to recover. It was a further two weeks until my release from hospital. Then I was placed in a rehabilitation brigade. Meanwhile, I had almost forgo en my job and would gladly have le it permanently. My nachalnik, however, asked me to return. The incumbent happily vacated his post, pleased to be rid of the many problems that had meanwhile arisen. The enterprise had grown. There were many more piglets than the year before and the pens could no longer adequately shelter the extra sows. Still, it was no easy thing to resume work at the “height of the season,” so to speak. The biggest problem was that many more piglets were dying. The veterinarians blamed the crisis on congenital anaemia, but there were also lots of new workers, many with no experience in the field. Should I now plunge into this mess, head over heels, at a time when my mind and memory were still shaky? Yet how could I say “no” when my nachalnik said “yes.” It had to be done. Further complicating and confusing the situation was the advice of a group of professors and veterinarians, many in a endance, who made my head hot with their endless proposals. The easiest thing would have been to blame failures and abuses on the negligence or malice of the overseer. I had reason to fear. A Fateful Accident In the crush of work an incident arose that could easily have had dire consequences for me and my loved ones. It was high summer, with warm days, the sun shining down almost around the clock. It was that three-month interval without nights. Two shi s were hard at work throughout all branches of the farm. Planting was being rushed to promote rapid growth and early harvests. The warm and bright days and

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nights were also good for my work. Pens for the sows and their progeny had been installed in the area around the barns. Around 400 piglets filled the enclosures and were driven out to pasture in groups. Yet one day a sow disappeared. Piglets had been stolen before and I was told to adopt preventive measures to keep this from happening again. It was still summer, warm, almost 24 hours of light a day and lots of workers on duty who had a commanding view of the surrounding terrain. A endants hovered over their sows in the barn and yet a pregnant sow had vanished. How could that be? A search by smaller groups and then numbers of workers began nearby, continuing day and night, but without turning up a thing. The nachalnik ordered that the search be broadened. We hunted everywhere for kilometres around, behind every bush, in ditches, across fields and meadows, yet without success, no trace, no remains, not even of slaughter pork in the camp or neighbourhood. One could have despaired. My nachalnik was out of sorts. His praises would hardly be sung. But the worst was what they might lay at my doorstep – negligence, indifference, even sabotage. I had a er all been sentenced as a “spy,” a “counter-revolutionary,” no run-of-the-mill felon. I could count on a harsh sentence with imprisonment in an NKVD prison. I had already heard more than enough about the “prison within a prison.” I could bury my dream of freedom and would never again see my family or the free world. The ma er weighed on my spirit. My sighs and prayers rose up to heaven. Yet how could I be helped? Everyone recognized the danger in my situation. The nachalnik put off reporting the incident from day to day – he must have pitied me, knowing too well what I could expect. On the eleventh day, a er every hope and prospect for a favourable outcome had disappeared, the missing pig suddenly stood next to me. No one had seen where it had come from. I was shocked at its appearance, like a specter. Seemingly guilt-ridden, modest, still grunting, it looked up at me as though to say, “Well, aren’t you happy to see me?” It had always been a tame animal, easy to pet. My feelings ran high. I felt like taking it in my arms, dirty and emaciated, almost unrecognizable, and hugging it. Co-workers puzzled over where it had been or where it had le its piglets. I was sure it had snuck off to give birth. That it was without progeny and had returned intact, and had not long since been turned into roast pork and other delicacies – this was and remained a mystery. I saw it as a miracle of God’s help at a time of extreme danger and for a long time I was filled with gratitude and

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courage to resume the struggle with problems, failures, and the misery of camp life. Lord God, you are my refuge day by day. Preservation Life in the camps had peculiarities unique to their productive activities. Our agricultural enterprise, for instance, needed much labour. It had only a few hundred hectares of arable land, but that was being enlarged. This required workers to clear bush, drain swamps, and construct hothouses and large heated cellars to store vegetables. Workers were further needed to substitute for the lack of labour-saving devices, as well as to herd ca le and discharge every other regular task. Finally, the short northern season for growing vegetables, cu ing hay along river banks and birch branches in large areas around the camp required a concentration of additional workers in summer. Normally the farm had several hundred workers. That number almost doubled in summertime. At least half were women. It is understandable that the camp-atmosphere in and of itself, combined with the brutal exile of inmates into the camps, their marginal existence, desolate housing, and o en hopelessly coercive treatment, reduced them to a condition of extreme passivity – “a vegetative existence.” Since morals throughout the Soviet Union had already been at a low ebb for a long time, what could one expect of prisoners who felt themselves disconnected from every moral constraint and sense of responsibility that had been present in their previous lives? Camp life for otherwise halfway decent people, both men and women, thus became a kind of le ing oneself go, a descent into the sordid, the depraved, a reveling in outer and inner depravity. This was the order of the day. The blatnie, these men and women from the so-called underworld, gave leadership to the coarsest depravity. The camp administration saw to it that there was no alcohol in the camps and prohibited relations between the sexes, especially open cohabitation. The la er proscription, however, was not critical and was rarely enforced, nor could it be when officials themselves lived immoral lives. Here, where numerous women came together, many from earlier lives of promiscuity, and shamelessly gave themselves to the men, the camp had turned into a slough of depravity. I o en watched in disgust as seemingly respectable fathers, men who had wanted to live upright lives, yielded shamelessly. Many prisoners found it self-evident to live together and talked openly about having a “camp wife” or a “camp

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husband.” Solicitations were openly carried on by people of both sexes. It was hardly a reef that many men and women choose to circumnavigate. The morally strong and the Christians were also subject to such temptations, and the prayer, “Lord, deliver me from evil,” was hardly an idle plea. I, for my part, saw my marriage and family as a sacred trust. In a barren world, they were my heart’s treasure. My wife and children were the objects of my love, longing and concern. Because of me they had been thrust into the whirlpool. From afar they longed for me, stood loyally by me, remembered me, and fought bravely to survive into a be er, more joyful time. Should I repay them with betrayal? With strength from on high I remained steadfast and was able to keep intact our marriage and family life. Be sober, be vigilant because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour. Amidst much work and danger, the year 1936 had thus ended. Despite numerous cares, troubles and fears, and illnesses resulting in the death of large numbers of suckling pigs, the year had closed with significant achievements in my operation. A er distribution centres had received their allo ed piglets, the barns remained full to overflowing. A viable livestock program in the far north depended, among much else, on a proper fodder supply, especially for young stock. We projected a complement of seventy birthing sows for the coming year. My life was crowded with work. I had mastered the finer points of hog rearing, and adjusted reasonably well to dealing with staff, but the risks of my position still hung like a sword over me. I was and remained a counterrevolutionary, a spy, the worst kind of criminal. Every misstep would be counted more strongly against me than against a normal criminal. It was a time when inmates in my category were o en gathered up and shipped 1,000 kilometres north to feared Vorkuta. Miraculously, I was permi ed to stay. By now I had served three years of my time. Time off Work Because of my work and partly advantaged position, my captivity felt a li le less like a prison. Although my movements were generally unrestricted, which I appreciated, I rarely had Sundays off because of work. My greatest joy were le ers from the family that arrived still too infrequently but more regularly than before. They were full of love, comfort and affection, filling me with thanks to God and those he had given me. For an hour or two I would then escape across the river into

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the nearby forest to enjoy my devotions and prayer. In the solitude I was not a prisoner. Squirrels glided noiselessly from tree to tree, and a bird from somewhere called to another. Otherwise, there reigned only peace and silence. I recalled familiar hymns and sang them loudly and undisturbed in worship and adoration. I looked forward to these times. My heart filled with longing, but I was also anxious over my fate and that of my family, their protection and survival. The le ers breathed worry, grief, and pain: My wife and children had to deal with all the questions of existence on their own. My parents were no longer with them, Soviet bullying having forced them to flee to a far-away Ukrainian village. “If only you could come back soon. Will your job shorten your sentence?” my wife sighed. “Papa, how much longer?” the children asked. “At school we’re again ge ing free breakfast for hard work and good conduct,” Erika wrote me proudly. They, the darling children, tried to relieve their mother’s lot and li up their father’s heart. 1937: A Difficult Year At work I continued to enjoy the support of my superiors, but the risks of my job were as great as ever. How easy to blame me for bo lenecks, obstructions, and failures. With limited barn space and a frequent change of personnel – people unfamiliar with tasks and interested chiefly in warm quarters and light work – my responsibilities remained heavy and my work difficult and joyless. I had, moreover, come down with a serious physical condition: rheumatoid arthritis. The greatest threat, however, was the sharp change in direction taken that year – orders from “on high” – in the treatment of prisoners, especially of “politicals.” There were significant departures with far-reaching consequences. At the top, Stalin engaged in a sweeping “purge of hostile traitorous elements” that eliminated marshals, generals, the War Minister Tuchachevsky, and other ministers, plus the NKVD head, Iagoda, the feared stalker of men. These senior figures were condemned to death in show trials that triggered a surge of persecution that reached deep into the prison camps. The results belied the old saying, “When the lords quarrel, the servants celebrate.” In Soviet Russia “servants” trembled, worrying, “What will happen to us now?” Yezhov, the new head of the NKVD, cut the rights of camp inmates back to an absolute minimum. He also ordered all barracks enclosed within high barbed wire fences, or, given the scarcity of barbed wire, behind dense three metre high picket fences that looked like fortresses. Guards manned watchtowers

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at each corner, ensuring that no one could roam freely. Prisoners in forests and fields were henceforth to work under guard and rigid control, around the clock. Every prisoner found the changes idiotic and inexplicable. Our widely dispersed camp complexes were buried deep in forest wildernesses, remote from the world. Infrequently did anyone try to escape. Those who did were invariably caught and returned. To enclose such camps at huge cost in timber and labour was the folly and brutality of a lo y despot and an annoyance and added affliction for prisoners. Camp inmates were now denied the rare privilege of wandering out in God’s nature, or even viewing it, seeing only high stockades and prison walls wherever they looked. Later, the “most dangerous” counter-revolutionaries, traitors, enemies of the people, and spies were subjected to sharper isolation and control. A er their cases were reviewed, they were sorted into groups and, as mentioned, sent deeper into the Arctic. When would it be my turn? The promised early-release program for counter-revolutionary prisoners was also canceled, and the planned colonization program for prisoners was never mentioned again. The la er had been a project to enable prisoners – including political prisoners – with records of good work and behaviour to earn the status of free labourers before the end of their sentences. Transferred for a specified period to northern regions, with government permission and support, joined by their families, they would have received housing. The projected program particularly interested political prisoners with only slender hopes of securing honourable work in former places of residence. Some of us had toyed with this possibility ourselves, but it had now been shelved. Finally, many at the end of their terms were rearrested and resentenced. All this weighed heavily on my mind and spirit. To add to my woes, I had not heard from my family for months. Had they lost the courage to write? Had the struggle for survival worsened? Had they been exiled themselves? We knew that the new NKVD tyrants at the top would stop at nothing. I did not yet know that thousands of German men and women back home had already been arrested. Brutally without explanation, they had been seized at places of work or barefooted in summer clothes on fields, loaded onto trucks and carted away, without anyone telling their families. Or they had been apprehended in beds at night, never to be heard from or seen again. It was a frightful time.8 A new cloud of affliction se led over the Soviet Union, especially over its German-speaking members, including

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our Mennonite community. Much blood again flowed. Prison camps were soon full to overflowing and new ones sprang up. Evil did what it liked and Satan and his brood celebrated triumphs. Much that was happening was far away and I knew li le about it. Yet I felt heavily burdened. The future looked dark, without hope. Phantoms of destruction were being set loose in our already dismal reality. “Lord God, thou art my refuge now and forever more,” my grieving soul sighed. Lord, do you still hold everything in your strong hand? Do you wish the destruction of mankind? Keep me from wavering and growing weak in faith. I longed for the comfort of His Word and grieved the loss of my Bible. How would my faith survive further trials and futile prayers? My sole hope had seemed to be my family, a beckoning star that had now seemingly been snuffed out as well. There was “only” about a year le in my sentence. My doubting perception was naturally a wrong against God. My wife later quoted the opening lines of a well-known hymn to me: Star on which I ponder, Rock on which I stand, Guide with whom I wander, Cane that holds my hand.

The words shamed and comforted me. I recalled the words of our Lord: “Whosoever loves his father, or mother, or wife, or child more than Me is not worthy of Me.” To live by this rule would demand a titanic personal struggle. Despite the miseries of my life I remained the same weak and earthbound creature, something that caused me greater anguish than my rheumatism. Freedom in Sight? 1938 Externally the year 1938 proceeded in the same bleak, desolate atmosphere. My work was overcast by deteriorating health for which there was no local treatment. What if I were set free in this state, or one even worse? What would my family do with a crippled father? I tried to do my work. A request I made to my nachalnik for hospital leave and treatment remained fruitless. I heard li le about my former comrades, even where they were. Then came a painful surprise: I heard that my good friend Filip Cornies had been locked up in an isolation unit a few

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kilometres away. I was dismayed. How could that be? It pained me for my friend. Was there anything I could do to support him, to help? My inquiries revealed that he had been accused of sabotage. I talked to experts, doctors, and professors, all of whom had investigated the case at his distant place of work. They were convinced of his innocence, yet he remained under investigation by the so-called Third Section. A culprit needed to be found. Prison within a prison, the isolation unit was a horror for all prisoners. Even the most callous blatnoi feared the slightest connection with the place. My friend had already spent months in hideous captivity. The charges? He had directed and overseen a small, youngstock-raising farm, at some distance from our camp. In spring, when the animals were first put out onto pasture some twenty head had died, prey to an unknown noxious weed. These were the conclusions of experts. Yet Cornies’ prospects were hardly rosy. How would he stand up to a likely sentence of ten more years? Still, his fate lay in God’s hands. My soul pleaded, “Do not let my dear friend be disgraced in his faith.” This was the last year of my sentence. Would I survive it intact? Might the treachery inflicted on many at my stage await me too? A er the busy season, I was ordered transferred to a smaller farm close to the hospital to undergo treatment. I was pleased, all the more so since I had recently again been in touch with my family. They were still at home and working to get ahead. It was summer and Erika and Heinz were busy at part-time tasks in the kolkhoz, where my wife also worked. Erika, the dear child, had lain sick with scarlet fever in the hospital for weeks, certainly at death’s door, and I had known nothing about it. I longed to see them again, and in good health. Would our gracious Lord hear my prayers and let me recover? At the farm to which I had been transferred, I had the same supervisory duties as before, only on a smaller scale, while I received outpatient care on the side. I took leave of my co-workers with mixed feelings. A number had been with me for the entire three years of my stay at Chibia, sharing the yoke, some even conscientiously. The time represented a large part of my suffering. It was where I had encountered the good and the bad, and survived many dangers – all of which I would remember forever. I shook hands with my boss. He had entrusted me with the duties and work of my position. Under his protection and care I had emerged unscathed. In human terms, I could even speak of my good fortune at having dodged serious perils waiting for me in ambush. It was in

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elevated spirits that I entered the new, unfamiliar camp, hoping, above all, to get a li le be er before my release. But my release, as I would soon learn, was still a long way off. Freedom in Question? A er starting my new job and moving into quarters in a large tent, I went to see the doctor at the nearby hospital. He agreed to take me on as his patient. Fall had arrived with cold, rainy days that did not contribute to my recovery. Nor did the housing. The tent was riddled with holes through which I could see the stars at night. It was a typical camp experience – the erection of barns of modern design while prisoners endured living in ta ered tents and decrepit barracks that were ready to collapse under the weight of the snow. The heating was quixotic, terribly hot or terribly cold, the la er o en at night. There were, thankfully, no problems at work. It was a decent pig farm and I found lots of understanding and experience within the small staff. At any other time, I would have liked the work, but the date of my scheduled release, 22 November 1938, was drawing near. In fact, I became depressed because my therapy seemed fruitless and my release uncertain. Strange things seemed afoot. Would I even be released? Might my sentence be dragged out, as was happening in similar cases? Release dates were simply being ignored. This had not happened before. As I worriedly remembered my arrest five years earlier, my work lost its allure. Then, to my despair, the fi h anniversary of my arrest came and went and nothing happened. Nothing at all. Just as the most longed-for-day in my life had for years slowly moved closer like a far-away star, shedding light and warmth, so had it now as suddenly vanished. Was I fated to accept this outcome silently? Would nothing happen? Would I have to continue my life in prison without explanation? Far away my family anxiously awaited my arrival. But be er, I thought, to be kept here in the dark without a new sentence than to bury all hope. Work filled me with weariness. Emptiness threatened to overtake my soul. The question of my future seemed impenetrable, with something monstrous almost certainly lurking behind it. I could learn nothing about my friends and Cornies was still in the isolation unit. The la er was reportedly crowded. Where was all this leading? At our arrival in camp there had been talk of early release for good work and conduct – and I had even received a certificate of commendation for my work. Now, at the “end” there was even uncertainty about my release.

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Melancholy enveloped my soul. Lord, God of my life, hast thou abandoned me? Will the desert of this existence continue without end? Did you not promise,“I will embrace you in great mercy?” Lord strengthen my weak faith and let my trust not be put to shame. I thought of Jeremiah, the great man of God who at the time of his own and Israel’s distress had accusingly poured out his troubles, saying: “I am a man of woe who must witness the rod of thy fury.” Winter came early with hard frost and much snow. The sun disappeared for months. The snow rippled lightly down, day in day out, layer upon layer, white and so on fields, forests and roofs, without quite covering the earth’s misery and pain. Work in the woods became an agony. In the dark, weary men and women listlessly le their barracks early in the morning and dragged themselves back home late at night. Despite their greatest efforts, prisoners could not meet their work norms. Life in the tents had its own miseries. With erratic heating, the tents cooled quickly. With dra y doors and leaky tent walls we could not dry out our clothes, despite our efforts to heap snow around the tent to a man’s height, and inmates preferred staying in the barns. In general, the care and housing for animals was far be er than that for prisoners. A er such dark and empty days, I o en stepped out of the tent at night to enjoy the sparkling, star-lit sky. Soon the northern lights appeared, far exceeding human imagination in the variety and speed with which their majestic pictures and forms came into view and changed. I was transfixed by the eerie alteration in their shapes and colours, first spreading menacingly across half the heaven and then dissolving into lightning flashes along the horizon. Tense and trembling from the frost, I watched this wonder, feeling small and unworthy and almost forgetting myself. Here was the creation of an almighty and all-knowing God. Who is man that thou dost heed him? Yet He had repeatedly reached down to us and in His grandeur, through a prophet, promising us that “Even if a mother were to forget her child I will not forget you.” Chilled and overwhelmed by feelings of trust, I crept back to my bedboards and under the covers. For me the northern lights became a symbol of God’s power and glory that reigned over our suffering world. And I knew that one day He would end that suffering forever. Freedom Anyway The days of gloomy winter continued to slip by. December was coming to an end. Christmas – that scorned celebration in the land of the

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Soviets – and much more the fact of the birth of the Saviour of the world, approached almost without notice. Somewhere in huts and palaces it would be celebrated with joy and gratitude. What would my family do? It was our sixth Christmas apart. There was li le for us to be happy about, having fruitlessly expected my return for Christmas. Nor would I be home for New Year’s. I prayed but doubted that my earth-bound soul would pass the test of faith and of trust. Then suddenly we heard rumours that the NKVD head, Yezhov, the monster by Stalin’s grace, had been dismissed and replaced by a certain Beria, and that many things would now change. The la er had supposedly been told to right his predecessor’s wrongs commi ed through zealous “over-administration.”9 Such rumours constantly circulated in the camps. Not surprisingly, many prisoners were receptive to them but most were sceptical. In this case, however, they were true. The year had come to an end. On New Year’s Day I had again put together a few lines of love, comfort, and hope for my family. The next evening, 2 January 1939, a messenger delivered a message that I should appear at the personnel office the next morning. My friends were beside themselves with good wishes. It seemed unbelievable to me. Perhaps it was a new sentence, I thought, my soul in turmoil. Too o en had I felt abandoned. But when I appeared at the office, I had difficulty grasping what was happening when an official, without much fuss, handed me my release papers. It seemed so improbable that for a long time I had difficulty in conjuring up the long-anticipated happiness. I was still in shock and quite helpless. But if I was really free, I faced a huge task and needed to make plans. My nachalnik gave me a push. “Gather up your things and get out of here,” he said. That was easier said than done. How was I to leave this remote corner of the world in wintertime, with so much snow? It was an especially risky business for me with my rheumatism. I had to get busy, figure out a way to travel, and transfer my job to others. Then one evening I found myself on the back of an open truck, crouched down with other discharged prisoners, jolting southward, homeward bound. We pulled a piece of tent canvas over our heads against the biting cold. Were we really going home? Unbelievable. Although I was finally en route, virtually in sight of what I had suffered and prayed for, I had difficulty finding an inner joy. Perhaps it was a delusion, a distant mirage that someone, somewhere would simply blow away. I also felt guilty, as though I were betraying my comrades-in-suffering, who were staying behind and watched me leave, longingly and troubled. I had

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bid many of them a hearty farewell. Smiling wistfully, they had congratulated me and wished me a good trip. Camp People and their Fate Over the years in the gulag I had go en to know a multi-hued cast of individuals with varied a ributes, professions, and education. They were of assorted nationalities, old and young, base and noble, priests, robbers, murderers, politicians, Party comrades. All had been plunged into the same deep abyss. Many did nothing to keep themselves from sinking morally, abandoning their human dignity without a qualm. Others, a much smaller group of high-minded and glorious human beings, conducted themselves honourably throughout their afflictions. Still others, who before their imprisonment had experienced li le of the wider world, found it impossible to navigate their way through the confusing range of people in the camps with their individual dispositions and faults. Such people were inclined to nurse a perpetual mistrust of their neighbours, as if to say, “How can I possibly know the particular ‘category’ to which you belong?” I o en think of my faithful friend and companion Gustav Wall, an older farmer and Mennonite from the Trakt Se lement, whom I had known at the first camp. Like me, he had been torn from his wife and children. A simple and quiet man of deep faith, he had great need of religious conversation and took much pleasure in leaning on me for Christian support. His faith and bearing, deepened by a difficult life, had been bu ressed by le ers from his wife. In one she had quoted words of Scripture, “Remain faithful unto death and yours shall be the Kingdom of God.” These words Wall had personally inscribed in my ta ered notebook, “Verses of Comfort [in the Desert].”10 For a long time his job was to drive a horse-drawn wagon. Regularly he dropped by for a few minutes at the end of the day. His wife, a believing, pious woman, wrote him upli ing and consoling le ers that he read to me. He was so -hearted, sensitive and, ironically, looked to me, the faint-hearted one, for strength. We o en edified one another and his intense sadness at my departure aroused my pity. How he longed to see his home and family again, but he is said to have died alone, before the end of his imprisonment. May the Lord grant him a reunion in glory with his loved ones and also with me. I made the acquaintance of other Mennonites in the camps, but did not get close to many. Things in the prison camp were quite different

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from what they had been outside. There was, for example, a certain Peter Joh. Peters from Gruenfeld, former chairman of the Gruenfeld branch of the Menno Verband (Verband Buerger Hollaendischer Herkun ) [in the 1920s]. An accomplished and much respected leader, strongly committed to the public weal at the time, we had known one another as colleagues. His family had been deported to Tagil in the Northern Urals. As a political prisoner in camp, however, he had grown quiet and mistrustful, even of me, and side-stepped every intimacy – understandably so as not to risk having a “bonus” added to his sentence. This was not surprising. There was also Aaron Quapp, a sincere young man from the Memrik [Mennonite Se lement] who, a er losing his father to the NKVD, lived with a heart filled with love and longing for his mother, brothers, and sisters in the village. For a time we bunked together in the same room. More open to me than the others, he took his leave from me when I le with a heavy heart. I promised to write to his mother. Also remaining in camp at the time of my departure was a Mierau from Spat or Karassan in the Crimea and two Peters brothers from the Trakt [Mennonite Se lement]. Then there was Aron Riediger, a fellow Mennonite from Lindenau in the Molochna Se lement. Somewhere in the vast camp system were also my friends, my comrades-in-suffering from the first years. I never learned what happened to any of them, with the exception of my good friend Filip Cornies. There were other Mennonites as well, but I was intimate with none of them. All seemed somehow to have withdrawn into their shells. Among the Germans was a pastor by the name of Wi , from Crimea, whom I got to know in passing. A noble and devout man who never hesitated to make known his beliefs, he fed me many a precious spiritual morsel. What a blessing it was to hear him quote to me the comforting words of the Prophet Jeremiah: “I have le you for a moment, and led you into the desert. With great compassion and mercy, I will lead you out again.” Unfortunately I only had the privilege of knowing him briefly. He was released before the expiry of my term and is reported to have been arrested again and to have died in prison. Honour to his name. Then there was Widemann, an elderly farmer long se led in the German Volga region. A quiet, faithful, Christian man, he worked conscientiously and faithfully during the period of my responsibilities on the pig farm. He was also headstrong. Things should be done as he did them, he thought. That was not always the best. An upright but stiff

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individual, one could count on him. Already in 1930, he and his family had been “liquidated as kulaks” and, with other families, deported to the remote Komi Republic. On a slow, arduous rail journey, they had been sent north to Kotlas on the Northern Dvina River, the last station into the area at the time. Loaded onto trucks, they were driven deep into the forests and dropped off beside a small stream with spades and axes and a small, pitiful barracks that could impossibly house all of them. Their lot was to se le in and carve out a living for themselves. The rain and cold sent shivers down their backs. Things looked desolate, with children dying and mothers weeping, but the families rose to the challenge. They used axes to throw up one primitive dwelling a er the next, until every family had at least a room to themselves. The exiles cleared forests and dug out eyes from potatoes to plant in summer for food. In winter they were forced to fell trees and haul them with horses to a stream for export. In summer, officials also permi ed them the use of the horses to cultivate their potato patches. Later they seeded a li le oats. God sent His blessing and within several years, through great effort, the exiled German Volga peasants had built new lives. Although in a remote and unfamiliar se ing far from home, they were happy even to be alive, deep in the forest and safe from oppression. They worked together, eking out the barest of livings, enlarging houses and plantings, acquiring small animals, and schooling their children. Had they been le to themselves, they would gladly have continued their lives of poverty and isolation there. In tsarist times remote se lements existed beyond the reach of the state. “God is high and Li le Father Tsar is far away,” a popular proverb said. But such non-interference had not survived the coming of the Bolsheviks. The exiles had resumed contact with their former communities on the Volga, even receiving a few le ers and packages from abroad. These compromised them in the eyes of the police. In 1934 the first of these Volga German men and women were arrested in their exile and found guilty of counter-revolutionary activity on the stock charges of treason, propaganda, the creation of secret organizations, and sabotage. Many were plucked from their families and sent to increasingly remote regions. The families, le behind and robbed of their providers, lived hand-to-mouth lives. Widemann, his wife and child still back in the northern virgin forest, was one of those condemned to the camps for five years. He did not rage against his fate but bore the wrong quietly and submissively, knowing he was no be er than hundreds of

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thousands of German compatriots who had passed this way. When I le he was still there. Distinguished by her originality was an elderly, haggard Muslim woman, a Chechen from the mountain peoples of the Caucasus. Religious, serious, and painfully reserved, she wore her long black shawl over her head and face, only removing it when she worked alone as a night-time a endant on the pig farm. Although she abhorred pork, she loved the pigs under her care and tended them conscientiously. Her language difficulties and unaccustomed surroundings and people made her very timid with other prisoners. She had no friends, and spoke li le Russian, and that poorly. Timid, her body covered, she avoided people. Why had such a child of nature from a quite different world been exiled to a place where she could not even be understood? She was overwhelmed by homesickness, longing to return to the mountains, and poured out her feelings in haunting, monotone songs. Her suffering aroused my pity, and I was overjoyed to witness her release. On the day she was told she was free to go home she could scarcely believe what was being said and responded as though disturbed, so overjoyed was she. Again and again she shook out Allah’s blessings over me. For years I had no choice but to deal with her age, language problems, and lack of understanding. Hardly believing her fortune, she shook her head and took leave of us. Nor will I ever forget Petr I. Chernetz, the veterinarian assistant, who stood by my side. With his invariably friendly, sensitive, and obliging personality, he was a singular individual, a typical member of the Russian intelligentsia, university-educated, full of humane ideas. He loathed communism and had been arrested on charges of membership in another radical party. Although he had a wife and child and had been arrested for the second time, he was never ill-tempered, overwrought, or spoke slightingly of anyone. To my knowledge, he was the only prisoner who never behaved like one, naturally, as a ma er of course, conversing freely and amiably with his superiors and everyone else. He further, despite his relative youth and the slight chances of his being released, seemed relatively unconcerned about the future or the time he had lost in the prison camps. He paid li le a ention to his appearance, never complained about food and housing, was morally unassailable and always bore himself with great decency. He accepted things as they were and tried to fit himself into situations as quickly as possible. To be sure, he chuckled indulgently at my Christian concept of life and my

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faith, without however scoffing, even as I pitied him for not having a higher purpose. The fault, he seemed to think, was a deficiency in my education. Yet I could not help liking him, and learned much from him. Somehow he knew how, or had it in him, to preserve his dignity and humanity in every situation. How was that possible? Seriozha Kuznetsov also worked for me. He was small of build, looked somewhat like a criminal (blatnoi), but was in fact a nice young man of around eighteen, shrewd and much experienced in presenting himself. He was also adept at his work when he tried to be or felt encouraged, but this was not always the case. He tended the animals that he adored but seemed not to have quite freed himself of his past as a bespribornik, a homeless outcast, a vagabond without work, bere a er his parents had been deported as kulaks. His precarious life had been hard won through robbery and violence and I was o en indulgent with his evasions and false pretenses. To the end he usually devoted himself to the animals as an exemplary a endant who loved them and was o en the recipient of awards. Somehow I felt close to Seriozha, remember him fondly and wonder whether, a er his release, he was able to strike out on a be er road. There were other men and women who tried to do their work honestly and well, but I have unfortunately forgo en their names. They firmly believed they would be given early release for good work and behaviour. A number of prison women, whom I knew less well, also aroused my deepest sympathy. One was Frau Guenther, a 50-year-old German woman from the Volga region and her daughter of around 25. On a holiday trip home to the Volga, a er years of work as domestics in the German embassy in Moscow, the NKVD arrested and interrogated them. Charged under the appropriate Article, they were removed from their families and deported as slaves to work here. Hungry, emaciated, suffering, and full of longing, they led a miserable existence working in fields and clearing brush. Would their energies hold out? At least they were happy to have one another, to be together. We seldom met and I am unaware of their present circumstances, but in the days leading up to my release, I encountered them in a halfdarkened, cold, and wet barracks, where they kneaded peat for small, dirty peat pots using the most primitive methods. The pots were set on boards before being taken out and frozen in heaps where they remained until spring planting. The appearance of these women, and many like them, and the stark conditions of their work, is forever engraved in my

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memory. Unable to shake hands when I departed, we took our leave with worried glances and good wishes. Did their strength last till the end? Did they get their freedom? I do not know. I will also never forget another inmate, a genuine character, who occupied for some time the place next to me in the barracks. He was the Jew Goldberg, an older man, religious, distrustful, uncommunicative, who kept company with no one. He despised the Russians who treated him meanly and with ridicule. Early each morning he sat down at the table and, murmuring, read his Psalter, oblivious to others at the table who na ered on or made fun of him. He was hardly good natured or kindly and responded to the provocations with great anger. O en he would go hungry, rejecting the noonday soup lest it contain morsels of bacon or pork fat. The poor man fixated on the few grams of pork that the huge cauldron of soup should have had but rarely did, while we grumbled that the soup contained no pork at all. Infrequently did the camp staff provide Goldberg with the substitute of a li le fish and gruel. Mocking, barracks prisoners also “helped” Goldberg to pray, and when he snapped back they roared. I tried to help, suggesting that as someone who believed in God he should not react to the teasing and mockery in this way, but it was of no use. My interest in his circumstances and questions about his religion encouraged him to open up to me a li le. I learned that he had been a merchant in White Russia who managed to accumulate a tidy li le capital before the revolution. In Bolshevik times he converted only part of it into gold, silver, and valuables, which he hid. In its “Gold-SearchCampaign” of 1932, the NKVD stumbled across him. He denied owning valuables, but with its keen nose for prey, the NKVD seized him. A er a long period of arrest and torture, Goldberg finally, with a heavy heart, turned over his possessions to them and revealed their hiding place. The secret police gleefully seized his valuables, leaving him destitute. To add insult to injury, they compounded his loss with a five-year prison camp sentence. Feeling ill-used and abandoned, he was resigned and sullen at the wrong that was done to him. His remaining desire, it seemed, was to appear righteously before God through a renunciation of pleasures, fasting, prayer, and suffering. My familiarity with the Holy Scriptures and Psalms, as well as allusions I made to some of my own beliefs, seemed important to him. He did not want to believe I was a Gentile and not a concealed Jew. Since there were few Jews in the prison camps, he was without friends. Dear, strange, and unteachable Goldberg, what may your future well have been?

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Finally, there were the many thousands of men and women, a countless multitude of heavily afflicted grey figures, who had to stay behind, hungry and miserable. They had still, as before, to bend their backs in the remote wilderness and taiga for a regime that openly, repeatedly, and hypocritically, promised to protect the poor and bring justice to everyone.

Chapter Five

Coming Home, 1939

A er travelling back and forth on trucks and on a small section of the railway being cut through the taiga to connect Kotlas with Vorkuta in the extreme north and beyond, we reached the river port of UstVym. The river was frozen over and un-navigable. Four years earlier my friends and I had taken off on foot from here northwards into an unknown future. I could now put that time behind me. Yet I no longer recognized the road from those days with its forlorn grey stopping places spaced out along its length. This was especially true of Ust-Vym, where, ill, I had been separated from my friends. With its railway station and construction everywhere, it was scarcely recognizable. It had been transformed by slave labour, at the behest and under the boot of the NKVD. In Ust-Vym they detained us for a few days at an assembly centre. Here prisoners were re-enfranchised, given passports, and their future destinations decided. These were weighed carefully. From the start a long list of places like capital, industrial, port, and border cities were declared off-limits, both for freed political and criminal prisoners. These included cities like Moscow, Petersburg, Kiev, Rostov, and many others. Most “politicals” chose a new place to live, mostly in Turkestan where they would be unrecognized and, so they assumed, have a be er chance of carrying on their lives undisturbed and in peace. The question of “where next?” distressed me as well. What should I do? Should I, at a time when I had the chance of being reunited with my family, go off to an unfamiliar place? Was the danger really so grave? Had we not been assured that we would now be free citizens in good standing? I decided, despite the risks, to return home first. The rest would fall into place later. A er all, I had a powerful God who had

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guided my steps, giving me back my freedom, and I should trust Him further. Later I o en told myself that I had done well in this regard and never regre ed my decision. Fi ed out for travel and with a li le food, we were sent on our way, on foot or by truck – the choice was ours – to Kotlas, 300 kilometres away. The frost and heavy snowfall made both modes of travel almost impossible. A number of trucks, we heard, had go en stuck and were buried in the snow. But we were u erly bent on ge ing through and by roundabout ways, travelling upstream, we pushed our way ahead through snowdri s until we reached Kotlas a week later. The frost had let up a li le and that kept us from freezing. Kotlas, a simple city with a distinct northland feel, gave us our first sense of being out of prison. We even ate in a restaurant, more or less amply and as human beings. Freedom seemed almost palpable. I was anxious to cast off my prison garb and disappear into the civilian population, but that was hardly a choice. On the trip home and for years later, I had no option but to appear in prison garb. This was terribly humiliating, of course, but there were no other reasons for feeling proud either. At the last NKVD guardianship office, we, a small group, were handed our final papers and tickets and started out on the last leg of our southward journey home through Viatka, Vologda, Moscow, and Kharkov. We were on our own on a passenger train without guards, amidst homely surroundings. Ancient and Soviet Moscow It seemed almost unbelievable one day to hear the words, “Moscow, disembark!” Could it be? Were we really in this monstrous city, a “huge Russian village,” as Mennonite medical corps volunteers had called it in their wartime tedium? I, too, had been there as a medical corpsman through the war years, and had then witnessed the February and October revolutions [of 1917]. How grievously, how hideously had these events then intervened in my life and the lives of millions of others. We had to wait all day in Moscow for a connection to the south. My companion, the veterinarian Dr Chimkin, suggested we take the opportunity to see Moscow. In our camp clothes, still looking every inch the prisoners, was that not somewhat risky? Still, I could not resist the temptation to again see some of the squares and streets that had been so familiar to me 20 years before. In my crippled condition it took considerable effort to reach the old places, but we managed our sight-seeing

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without anyone taking notice of our appearance or a policeman stopping us. The centre offered the same familiar scene, a typical Moscow winter, everything under a blanket of snow. We saw the one-time Great Imperial Theatre, next door to the large department store, Moer and Merelies, then the Hotel Metropol, City Hall, and others, everything outwardly unchanged. The tram line and the people rushing back and forth were all as I remembered them. It seemed unbelievable, a dream. The old Kremlin looked menacingly down on a people reduced to thralldom by the red rulers behind its walls. Outside the Kremlin on Red Square, St Basil’s Cathedral still stood with its striped onion domes, and above Spasskii Gate, leading into the Kremlin, the great clock struck off the hours as it had 20 years earlier.1 An old woman sat as others before her at the scaffold of Stenka Razin, the insurgent hero and Cossack, and others, throwing peas to masses of pigeons as passersby dropped small coins into her lap. It seemed almost unbelievable to me that these old scenes were almost unchanged a er the many years in which the land and people had experienced such fundamental change. This was, however, only a facade, the outer face, behind which everyone immediately recognized the great contradictory transformations that had taken place. As we stood on the Kamennyi Most, the Moscow bridge from which we could view so much of the beautiful old centre, we immediately noticed that the imposing Cathedral of the Redeemer, with its huge dazzling gold dome, was gone. A venerable feature of the cityscape, it had, with its priceless interior, been torn down, both the gigantic edifice and the hillock on which it had stood, together with the nearby monument of Tsar Alexander III. In their place yawned a deep trench designated for the foundations of the prestigious Dvoretz Sovetov, the planned Palace of Soviets, with its colossal Lenin obelisk, a sacrilege for Christians and the Church. Less imposing outside than within, the Cathedral had been a majestic work of art. The Soviets had used its pink marble interior to dress the inside walls of the stations of the much self-extolled subway, the Metro. The Metro was distinguished by grand wall murals and objects of art and we did not let slip the opportunity to examine it ourselves. Most streets were still lined with old, crooked wooden houses that confirmed Moscow’s enduring image as the largest village in Russia, except for a number of new many-storied buildings that did not seem to fit in. The new structure of the Lenin Mausoleum seemed out of place and did not enhance the grandeur of the square. We even managed to see a li le of the USSR Commissariat of Agriculture, a massive

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many-floored structure with endless rooms, officials to fill them, and constantly moving li s. We visited Room 780, where each republic and region (oblast) had its own agricultural administration. Bureaucracy was flourishing in the USSR. In this concluded our visit to the citadel of Bolshevism, the fountainhead of its grandiose and terrifying blueprints and directives. With great difficulty, as was true since the beginnings of the USSR, we found a spot in a crowded train heading south. There were only the two of us now, the doctor and I, and we felt quite at home travelling this stretch that we had covered many times before, through the large centres of Orel, Kursk, and Kharkov. As the last of my associates from the camp, I said goodbye to the doctor in Kharkov, and he turned off towards Rostov-on-the-Don. As the train neared Zaporizhiia (formerly Aleksandrovsk), rain was melting the last of the winter snow, something familiar to me from earlier trips to the Crimea, the Sea of Azov, and the Black Sea areas with their markedly southerly climate. The closer I got to home in the Molochna area, the more unbelievable, the more unreal everything seemed. My thoughts started to revolve around my family and the future. How would I find them? How would they receive me in my changed condition? Would I even recognize them a er the years of suffering, the privations they had experienced, the children growing up? How would people in the village respond to me? Where would I find a job? While trying to absorb everything that was new, I also had time to ponder. Earlier feelings of blissfulness that had been fueled by my longings had given way to a certain sobriety that threatened to turn into anxiety. Would my innermost again give way to despair when confronting the calamitous reality that awaited me? But no, for my part I did not want to cloud the happiness I now felt but increase it in order that I might strengthen the courage and hope of my loved ones. Lord and Saviour, thou hast marvelously carried me and my family through until here. Give me the strength needed to become a support to my family in every way, including their spiritual needs. Fedorovka, Doorstep to the Molochna Quickly the train pulled into the station of Fedorovka, the last transfer point. What Molochna Mennonite was not familiar with this wellknown threshold to home? At one time Fedorovka had swarmed with travelling Mennonites. During World War I, it had given the many Mennonite [medical] servicemen passing through a feeling of home. Those arriving from western Russia were almost in sight of their

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longed-for goal. A short wait, a brief hop on the cozy Tokmak railway, and they would be there. Many a woman – mothers, sisters, brides – had accompanied their service-bound men to Fedorovka on their way to distant wartime postings. Since then much had changed and Fedorovka was no longer crowded with Mennonite travellers. Only a few wandered timidly through the station’s waiting room. Fedorovka had also seen large groups of Mennonite emigrants leaving for overseas [in the 1920s] and downcast individuals and families commandeered to a [Siberian] exile, from which few returned. Was I really only one of a handful to make it back? A er my parents were forced to flee Gnadenfeld, they found a haven and employment in the nearby village of Fedorovka. My stepmother managed to earn pin money sewing, while Father, no longer sprightly, found occasional gardening work. Father had wri en regular le ers of comfort and cheer to me in exile and to my family in Gnadenfeld, bearing my misfortune as a personal cross and taking great interest in all of us. I longed to see him and eagerly went looking for his li le shelter. Our reunion was necessarily bi ersweet. My appearance did not make the best of impressions and my father was worried about my unfamiliar and strange condition. But would not everything now be be er again? A er all, could Father not embrace one of his four sons whom he had thought lost, hold him close to his old bosom again? Alas, Father had recently received devastating news. My brother Heinrich had been arrested a year earlier, and sentenced to death as an enemy of the people (Volksschädling). Reprieved, he had been re-sentenced to time in a penal labour camp in distant Siberia and died en route. He le behind his wife, two children, grieving parents, and siblings. In addition, my sister’s husband had been imprisoned for a year. Then her son Eduard, a dear person and talented beginning teacher, had died soon a er arriving in a northern prison camp. All this caused the two of us unspeakable grief. We spent the day sorrowing together, sharing doleful news, but also thanking God for His mercy in granting us strength and hope to continue our earthly journey. It was a dialogue, a back and forth between our wounded souls. It helped both of us a li le, giving us the courage to carry on. But in my severely handicapped condition, I faced an uncertain future. Home at Last The following morning – it was already 2 February [1939], a month since the start of my homeward journey – my father offered to accompany

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me and we did the last leg of the journey home together. During the two-hour drive we had li le to say. My heart was in turmoil and my thoughts fastened on my loved ones whom I had for so long yearned to see. How would they be? We covered the last stretch on foot, my father and I walking side by side. And then we were in Gnadenfeld. Slowly, step by step, we walked down the [central street] Kirchenallee to the middle of the village, where our house stood. No one met us. How barren and grey everything looked, how gloomy and terribly sad. What had happened to most of the tall elms along the Allee? The yards on both sides of the street were neglected. Barns and sheds had been torn down, still others were crooked, dilapidated, their roofs full of holes. No trace remained of the once beautifully painted fences along the street. In many places a thicket of wild bushes obscured a view of the yards. During my five-year absence, the untended yards and gardens had become overgrown and the homeowners looked weak and poor. Many fathers had been deported and their families slaved away in the collective to stay alive. Missing, too, was the a ention once lavished on every yard and garden, the quiet pride of every husband. We entered our own yard and garden from the rear, but they looked no be er than the rest. With faltering steps and a heavy heart, I entered the house and found myself facing my darling wife. There was a low cry and her furrowed countenance, etched by years of grief and torment, lay at my breast. We had to sit down and give free rein to the long suppressed pain of our separation and our dream of reunion. In her long brave struggle for the children, my wife had suffered terribly, to which her creased and weary face gave eloquent testimony. Would things finally be right now? Would they get be er? The reality around was hardly encouraging, but at least we were the two of us again to continue the struggle together. I asked about the children. They had been waiting impatiently for me since the arrival of my telegram, but were still in school. Jasha, the youngest, [not yet of school age], was brought in. He did not even know me, and so withdrew shyly from the awkward meeting. He, more than the others, was his mother’s child of pain, a child of sorrow. She had raised him alone a er his twin brother had died in my absence. Despite our joy there was really li le to ask about since the truth was unmistakably evident at every hand. My family’s deep poverty and the dismal conditions around my wife crushed me. Moreover, two additional families now lived in our house, the two smallest rooms serving them as a bed-si ing room and kitchen. Then Erika and Heinz, the two other children, entered excitedly around the corner. They had sensed that Papa

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was coming. Somewhat timidly, with anticipation but as though meeting a somewhat casual acquaintance, they stepped a li le closer. There was no stormy greeting as in days past when I had come home from a trip. They hesitated. Both had surely imagined me otherwise. I was also taken aback by the changes. Earlier, on a return home, my children had fought over who would be first on my lap. Now they had grown and were sensible. They had also passed through their own hardships and conflicts. Deeply moved, I saw standing beside me two skinny, pale, and ragged figures. But while they made a somewhat strange impression on me, they were still my beloved children. How much father’s love and care had they forgone? Now that I had returned, would they take me back fully into their hearts? Could I meet their hopes? Live up to my fatherly duties? Help them? How I longed to do all this, to make up for the privations they had endured. But in my frail condition they seemed to look at me with misgivings. If only time and circumstances were otherwise, I thought. To bear the obligations and afflictions of life at home, to walk the path of fatherly love and faithfulness, I would clearly need God’s strength and support. For the moment, however, we were overwhelmed by feelings of gratitude and joy. I reached up to the shelf on the wall, took down the old Bible, and for the first time in a long, long while, read the words: “Praise the Lord, oh my soul. Forget not all His benefits. He has forgiven your sins and healed all your afflictions.” Yes, we would not forget. We had a great and merciful God who would help us in the future as well, perhaps even freeing me of my infirmity. With such expressions of thanksgiving that were worthy of the occasion, we ended the first day of my homecoming. Concluding Observations As I imbibed the home atmosphere, felt my way back into its rhythms, taking stock of this small world and making plans for the future, the following days passed quickly. I had immediately to register with the [Gnadenfeld] village Soviet and the NKVD office in Waldheim. As I made the rounds, the long fixed looks I met were more surprised and curious than mistrustful. When I asked, “May I work in the area?” the ma er-of-fact reply was, “Of course.” Yet it struck me that almost no neighbours dropped by to welcome me home. Later I realized it was dangerous for them to fraternize with a person exiled by the state lest

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they be thought sympathetic to his “criminal past.” This was intensely painful for me. A er a week, I started to look for a job, an equally frustrating and futile exercise. I looked the situation in the eye and decided to seek a job outside the village, perhaps office work. I thought the collective farm would have taken me on, but what agricultural work could I do, in my condition? Perhaps I should keep a low profile for a while, turn invisible, but that seemed too clever by half. A er all, as I soon noticed, all former politicals quickly came under the eye of informants in the labour office or the collective. Most area enterprises sought office staff, but a search in neighbouring towns was equally unavailing. When I mentioned my recent past, potential employers clammed up, dismissing me with empty phrases or “be in touch if anything comes up.” Bosses feared run-ins with the NKVD. “Remember,” I told myself, “you are in Soviet Russia and a pariah for life.” What difference did NKVD promises make or my certainty that the charges against me had been false? Much surrounding these ma ers escaped me at the time. I wanted desperately to help my family and became despondent when nothing worked out. Later I realized that it had all been for the best. A er futile job searches, I was reduced to begging the Gnadenfeld kolkhoz for membership and a job. I later thanked my good fortune that the kolkhoz administration quickly admi ed me because my rheumatoid arthritis did not get be er but worse. A further separation from my family at a distant job site would have been very hard. Although my earnings as a night watchman on the collective, my first job, were beggarly, I was grateful to share my family’s fate. The USSR was not directly involved in World War II at its beginning, in 1939, but it was hardly indifferent to it and secretly made preparations. The short war with Finland and occupation of eastern Poland engaged Soviet arms directly. Then in June 1941 the World War with its fronts rolled over southern Russia, bringing untold suffering to everyone and ending my separate torment. Epilogue Today a er many years of a sorrowful past, I look back on the pains from which I was miraculously delivered, as one of only a few. With my family, I live peacefully and at freedom, and at some distance from that world, without fear of being thrust back into its ruins at any moment.

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I o en ponder the fact that this is now my reality, not that one which seemed to have enclosed me and many others for all time. And yet this previous reality intrudes on my present in a kaleidoscope of memories. I hardly go through a day or night without seeing images of men and women condemned to lives of bondage and slavery. My past is their present. It is still the reality for many people, whose fate I once shared. Where are they now, those others? Did their lives end there during the war, with its monumental burdens, behind iron bars and barbed wire, weighed down by misery and enthrallment? Or did they only escape the barbed wire to make room for other millions like them? Did those thus freed then prolong their lives within an endless cycle of hardship, danger, pain, persecution, and servitude in all its forms? How much longer will these people and these nations have to suffer this glu onous power, this outrage, this infamy? When I remember this present behind the iron curtain, my heart again and again constricts and my soul cries out, “Lord, end this suffering.”

PART TWO Tiefenwege: Soviet Mennonite Life and Suffering, 1929–1949

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Section One New Directions and Sha ering Experiments, 1928–1939

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Chapter One

Stalin’s Upheaval

Stalin Abolishes the New Economic Policy (NEP) Extraordinary events unfolding in the once-powerful Russian Tsardom since 1917, have kept the world in suspense. They have given it no peace. Over four decades, peoples and groups in Russia, including its Mennonites, have personally experienced the upheaval. They have borne its afflictions and drained its cup of misery. The first phase of the Revolution and the civil war, from 1918–21, was a time of great anguish. Mennonites in southern Ukraine remember it especially for the banditry and terror of the time of Makhno. There were nonstop robberies, thievery, arson, assaults, and killings. As civil war fronts moved dramatically back and forth across our se lements, famine engulfed the land. At the same time, the Soviet secret police, the Cheka, engaged in ghastly persecutions. What followed from 1921–8 was an interlude of relative calm and economic recovery, known as the New Economic Policy (NEP). For Mennonites in the USSR, it was also a time of cultural flowering and religious revival that deeply touched their lives. This period in the Mennonite villages proceeded under the aegis of church organizations and two major Mennonite cooperative associations (Verbaende), one in Ukraine and the other in the Russian Republic. Both of the la er had strong grassroots support. So impressive was the recovery that many Mennonites chose to believe that Communism’s age of struggle had ended and that privately initiated economic and social development and relative religious tolerance would continue into the foreseeable future.

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Others, more visionary or pessimistic, saw more profound forces at work that would lead in the opposite direction. The turnabout that these Mennonites expected and feared came with great force in 1929–30, and in part earlier, when the Bolshevik state triggered a paroxysm of change. This engulfed and profoundly altered our lives. In a sharp reversal of NEP, the Communist Party under Stalin unleashed a revolutionary transformation of the political, economic, and social foundations of Soviet life. The momentous convulsions that followed ended in a general catastrophe for all of us. The Suffering Deepens For Mennonites in the USSR, the era a er 1929 must be termed a single, unique path of suffering. In agriculture, the liquidation of the kulaks, the wealthier peasants, coupled with extortionate tax requisitions of money and grain, had entailed the deportation of several thousand successful Mennonite families to the high north and to Siberia, as well as new se lements closer by. Many fathers and mothers had perished, as had large numbers of their children. At almost the same time, with farms collectivized, farmers had been plunged into abject poverty by the resulting serflike labour, drudgery, waste, and confusion. In a thinly veiled persecution, the Communist Party had also intensified its godless propaganda, subjecting the Christian life of individuals and the Church to increasingly relentless pressure. For Mennonites, all of life seemed abruptly to have changed. Every concept of right and wrong, of life, property, marriage, education, and responsibility had been turned on its head. Once honoured bourgeois law and universal human rights were mocked and cast aside. Revolutionary law alone had force. Only state or common property was recognized as untouchable and declared to be holy – as though the Bolsheviks acknowledged anything as holy. Private property and individual personality had been stripped of their protections and persons who had, as was alleged, acquired property underhandedly or through exploitation of someone else’s labour, had been labelled as criminals. With impunity, any Soviet village functionary could seize private property and squander it recklessly without being held personally responsible for his misdeeds. Yet, as ordered in a decree of 7 August 1930, people were tossed out of their homes as kulaks for the most trivial misdemeanours against public property. As common criminals they

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faced sentences of up to 10 years in a concentration camp or even death. Hundreds of thousands of Soviet citizens were thus punished. Men and women who had gleaned a few stray potatoes or cobs of corn along a roadside, for example, had been sent to camps in Siberia for years. Convicts of this kind were generally recognized for who they were and pitied, even by other prisoners. Their sentences were ridiculed as a mockery of Soviet justice. Provoking the Class Struggle The consequences of collectivization in the early 1930s, with its a endant repression, were far-reaching. A mood of general depression and confusion spread into every nook and cranny of our lives. People’s emotions became deranged, and in the midst of great physical pauperization and spiritual distress the economy declined precipitously. This served the regime in its ultimate goal of seeing the phoenix of socialism rise up out of the ashes of the capitalist world. But the means to this end, as well as the pain and the a ermath, were of li le concern to it at first. Under the banner proclaiming that “the decisive ba le must be waged in the village,” the Communist princes of misery started the socialist reconstruction of agriculture. In our pain, we at first scarcely noticed how totally demoralized and divided our Mennonite world became. At first, most Mennonites were totally absorbed in the chaos surrounding them personally. Protesting quietly, they fell into depression. Then with a sigh, they submi ed to the inevitable that they interpreted as God’s judgment. Eventually a small group emerged that thought differently. In time it grew. This group said that if we were to survive we needed to accommodate ourselves to our changing circumstances and to support government directives. Only a few went further, signing on as active functionaries of the regime. The la er choose to pull their weight in support of coercion, acting in violation of their consciences. A split had opened among us. The tragedy had started. The Party and State naturally promoted and tried to deepen our internal divisions through heavy doses of propaganda, agitation, and promises. Those who cooperated were rewarded, while those who resisted were muzzled and persecuted. In this way, the state, through force and deceit, tried to entangle people in a bewildering set of contradictions and to draw them into one of the most shameful of all campaigns, the infamous “class struggle.” Small wonder when it appeared that all of

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us, as willing camp followers, had somehow joined in the construction of socialism. [Late 1929] was also the time when thousands of our [Mennonite] people in Siberia and southern Russia fled to Moscow in search of deliverance from the changes heralded by the forcible collectivization of farming and the ruthless persecution of the kulaks. Who is unfamiliar with this desperate flight of thousands of Mennonites to the outskirts of Moscow? [There they importuned Soviet officialdom for permission to leave for Canada, a dramatic story in itself.]1 The afflictions of those thus seeking to escape collectivization were compounded by police harassment and the machinations of spies. Other changes sharpened divisions in our villages. Despite the highly touted efficiency of communal labour, a shortage of workers soon appeared in our new collective farms. This was partly the result of the liquidation of the kulaks, and partly of the flight of Mennonite families into the cities to evade persecution. To fill gaps in the ranks of labour, the Soviet government se led newcomers in our villages. Some were Volhynian Germans from newly liquidated se lements in our district and of Ukrainians from various areas.2 The result was a further breakdown and fragmentation of the solidarity of our villages. Most Mennonite villages could scarcely still imagine a single, unified view among us on economic ma ers or of social harmony in our collective life. Another casualty was the practise of seeking out the sage counsel and talents of those with practical experience. A catastrophe was inevitable. Its trigger was the state’s unyielding demand in the early 1930s for the rapid delivery of grain and other agricultural products from the new kolkhozes, regardless of the needs of the collectives and of their workers. The result, from 1932–3, was a staggering food shortage in the villages that turned into an unprecedented famine centred in Ukraine and the pre-Caucasus, normally among the richest grain-producing regions in the country. This catastrophe claimed more lives than had the devastating famine of 1921.3 The outside world was largely ignorant of the tragedy unfolding in Ukraine. The terrible famine of 1932–3, it should be noted, was less destructive among Mennonites in Ukraine than among most other of its inhabitants. This was largely a ributable to ties that Soviet Mennonites maintained with relatives, friends, and churches abroad. During the famine these ties were a conduit for the flow of material assistance to Soviet Mennonites, [mainly in the form of modest hard-currency remittances]. At the time, the Soviet government, in a state of near economic

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collapse and desperate for hard currency, had established special hard currency torgsin stores in many cities where foodstuffs and goods not available elsewhere could be purchased for valuables and cash and money transfers from abroad. To achieve high-speed industrialization, the Soviet state became involved in a veritable scramble for jewels, gold and silver objects, and foreign currency to enable them to purchase machines for the new factories. But the benefits to Mennonites of torgsin purchases soon came to an end at the hands of the secret police, now called the NKVD (People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs). Using every imaginable form of repression – threats, denunciations, arrests – thousands of elderly people fell into the refined hands of a secret police inquisition. Confined in NKVD cellars in Halbstadt, Khortitsa, and elsewhere, many seniors were repeatedly questioned and no stone was le unturned in their efforts to ferret out remaining dollars as well as silver and gold objects that the regime seized for its building of socialism. Heavy-heartedly, our few seniors who still had valuables willingly surrendered them, only to escape further torment. Still, the money transfers at this time from relatives in Canada, the United States, Switzerland, and Germany – which passed mainly through Berlin in those days – nevertheless provided crucial help and should be acknowledged as having saved numerous lives during the famine. Unfortunately we lack the data to measure these. Still, whatever this help may have been in saving Mennonites from the catastrophe of 1932–3, three people in our village of Gnadenfeld starved to death. Terror and Oppression Begins Anew, 1937–1938 Life continued on in this way, although in a somewhat milder form, until 1936–7. Then policy towards the collectives became more fierce and demanding. This change may have involved principally Ukraine. It certainly struck its German and Mennonite se lements with great force. As demands for the production and delivery of foodstuffs increased, living standards of collective farmers declined. The year 1937 also saw the start of the great political persecution of German speakers everywhere in the USSR, even in deepest Siberia, but chiefly in Ukraine and the Caucasus. Characterized by harsh repressions and a crackdown on everything German, it began with the secret police seizure of thousands of Mennonite men from fields and places of work, even at night. The men were arrested without rhyme or reason. Virtually none were

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ever seen or heard from again. It seemed not to ma er to the NKVD monsters when everyone gagged at the horrors and terrorized wives and children moaned in their grief, not knowing where to turn. For years our lives had already proceeded without anyone having knowledge of, or involvement in, the larger world abroad. Preoccupied with scrabbling together our own miserable existence, we dismissed newspaper and other official reports about what was going on more broadly as deceptive propaganda. Yet suddenly now large numbers of our people were being unmasked by the secret police as fanatical activists with secret plans to strike against the Soviet government. It was further implied that their persecution and other measures against them were somehow closely related to the rise to power of the Hitler regime in Germany. Previously, the Communist Party and State had kept up appearances, insisting that they valued the national characteristics of all peoples and minorities in the Soviet Union. Yet now that pretence was let fall, especially in the case of Germans, and Mennonites were considered to be Germans. [Catholic and Protestant] Germans suffered as well, as did Ukrainians. At least the Ukrainian idea of independence was real as was the secret struggle required to achieve it and both were now ruthlessly repressed. Another wave of arrests followed in 1938, again including large numbers of Mennonite fathers and sons, and, yes, even mothers. [By the time the infamous purges of 1936–8 ended, close to half of Mennonite families in the village of Gnadenfeld were without fathers.] At the same time, German-speaking national administrative districts (raiony) were dismantled and a ached to surrounding Ukrainian administrative districts. German-language schools were transformed into Ukrainian-language schools and the use of German was proscribed in all official administrative business. Russian and Ukrainian workers were admi ed to membership in many of the German kolkhozes and non-German-speaking Party members were brought in to lead them. Mennonites and other German speakers who were subjected to such harsh discriminatory measures fell into a depression and were engulfed by feelings of profound insecurity. Everyone pondered the question: Will my turn be next? The Sad Results Robbed of their breadwinners, countless families fell into the greatest misery in their day-to-day physical and spiritual lives. How could

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it have been otherwise? It was a hair-raising time in which I counted myself almost lucky not to have been at home. [Since 1934] I had already occupied a secure position in a remote camp [of the gulag], where I was working off a five-year prison sentence, and knew li le about what was happening at home. When I finally returned to my home and family [in early 1939], I was immediately struck by the hopelessness of the situation. The village of Gnadenfeld was in a state of extraordinary decay. Poverty and despair reigned in every family. Everything seemed to be running peacefully enough with the kolkhozes working and competing on a grand scale. Still, the li le accomplished had been paid for dearly, at the cost of the tears and self-denial of the poorest women in the collective. With the help of their children, they worked vainly in far-off fields to eke out a living for their dependents. Younger children, with no parental guidance and instruction, had been abandoned to the kindergartens, the Soviet schools and their own devices. Family life, especially its Christian foundations, had been largely sha ered and lay in ruins. Pastoral care for the Christian community, so essential to its life, had long since been proscribed and had vanished. Everyone was full of suspicion and so withdrawn that it was hard to tell where a faith in God still existed or was still being fostered. The Mennonite world, like the world around us, had thus turned cold and heartless, sunk into the depths and condemned to emotional numbness and a state of egotistical vegetation – a struggle to simply save one’s naked existence. All felt helpless in their despair. We could see how evil reigned and ruled without constraint. It had already robbed us of our sustenance. Now it was slowly and inexorably threatening to deny us our life. Was salvation still possible? Was there a God still in charge, directing ma ers to some good end, a God who could and wanted to help? Over questions like this, many a Mennonite had already long since run aground in his faith.

Chapter Two

A Day in the Gnadenfeld Kolkhoz “Karl Marx”

On the Eve of World War II It is early in the morning on a day in May, during the regimented but more orderly years before World War II [from 1939–41, when I had already returned from the camps]. The world is just awakening, glorious in its abundance and thirst for life. This should fill us with joy. That is how it once was, but few such feelings survive today. Troubled by hardship and care, people have been robbed of their happiness and each day seems grayer than the one before. As dawn breaks, one can see ashen spectres moving swi ly along streets and garden paths of the farmyards, some carrying whips, others with tools in their hands. The large village of Gnadenfeld has two farmyards, one for each half of the village. In the western yard, the one-time Enns-yard, Jacob Herfort, the boss, brigadier and field manager, dispatches horses, implements, and work groups. Franz Funk does the same from the one-time Voth-yard. Each of these large yards – whose owners had been deported as kulaks – has a large barn to house some 30 horses and a roomy implement cross shed, the only ones remaining in the village. A few smaller buildings also dot the yard. Take a closer look at the Enns-yard. It is a lively place. Jacob Herfort, a young bachelor, hands out job assignments for the day to each collective farmer. Knots of workers stand around waiting, a group of older workers leaning on shovels and forks, gloomy and disinterested. Orders are always the same. Another group, more spirited, consisting of 10–12-year-old boys with whips, dispute which horses are the best and who will get to ride them. They ride horses that pull cultivators through long rows of corn, turnips, potatoes, co on, and other crops.

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Their work is invaluable and they have been let out of school early in the season for this purpose at the request of the kolkhoz chairman. It is a change of routine that the boys like and has the added advantage of allowing the boys to contribute to their mothers’ needy households. They have been drawn into collective farm work since childhood a er many of their fathers had been arrested and taken away. Present also is a group of downcast girls who, day-in-day-out, do heavy men’s work, harrowing and carting bricks. The workers leave almost silently on wagons loaded down with harrows, cultivators, and other tools, horses in tow. The sun has risen, promising clear skies and a hot day that will grow crops and sap the energy of workers and horses. The Elderly Work Too Older people have go en their assignments as well. For a few days Zielke and Dueck are to help the gardener in the communal garden. Three others are to dismantle the shed on the Schmidt yard, salvaging the lumber for other uses since there is still none to be bought. They have axes, crowbars and hammers along, and will be careful to save the lumber and to pull out and straighten the nails. The boss counts on these older workers who know the meaning of thri . “We’re ripping apart what should have lasted a long time,” Ohm Unruh says as though to himself. “We and our fathers put up these buildings and looked a er them through hard work. So did the Schmidts. They were hard-working and decent people. I’m glad they don’t have to see this now. What of their children, Bernd and Barbara, and their families? What happened to them?” He lets out a sigh. Elderly Ohm Heinrich Bartel throws down his crowbar and sits down next to the crumbling wall. “We’ll pull it down alright, but that’s not the same as pu ing it up. How about taking a breather?” (“Aufgebroake krieg wie daut all, daut’s nich obbue, wellen oans man een beet verpeussten.”) “You may be right, Heinrich,” Ohm Benjamin says. “Times have changed and they’ve been tough. But there’s the other side as well. I think we used to lose ourselves too much in our work, in farming, in trying to outdo the next person. Maybe we forgot the point of it all? And perhaps we pushed our workers too hard and didn’t take time for ourselves and our families.” He stifles a groan. “Perhaps it was wrong? There is the parable of the rich man and his big barns. We didn’t exactly long for lives of luxury but we were a bit greedy. We called it thri , looking a er our children. Yet we forgot the meaning of God’s blessing.

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Did we lose sight of our own salvation and that of others. Our heavenly Father has certainly put us back on our heels and made us listen.” As they return to work, the men are silent. No one, however, disputes Ohm Benjamin’s words. Chairman Abba Abramovich Gurevich and Brigadier Jasha Herford Take a look at the farmyard where the brigadier, Jacob Herfort, has apparently go en everyone off to work without incident. There are never enough horses and so some juggling is needed. A er calling off a trip to the train station, Herford gossips with the veterinarian assistant, who has treated a few horses with chafed hips and other ills. The farmyard has emptied. The grooms who have tended horses and cleaned the stable since early morning head home for breakfast. They will return to take in the horses later on. The kolkhoz chairman, the Predsedatel, or executive head, enters the barn on his round of inspection. Abba Abramovich is also called Comrade Gurevich. He is a Party man who, about a year ago, was nominated by the Communist Party and elected at a meeting of the collective farmers. That was a er the longtime [Mennonite] non-Party leader, Johann Nachtigall, had fallen from grace and been arrested by the NKVD. Comrade Gurevich pursues his duties with remorseless zeal, trying to spruce up his record a li le. Only a year ago he had been released from prison a er serving time as a Trotskyist or Le Deviationist. Today he is what we call a “150-per center” who inflicts setbacks and losses on the kolkhoz and its members through his fiery and extravagant demands. Gurevich does not really dislike Jasha Herford, who simply follows orders. But he finds Franz Funk aggressive and critical, seemingly always knowing best. Gurevich o en accuses Funk of sabotage and the like. “Heh, Jasha,” he calls out, without a greeting. “How are things?” Herford reports quickly and a er Gurevich has sniffed around a little, the two walk back to the office. “Did you send a horse and wagon to the railroad station?” Gurevich asks. Something he noticed has brought this to mind. “No, not yet. I put that off till tomorrow. Thought I should first finish having the corn weeded. It’s high time and I have the workers.”

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“Jasha, you blockhead, didn’t I give you orders? What right do you have to change them? Get on your horse and find a wagon and someone to do the job.” Herford turns to do what he is told. “Idiot, he had to catch me,” he thinks to himself. “But it’s not serious. If I send the wagon this a ernoon, it should be alright.” The Housewife Field Workers First Herford will give instructions to the women, who are gathering in the yard. A er dropping off their li le ones at kindergarten, the housewives and mothers, who are tied down by housework, are allowed to start work a few hours later. Some older children need to be go en ready for school as well, although most look a er themselves and many boys are already in the fields. The women arrive in smaller groups, hoes on their shoulders, knowing what lies ahead. The weeding of row crops goes on for weeks on end. The women have fallen behind in this task and face an uphill struggle against the rank growth. Driven on now by feelings of desperation, they quicken their pace. It is mainly piecework and they dare not risk a drop in their earnings. Most are barefoot, some in wooden clogs, their faces serious and careworn. Almost none wear an apron over their patched dresses, their heads protected from the burning sun by rag scarfs or old straw hats, relics of be er days. The group leader, Frau Voth, a clever and energetic woman, is a born leader. She gathers up assignments and records the women’s completed work in her group of 20–25 women. The kolkhoz has five such groups of hoers. The particulars are discussed, and the women move off to their assignments in teams. Today they will weed corn in the field bordering that of the village of Paulsheim. They sigh at the thought of the long road ahead. They should have been able to cover it on wagon, but there are too few horses, and Gurevich has refused their request. Their troubles never end. They have to be home at noon to feed the children and look a er their households, and so start into their work without a pause, their paltry earnings denying them even that respite. “Slow down,” some call out. “Eppsche, Kleinsche, Unruhsche. What’s the rush? (Jie woare doch nich foats wada losroore).” “That’s easy for you to say,” comes the reply. “Who’ll feed the kids? (Joo, joo, jue es goat rede, woo sell wie sest die veeli Miela stoppe?)” She turns

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to a neighbour: “Dear God, will the torment never end (Du leeva GoĴ, woat daut Japloag noch mool fer oonds een Enj krieja)?” “What is there to say?” comes the reply. “If they don’t give us back our men soon, we’ll all simply collapse (Yoe Yoe, Du, wann oonsi Manna nicht boold tridj koomi, woa wie woll vesaje).” None of the women can risk taking it easy, however, for all are on short rations and most of their men have been arrested and have disappeared. The women hoe the weedy corn field. With the sun beating down, they will scarcely manage to reach the day’s norm and despite Herfort’s solemn promise to provide water, the water wagon has still not arrived two hours later. Nor is there chit chat during the break. What is there le to talk about? The women, who are intimately familiar with one another’s sorrows, draw quietly into themselves and plod along, straining to achieve the day’s norm, minds full of gloomy thoughts. Careworn and laden with grief, they elicit our deepest sympathy. Handicapped as I am, I work in the kolkhoz office and o en watch these women drag themselves wearily home at noon, only to return to the fields early in the a ernoon. What they fear most is that Gurevich will accuse them of sabotage. My job is to keep the work record books and so the women drop by my office from time to time to check their earnings – their labour day totals and those of their children. Then a friendly but tortured face o en dissolves in tears. “Oh my! I thought I had more work days. How will I manage?” The women suffer a desperate fate. As the two of us face one another there is no need to conceal anything. Still, what comfort can I give, what consolation for the wounded heart? Is there even assurance in the words of Him who said, “Come unto me, all ye who labour and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” A er suffering untold privations, letdowns and sha ering blows, the truth facing them is as simple as it is stark. Many of the women would doubtlessly prefer a bonus of 20 or 30 labour days over any suggestion that they seek comfort in the anchor of our hope, the God of divine love and consolation. The cause of the misery and privations that beset these innocent women is mainly, as said, the senseless arrests and disappearance of their men [in 1937 and 1938]. Meanwhile, Gurevich, the kolkhoz chairman, makes his rounds of the collective farm. On his way back to the Voth-yard, the site of the kolkhoz office, he blames the usually agreeable Jasha [Herford] for pu ing him in such a dark mood. “I can’t stand this endless German wilfulness, this always knowing be er,” he thinks. “I’ll show them.” Poor and blinkered Gurevich, arrogance has scrambled your mind.

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These maligned people are consumed by poverty and fear. They do not oppose you out of wilfulness but because of your foolishness and o en nonsensical demands. Faced with your ignorance of farming, they try to defend their miserly existence. Gurevich steps into the collective farm office where the bookkeeper, Friesen, the treasurer, Anna Unruh, and the courier, half-blind Becker, are already at work. For once he has li le to say. He signs a few orders, and a er answering Anna’s questions sets off in the direction of the workshop. The Workshop: The Collective Farm’s Fountain of Life The workshop is the nexus, the veritable fountain of life of the kolkhoz economy. It is the point at which employees face the greatest pressure, especially its foreman, Hermann Dirks. There is a bustle here, mountains of work to be done, and too many orders only half completed. The very same implements are brought in for repair, time and again. What has been damaged is o en the result of carelessness and neglect. What is decrepit needs rebirth. And, as if by magic, new creations appear – something old wedded to something new, the la er enchanted from who knows where. Here deliberation and common sense are galvanized and shaped by the wizardry of Hermann Dirks and his veteran crew. If there is not a timely patching up or restoration of the implements, the work of the kolkhoz can falter and the harvest be delayed or grind to a halt. Yet hitches in the delivery of nails, lumber, iron, and coal, all items in desperately short supply, hold up repairs and create problems. Gurevich is constantly on guard against bo lenecks, employing the one remedy his Party schooling has taught him to apply – pressure, and lots of it. Gurevich steps onto the yard of the repair shop where he spots, among the broken-down wagons, plows, harrows, and weeders, a number of threshing machines. At the back of the shop lies a mountain of unusable machines and parts, the shop graveyard. For years it has been the sole source of materials for repairs and new creations. Since morning the smithy and woodworking shops have echoed with a steady tapping, hammering, filing, sawing and planing. Gurevich takes the activity for granted and has added two men to the work force to get the threshing machines ready in time for harvest. How are the thresher repairs coming along? This is his chief concern. “We’ve not yet managed to make a start,” Dirks replies. “We got stuck

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with that contract for the MTS [Machine Tractor Station]. Outside the plan. Remember, I warned you.” “Excuses, excuses,” Gurevich counters. “We planned an increase in output. You know this. Work drags on at a snail’s pace and I’ve given you two more workers.” “But Comrade Gurevich, you’ve been here every day and know how we’ve sweated.” “Ridiculous. The same old methods. No responsibility. No enthusiasm for building Socialism. No progress.” Angrily, he walks away. As he leaves, he thinks about raising the issue that evening at the foremen’s meeting. He’ll lash out – “sterile approaches,” “antiquated routines” – and suggest a thing or two himself. A er breakfast, Gurevich and his diminutive driver, Emil, head out to the cornfield. The corn is still small enough to permit a clear view of all the teams at work. They pass horses with harrows, guided by girls on foot, enveloped in clouds of dust. There are six teams. Too few for the size of the field and the decision to work it three to four times that summer, he thinks. Maybe three times is too much. He happens across a tractor brigade from the Machine Tractor Station, ploughing the black fallow, but has li le to say. That work is done according to plan by the MTS management, and the MTS will brook no interference. At meetings, the MTS agronomists who control the collective’s fieldwork, o en reproach Gurevich for mistakes and oversights. Now lost in thought, Gurevich drives on slowly to where the women are weeding. The sun beating down out of a clear sky, the women advance slowly in a long row across the field, backs bent, hoes in rapid motion. He seeks out a few team leaders to ask whether the women have all shown up. He will not tolerate slackers, even though he knows that the women are working beyond their strength. The women complain of a lack of water and he considers allocating an additional horse and driver to fill this need. Evening Comes The sun slips slowly to the horizon. The women are the first to leave but their day is not over yet. A multitude of tasks await them at home. “Marta,” Frau Nickel calls out. “How was your day?” Frau Nickel cuts across the field with Frau Zielke and Frau Becker. “What can I say,” Marta Becker replies. “Things never go as fast as I’d like and I’m always tired, even before I start.” Frau Nickel looks into her small, worn face.

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“And how many work days have you got?” Frau Becker asks. “Oh Lord,” Frau Nickel says. “I’m always at work and I work hard, but there are so few.” She looks to see if her children are coming to meet her. Olga Zielke changes the subject. “Has the kolkhoz given you a piglet, Anna? Mine came a week ago, but I’m not sure I can scrimp enough on the children’s milk [to get the pig started].” “I’ve asked for a piglet myself, but heaven knows when I’ll get one or how I’ll manage the feed.” They turn off to the Kirchenallee and Olga Zielke heads straight for the next street. The teams that have reached the village enter the yard, followed by horses that have been drawing the cultivators. Covered in dust, you can scarcely recognize the girls. The boys turn in the horses that dash off to the waiting fodder and then there is a rush in every direction, home and to supper. Meanwhile the sun has set. At least its job is done. At our supper of a milk soup, eaten by dim lamplight, our son Heinz complains of the misfortunes of the day. Jasha Herford had given him a poor horse and he had accomplished li le and earned almost nothing. He is dead tired. “Tomorrow is another day,” I try to console him. “Maybe Jasha will give you a be er horse.” Mother is home from hoeing. “What a misery,” she complains. “A scorcher, weeds to the sky, I’m parched and had only two drinks of water all day.” The workday has ended. Only the housewives have chores still to do. The foremen will meet in Gurevich’s office to divide up tomorrow’s work. Abba Abramovich [Gurevich] wants to hear what they have to say about the work and to give his foremen a dressing down. Yet his nearest co-workers are not Party people but level-headed farmers, a fact the puffed-up Party man seems to forget as he derides them as weaklings, lazybones, deceivers, or saboteurs. Somehow he thinks this will win him respect and bolster his authority. The result is neither a happy atmosphere nor an enticement to be er work. Yet by now Gurevich’s outbursts are no longer taken so seriously. Weary, with heavy heads and empty hearts and stomachs, the foremen go their separate ways, to home and to bed. Tomorrow’s work, that will be more of the same, will come soon enough.

Chapter Three

The Establishment of Collective Farms

The First Land Reform In 1921–2, the first land reforms had been introduced throughout the country at great expense. At that time private farms were established with allotments of additional land. Collectivization still lay in a distant future. Previously Mennonites in south Russia, and other Germans, had owned larger, indivisible farms of some 70 hectares each. In some cases they had been half that size, and in others 16 hectares, or a quarter that size. (Mennonite land had been held in hereditary tenure, not in repartitional tenure, as was common among the native [Ukrainian] population.) Then, in early Soviet times, the land norm was generally set at 16 hectares per farm. Mennonites responded by requesting more land, making numerous applications, writing protests, and formulating petitions. These were supported by detailed scholarly studies and lobbying by their own associations (Verbände). While the Soviet land norm for Mennonites was also set at 16 hectares per farm, the government finally agreed to exceptions, to increase to 32 hectares the size of individual land allotments as model farms (KulturwirtschaĞen) for a minority of Mennonite farmers with large families. The praiseworthy goal was to have such farms lead by example in introducing advanced agricultural methods. Some 10–20 per cent of Mennonite village farms were of this size. This solution to the land question among Mennonites and adjoining German farmers provided considerable impetus for the rapid development of agriculture during the NEP period. In fact Mennonite agriculture managed to recover quickly from the civil war and famine. By slowly introducing new methods, farmers with 16 hectares also progressed well.

The Establishment of Collective Farms 169

But many of the new farmers, of whom there were a considerable number, were in a more difficult situation. Even with 16 hectares, they needed to acquire machinery and livestock, and, in most cases, develop new homesteads as well. They were long poor and dependent and although considered to be convinced individualists, they saw the advantages in joining the early cooperative farms in the 1920s. Moreover, they reasoned that if the state initiated more radical measures, their membership in a cooperative organization might protect them from censure as opponents [of reform]. For precisely such reasons even the model farms joined these cooperatives. Soon many villages prided themselves on having one or more land tillage cooperatives. Gnadenfeld, for its part, was a large village and centre that was expected to be progressive, to serve as an example, and to lead the way. O en under propaganda fire, it soon boasted no fewer than four cooperatives. All agriculturalists in Gnadenfeld, as I recall, became members. As indicated, the charter of these early cooperatives provided for the common working of private land, using privately-owned and communal machinery, as well as communal harvesting with larger machines. Certain types of work could also be done individually on one’s own land. It was expected that the harvest would be distributed among participating farms on the basis of the work and machinery contributed by each family. This was an acceptable and timely form of labour cooperative. It provided tangible benefits for the weak without seeming to upset private ownership. The cooperatives also promised advantages for the stronger agriculturalists. For the Soviets, however, the chief gain lay in blazing the trail for the collective idea. By advancing credits and machinery they could more readily influence cooperative groups that had already emerged in this way. The immediate advantage was to introduce a bookkeeping system into every cooperative that recorded income and expenditures, and would make subsequent taxation easier and more readily enforceable. The Collectives Come Anyway In 1929, a er a two-year trial period of farming in smaller land cultivation cooperative associations, it was suddenly announced that collectivization was a se led ma er. Existing cooperatives were expected to be the first to transfer to the collective farm (kolkhoz) charter. But this proved to be a considerably more difficult ma er. Contemplated for the collectives was the abolition of all private property and the communal

170 Tiefenwege: Soviet Mennonite Life and Suffering, 1929–1949

farming of all land. A person’s income was to depend entirely on his work and, naturally, on the harvest. A number of preparatory propaganda meetings were held where the advantages of the kolkhozes were praised to the sky, and the penalties for opposition and stubbornness painted in the darkest of colours. Party activists were brought in from outside and at o en sparsely-a ended meetings, by simple majority vote, the collective farm charter was accepted on behalf of the entire village. The wooing continued in this way, briefly or for longer periods, in all villages. It was done forcefully or less so, depending on the complaisance or tractability of the villagers, until all villagers, despite general opposition, had been united in the collective. To be sure, the Soviets did not find the going so easy in the Ukrainian villages. Mennonites, however, quickly recognized the futility of opposition and were probably among the first to surrender to the collective yoke. A erwards they acqui ed themselves as obedient collectivists and their kolkhozes were generally reputed to be among the most progressive. Yet one could also observe the barbarity and ruthlessness with which the Soviets treated previously blameless citizens and agriculturalists. At the time, the war against the kulaks had begun, and it was to pave the way for the collectives. The “Karl Marx Kolkhoz” in Gnadenfeld For years I was disenfranchised, without rights, and not permi ed to participate in the organization or decisions of the collective, but allowed to work in it. There I observed a great deal, some of which remains clearly in my mind. Within a year, my own farm inventory of a horse, a wagon and a few other items, had been turned over to the kolkhoz, in order, as I seem to recall, that we might be allowed to function as passive members of the collective. The goal at the time, according to the usual propaganda, was to “enlighten the masses,” to “show them the good.” The means to this end included the early exile from Gnadenfeld of two kulak families, that of Jacob Abr. Penner, with two small children, an elderly mother and sisters, and that of Wilhelm Mich. Janzen, with his wife, two small children, and two elderly sisters. A further means was the active support for collectivization of two experienced Party stalwarts, members of the infamous “Twenty-Five Thousanders,” urban Communists who had been placed on leave by their big-city Party commi ees and dispatched to our village as shock

The Establishment of Collective Farms 171

brigades to forcibly push through collectivization. Under these conditions, the founding of Gnadenfeld’s “Karl Marx Kolkhoz” proceeded quickly, without major hurdles. Ministers in the church and be er-off agriculturalists and other disenfranchised persons were barred from joining the collective, this privileged Soviet socialist organization. But granted honorary memberships in the collective were high-ranking Party personalities, like Stalin, and a few lesser figures, including the two organizers from the Twenty-Five Thousanders, Comrades Bulanov and Radsevich, of shameful memory.1 Organizing Without End, 1929–1930 In the winter of 1929–30, a long distressing period of organization followed in which much was said, debated, and weighed. Scheduled were innumerable meetings and commission sessions. There were trials and tests and their results were accepted and then again overturned. All plans for the future had to be presented to the village general meeting, where their acceptance or rejection was minuted. There was much going on. Party activists, literally to the point of ennui, had already enlightened our people about the economic and political value and benefits of the new arrangements. But these wise organizers had li le help to offer in applying their ideas. On the contrary, they spoilt much to everyone’s grief. It was no small ma er at a meeting to get people to agree on a single point of view. That required abandoning one’s own opinion and supporting the views of others, especially those of the wise leaders. Here again direction came, o en in circumlocutions, from the Party functionary brought in to enlighten everyone. People should recognize, he said, that it was in their own best interest to refrain from offering a view. They should do so only when asked, they were warned. People without personal opinions, who submi ed quietly and worked with diligence and loyalty, could best serve socialism and the Soviet government. This meant bearing the burden, carrying the yoke, never complaining. It was a plain truth everyone soon grasped. To merge over 100 small private farms into a large kolkhoz was like a giant earthquake. Everything up to and including one’s own mind had to be turned on its head. A host of novel arrangements were required. Farm buildings, for example, had been collectivized. If, say, 20–30 horses were to be crowded into one stable, endless changes and renovations were required. On some farms, buildings were therefore

172 Tiefenwege: Soviet Mennonite Life and Suffering, 1929–1949

dismantled, broken down. On others, they were enlarged and transformed. Rebuilding, moreover, had to be done with what materials and labour were already there. Nothing was available to be bought – not a single board, not a nail. In any case, in their deep poverty, which kolkhoz had the means to buy anything? Theoretically, according to the collective farm charter, the kolkhozes were voluntary associations of agriculturalists with their own inventory of farm machinery, livestock, and land. An executive of three persons was elected to administer and direct the kolkhoz. It then appointed, as needed, foremen, ca le breeders, work shop heads, and others. The chairman, the absolute chief over everything, was always a loyal Soviet person, o en brought in from outside the district. He would be nominated by the Communist Party and elected at a general meeting. This person constituted the real administration, quite outside the framework provided for in the collective farm charter. Other members of the administration, of the revision and other commissions, functioned as helpers, advisors, or, when necessary, as scapegoats for his misadventures. An office for bookkeeping and accounting was established. In the early years, the Party had harnessed village teachers to do these tasks. For a time Heinrich Johann Rempel functioned as bookkeeper and Johann Karl Ple was elected vice chairman. Other teachers moved in and out of the kolkhoz office, working on this commission or that, or at some other task. Others with obligations were the bosses, the brigadiers, of the two agricultural brigades, Heinrich Peter Voth and Franz Isaak. In charge of ca le breeding was Peter Daniel Schmidt; of the chickens, Justina Wilh. Dirks, of the pig farm, Wilhelm Joh. Voth. All were duly elected. Other supervisors included Karl Nachtigall, the educated livestock breeder, and Nikolai Johann Dosso, the veterinary assistant. The Machine Tractor Station (MTS) Dictates to the Kolkoz At the same time as the founding of the kolkhozes, the Soviet government decreed the creation of a new agricultural support arrangement, the already mentioned MTS, the Machine and Tractor Station. The MTSs were set up in many agricultural centres. As we would learn later, the MTS would play a pivotal role in the development and economy of the kolkhoz. For Gnadenfeld and some 25 other village collectives in the area [in the eastern half of the one-time Molochna Mennonite se lement], an MTS was set up in the village of Waldheim. It was

The Establishment of Collective Farms 173

housed in the then closed, one-time agricultural implements factory of I.I. Neufeld and Co. The MTS added a large repair shop to the factory. The kolkhozes had to provide financing and turn over to the MTS their larger harvesting machines like tractors. The use of machinery was to be shared among kolkhozes on the basis of a plan. Other agricultural machines were later added to MTS inventories, including large seeding machines and harvest combines. The MTS administration received seeding plans for the district from the agricultural authorities. These it allocated among the individual collectives. As the MTS grew in importance it acquired other and more varied large agricultural machines. Then, as the collective farms’ stock of smaller implements and horses dwindled down towards zero, it became increasingly dependent on the MTS for all crucial tasks. Especially noteworthy was the sharp increase in the MTS lease rates for machinery, despite the fact that kolkhoz specialists serviced the farm machinery themselves. These charges had to be prepaid with grain from the coming harvest. My estimate is that farm machinery rentals, as determined by the government, came to equal at least a quarter of the harvest. One therefore came instinctively to the conclusion that at a time when the Mennonite farmer kulak was being hounded and driven out as a usurer and profiteer, the MTS had itself fully taken over that business – only at more extortionate rates. In this way, within a decade, the real control of the collective farms had come to reside fully with the MTS. Gradually it had assumed responsibility for the mechanical tilling of the soil, while the kolkhozes had grown increasingly dependent on the MTS and were subject to their ever-rising interest payments. The depletion of the collective farm’s horses and agricultural equipment could not be halted. This was a function of mismanagement and of higher design. At its creation, the Gnadenfeld kolkhoz had some two hundred horses, a hundred wagons, a number of binders and other mowers, threshing machines, and a multitude of plows, seeders, and other implements. Frugal and sensible use and care of this inventory would have extended its life by at least a decade. Yet at the outbreak of war in 1939, there survived fewer than 80 working horses, around 30 barely usable farm wagons, two of them springed, and, except for a few other items, only a heap of old iron skeletons at the village blacksmith shop. This alone remained of the farm equipment that had once produced the bountiful crops of Gnadenfeld village. But I have jumped ahead somewhat. The first fiscal year, 1929–30, which started on 1 October, was one of organization. Although it was a

174 Tiefenwege: Soviet Mennonite Life and Suffering, 1929–1949

year of difficulties, of new arrangements, manifestations and mismanagement, it transpired without any major upheavals. Yet work had proceeded in a way that made the new collective farmer, the kolkhoznik, recognize that he would have to tighten his belt. In that first year the obligatory delivery plans for grain, milk, and meat exceeded the production capacity of the kolkhoz. This hard fact constrained development possibilities for the collective, while robbing the worker of his rightfully earned income, his normal sustenance, and standard of living. Yet that first year of the collective farm was still tolerable. Most collective farmers could still live off of personal reserves that remained from be er times, times when they had worked their own farms. Serious Crisis in the Entire Country, 1932–1933 The year 1930–1 was considerably more difficult in all areas. Setbacks stemmed from poor harvests, disease among ca le and horses, and poor nutrition. The harvest was much lower than anticipated. Yet the following year, 1931–2, was dramatically worse in every regard. This was true from the viewpoint of the kolkhoz but incomparably more so from that of the conscript, the collective farmer. The harvest was decidedly poorer and much of it had not been brought in on time. Work in the fields had dragged on until a er Christmas. But the weak harvest was not the only problem. Far greater were the inordinate grain requisitions of the government. These created the catastrophe. Moreover, the organization and discipline of labour was not good, nor could it be improved given the government’s ruthless management. When harvest quotas for 1932 could not be met, orders were given to re-thresh the straw. This re-threshing dragged on through the winter and into the spring of 1933, leaving workers desperate and despondent. Worse, the government was still dissatisfied a er skimming off all of the produce and undertook house searches for hidden or buried reserves [of grain]. Collective farmers were unwilling to cough up their reserves, but they were given no choice. Brigades of searchers and sniffers were gathered together from among Soviet activists in the village, “Commi ees of the Poor,” and Party members dispatched from the cities. Together, on behalf of the government, they performed one of the most disgraceful deeds imaginable, snatching the last piece of bread from the mouths of their fellow citizens. All uncovered grain was confiscated and removed. The collective farmers suffered grave injustices. Countless numbers of them were

The Establishment of Collective Farms 175

brought to trial as thieves and saboteurs. They were sentenced to many years in Siberian prison camps simply for trying to keep their families from complete ruin. Also during this time many collective farmers were labelled kulaks, dispossessed, and driven from their homes.2 The resulting shortfall of feed grain in the winter of 1932–3 ended in the deaths of many horses. The Soviets naturally looked for scapegoats. The kulaks were saboteurs, they thundered, and brought many young men in Gnadenfeld to trial. Karl Nachtigall, N. Dosso, and others were dragged through the courts and sentenced to several years at forced labour. In addition, some five Gnadenfeld families were liquidated as kulaks. This was one of the most ignoble acts of the Soviet regime. From the start of collectivization, villagers had become dependent on authorities for their food needs. Livestock had, a er all, also been collectivized. Soon milk and meat disappeared from the collective farmer’s menu. A li le milk and meat for children was sometimes made available during enforced slaughters. But a er a year or two, the government drew back somewhat from this savage policy and permi ed each collective farmer to keep a cow or heifer, perhaps even a piglet. These were for personal use and for breeding. He now had his own milk and meat, provided he had earned enough through work on the collective and the harvest was judged sufficient to provide feed for personal livestock. This easing of restrictions came a er Ukrainian peasants had repeatedly engaged in protests and risen up in revolts during collectivization. In any case, the senseless and inhumane methods of the Soviets led directly to the unprecedented famine, mentioned above. An Improvement? In 1933 the situation suddenly improved. Despite poor cultivation, throughout the country harvest expectations were surpassed. But the main reason for improvement was that the government eased its demands a li le. It was forced to show greater sensitivity towards the collective and individual farmers. Of the la er some still existed. Small concessions, privileges, and premiums were extended to the collectives and their members. For instance, permission was given to individual collective farmers to sell vegetables and other foodstuffs [raised in private gardens and sold at a limited collective farm free market]. All this, and a gradual increase in the number of agricultural implements, improvements in the quality of work on kolkhozes and in their management, led to a gradual be erment in conditions for workers and

176 Tiefenwege: Soviet Mennonite Life and Suffering, 1929–1949

farmers. But when the Soviets again upped their demands a few years later the capacity of the collective farmers to secure sufficient foodstuffs was seriously at risk. For food, farmers had to make do with what was le over for remuneration a er all quotas had first been filled. These included required deliveries to government and the MTS, state deductions, livestock fodder as established by set norms, and collective farm expenditures for implements, breeding stock, and building supplies. What remained on the collective for remuneration [in cash, grain, and other products] was pitifully li le. It hardly depended on the harvest alone. Collective farmers therefore o en had to make do with rye bread. There was never enough wheat, although winter wheat remained the main crop in the area, as it had been earlier. Workers hired by the state farms, the sovkhozy, had distinct advantages over the collective farmers. In addition to their paltry wages, management provided foodstuffs according to pre-set norms and prices. Employees of the state farms were also permi ed to keep private pigs and cows and were assigned living quarters. In spite of the harsh restrictions, for a few years the collective farmers were able to lead somewhat be er lives. A Shortage of Workers on the Collective Farms All members of the collectives, men, women, and children, were obligated to work. Many of the men were engaged in tasks of a specialized nature and in leadership positions. Women and growing boys and girls were put to work in the fields, hoeing and harvesting. The la er was especially true a er the mass arrests of the years 1937–8, when few men remained behind. This was a difficult time. Women in the kolkhozes, in addition to their usual household chores, had to participate regularly in all field work. In the winter women were seldom given obligatory tasks. Girls, however, were assigned more and more work. A er the arrests of their husbands [in 1937–8] most women faced another burden – as providers for their families. All this, coupled with their great poverty and worry, o en filled their lives with anguish. The seeding plans for the kolkhoz included numerous so-called technical crops, co on, castor beans, sunflowers, soya beans, herbs, and many others. These crops were chosen without regard to the labour needed for their cultivation. Women and children were thus harnessed to an inordinate amount of work. Families and households had to be neglected and the health of their members suffered. Time at work was,

The Establishment of Collective Farms 177

to be sure, set at 10 hours. But during harvest time, with many home tasks already neglected, work lasted from sunrise to sunset – and o en even on Sunday. In the beginning, the Gnadenfeld kolkhoz had a large surplus of workers. Yet with the deportation of kulaks and the flight of many families into other work, the labour shortage grew. Although the Soviets, in the first years of the collectives, had also reckoned theoretically on a saving in labour, the opposite proved to be true. In the early 1930s, around 25–30 Volynian-German families were rese led into our village. They had a hard start. Labour shortages were equally evident in other villages. The labour shortage in Gnadenfeld could easily have been eliminated, but this never happened. There was much Russian mismanagement on the one hand, and a recurring shortage of agricultural machinery on the other. In many smaller kolkhozes, closer to market towns with their opportunities for trade and supplementary income, living conditions were a li le more tolerable.

Chapter Four

Ge ing Rid of the “Kulaks”

How Farmers were Rendered Docile Enough to Join the Kolkhoz “Liquidate the kulaks.” For years in the early 1930s this cruel and barbaric watchword served as the slogan of the Stalin Party in the village. It was a ba le cry that would shake the foundations of village society, bring agriculture to the edge of the abyss, and threw villagers into helpless confusion. “What is wrong now?” the villagers cried. “What crime have we commi ed? Has human order disappeared?” Only two or three years earlier, Iakovlev, the Soviet Commissar of Agriculture, had pointed to the agrarian achievements of previous years, and said: “Every peasant, even the smallest, should become independent, with many horses, cows, and small animals. We want to assist with machinery and credits.” More explicit was a Party declaration that favoured a continuation of the path of the New Economic Policy in its last years. Since the statement mirrored their own views, peasants had read and accepted it with satisfaction. In the 1920s, a er the devastation of the civil war, agriculture had recovered surprisingly well in only a short while. And now this? An about-turn of 180 degrees. Stalin had pushed through his collective idea in a decision of the Party Congress whose conclusion read, “The war with the village bourgeoisie, with the kulaks, must be fought to a victorious end without pity.” It was a measure that when applied in our Mennonite villages would clearly wreak havoc. Before the general collectivization of 1929, the first kulaks had already been “liquidated”– expelled and dispossessed of their land and homes, but also allowed to dispose of their animals and equipment and possessions like household goods. They had also

Ge ing Rid of the “Kulaks” 179

been allowed to se le outside of their immediate region, at a distance of some 200 kilometres. This start was naturally bad enough for its victims but their chances of making a living and moving about freely had at least not yet been totally extinguished. Yet within a year, once it became clear that collectivization had run up against the unbroken opposition of the [Ukrainian] peasants, there followed the breathtaking decision to deport agriculturalists into remote regions. Agriculturalists Victimized as Exploiters The Soviets did not scruple about applying whatever force was needed to carry out their plans. Several hundreds of thousands of their best farmers were brutally expelled from their homes and robbed of everything but their children. Under desperate conditions, they were deported to remote and inhospitable regions and compelled to work at tasks that bore no relationship to their previous experience as farmers. But before this mass deportation, the Soviets had isolated and ostracized additional people labelled ekspertniki (experts) through a special form of taxation. With the help of a few village activists, the Party determined which villagers were exploiters, “and had always been.” These were people who had allegedly enriched themselves through the proceeds of usury and side-earnings. Then, depending on the caprice of the moment, several or many arbitrarily chosen individuals were unmasked as exploiters and slapped with an outrageous special tax in cash and in grain. Since there was no relationship between the tax demanded and peasant incomes, the tax invariably exceeded the la er. When such individuals tried to pay off their tax arrears by selling their private possessions, taxes would again be raised until the peasants could no longer pay. They were then labelled “malicious non-payers,” lumped in with the kulaks as ekspertniki and banished [from their villages and the area]. Bolsheviks created concepts of law and justice from their own, partial viewpoints. No one could stand up to their inherent arbitrariness and injustice. Many farmers, recognizing clearly what lay ahead and foreseeing their own demise, took flight from their homes, o en overnight. They le with their families, or sometimes without, and tried somehow to submerge themselves within the larger society, to make themselves invisible. Yet they rarely succeeded. Moving from place to place like hunted animals, they failed to find peace and security. Later, Soviet persecutors would show up everywhere on their doorsteps. Unfortunately,

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we have no statistics to tell us how many Mennonite families, as a result of these measures, became wanderers and fugitives. Certainly there were several thousand. Who can gauge their desolation? Yet worse was to come. In 1930–2, the mass liquidation of the kulaks was carried through.1 A kulak– literally, ‘the fist’– was the accepted designation and image of a farmer-usurer, an exploiter, who fleeced his poor neighbours. He was described as a usurer who demanded excessive interest and loans of grain and enriched himself through the exploitation of other people’s work. There had been people like this among the Russian peasantry, but had anyone ever heard of such a thing among our people? These parasites among the peasantry were, in any case, to be rooted out. This was a promise repeatedly made to the poor peasants. Was it not a mercy to be liberated from such vermin? At the same time, poor peasants were promised many-sided support from the Soviet government in the build-up of successful communal economies. Who could possibly say no to that? It is remarkable how the Soviets were able to marshal a number of clever arguments in support of their policies, even the most contradictory ones. In this way, many simple people, if not actually led astray, had the ground cut out from under them and became confused. That was o en enough to persuade them to raise a hand in support of a desired motion at a general kolkhoz meeting. Deporting the “Kulaks” The Soviets were adept at creating cover for their radical measures. The appearance of democracy was somehow to be preserved. Thus one susceptible stratum of society was always kept pliant, warm with promises, with a sugar cube, or, alternately, with the crack of a whip. The former were the village poor, who actually had most to expect from the Soviet system, even though the promises given them were only for a be er future. The banishment of the “kulaks” was legalized through appropriate decisions of a village general meeting, as had been the creation of the kolkhozes earlier. The one difference was that here the village poor were favoured as the trustworthy ones. It was assumed that they could be counted on to make the right decisions or to set the correct agenda. Yet the decisions to deport the so-called “kulaks” were also made under pressure from Party activists and others who had been brought in from neighbouring villages. (I enclose the word “kulak” here in quotation

Ge ing Rid of the “Kulaks” 181

marks as a slanderous term falsely applied to agriculturalists for one purpose only: discrimination.) It was truly a wicked time. In voting “yes” for individual deportations, many a Mennonite burdened his own conscience. Freely or unfreely he was agreeing to the fateful degrading of his fellow man. Was that necessary? One brother helping to plunge the other into the abyss? And why the farce? A er all, the Soviet government had no compunctions about ge ing rid of undesirable elements. They had proven that more than once. So why these cunning, satanic methods? As said, the image of the Soviet government as a people’s, a proletarian, regime was to be jealously guarded. Moreover, it was strategically important for the Party to split the population into two hostile camps. In this way the class struggle was to be kindled and stoked. Only then could the Soviets, without hindrance or penalty, fish in troubled waters and achieve their contradictory and barbaric goals. Based then on decisions of the village poor, many Mennonite families were legally expelled from their villages. The deportations happened at various times. They always came suddenly, without warning. Families would be labelled as kulaks and banished. With a few possessions, they would be put on wagons and carted to the train station. This was done inconspicuously, if possible, without accompaniment or farewells. Who, in any case, would have dared take their leave of such so-called scum? At the station they were organized into trainloads, then placed in boxcars, and off it went into distant, nameless regions of this vast land, mostly behind the Ural Mountains. No one knew to where. The destinations were inhospitable regions with harsh, unfamiliar climates. Many kulaks were put to work in forest camps, brickyards, or other heavy work. Others were commandeered into distant Siberian steppe lands to start new se lements. The worst, however, was the pitiless treatment accorded these people. Stripped of all means, reduced completely to dependence, without support, families were o en le without food, housing, heat and the most elementary essentials. For example, a er a long journey, around a thousand Mennonite families, some from Gnadenfeld, were deposited at Cheliabinsk, Siberia, where new industries were rising from the ground. Earlier, the fathers, as a police precaution, had been arrested and incarcerated in local prisons close to their homes. The misery of the poor families was indescribable as was their joy when, before their departure, they were reunited with their men. In their exile at Cheliabinsk they lodged for years in damp holes in the ground, without

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the time or means to improve their household conditions, and assigned hard work in brickyards. As a result of such austere conditions, many took sick and died, including numerous children. But the survival of the adults was also in doubt. Fearing for their lives, many families fled secretly. Without homes or a roof over their heads, they bumped about despairingly from place to place for years. Robbed of every support, they sought and found shelter in distant Russian villages, and then moved on again. Some families managed to reestablish le er contact with their deported relatives and got permission to go into the kulak camps to retrieve the children. It was a time of great lamentation. Another group of around 100 banished Mennonite “kulak” families, [some 500 persons], were brought to the Far East. On a tributary of the Amur River, the Seia, they were shipped northwards 1,000 kilometres into the uninhabited taiga to work in gold mines. Flight was impossible, and only a few children ever returned from there. Enclosed in their solitude, the remainder ended their lives in tribulation and distress. Yet one can conclude from le ers that arrived later from the Seia, that these Mennonites came to be valued highly as upright and diligent workers and human beings. In time many were freed from their criminal status, raised in wages and welfare to the level of other workers, and sometimes even given preference. Whither the “Kulaks”? A further group of roughly a hundred “liquidated kulak” families [in Gnadenfeld] were assigned a spot in the Prishib area, some 30–50 kilometres from their villages, and ordered to found a se lement there. That is how the villages of Octoberfeld and Neudorf originated. Were these deportees thought to be less dangerous or less alienated, or was this simply another Soviet experiment? Ukrainians also were dumped out on the open steppe, 20–30 kilometres from their villages, and told not to return. In this case village councils permi ed their deportees to take along a horse and a cow and many closed an eye when some building supplies also went along to the new se lements. These deportees did not feel quite the same misery as those dispatched to obscure and remote areas. They soon took up the challenge of pioneering. They naturally had no other choice. Many, having been stripped bare and proletarianized, hoped finally to be liberated of the fear of persecution and chicanery. With help from friends and

Ge ing Rid of the “Kulaks” 183

well-wishers, a small, flourishing se lement soon emerged. Most of its dwellings were of clay, with straw or reed coverings. Others remained roof-covered earthen dugouts. Agriculture was taken up on the side. The soil was good. Had the Soviets, as promised, preserved peace and security, and permi ed people here to work and live undisturbed, the se lement would doubtlessly have had a bright future. But before long the NKVD began making arrests here as well. Mennonite villages had been collectivized, and the Soviets soon appeared in the new se lement with similar designs. From there most miscreant “kulaks” slowly fled to remote cities. There they tried to disappear into the industrial workforce. For many, many years it was their fate to be on the move constantly. Meanwhile many will have ended their restless lives somewhere under a modest burial mound. Thus proceeded the liquidation of the “kulaks” in our Molochna villages. It was scarcely distinguishable from what happened in other [Mennonite] settlements, but more palpable and comprehensive than in the surrounding Ukrainian villages. It is a story of sorrow and tears. Measured by the injustice and barbarism visited by a state upon its own people, its equal can scarcely be found anywhere in the history of nations. As for the village of Gnadenfeld, from 1929–32, 10 families with 57 members were banished and rese led. Eight families with 54 members preemptively took flight in the forlorn hope of escaping their appointed fate.2 In the la er case, the effort usually failed. Most were picked up in time and plunged into extreme misery and oppression.

Chapter Five

Stalin’s Impact on the Mennonite Character

The influence of the new economic order and the entire Soviet system on Mennonites was highly corrosive, most notably for Mennonite customs and group traits. Under Bolshevism our group character underwent profound change. Mennonites had earlier taken pride in their reputation for sincerity, honesty, self-confidence, independence, and integrity in thought and behaviour. But these traits steadily lost ground when faced with relentless Soviet pressures and concepts that opened the way to base thinking and a false character. And how could this have been otherwise when Christian principles, morals, and accepted ways of behaviour were being je isoned at every hand. In their place emerged a world of double dealing, injustice, rampant immorality, and barbarism. All were fostered by loyal servants of the regime and proclaimed as the future of mankind. Mine and Yours Becomes Blurred Over time, the false promises, bullying, and persecution of the Stalinist state rendered people increasingly mistrustful in their deepest being and feeling uncertain and depressed in their outlook. Struggling to distinguish right from wrong, they were robbed of their willpower, grew indifferent to work, and were overwhelmed by feelings of irresolution. The entire Soviet agenda seemed new to them, strange and contradictory, and offered li le promise of future success. Official directives struck many as absurd, seemingly hostile equally to commonsense and Christian values. Yet entangled in the circumstances of that time and against their be er judgment, Mennonites learned behaviour that was false and criminal.

Stalin’s Impact on the Mennonite Character 185

Consider how the changes gradually evolved. During the period of collectivization, people lost virtually everything and then in subsequent years of Soviet mismanagement were unable to derive enough from their work to feed themselves or their cow. Condemned to poverty, they found it hard to watch as everything around them, including crops in the fields, went downhill while they and their animals went hungry. Secretly they began responding by taking what they thought was rightfully theirs. It was what they felt they had been deprived of or what had been withheld from their rightful earnings. But such minor thievery of socialist property by previously innocent men and women was severely punished at infamous village show trials. It was a world in which concepts of justice, of mine and yours, became increasingly blurred. Who could find their way through this labyrinth of “revolutionary law and practice” without damage to their souls? It was one law today, another tomorrow. How could one remain true to oneself? Let anyone who has never himself experienced anything of this kind cast the first stone. I must also sadly admit that people succumbed to their world because they were too shallowly grounded in their Christian principles. Soon a er the onset of Soviet chicanery and persecution, people learned to act against what they knew to be right and to show a false face to the world. It was painful to observe how servility and acquiescence, hitherto unknown character traits among Mennonites, began to spread. Rectitude was o en pushed aside as people sought to please the arrogant holders of power, to impress them, and, worst of all, to comply with their demands. This was o en done simply to save what truthfully, in any case, was hardly more than a wretched existence of extreme privation. It could hardly escape notice that the people who were hated most by the Soviet bosses at every level were persons of steadfast character, of be er convictions and traditions and of Christian principles. The powerful were most irritated by such people’s constancy and uprightness and inevitably did what they could to break the back of all opposition, to teach the obdurate a hard lesson. Too o en this meant a prison camp or oblivion. The Creation of the Submissive Mass Person Among Mennonites in the early Soviet period, people who were false, base, immoral, or servile still o en aroused indignation and

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public censure. But as time went on such a itudes inevitably weakened. Finally, people’s will to resist was broken, and their consciences became benumbed. This was an age of arbitrary action and persecution when much was ridiculed as bourgeoisie prejudice. People sank deeper and deeper into a state of passivity – despite their moral principles and traditions. Victims of growing physical and spiritual poverty themselves, they became enmeshed in contradictions and neglect and sank to a level that can only, as mentioned, be termed soulless vegetation. The only thing that now ma ered was naked survival, the struggle for physical existence – and this justified renouncing every noble human impulse. Who would ever have believed that our Mennonite farmer, with his innate self-confidence and independence, could be brought so low? Obstinate and defiant, he seemed to have been born to be a master and not a slave. Traditionally he had managed his farm like a small king without tolerating interference. What had happened to his courage, his energy, his pithy good humour, his resoluteness, his simple honesty? In a decade of proscribed rights and crushing violence, all these qualities had been trampled upon, uprooted, and tossed aside. What Happened to Our Youth? Certainly our youth could fare no be er than their elders. They were under the influence of conflicted, unfree parents. How could parents even try to apply Christian principles in the education of their children, when they o en no longer lived by these principles themselves? Education was increasingly le to teachers and Party organizations, the Komsomol, and others – exactly what those in power had intended. Yet, God be praised, despite the propaganda, the proffered advantages and advances, the enthusiasm of our youth for the new order was restrained and relatively modest. Young people had witnessed the misery and persecution of their parents. They had experienced the many contradictions of life and seen these mirrored in what the local bosses, and, of necessity, their teachers and youth leaders, said and did. This hardly gave them the requisite respect and ardour for what was happening around them. In fact, it filled them with disgust. The result was to imbue many a young Mennonite with a viewpoint that was serious, critical, and level-headed. It seemed to me that in the years immediately before the war, the titanic economic and spiritual ba les that had raged in the villages had

Stalin’s Impact on the Mennonite Character 187

subsided somewhat. The experimentation, propaganda, and persecution had fallen off a li le and with it had returned a certain calm. Were those in power satisfied with their accomplishments? Probably not. But a er their mismanagement had ruined so much and so many, they seemed to have decided on a more cautious approach. For instance, one could observe the odd case in which an “incorrigible” person from bygone times – a er suffering many a torment and withdrawing quietly into seclusion – was allowed to perform some service in Soviet life. Given his abilities and care, the service was even valued, perhaps because so many Soviet activists during this time were dishonest, undependable and corrupt. Even some members of rejected “kulak” families returned home, for be er or worse, and were given work in factories and admi ed to the kolkhozes as passive members. A Healthy Core Remains Although I have tried to be objective and truthful about the influence that Communism had on the character of Mennonites, I am sure that I may not always have hit the mark. Especially those who were not a part of this world may find the portrait too negative, exaggerated, and therefore untrue. Even some onetime participants in that life may think similarly. But let us not lose sight of the fact that although the conditions and circumstances of life at the time were generally muddled, they were not the same everywhere. Moreover, assessments may vary from observer to observer depending on points of view. Unquestionably, however, the toughest times and greatest suffering were experienced by groups that had earlier achieved a higher cultural level and standard of life. In Soviet times, they inevitably suffered a steeper and more painful decline. Mennonites were one of these groups, and those in the Molochna area were especially hard hit. To so en the edges of this portrait a li le, I would add that while many of our good qualities and traditions, even Christian outlook, had disappeared from the surface of everyday public life, they had not been completely erased. Hunkered down in a small corner of many a heart, they lived on. A er the arrival of the German Wehrmacht and our liberation from communism, for example, I saw how people started to reflect on their spiritual and cultural heritage and to breathe new life into it. Always throughout Soviet times, moreover, there were glorious though rare exceptions. A handful of persons, unusual Mennonites, refused to sully themselves morally, despite everything. They refused

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to violate their consciences, to je ison their values or their Christian outlook. Alas, in most cases, these Mennonites were soon tragically cleared from the field and they became martyrs to their principles and faith. The Persecution of Religion As in many ba les, that of the Soviet regime against preachers, churches and religion, was waged on two fronts. On the one, the godless government employed arbitrary methods and terror to suppress people, render them defenceless, and force them to comply with its commands. On the other, the propaganda of the “Union of the Godless,” a Party and state organization, was pushed relentlessly and not without success. Our people were never taken in directly by the organization’s quite clumsy, irrational, and unconvincing approaches that principally elicited aversion and disapproval. Yet a more powerful lever of state repression was the knowledge that the regime treated everyone of Christian outlook with suspicion and contempt. It took every chance to shelve them while persons with contempt for religion enjoyed the regime’s respect and trust. This disheartened and confused many who responded by hiding their real outlook while accommodating themselves to official views in their speech and actions. Such behaviour, in turn, confused those commi ed to walking a straight line. They became correspondingly more withdrawn, timid and soulless themselves. Freedom of religion was laid down as a right by law, and so the battle against it was not waged openly by the regime. But the creation of the kolkhozes was accompanied by increasing pressure on religion as well. Religion was viewed by the regime as both an obstacle to class war and as a constraint on unfe ered action by Party activists against “kulaks.” Preachers were simply denounced, accused of spreading anti-Soviet propaganda in their sermons and pastoral counselling, and persecuted and punished. Labelled as ekspertniki, akin to kulaks in their treatment, preachers were taxed at prohibitively high rates on grounds that churches must take in huge sums of money through their religious services and from their members. As national property, the churches were formally exempt from taxes and rent, but they were required to expend large sums on exorbitant insurance premiums and usurious repair bills. How, for example, could one paint a church roof if there was no paint to be had or the paint could only be secured at black market prices? O en churches were thus

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closed on the specious grounds that they had violated their rental contract with the state. With church discipline, teaching and fellowship thus seriously constrained, life and faith in the Mennonite community gradually tailed off and then vanished completely. “Constant dripping wears away the stone” is a truth confirmed by the success that a ended the relentless anti-religious actions and policies of the Party and state. In speaking about constraints on religion, it should be noted that antireligious propaganda was not experienced in its worst form by the agrarian population. Rather Party and state support for the work of the “Godless” was most zealously directed against public employees, school employees, teachers, and factory workers. There it was pushed forward tirelessly and had to be taken seriously. Such workers were simply obligated to participate in indoctrination programs as a condition of their employment. Every appearance of a Christian outlook, all religion, was to be rooted out and supplanted by a new moral order and ethics. Try to place yourself in the skins of these poverty-stricken Mennonites. For years they had been hounded, buffeted at every turn, ensnared in contradictions and fears. As tortured individuals they had noticeably declined in their physical and spiritual lives. Robbed of their principles and swamped in the encompassing hopelessness, they had lost their equipoise and bearings and dragged themselves along from day to day. Was it any wonder when they tried only to preserve their naked existence? The Demise of the Churches While the persecution of religion was no different in Gnadenfeld than in other Mennonite places at the time, my presence there permits me to provide particulars on that period. Although the Gnadenfeld church was formally closed only in 1936, its life had been almost completely extinguished much earlier. Exposed to relentless economic, political, and anti-religious pressures since 1929, church services had been poorly a ended for some time. The trend was accelerated by the regime’s treatment of our [lay] preachers, most of whom were farmers, using the so-called taxation of the ekspertniki as the preferred form of discrimination. Former missionary Gerhard Nickel, the church elder, was declared a “kulak” and liquidated. Ill at the time of his expulsion from Gnadenfeld, he soon died. Around 1929, the congregation elected Johann Dueck, a

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refugee from the Terek region where he had served as a minister and as Elder. In 1930 Abr. Braun, who had been ordained minister several years earlier, was taxed as a “kulak.” Soon liquidated, he fled to the Caucasus with his family. There, in 1937, he was arrested as a “kulak” and sent into exile. There, according to unconfirmed reports, he died. Defamation coupled with vexatious and prohibitive tax imposts, drove the two preachers, Franz Loewen and Heinrich Unruh, to flee Gnadenfeld with their families for other villages. Loewen found a job in Nogaisk, on the Sea of Azov, where he lived only a year before his death in 1932. Unruh fled to the Caucasus where he worked as a respected blacksmith in a Tatar village. In the flood of arrests of 1938 he, too, was torn from his family and was never heard from again. The venerable Johann Dueck served his congregation for four years as Elder. Defamed, devoid of income and with church life almost dead, he joined his children in the Crimea where a er several years he too was arrested and reportedly died in the Simferopol prison. The sole remaining preacher now was Heinrich Dirks, Jr. For several years, despite being severely limited in his functions as a minister and suffering much abuse from officials, he quietly and bravely served his congregation at Sunday services, funerals and weddings. Later, a er the Gnadenfeld church had been closed, he continued to officiate at funeral services in the cemetery and at weddings in private homes. Permissions were now required for both kinds of services. The village soviet warned him to cease his work and abandon his ministry and promised him a privileged position if he complied. Yet he remained steadfast in his faith and loyalty to his congregation. Swept up in the general wave of arrests of June 1938, he le to mourn his sister and housekeeper. A er being subjected to questioning by the NKVD, he was shipped to prison camps in the high north where, according to reports, he succumbed to the hardships of his imprisonment already in 1939. We believe that he entered into the glory of his Lord. He was around 65 years old. In Memoriam In their refined ways, the Soviets had succeeded in destroying the churches and robbing them of their shepherds in what was truly an evil time. During the period in which the church was deprived of its leading men, one a er the other, it had grown weaker, more defenceless, and confused. For some time, many people had already kept their distance from the Church, refusing or unable to pay their church dues.

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Soviet chicanery led to sharp increases in dues from year to year until these could finally no longer be raised. Soviet intentions and goals were easy to fathom. In the end it was deemed pointless and too dangerous to continue the struggle. Why jeopardize one’s own future and that of one’s family? Soon therea er the church was released from its contracts, turned into a cinema and clubhouse, to be used for performances and entertainment. How unbelievable that the devil could bring things to such a pass? A believers’ congregation had given up its church, in order later to frequent it as a meeting hall and place of entertainment – freely or involuntarily.

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Section Two World War II, the End of Bolshevik Rule, and the German Occupation, 1941–1943

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Chapter Six

Outbreak of World War II

World War II Begins We had been shaken in 1939 by the outbreak of Germany’s war against Poland and other countries. Soviet Russia prepared for hostilities and occupied portions of Poland. For our part, we were uneasy and had to meet soaring state demands for agricultural produce. We were also astonished when Germany concluded a friendship pact with Russia [in August 1939]. That was good news for us and we tried to breathe more easily. Might our situation improve and mistrust towards us disappear? But many Mennonites were sceptical of the pact, especially when a large number of ordinary Soviets remained dubious as well. Was it simply another disarming Bolshevik trick to a ack the despised Hitler government later? But, for the moment, we felt a slight turn for the be er. Arrests stopped and they did not resume until the outbreak of Russo-German hostilities in 1941. The Soviet occupation of [the eastern part of] Poland in 1939, followed by war with Finland, naturally resulted in new taxes and demands for larger kolkhoz deliveries to the state. Imposts bore down hard on collective farms. Generally, lives continued much as before in their hardness and sense of futility. Then suddenly, first quietly, secretly, then more emphatically, a rumour spread among us that Hitler wanted all ethnic Germans to leave Soviet Russia. The notion was absurd and dangerous [insofar as we were concerned], but it spread like wildfire until everyone knew of the good news. Reports had filtered through to us about developments in [Soviet-occupied] Poland, the Baltic States, Bessarabia, and Galicia where all ethnic Germans had indeed been permi ed to leave for Germany. None of these cases involved Soviet

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citizens, however, and it was senseless for us to repeat the hearsay. We had enough troubles, and knew that the NKVD could easily use it to cut us down. Yet embedded in the gossip was also the whispered hope of maybe escaping the torture of our lives and the insecurity and physical and spiritual enslavement that reached deep into every family. In the excitement of the moment, however, many forgot the palpable risks of discussing such ma ers. War for Us as Well, 1941 By pure chance, around noon, Sunday, 22 June 1941, I overheard a radio broadcast in which People’s Commissar Molotov broke the news that Germany had a acked Soviet Russia. Like others, I was stunned. Was it possible, had I heard right? The friendship pact between our countries was in force. Amidst curses and threats, Molotov spoke also of military operations underway. I could hardly stop shaking. Not that, I thought, let it not be true. This was the greatest imaginable tragedy [for us]. Foreseeing only disaster, I groaned, “Great God, Have mercy.” I cried out, “Children, Mother. Have you heard the terrible news?” But further reports confirmed what I had heard. It was war with Germany, and suddenly all of our thoughts and views had been tossed to the winds. And what of us? How dared Germany risk such a huge gamble against so powerful a country? My heart flooded with pity and fear for Germany and anxiety for ourselves. Despite our misery, our minds had become calmer since the start of war and the German-Soviet friendship pact in 1939. With friendship between the two countries, the pretext for endless a acks on us had vanished. For some time, we had noted the innuendo of distrustful Soviets about an artificially-created friendship, but this we were happy to overlook. Let German – Soviet friendship be real, we thought. But now we had been abandoned bag and baggage and what lay lurking in ambush waiting for us was unfe ered Soviet vengeance? Our minds roiled as we contemplated the brutality, the persecution, and the arrests that would likely await us. What liberties might the Soviets take with their German population, with our wives and children? What of my wife and me, who were already outcasts, traitors, on the black list, under surveillance? Would we now be early scapegoats? Had we not already suffered our allotment of misery and degradation? Almighty God, faced with such trials, will we simply collapse? Have mercy. Thus weighed down, the

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opening day of war ended for us with dire forebodings. The confusion and horror of the war struck everyone, Germans and Ukrainians alike. At best, war was a wild and terrible gamble, especially for Soviet Russia. Almost everyone foresaw colossal disaster. Silently, downcast, we crept past one another without u ering a word. What if the German Armies Should be Defeated? Even though li le had altered in our immediate lives, eventful changes were unfolding at the front. According to initial reports, fighting was relentless, touch-and-go, with the Germans suffering serious losses. Reservists among the Ukrainians were called up, but we were ignored. We did not know what it meant, but it was certainly worrisome. Quietly, there had also been some arrests from among those of us on the black list. The NKVD was alert and busy. In Gnadenfeld it picked up the young newlyweds Hans Abr. Isaak, Hermann Herm. Teichroeb, Jakob Abr. Riediger, and the bachelor, Jakob Joh. Toews. In the neighbouring village of Mariawohl it was the elderly couple, teacher D. Korn. Sawatzky, and a few others. A few others also disappeared who had somewhat loudly proclaimed our forthcoming evacuation to Germany, and we later learned of similar disappearances in other villages. A few of my co-sufferers from prison-camp days fell prey to arrests in the first security sweep as well and we never learned their fate. They had simply vanished without a trace, never to be mentioned again. Knowing it was dangerous to talk of such ma ers, their wives, children, and parents were le to pine away in silence, isolated, deserted in their grief and affliction. For the time being, however, I was le in peace. Summer work on the collective continued without interruption, everyone heavily engaged. Harvest-time was fast approaching and all kinds of preparations needed to be made. Everyone was told to redouble their efforts, to work more diligently, intelligently, in order to deliver to the state the maximum production in this hour of need. From my workplace in the kolkhoz office I observed the goings on of the collective farm and its management, especially how the winds are blowing from outside. At first the [official Soviet] Information Bureau reported the situation at the front as seemingly developing well for the USSR, and I foresaw disaster if the Soviets were to overpower the exhausted Germans. But as Soviet cities fell, Soviet losses and the eastward advance of the front could no longer be concealed. What indeed might this mean for Russia with its gigantic distances?

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Digging Trenches An event on 30 July put all of us on notice: Many of our village men were mobilized to dig trenches. To dig trenches, but where? We had assumed the front was still at a great distance, but now 30 men had been hurriedly outfi ed with tools and provisions and brought by wagon to the road leading towards Zaporizhiia. The digging site was not identified and this secrecy made leave-takings painful. Several days later another 35 males were recruited, and then another 30 [fully 10 per cent of the total population of Gnadenfeld]. Given our shortage of manpower, women would soon be dispatched as diggers as well. It was a new woe to depress us even more. Sending mothers and young girls into a vast unknown put them seriously at risk. What further earthquakes might the war bring? The Front Moves Closer Scarcely veiled reports from the Information Bureau magnified worries. It came as a shock for us on 10 August to hear that the cities of Pervomaisk and Kirovograd, close to the Dnieper, had been occupied. Only a few days earlier reports had still been datelined from the western borderlands. Blows followed hard on one another, including the fall of Nikolaievsk on the Black Sea, military movements in our area and the eastward flight through our villages of dust-covered caravans bearing mainly Jews. Soon people were commandeered to shepherd herds of livestock eastward from near the Dnieper. The front, it seemed, had been broken through and the Soviets were in full retreat. Would the Soviets in their hasty withdrawal overlook us? There seemed something distinctly sinister about Soviet behaviour when, amidst the wildest rumours, Korotkov, the [local] NKVD representative, began popping up everywhere, o en showing up in our village. In the early history of the Gnadenfeld collective farm, Farmyard No 1, as mentioned, had been established in the village centre, on the once-beautiful yard of the Peter Voths. The family had been liquidated as kulaks and Voth had died soon therea er. The spacious onetime home quartered the kolkhoz management, the community kitchen, and a storehouse for foodstuffs. Kolkhoz Chairman Abba Abramovich [Gurevich], all powers joined in his person, occupied the management office. Next door were the collective’s quarters for housekeeping and accounting. In a small corner room beside a wall cupboard containing the work records of the collective farmers stood a table. It was my table.

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I will never forget my experiences in that room. Many care-worn women had appeared opposite me to check their earnings and I had o en met eyes brimming with tears. It was a room where secret sorrows could be freely shared. That was understood. My friend Becker, a former teacher who was now blind, was our courier, or gofer, who earned a modest salary by running small errands, delivering orders, answering the telephone. He got around throughout Gnadenfeld, to the mail, the Machine Tractor Station, the secondary school, the village council, sources he mined for scraps of information. In free moments the two of us now sat down eagerly together to discuss the situation. Augmenting the official reports of the Information Bureau, his scraps of information spiced up our somewhat conspiratorial discussions. Becker was more pessimistic about our prospects than I was, perhaps because I did not wish the worst to be true. Whatever the truth, our sympathies lay with the heroic German fighters who, in our view, had been a acked. Our muted yearning for deliverance was thus inevitably linked to German victory. The future looked bleak, but was it not in the hands of our Lord? On 17 August we learned that following the Soviet abandonment of Krivoi Rog, the German Wehrmacht had broken through to the Dnieper River. We were keyed up to see what would happen next. Deportation of the Crimean Germans and Mennonites Then a bombshell. The NKVD started to deport Crimean Germans and Mennonites. Freight trains with these unfortunates had passed through our nearby train station at Stulnevo where some Mennonites had actually met acquaintances. The Crimean Mennonites had been told to pack and leave in two hours time. Throwing together a few pitiable belongings and a li le food, they had been dispatched, they believed, to the Caucasus. The report filled us with alarm. It had never entered our minds that the Crimean Germans would be uprooted willy nilly, stuffed into freight cars, and dragged off. To risk something so monstrous at such times seemed beyond belief. The thought that it might be our turn next was something almost too gloomy for us to contemplate. The earlier dispatch of more than a hundred of our village men and women to dig trenches at secret sites had already torn families apart. We assumed that the 65 men and women diggers from Gnadenfeld working on the Dnieper’s west bank had already fallen into German hands. Another 100 of our women and girls were now digging trenches on our side of the river, some 70 kilometres away. Should we prepare

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for deportation as well? But how and with what? Mother had been conscripted into a trench-digging detail, and [with my physical disability] I was helpless without her. In the sorrowful days that followed, life continued and events took their course. We were urged to work to the limits of our strength. The leaders maintained an outward calm but we felt inner restlessness everywhere. Without raising alarm, local functionaries, including the village council chairman, police, MTS and others, were preparing to vanish at a moment’s notice. The Wehrmacht was said to be poised to cross the Dnieper and Abba Abramovich and his associates were ge ing ready to flee. Why were the Germans stalling when our liberation and victory were at stake? The Soviets Have Major Worries A er the outbreak of war, the cumbersome Soviet apparatus had been spurred on to feverish activity. Everything in that gigantic country was now being harnessed to the war machine. Amidst much else, the regime, from on high, ordered the creation of a Labour Army, a Trudarmiia, that was to consist of some men, but mainly women, who had otherwise not been mobilized into the army. Formed into groups of labour soldiers, under strictest discipline, they were to work wherever wartime needs were greatest: in the mines, armament factories, and elsewhere. Much later we learned that those mobilized into the Trudarmiia had endured lives of great suffering. Their food, clothing, and other necessities had lagged behind those of the army, while discipline and deprivations had been no less stringent and casualties had more than equalled those at the front. Many fellow Mennonite believers were thus enslaved for years and many perished. Sparse reports cast a dim light on this new form of despotic forced labour in the Soviet Union. The Soviet supply and finance offices naturally had worries too. The consumption of many goods rose steeply, necessitating new expenditures and much new money. Everything possible was to be sucked out of the population. Forced state loans were again imposed on factories and collectives, enterprises dividing and distributing the targeted sums for collection among individual workers who faced inordinately high imposts. The first such demands for loans reached our villages in August 1941. At the same time, meat requisitions of 30 kilograms were imposed on each kolkhoz family. In normal times, collective farmers usually disposed over hardly enough meat for their own severely sparse diets, a few chickens, a small pig, perhaps a handful of rabbits. Village practise

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was for several families to cooperate in buying a slaughter animal, but this time the twists and turns were greater. Given wartime state requisitions, slaughter livestock was hard to find and expensive at a time when collective farmers already suffered a terrible shortage of money. How to fund the forced loans? Regularly during noontime breaks, the collective farmers had to turn up at meetings to be harangued by police and Party leaders. Since he had earlier been branded and imprisoned as a Trotskyist, Abba Abramovich [Gurevich] sweated blood, using every weapon in his arsenal to over-fulfil the assigned target. Mixing threats with appeals to patriotism, he made clear that we had no choice but to sign on the do ed line. Yes, we would help to reach the expected results, but with a bare cupboard where would we find the means? The tax collectors were relentless. The challenge of the forced loan was easier in industry where most workers agreed to contribute a month’s wages, payable in 10 or 12 monthly instalments. But the idea that an impoverished collective farmer was able to cough up such sums from his private resources was a mockery. Psychologically, the collective farmer was still o en viewed as a farmer, a private person, who had funds stashed away somewhere in a sock. The truth was that a collective farmer’s income was derived totally from kolkhoz work, so when the tax people showed up, the collective farmers among us, now mostly women, were sick at heart and sat stoically on the ground looking mutely at the authorities. In watching this lamentable picture of collective farmers signing up for loans without any sense of how they might pay for them, I could almost forget my own hopeless situation. For my wife and me the situation was difficult because we had no money and were unable to float a loan. We debated back and forth and finally decided our only choice was to give up our only cow as a way of barely covering the costs of the meat requisition and the forced loan. With heavy hearts we set about to liquidate our cow, telling ourselves that was the smaller of evils. Expecting that greater surprises were in store for us, we took comfort in knowing that we were hardly alone in this emergency. Some neighbours had already given up their only piglet, others their last reserves [of food], and there were those with nothing to deliver. All Our Men Are Sent Away Surprise. On 3 September all German men were ordered to return immediately from the trenches. What was up now? At first we thought

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this might mean that all men liable for military service were being called up, but when the men arrived home on the evening of 4 September they were greeted by another astonishing order: “Gather up enough food and warm clothing to last 10 days and report immediately at the village council office.” What followed was muted commotion. With many women still away digging trenches, who would look a er the children? Throughout the night, men, o en accompanied by women and children, appeared at the village council headquarters where NKVD constables awaited them and before daybreak the first group, guarded by the secret police, was marched off towards the district (raion) centre. It was especially troubling that the group consisted not only of military-age men, but also of all males 16 and older, teachers and officials excepted. Within a few days the la er were also sent off. With only a day’s notice, column a er column of dust-covered men from surrounding villages, escorted by armed NKVD troops, moved out towards the regional centre. A few crestfallen elderly men sat high on the baggage wagons. They were ignorant of what was expected of them, but sure they would not be seeing their families soon. What a mournful sight. The following morning I reported for work as usual, but with a heavy heart. My friend Becker showed up in what was now a great emptiness, the bookkeeper Peter Friesen, the managers Franz Funk and Jacob Herford, and all other officials and employees having disappeared. Work had ground to a standstill. Everywhere we saw the disturbed and sad faces of the women and girls. Abba Abramovich [Gurevich] appeared, seemingly quite unconcerned, running back and forth, issuing orders and sending Becker off on an errand. He gave no hint of his own role in having gathered together all the men during the previous night to make sure that none would stay behind. Since all the men, were, to his mind, scarcely concealed enemies of the Soviets who awaited the arrival of Hitler’s armies, he had at least thwarted that possibility. A li le surprised, seemingly without a greeting for me, Abba Abramovich peered into the office where I sat working. A er I feigned busyness for a time, he peered in again, a look of perplexity on his face, and then ordered me to prepare my gear for the march. I should report at the village office, he ordered. Now I was done for as well. Joy Briefly Replaces Our Sorrow The back and forth between Abba Abramovich and me was easier for him because I had nothing to reply. I was to leave home with mother

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and Erika still far away, digging trenches at different places. Some neighbouring women dropped in to help and Jasha (our youngest) called our son Heinz home from school. How was I to carry anything when I could hardly walk myself, and that only with crutches. With tears in his eyes, Heinz, our dear never-to-be-forgo en boy, loaded my pack on his back and carried it to the village council. I took leave of the women who had helped me, Tante Tin and Tante Sus, our neighbours, while Jasha, our [nine-year-old], stood at the threshold of our house, uncomprehending and grief-stricken. At the village council, the frantic back and forth had subsided a li le, although the men from the villages continued to move along the street. First of all I had to fill out a long questionnaire that would become fateful for our Heinz. The familiar NKVD official, Korotkov, oversaw ma ers. As a few of the most elderly and the very young men who had previously been overlooked were added to the group, we waited outside for transportation. Then, unexpectedly, Heinz was called into the office. A lump rose in my throat. Only not that, dear merciful God, I prayed. Heinz soon returned and reported that he had been ordered to join the group as a sixteen-year-old. What heartache and I was to blame. I had betrayed him. Heinz was short and no one would otherwise have guessed his age. I forced myself to plead with Korotkov to let Heinz stay, arguing that he was too small to do much work and that without him our youngest son, Jasha, would be le home una ended. My pleas had no effect at all. I was a li le consoled that I would at least accompany him. “So my dear child if God wills it let us go. We can at least be together.” He went back for a few belongings, soon returned, a truck came by and we were ordered to climb aboard, Korotkov, the last one on, accompanying us to the district centre. In the neighbouring village of Konteniusfeld the truck stopped in front of an office of the collective farm and we were told to disembark and wait. The stop lasted a few hours. “What do they want of us?” someone asked. “Why bother thinking about it?” was the resigned reply. “From now on somebody else will do the thinking for us.” Another truck drove by and we were told to climb aboard, but then Heinz was called in again by Korotkov. “What does he want now?” I thought suspiciously. I too was summoned in, even though I had no wish to see the man again. Gloomily Korotkov handed me my pass and Heinz his. “You can go home now,” he said. I was dumbfounded, scarcely finding words to thank him. An elderly man from our village, Wilhelm Neufeld, was similarly allowed to return home. A wagon

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arrived, we were dropped off in Gnadenfeld, and we entered our empty yard and home, deeply moved and with thanks in our hearts. The other men, however, were gone, all having been taken away. How could these events be fathomed? More Agitated Days When daughter Erika returned home a few days later, and Mother soon therea er, we were overjoyed, of course, but also subdued. While digging trenches, the women had known nothing about what had happened at home, but imagining the worst had worried themselves sick. Now we were really together again, all of us, reason enough for gratitude. Three weeks earlier, my wife Lene, and 50–60 men and women from Gnadenfeld, had been sent to Bielo-Tserkovka where they had been spread out along a stretch of countryside with thousands of other men and women to dig deep tank traps. Heaving up the hard loam by spade, layer a er layer, in the fierce autumn sun had been a torment. The women had spent nights in the huts and shelters of a nearby Ukrainian village. On 3 September all men had been ordered back home, as noted, while the women had been kept back to carry on with the excavations. A few nights later, many of the women, anxious about their families, had secretly deserted, ignoring hazards, oblivious to punishment, taking off down unfamiliar roads, through mud and rain, pushing on towards whatever fate awaited them. Two and a half days later, on 7 September, they reached home, exhausted, barefooted, their feet bruised and ba ered, Mother among them. She looked peaked and pitiable, as did her companions, but we were overjoyed and thankful, also because Erika was now at home as were Heinz and I. But we knew that such happiness was not everyone’s. On their risky way home, many women had encountered their tired and downcast men marching eastwards along back roads under NKVD guard. The columns of forced marchers had been permi ed a short rest stop to say their farewells to their wives and mothers. No one had known their destination, but given the closeness of the war front, everyone realized that this parting might well be their last. Would we as a family manage to stay together ourselves? That was our greatest worry. The war and the Bolsheviks were merciless and unrelenting, but surely, we thought, our worn out and injured Mother would be le in peace. Heinz and Erika returned to school and I to

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work, my reappearance coming much to Abba Abramovich’s surprise. Without enthusiasm, he looked at me out of the corner of his eye and we rarely saw one another face to face therea er. My friend Becker and I returned to our conspiratorial discussions, observing, as best we could, everything around, and keeping our ears to the ground for news of the military front. Then came an urgent demand for another 80 trench diggers who were to go towards the front, southwest past Melitopol. The greatest risk was that these Gnadenfelders would be overrun by the approaching front and families would be torn apart. We already had the depressing example of thousands of diggers west of the Dnieper now separated from us by the front (including 65 men and women from Gnadenfeld alone). We had heard nothing from them for a whole month. Would those of us remaining in the village be deported before their return? With virtually no men le in the village, the call up for this new work detail hit mainly the women who were considered dispensable, including Mother. There was simply no escape. Provisions were quickly gathered together and loaded up, but instead of butchered meat, cages with live chickens were stowed on the long rack wagons, the wagons loaded with straw, and the women hoisted aboard. Leave-taking had never been so hard. I watched from the window as the wagon train, swallowed up in dust and heat, disappeared around the corner towards Steinfeld. Men still employed in the post office, cooperatives, schools, and so on, were next shipped off and then it was the turn of the youngest males, including our Heinz, who was quickly outfi ed with a few provisions and clothes and surrendered to the war and the Soviets. Although my exhortations were unlikely to be of much use to him, we read Psalm 73 together. Our hearts were mute and in despair. Heinz had not even had a chance to say goodbye to Mother. That was on 11 September. For some time the German army had seemed ready to cross the Dnieper River. Since news releases were designed to keep people in the dark, we knew nothing about changes at the front, except that Stalin had ordered the Dnieper line to be held at all costs. Then a week later the women returned home, frightened, having done no digging, not even having reached their destination. As they approached Melitopol, the city had come under aerial a ack and, despite orders from Soviet observation posts to continue on their way, the women had bolted. Terror-stricken, on back roads, they had returned to Gnadenfeld. We were joyful to see them, but feared the consequences. Quicker than we had planned, our own sad story tumbled out. Heini, our small and

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inexperienced schoolboy, had been abandoned to that large and hostile world. Yes, it was true, I had go en him ready myself and walked him as far as the church meadow from where Erika had accompanied him to the village Council Office. Unbelievable but true. For a long time I watched him as he le , weighed down by his backpack. It was an image I would never forget.

Chapter Seven

The Last Days of Bolshevik Rule

The Economy Stagnates Events moved relentlessly on. At home life se led down a li le but rumours persisted, filling us with alarm and keeping us on our toes. Meanwhile a new defence force, a destruction ba alion (istrebitelnyi otriad), consisting of Party members and activists from surrounding villages, had been created and our village, one of the larger ones, had contributed 50 men. The ba alion was equipped with weapons. Other than a few who manned observation posts, the men worked at regular day jobs, but at night gathered at one spot to respond immediately to any alarm. Since the ba alion’s activities were cloaked in total secrecy, the arrangement struck us as overblown, even sinister. The job, it was said, was to keep a lookout for German spies, and maybe even engage enemy paratroopers in ba le. Seventy children from a nearby Russian orphanage were recruited as a support group. Each day the children swept through the village gardens, on the lookout perhaps less for spies than for ripe fruits and vegetables. One day we had a taste of the ba alion’s state of vigilance and its disarray. From somewhere came a report that suspicious men had been sighted in grain fields between Paulsheim and Steinfeld. Staff people alerted nearby ba alion members who, together with the orphanage support group, moved out by truck to comb fields thoroughly, even forcing their way into homes in neighbouring villages. But their only success, as we heard, was to flush out a few runaways from a trench digging detail. Except for a number of the elderly, sick, and crippled, all German men had by now been taken away and with the almost total absence of men,

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wagons, and tractive power, work on the kolkhoz, where much grain remained on the fields, ground to a virtual halt. Abba Abramovich was stymied, but with orders and threats raining down on him from superiors, he hounded the few remaining women and children in the fields. To replace the deported men, he had appointed Frau Voth and Frau Sawatzky as brigadiers (foremen). The worries were now theirs. The Machine Tractor Station had to manage with the few machines still available for harvesting, hauling grain, and seeding winter wheat. It had been decided to herd our cows, sheep, pigs, and calves eastwards. Herdsmen (and women), wagons, provisions, and preparations were needed. For weeks, herds of ca le had been put on the road together with women and o en children to milk and churn bu er as though still at home. An entire baggage train of fodder accompanied each herd. In this way 500 heads of ca le were dispatched from Gnadenfeld, two herds of cows, one of heifers, and one of pigs. The dusty roads were also crowded with large numbers of refugees from the west, mainly terrorized Jews, squeezed together, dirty, looking like gypsies. For weeks they moved eastwards on derelict wagons, hungry and wretched, with no idea of where they might find refuge. We pitied them, but did not believe the frightening stories of German atrocities that had triggered their flight. Also passing through our villages were groups of Mennonite men from the Zagradovka and other se lements west of the Dnieper River who were being deported eastwards. Unsupervised, on their own wagons and with their own provisions, they were in no rush to move on. They were probably overtaken by the passing front and eventually returned to their homes. By this time the Lu waffe dominated the ba lefield. Sweeping across the landscape, it was destroying cities, railway tracks, bridges, spreading terror. Strict orders were given to camouflage government installations, dig bomb-shelter ditches for each household, and blacken house windows with strips of paper and glue. The blackout was strictly enforced, but a lack of paper made it less than completely successful. Our Heinz had dug a protective ditch at our place that long remained to symbolize his abiding concern for our family. The black-out commands were strict. Violations were deemed treasonous, subject to harsh punishment and courts martial. Fortunately we were not expected to blacken house walls and roofs with soot as were people in the cities. The destruction ba alion was on its guard to uncover infractions. The risks inherent in our situation were driven home one day by a case involving a certain elderly Emanuel Stark, who

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looked a er the horses, o en feeding them at night. Since the storm lanterns normally used to illuminate the barns had been taken along by the trench diggers as well as herdsmen for the livestock, Stark did most of his work in the dark. Sometimes, to see, he resorted to the use of a match. On one occasion, a lookout from the ba alion on the road spo ed his lit match and moved into action, dragging Stark off to headquarters. There the poor man was reported to the NKVD head, interrogated, terrorized, locked-up and informed that he would face a court martial the following morning. The ma er was especially grave given the wish of the ba alion activists to make an example of Stark. When weeping women told us the story the following morning, we begged Becker to intercede with Abba Abramovich, which he did. The man had only tried to do his duty, Becker argued. The kolkhoz chairman relented and the old man was freed. But what if the personal relations between Becker and Abba Abramovich had been more difficult? We heard of similar cases where people had not go en off so easily and were never seen again. The Most Painful Blow Another order came for trencher-diggers, this time for 80 people. Since only 40 women and girls were found, mothers with young children were also chosen for the job. The women, again including Mother, moved off with heavy hearts, perhaps a li le consoled by the news that the digging was at Halbstadt. Everyone sighed, “Lord, how much longer?” Yet the brutal war was in its early stages and much sadness and misery still lay ahead. With pigs, sheep, and ca le already heading east, foodstuffs in the village were in short supply and only a li le food could be found for the group. “We’ll return when it is used up,” the women thought. That was on 20 September. A week later the women were back. Their task only half finished, they had been ordered to return home, but the directive had applied only to the German women. Expecting the worst, the women arrived tense and distressed, having already encountered rumours in the trenches that “The Germans will be sent away.” The rumours and enemy aircra circling overhead and shooting at them from the side, had given their work a hard and unpleasant edge. To make ma ers worse, the digging was in the swampy Muntau lowlands [near Halbstadt] where the women had dug out marshy ground while standing knee-deep in

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water. Their leader, Wilhelm Voth, Senior, had faced huge problems. The women arrived home deeply agitated about the future. An NKVD commando unit had moved unobserved into the Gnadenfeld village school and also taken up positions unobtrusively outside the village. It still seemed inconceivable to me that the Soviet regime would risk deportations that would affect not only the roughly 100 villages [German-speaking Mennonite and colonist-German] in our area but others sca ered nearby. Should we prudently make preparations for such an eventuality or would such behaviour on our part be seen as a provocation? Several scary days passed without bringing greater clarity to our situation and I continued to go to my office daily, less to work than to be close to the scene of action. Abba Abramovich wandered around in the empty rooms, quietly and indecisively, not knowing what to do. Becker o en sat down next to me, but we were depressed and no longer derived any pleasure from our conversations. Deportation On 2 October 1941, the secret was finally out. Soviet functionaries and guards moved from house to house with the abrupt command: “Get ready for travel. In two hours you will be leaving for the train station. Each person may take along only 200 weight of provisions and baggage.” While not unexpected, the blow was nevertheless hard. We were perplexed. How were we to prepare for a long journey in two hours? What, in any case, was there for us as poverty-stricken villagers to take along? As if in reply to the question of our destination, there were rumours of Kazakhstan and Siberia, but nothing was officially reported. Would the harassment and humiliation intensify? The removal of our able-bodied men and women had already torn families apart. This would be no pleasure trip? Was there no alternative? Were we really to be turned over to the mercies of these brutal people? Watchman, how far along is the night? At the time many a sighing heart and tear-filled eye was doubtlessly li ed to the hills from whence cometh my help. Yet more people were on the brink of quiet resignation: “It is all for naught. We are lost.” Departures began around noon, with wagons from the district freed up for transport and the Machine Tractor Station obliged to make tractors and trailers available. The train station at Stulnevo was 13 kilometres away, and departures were slow. As instructed, by evening we had dragged our luggage to the street but it was midnight before we le . Throughout

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that night tractors whined and cla ered as if possessed and dogs howled a er their owners, everything having about it a sinister feel. Neighbours joined us on our wagon as did Frau Katya Klassen with three li le ones. Frau Klassen’s goat ran beside the wagon for some distance, bleating and offering us a last friendly escort. Lost in thought, we sat on the baggage of our slowly moving wagon wondering where our journey would take us and when this hounding would end. For such a long time none of us had experienced compassion from anyone. That night and the following days fervent prayers were said, while from the west, we heard growling cannon thunder and saw rockets light up the night sky. Dawn at the Train Station Horrors, what was this? As far as the eye could see, sca ered everywhere at the railway station Stulnevo, were heaps of unfortunates from many villages who had arrived by wagon or were being dropped off at the edge of the crowd. It was a friendly, sunny October morning. People started to move about and here and there wisps of smoke could be seen rising as women tried to prepare hot breakfasts. Life had not ground to a stop, nor had anyone collapsed. Having been stuck in misery for so long it was somehow a comfort to know from experience what suffering entailed and that it affected everyone equally. Handing out instructions, the NKVD functionaries organized villages into groups, each large enough to fill a freight car, and appointed a man or woman as group leader for each. The freight cars, we were told, were to be loaded the following day. We also learned that the [Molochna se lement] villages on the Iushanle Stream, to the south, had been deported the previous day, namely the villages of Kleefeld, Alexanderkrone, Friedensruhe, Lichtfelde, Neukirch, Prangenau, Steinfeld, Elisabe hal, Alexanderthal, Schardau, Pordenau, and Marienthal. Two days earlier freight trains with deportees from the Molochna Se lement had also passed through from the stations of Lichtenau and Melitopol and a card had been found from my sister Katya informing us that she and our parents, [my father and stepmother], had passed through on their way to Kazakhstan, our likely destination as well. At the station, the last deportees had been brought in, including a few sick people from Gnadenfeld. At first we were disturbed to realize that elderly Tante Kla was not among the evacuees from her end of

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the village. She had been le behind, alone, sick, and bedridden. Her daughter Hannchen had been part of the first group of trench diggers to land on the west side of the Dnieper River and she had likely fallen into German hands. Meanwhile her son, Abram, had been deported eastward with the other men. We were therefore greatly relieved when the poor woman appeared at the station around noon, happy to see familiar faces. Exhausted and helpless, she lay on an iron bedstead under the sky, her relatives, the Voths, devotedly looking a er her. On a nearby bed lay Wilhelm Braun, a lame and helpless man and the father of three underaged children. Farther along, on small piles of baggage, sat 90-year-old Onkel Loewen, old Grandmother Goertz, and blind and aged Arendt. None could quite comprehend what was unfolding. Also present was Frau Johann Becker (with husband and daughter), Gnadenfeld’s only mental case. Thus passed 3 October, our first day in the open air at Stulnevo, which we spent on the station asphalt. Under the Open Sky A er awakening the next morning, we bundled and tied up our bedding while the women tried to cook a hot breakfast. Fuel was a problem. The Hamberg [village] straw stacks were nearby but inaccessible, so people removed fences and whatever else was portable, dismantled storage sheds, and liquidated other fixed assets while guards looked away. Old people perched on their baggage, quiet and resigned, someone lay ill, moaning, and mothers busied themselves with their children. Using the occasion as an opportunity to catch up on news, people looked up friends and acquaintances and exchanged experiences, creating a great hubbub. What had happened to the men? No one knew except that some had le on freight trains, others on wagons and most on foot. Some wagon drivers had managed to return a er dropping off their loads in Kharkov. The men from the last groups of deportees on foot had managed to sneak away from their guards, and were now living somewhat concealed among their relatives in the camp. In the midst of such intense conversations that generated a huge number of rumours, we lived through our second day without trains. Weather on the third day was still cheerful. We moved back a li le from the station platform, but continued to observe what was going on. Only a few trains came through, carrying wounded soldiers or evacuation goods, the la er sometimes surmounted by large, tightly squeezed together groups of ethnic Germans on their way to Siberia. Sunny

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days increased the danger of air a acks, but the German reconnaissance planes circling high overhead did not drop bombs. To be sure, there had already been several bomb craters near the station when we arrived. People said, “The Germans know we’ve been dragged together here to be deported.” A rumour quietly making the rounds was that the Germans planned to encircle us and would then free us and other ethnic Germans. These glimmers of hope helped save people from total resignation. Later we learned that German bombs dropped on Tokmak had killed or wounded some waiting to be exiled. We Camp Out on the Open Field Since it seemed too crowded where we were, we decided to move farther from the station into the open field. There we found enough space around nearby straw stacks to sleep on straw while keeping passageways free, and to organize ourselves into the freight car groups established by the NKVD. Although the encampment was too large to oversee in a glance, I estimated its population by adding up the number of people from the villages of Konteniusfeld, a part of Sparrau, Gnadenfeld, Paulsheim, Mariawohl, Nikolaidorf, Margenau, Gnadenthal, Gnadenheim, Friedensdorf, Landskrone, Hierschau, Waldheim, Hamberg, Klippenfeld, Wernersdorf, Liebenau, and Schoensee. Averaging the German-speaking population at 350 people for each village, these 18 villages made up a total of some 6,000 people. When we asked NKVD officials, who dropped by regularly on inspection rounds, about trains they shrugged their shoulders, “We’ve not been assigned freight cars yet.” Quietly we would sigh, nursing a slight but heartfelt hope and praying, “Lord, if it is possible, let this cup pass from us.” In a world turning ever more menacing, the third and fourth days at the station transpired without much of anything happening. We watched as eastbound military supply trains and prisoner-of-war trains continued to pass through with mostly Rumanian prisoners of war, everything to the east. For our part, we had no choice but to wait. The unexpected free time might have given our women a few well-deserved days of rest, except for the numbing anxiety: “What will finally become of us?” We still had enough to eat, but barely. Would it last the long trip? Discipline and order remained exemplary. Unfortunately there were no arrangements to care for the sick. There were a few self-trained

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nurses among us, but no doctors or other medical personnel, and no medications. A few deaths were unavoidable. There were also a few births. I never learned who had died, except that there were none from Gnadenfeld. Otherwise our arrangements were quite homey. A few families joined hands to construct an encircling wall of baggage to keep out winds as the nights grew cooler. Barriers also marked off household spaces. It was remarkable how people in dire straits devised modest ways of protecting their way of life. We even managed to hold small worship services without interference from our watchmen. An UnforgeĴable Sunday Another morning and another evening passed and a fi h day dawned, an unforge able Sunday. Since morning, singing rang out from groups spread across the huge encampment. Although there was a li le rain at night, the sun shone down warmly on our camp of woe, drying it out and providing a li le hope. Military manoeuvres grew more intense and we heard cannon fire. But a er a morning inspection, the NKVD watchmen suddenly disappeared and we heard that kolkhoz, Party and other leaders from surrounding villages had also vanished. In reply to a question of whether we would soon be leaving, the station master dismissed us with a wave of his hand. Retreating Red Army soldiers asked in amazement, “What’s going on here?” Some would add, “You won’t have to wait long. Your liberators will soon arrive and you’ll be able to go home.” That was well meant, but hardly accorded with the thinking of the NKVD. We were hopeful, but still very worried about what might happen when the front moved through. We worshipped and sang quietly in small groups, our thoughts and prayers focused on the one wish that the Lord might have mercy, deliver us from our tormenters and protect us from impending tragedy. In the a ernoon, huge clouds of smoke rose in the west. Airplanes circled overhead and Soviet tanks, artillery, and other units pushed eastwards. It was clear that the Soviets were on the run with German forces in hot pursuit. Meanwhile we witnessed a brief but impressive air ba le. High overhead we spo ed several planes in the sky firing their cannon, manoeuvring above, below, and around one another. A parachute dri ed down, but quite far from us. Then a burning plane plummeted to the ground, missing our encampment by a hair. There followed explosions and soon the glowing remains were all that was le . Our people stood in a wide circle watching the fiery

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and mournful spectacle, deeply moved and pondering the sacrifices that war had already exacted. What might happen next? We were on an open field, visible and exposed to friend and foe alike. Could we manage the change of fronts without a calamity? Would our slave owners not seek our destruction? Many shook themselves out of their resignation and again li ed their hearts towards the hills from whence cometh our help – from the Lord who made heaven and earth. Another UpseĴing Day and Night The sun set even on this bright Sunday, but the surrounding world was scarcely at rest. Camp life grew more restless amidst reports that all authorities, including railway and other officials, had vanished and that military units were active at the station. Our Russian [Ukrainian] neighbours pitied us and, bringing us milk, watermelons, fruit, and the like, urged us to return to our homes. The danger is past, they said, Party people have le . In the excitement everyone became terribly agitated, with some even venturing off to the nearby villages of Klippenfeld and Hamberg to see for themselves. The western evening sky lit up with a red glow and cannon thunder could be heard nearby. We had barely se led down when gunfire exploded in our immediate vicinity, frightening us. Small nearby railway bridges and rail tracks were blown up, hurling pieces of debris into our camp. Some grabbed their baggage and moved farther from the station, but most hunkered down more deeply into the shelter of their belongings. Before long a mountain of wooden crates at the station burst into flames. In the early morning large, over-filled granaries were set afire and large fuel tanks exploded, sending up a huge blaze. An invisible hand was orchestrating fireworks of ruin and destruction. The new morning li ed spirits. We were alive, well, and no authorities seemed interested in us anymore. Yet we remained spectators in this grisly extravaganza. The previous evening small groups had decided that the women should scout out the villages to determine whether the regime was pulling out and the coast clear. Depending on conditions, they should then prepare our homecoming. It was our women in the van, still brave and level-headed. With fires still burning, many women le before dawn, including Mother, Frau Schmidt, Frau Voth, and others. Would they remain unmolested? There followed hours of anxious waiting.

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Gnadenfeld was 13 kilometres away and Soviet convoys were still passing through. Back to the Villages During the morning, wagons started arriving at the station from nearby villages. Then, piled high with belongings and followed by excited people, they returned unhindered to the deserted villages. Presumptuous? The encampment buzzed as wagons with people le spontaneously, unstoppably, without fear of danger. Yet dangers still lurked. If Soviet military units took up positions we might still get caught in a crossfire. As granaries and fuel storage tanks burned, weary and dust-encrusted Red Army units moved eastwards. No one tried to salvage anything, nor was that permi ed. All of our beautiful grown and harvested grain was being destroyed. Late in the a ernoon, our courageous women returned barefooted, several pulling small carts. Everything was in motion to facilitate our return. The women had further commandeered a few horse-drawn wagons in Gnadenfeld and tracked down wagons in neighbouring Ukrainian villages. The women said that retreating Soviet units had not accosted or tried to stop them. Our homes and villages looked somewhat desolate and some buildings had perhaps been set on fire. From the Stulnevo station we could see fires burning in the distance, especially in the grain fields. Everything still seemed to hang in the balance, sinister and foreboding. But a er a short rest, the women returned to their homes with loaded carts, families in tow. A few like me, who were unsteady on their feet, stayed back with the baggage, waiting for a ride. By evening most of the camp had emptied and by nightfall it started to rain. A small Soviet firefight with advancing Rumanians caused no damage to the camp. While seeking shelter from the rain, I heard my name being called. It was Frau Anna Retzlaff and her sister-in-law, Frau Voth, who had come to fetch a few stragglers. They loaded my baggage onto the wagon and I crawled up to where old Tante Gretke Toews had already taken her place among shabby belongings. We moved slowly through the darkness and rain, stopping occasionally to rest the horses. At one point Gretke Toews fell off the wagon. The women helped her back on. We reached Waldheim quite late. Even today I thank those selfless women for their help. No one paid any a ention to the Russian military that still crowded the roads. We took our overnight lodgings in the home of some Ukrainians,

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still trying to orient ourselves amidst the chaos. Where were the other villagers? Occasionally we heard nearby cannon and machine gun fire, but there were no major ba les. That was Monday, 6 October. Rescued? Early Tuesday morning, Frau Retzlaff and others le with their belongings for Gnadenfeld. Close to the station [in Stulnevo] a real ba le was raging. I felt sorry for those who had stayed behind to guard their belongings. Only later did we hear that several people had been wounded in the fighting and that Frau Ebert from Gnadenfeld was among them. She died later from her injuries. Rumanian soldiers had rummaged through baggage at the station and pilfered belongings. Later Frau Retzlaff appeared again to help others with their return. She passed by where I stood on the street in again peaceful Waldheim, the last Russian troops in hiding or having snuck away, and broke the happy news that Germans soldiers had come to Gnadenfeld the day before, and I should return home. I did not reach Gnadenfeld until that evening. Rumanian troops [allies of the Germans], had meanwhile quietly occupied Waldheim and were doing house searches. Hungry, they were looking for something to eat. It was already dark when the women le for Gnadenfeld, taking me and my things along. Slowly, the scrawny horses laboured to pull the heavy wagon loaded with refugees and it was late when we reached the village. A Rumanian soldier hitched a ride with us, but otherwise there were no delays. As a precaution my family spent the night with Ukrainian acquaintances. I stopped off at neighbours, rejoining my family the next morning and we moved back into our place.

Chapter Eight

German Occupation and Rule, October 1941–September 19431

The German Soldiers – Our Saviours The following day I saw the German soldiers – no, I watched them in astonishment – our rescuing angels, calmly going about their tasks without the least fear. It was as if they had been here for some time, and were not among enemies. They greeted us as friends, seemingly happy to be in a German village and a few saluted us with “Heil Hitler.” That was a new and unusual greeting for us, one we had not heard before. Puzzled, I thought to myself, does Hitler inspire the soldiers, is he the mainspring of their advance, deportment, self-assurance, their confidence in an early German victory? Li le by li le I was to learn much that was still quite new and unusual for me at the time. Out of a quiet yearning and at an unreachable distance, the foreign world of the Germans had glimmered before us for some time. Now it was here, a reality. For many years all contact with the outside world had been broken by the Soviets who forbade us even to correspond with relatives abroad [in Canada]. It was a crime for us even to think about the outside world. For doing so we had been persecuted. Would all that suddenly, in the blink of an eye, now be different? Would everything be made good again, what we had suffered and lost, even regarding our loved ones, would all that turn to the be er? Would fear no longer stalk our every step and would we be at liberty to pursue our work peacefully as Germans? Might we even be allowed to live lives free of fear that the acquisition of skills and knowledge and the nurturing of our Christian faith would destroy us? We had turned into weak, fearful, suspicious and cowering beings, mistrustful of others and without confidence in ourselves. This had become our essential character? Our inner confusion had been so great

German Occupation and Rule, October 1941–September 1943 219

and the change so abrupt that we could scarcely take it all in at one glance. It would take time for the implications of what had transpired to sink in fully. We had really been rescued and were free to cast off that previous world. The men in grey uniforms who moved about calmly and confidently filled us with trust. They seemed to pursue their military calling – which was temporary, imperative, and had been forced upon them – naturally and self-confidently, and spoke to us simply and boldly. They would succeed and we could believe them. We had truly been rescued. Nor would they let us down. The work of rebuilding could begin. It was an unimaginably glorious feeling to understand that what we had dreamt about, yet never really believed, had turned into our new reality. “May Almighty God, Lord of heaven and of earth, Lord also of our murky destiny, make all of this come true. May He send out His mercy and guide all things to a proper end. To Him be honour, and glory and adoration in all eternity. To the German people, the German command, and their valiant soldiers we offer gratitude and wishes for a long life.” Our whole rescue was magnificent and worthy of thanks. Life Starts Over Again We were really back in our homes again, happy and grateful. Almost everything was undamaged, much as we had le it, although things looked a mess. In our absence, passing Red Army soldiers and trench diggers had squa ed here. The situation in many other houses was a lot worse. Gradually a few chickens and pigs came out of hiding from under bushes and behind hedges and German soldiers also appeared, looking for places to stay or something good to eat. The women gladly did their best, but they too faced a bare cupboard. What was urgently needed was some semblance of order and hygiene. Generally, a er feeling uprooted for so long, we needed again to pick up the strands of our lives in every possible way. Order and supervision was a priority in the village, as was a resumption of work. Agriculturally there was a lot to do. Potatoes, corn, sunflowers, fodder beets, and other crops remained unharvested in the fields. Threshed and unthreshed grain lay about in piles. There were a few workers available but almost no men, no livestock, and almost no horses. Soldiers who moved in and out of the houses and appeared on the streets held people’s a ention. Everyone was also occupied with themselves. But then the men and women who had been digging trenches west of the Dnieper River, and had been held up there by the Germans, returned. With help from these 65 workers from Gnadenfeld, and

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some German prodding, everything was gradually brought back into play. The military command appointed a mayor, a well-known drunkard, illiterate, and a person of weak character. When choices became greater, the energetic and business-like Franz Sperling replaced him, and administered the village until the end. A er a few days we learned that the encirclement at Mariupol had trapped many Soviet troops, but also large numbers of ca le, horses, wagons, and tractors. The villagers were at liberty to come fetch whatever they could use. That was highly advantageous and valuable for us. Men and women went out in groups and returned a er several days with an abundance of horses, but also enough dairy cows and sheep for every family. Housewives had been especially intent on acquiring enough cows. Later, tractors, wagons, and more horses were added to our inventory. To be sure, the horses, as also the livestock, were in a deplorable state. Yet it was a joy and surprise to get such assistance so cheaply, and to acquire again such indispensable farm animals and machinery. Later, because of our shortage of fodder, around a hundred of our acquired horses were given to other villages. Economic life began again to hum. Work on the fields and farms resumed, as best it could. Arrangements needed naturally to be made for the approaching winter. There was enough of everything at hand, but it had to be brought in. The season was well advanced, the weather ge ing worse, and there were not enough workers. Yet to the credit of the women it must be said that they and the girls got the job done. Their strong sense of duty and sheer hard work were enough to bring in the harvest as well as to provide families and the farm with enough fodder, food, and fuel. The work dragged on into the winter. The German Administration As farmwork was being resumed, the Wehrmacht set up an administrative and economic structure. As previously, our German villages were tied partly to the district centre (raionyi tsentr) of Chernigovka. The la er was the headquarters of NCO Lenger, the agricultural and administrative head, an elderly farmer from Lower Saxony. He se led in comfortably enough with his pipe but without too much good sense. His righthand man for some time was a younger, more capable and sensible graduate in agriculture from East Prussia, whom we termed an agronomist. A district administration with a large staff of assistants was established in Pologi and headed by the district commissar and

German Occupation and Rule, October 1941–September 1943 221

graduate in agriculture, Dr Schmidt, an earnest, well-educated man who le the best of impressions. This was true also of his dealings with Ukrainians, whom he treated cordially and with respect. Above all, German order was to be introduced as quickly as possible, and the economy to be revived and set on a new course. That goal was crystal clear. On the side, our political thinking was also to be corrected and given a new direction. To achieve this la er end other arrangements, as we would learn, were also deemed necessary. Such a general redirection of everything could obviously not avoid causing some pain, especially given the general ro eness (Verdorbenheit) of Soviet ways and the mentality of Ukrainians, however compliant and obliging the la er might otherwise have appeared. Generally speaking, the Germans, mostly fair but stern in their demands, were o en too severe and inflexible in practise. This was not understood and felt as unjust by the local population. The Germans believed that Ukrainians had to be educated with the whip and in this they erred. This became more obvious later on when German civilian officials arrived on the scene. Alas, alas, with their inflexibility, arrogance, and insolence, the officials commi ed so many wrongs against the Ukrainian people that if the la er respected and were friends of the Germans in the beginning, they would now become their enemies. In their majority the Ukrainians had also yearned for freedom from the Soviet yoke and for a new order. Now they became correspondingly disillusioned with the occupation. As for us ethnic Germans, we were unequivocally happy and thankful for our rescue. If we did not welcome the Germans with the same obvious respect, honour, and enthusiasm we had shown German troops in 1918, it was because we lacked the necessary courage, had been terribly brought down by the depredations of the past, and still lived under that cloud. Our poverty was also still too great. Our hearts overflowed with warmth and gratitude towards our rescuers from the start, but only gradually did we sense the needed security to hope that all would go well with German help and that our rescue would further lead to the early return of our loved ones [who had been arrested and exiled in 1937–8 or deported in 1941]. No One Needs to Go Hungry With huge efforts, as mentioned, adequate provisions for the winter had been secured, relative of course to our poverty and habitually

222 Tiefenwege: Soviet Mennonite Life and Suffering, 1929–1949

constrained demands. The Ukrainian people around us had suffered less than we had and with the early return of their men from German captivity they soon enjoyed the help and support needed for their farm work. Had the German military command introduced agricultural delivery quotas that applied equally to all groups, we would have been hit much harder than the surrounding Ukrainians. We were ready to sacrifice in support of the Wehrmacht through further poverty, but had we not already reached the limits of our strength? The military administration and German government were considerate and met us halfway. In the first year of the occupation we were largely freed of the obligation to billet troops and make compulsory agricultural deliveries. We even received help ourselves. The Soviets had focussed exclusively on their own needs, sucking whatever they could out of agriculture, and on the eve of their retreat had not yet allocated any of the current crop to collective farm consumption. Luckily, however, the Soviets had delayed the eastward transport of Gnadenfeld’s threshed grain with the result that Gnadenfeld (and some other villages), had enough grain le on hand when the Germans arrived to distribute among the collective farmers. This was much prized a er so many years of eating only rye bread. Moreover, we had available stores of corn and oats that, once harvested, could be fed to our piglet and chickens and there were root beets and chaff for our cow. All that deserved our thanks. The Church is Cleaned and Rededicated Becker and I had moved back into the collective farm office, now called the Buergermeisteramt (mayor’s office), he as courier and I as secretary and clerk. Neither of us could, in any case, be used for anything else. At least it was a place where we could be of some help and continue to use the Buergermeisteramt as an observation post. Here we sat at the hub of village life, a singular position from which to keep an eye on what was going on. As circumstances and energies allowed, our Gnadenfeld church was changed back from a cinema into a house of worship. Our aged carpenters, Hermann and Wilhelm Dirks, the elderly deacon, H. Unruh, Joh. Becker, W. Voth, and others, did their best to restore the building, while the women scrubbed and polished. Then we gathered as a large flock for our first worship, a service of thanksgiving. The aged teacher and preacher, Heinrich Penner, officiated. Who can capture our long suppressed emotions at that first service? It was in our own church a er so long a time. A women’s and girls’ choir had sprung up

German Occupation and Rule, October 1941–September 1943 223

to grace the service with lovely sacred hymns. Spiritually, a er the long and destructive hiatus, a li le life and vibrancy seeped back into our afflicted souls. Regre ably, some boys had vandalized the organ and it could not be repaired for the service. Yet on a deeper level, we were still too distant from the needed reflection and commitment to spark a genuine religious revival. It was, moreover, a time of war with its distressing accompaniments and surprises. This meant that the struggle for our existence was, so to speak, our chief preoccupation. What Happened to Other Mennonites in the Area? [Just before the German occupation, most of the inhabitants] of [Molochna Mennonite] villages from around Bolshoi Tokmak [the northwestern corner of the Molochna Mennonite area], had been assembled at the railway station in Tokmak. During six days of waiting, these villagers had gone through experiences much like ours, except for minor variations, including an air a ack. They were then returned willy nilly to their homes. These were the inhabitants of the villages of Reuckenau, Tiegerweide, Petershagen, Ladekop, Halbstadt, Muntau, Schoenau, Fischau, Lindenau, Alexanderwohl, Fuerstenwerder, Fuerstenau, and Fabrikerwiese. A much smaller number from the above-named villages had been assembled at the Halbstadt station and returned home from there. Ma ers ended differently at the Lichtenau station where the first [Mennonite] villagers had been dragged together by the Soviets. These had all, without exception, been deported. [They were from the southwestern corner of the Molochna Mennonite area], from the villages of Altonau, Muensterberg, Blumstein, Lichtenau, Tiege, Ohrloff, Blumenort, and Rosenort. Among the deportees were also Catholic and Lutheran Germans from some 30 neighbouring Prishib German villages [west of the Molochna Stream]. They were all deported. The deportations from the eastern Nelgovka station took a somewhat different course. People assembled there were from the villages of Sparrau, part of Grossweide, Rudnerweide, Pastwa, Franztal, Marienthal, and Pordenau. All of the inhabitants from Pastwa and Pordenau were deported. Those from Sparrau later returned to their homes, only to find half their village reduced to ashes. Of the remaining villages, approximately half were deported and half returned to their villages. Mennonites from the city of Berdiansk, on the Sea of Azov, our former administrative centre, were taken by ship to the Caucasus, and later sent farther away. Mennonites from [se lements farther to the east],

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the Memrik, Ignatievo, and Borissovo Mennonite se lements, and others, were, with the exception of a few trench diggers, all deported. This, then, was the fate of our Ukrainian Mennonite villages, as pieced together a er the retreat of Soviet power. Under German Administration until the “Great Trek” The occupation might generally be described as a period of gradual transition from a life of collective servitude and bondage to one of greater self-reliance and private ownership. It was marked by slow economic revival in our se lements. Given dire shortages arising from war, it was an alluring achievement. Yet, there were obvious impediments to a sharp break from past Soviet practises, however much we desired such a break. These included a serious shortage of fixed and movable assets, including implements and livestock, and an absence of male workers and the organizational presence of fathers in most families. Under these conditions, collective farming had to continue for some time. The so-called Machine and Tractor Stations (MTS) resumed their work, supporting village collective farms in ploughing and harvesting. The occupation forces were overwhelmingly preoccupied with maintaining a viable agriculture that provided them with the necessary grain. (All industrial enterprises had been destroyed by retreating Soviet forces.) This overriding aim was made amply clear by arriving German civilian Inspection and Control officials, so-called agricultural landlords (Landwirte). Their job was to foster and supervise the growth of agriculture and the delivery of grain, flour, bu er, and other produce. Small wonder when suspicious Ukrainians finally concluded that the German occupation had no interest in shi ing to a private economy. Nonetheless, to facilitate somewhat of an economic transition and to assist farmers to achieve some independence in agriculture, the occupation authorities permi ed the division of collective farms into voluntary “tenner” groups. It was an arrangement where 10 families were allowed to combine into a single unit that should include some men. Using implements from the collectives, the units were to till their allotment of land on their own. Thus, a er seeding, fields with hoe crops such as corn, sunflowers, and turnips were divided up and distributed among families in a tenner group. What this reform needed desperately was lots of insight and organizational sensitivity. People’s lives were not to be rendered more difficult by the change. But the Germans regre ably had no experience in Russian agriculture or in dealing with the local population. Success, above all, required empathy and an

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a itude of personal regard, qualities that German officials seemed to lack u erly. Where level-headed officials were in charge, who were trustful in their dealings and fostered genuine self-reliance, things generally went smoothly, but most of the time officials intervened with absurd threats and in a commanding tone. With their haughty and autocratic landlord a itude, they generated much hardship and a corresponding bitterness among the Ukrainian people. In the German villages, on the other hand, where the SS Betreuungs-Kommando, also known as the Volksdeutsche MiĴelstelle, VOMI (Ethnic German Liaison Office), ruled, such landlords played a minor role. These Liaison Offices were to oversee all ethnic German community life, shaping it in new ways. They were equally to protect ethnic Germans from encroachments by the German military and excessive delivery demands. At the same time Germans in their poverty were to receive food aid as well as cultural and other forms of assistance. The Ethnic German Liaison Offices managed to accomplish this mandate in many urban and rural areas and especially in the cities, where Germans were given secure access to food supplies.2 The Liaison Offices also fostered education. Soon a er the occupation, they sought out potential teachers from our midst and appointed them to schools, paying them out of the Liaison Office treasury. The curriculum, school materials, and other instructions were received from a school inspectorate, likewise under Liaison Office administration. Teachers were o en drawn into conferences and pedagogical courses. The All-Ukrainian Ethnic German Liaison Office, headed by SS General Hofmeyer, soon established a teacher-training institute in our district in Prishib. Its instructors were brought in from outside. By its second year, it already had a large student body. Boys and girls were also sent to Germany for various kinds of training. But the handling of religious instruction soon caused us concern and resentment. Religious instruction, which the occupation authorities had first included in the curriculum, was soon eliminated. The pretext, incomprehensible to us [in largely homogeneous Mennonite villages], was that pupils were of various religious tendencies and should not come under the influence of teachers of a different confession. Disappointments We had always considered religion the most important subject to be taught to our children. A er emerging from a long period in which

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estrangement from God was officially propagated, and we had lost or been stripped of Christian morals and teaching, we were determined to make a sharp about-turn and again embrace what we had lost. Repentant and full of gratitude, we were determined to focus again on the one thing that really ma ered, and to impart this goal to our children, as was possible. Yet our trust in a German willingness to support this supreme objective was grievously disappointed. Long-hounded and frightened, we even failed to summon enough courage to protest the failure in this area. Our excuse? “It is still a time of war.” Later, German officials put us off with honeyed words promising that a er the “final victory” everything would be resolved to our satisfaction. We had no choice but to se le for the prospect and hope of a be er future. A major concern was medical care, which the German Liaison Offices looked a er. Medical care in the occupied areas remained in a sorry state, but at least the hospitals in the centres of Halbstadt, Waldheim, and Ohrloff were soon restored and working. The revival in Halbstadt was spearheaded by Dr Johann Klassen, director of the hospital, and long-serving Dr Ketat. In Waldheim, a German doctor and Dr Er. Tavonius, daughter of the late renowned surgeon, Dr Tavonius, were put in charge. The medicines and supplies were shipped in from Germany and the nurses were recruited from our own ranks. These benefits we gratefully accepted. For the rest, there was much that was propagandistic in the initiatives of the Ethnic German Liaison Offices. The Offices tried to infuse ethnic German circles with a new outlook and generate a supportive atmosphere through the mounting of festivals, films, and entertainment in newly established “German Houses.” There were propaganda speeches at public gatherings. The offices also arranged contacts between the Reich and ethnic Germans. Volksdeutsche communities were visited by prominent officials from Germany and there were reciprocal visits from our circles to Germany. For example, German officials turned a visit to Halbstadt of [Alfred] Rosenberg, the Reichskommissar for the Eastern Occupied Regions, into a festival and a march past for Volksdeutsche adults and youth. Thus ethnic Germans had the exalted feeling of being looked a er by the German side, as conditions permi ed. O en practical results amounted to li le, but what was undertaken gave us some hope and encouragement. Regre ably, Liaison Office staff devoted inordinate time and effort to personal arrangements and self-gratification, well beyond what could be justified in wartime. Given the positions and

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esteem of these men, we o en found their moral leadership deplorably low and shameful. Equally alienating and disappointing was the failure of Liaison personnel to rebuild, as said, religious life in the community. A er a short period of tolerance, they occasionally even tried to obstruct the community’s [religious] development. Since we regarded the Liaison Office staff as representatives of the German people, we were deeply pained by their a itude towards church, community life, and religious education. But again, as elsewhere, we failed to summon up the pluck needed to oppose. Some, including village mayors and others, in fact preferred to keep their distance from the church. Its life became correspondingly cramped and a enuated. Community and Church Life Still, the failure of our community to spark a hoped-for flowering of its Christian life during the German occupation was a ributable to more than the deleterious influence of the Liaison Offices. More crucial was the absence of active men and women from our own ranks who might have breathed life back into our churches, with the help of God. To be sure, new preachers were elected in several villages, and a few preachers remained from earlier times. As time, conditions, and travel opportunities permi ed, these preachers served their own and neighbouring villages. I also believe that an active organized church life with awakenings, conversions, and the like, might have returned, had the period not ended so abruptly with the forced retreat of the German army. To my knowledge, no organized, registered churches with elected elders and leaders emerged, [during the occupation], in the Molochna area. Closely-knit, heartfelt fellowship was undoubtedly cultivated here and there in smaller groups where dedicated preachers were present. Such was the case in the village of Friedensdorf-Gnadenheim where Preacher Heinrich Bergen served loyally a er he had miraculously returned from Soviet imprisonment. He also served in other villages. Since Gnadenfeld’s experience may have been typical for the time, it is worth exploring further. As noted, church life resumed modestly, timidly a er the entry of the Germans. This was in keeping with a broadly shared feeling of liberation widespread among both Mennonites and Volynian Germans, a number of whom the Soviets had earlier resettled in Gnadenfeld. Given our lack of manpower and materials, it was not easy to erase the remains of Soviet clubs and cinemas from our churches or to find even the most basic furnishings. We managed to

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locate a few church pews, but not the pulpit and other items. We especially missed organ music in the services. The organ was still there but so badly damaged that no one could repair it. We did, however, find a priceless substitute in the women’s choir. Later, during our flight to Poland, Germany, and Holland, the choir served selflessly and deserves our thanks. The joy in divine services exuded by the mothers without husbands in their families, and of the girls, touched me deeply. Because frail Heinrich Penner, the preacher in our church, could serve only occasionally, one of the women or I usually read a sermon from a book of sermons and prayed. Before and a er the sermon the congregation sang a few hymns, as did the choir. Then while still standing we joined in a benedictory hymn, “Bless and protect us/ according to thy grace/ Lord li thy face over us/ and give us light.” Then the congregation dispersed quietly. During the occupation no Bible study or Bible discussions took place. Other preachers visited us from time to time. People from Gnadenfeld will always keep in fond memory Abraham Boldt, the nearly 80-year old venerable preacher brother from the neighbouring church in SparrauKonteniusfeld. He came repeatedly, never refusing to take the trip on his old broken-down wagon. At our request, he also provided catechism instruction to a group of baptismal candidates and performed the baptism. What an exalted occasion. On a perfect Sunday morning in June 1943, some 20 women and girls and a few young men received holy baptism. The obvious sincerity of the candidates and deep emotions of the congregation were further elevated by a communion service, again conducted by Abraham Boldt. Later he served as a minister on the trek and in Poland, but during our flight from the rapidly advancing Red Army he was caught and dragged off to the Soviet paradise. Honour to his memory. Was the Story in the Old Colony and in Zagradovka any Different? Conditions west of the Dnieper River were not exactly the same as among the roughly one hundred Mennonite and Lutheran villages [east of the river] in the Molochna area. In 1941 the Germans arrived earlier in the Dnieper area than in the Molochna. As a result fewer Mennonite men west of the Dnieper were lost [to deportations and the like] and the Soviets had less time to implement their [scorched earth] policy. Church life in the Old Colony, for example, was therefore soon back on its feet

German Occupation and Rule, October 1941–September 1943 229

with the reappearance of a few preachers from earlier times and the election of a few new ones. One needs also to remember that, because of the rapid advance of the front eastwards in late 1941, Mennonites west of the Dnieper had been in closer touch with Germany than we, and the tone in that area was more civilian. All these influences had an impact on developments among Mennonites West of the Dnieper. Mennonites there also longed for the victory of German arms and the return of abducted men and deported families and did their best to foster, develop, and improve their farms despite wartime shortages. Here too most of the responsibility rested on the shoulders of women, although prisoners of war and refugees were present in greater numbers in some villages to help. Under these conditions it was o en remarkable how much was achieved in a short time. Some families mastered the basics and laid the orderly groundwork for private farms, as well as developing perspectives for the future. (The la er was also true on the Molochna.) Given the transformation of agriculture in Soviet times and harsh wartime conditions this was a signal accomplishment During the occupation and our subsequent flight westwards as refugees in 1943, on the long trek, women and mothers literally pushed the cart forward, mastering problems and details of daily life without losing their resilience or collapsing. Theirs was a quiet heroism in the service of God – an abiding concern to bring their children into a be er future where they might be reunited with their missing husbands and fathers. It was a commitment that imbued our women with the courage and resoluteness to accomplish what was truly astounding. More of the Good and the Bad of that Time In the fall of 1943 the sudden order to decamp, to flee seemed a disaster for us. It appeared that everything accomplished during the occupation to move our life along new but still familiar paths had been for naught. Our perspectives and plans for shaping a meaningful future had simply collapsed. For the moment we could only seek comfort in the vistas and plans for the future provided by the Ethnic German Liaison Offices. The li le they were able to do in good faith to maintain and strengthen us was appreciated. I say this knowing, as said, that the Liaison Offices commi ed numerous errors and were responsible for numerous misunderstandings. Many Germans in key Liaison Office positions lacked

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the necessary education and understanding as well as an interest or knowledge of ethnic Germans and their history, especially that of the Mennonites. Still, although Liaison Offices lacked empathy and a capacity to listen or take seriously what local people, including ethnic Germans, said, our privileged position would become evident a short time later at the moment of flight. At that moment Liaison people, as part of the SS, threw themselves into the organization of the trek and the resolution of grave problems. One might say that the privileged position of the SS [in the German structure of authority] made it possible for the Liaison Office to take rapid and previously unforeseen initiatives that other German officials would have found impossible. Perhaps only the SS was in a position to vigorously plan and organize the flight of all ethnic Germans out of the endangered areas. In the interests of a rounded picture of the occupation period, I must allude to one other initiative of the Liaison Offices that caused us great consternation. I do so reluctantly and sadly, yet to ignore it would be to turn a blind eye to a reality that provoked grief and tears among many of us affected by the war. It was, moreover, hardly a blessing generally and was of questionable assistance even to the Wehrmacht. I speak of the organization of ethnic-German self-defence units and then, in particular, of a cavalry unit, the so-called Mounted Squadron (Reiterschwadron), consisting of ethnic German males from the Molochna area.3 We knew during the occupation that we would have to organize some form of police protection (Ordnungschutz) and make a contribution to military defence. But our feelings were more than mixed when it became a question of our young men – the last in their families – being drawn into continuous training drills. To be sure, members of simple self-defence units were not removed from their work and families, but men in the Mounted Squadron were required to devote themselves completely and continuously to military training and service. Later, when all ethnic German se lements were set in motion on the trek, the Mounted Squadron was the last to join the march, and accompanied us, to a degree, to the Polish border. Periodically it was sent into ba le against partisans, a less-than-honourable combat that le many cavalrymen with a bi er a ertaste. A er seeing some such action and a er arriving in Poland, the cavalry unit was disbanded and its men assigned to other military units. A er the war only a few returned. It was one of many sacrifices on the altar of war that le behind pain and anguish among family members.

German Occupation and Rule, October 1941–September 1943 231

For example, of the 51 younger and older men from Gnadenfeld (and later in the Warthegau) mustered into the Mounted Squadron, only 21 returned. The others must be counted dead or missing in action. The arrival of the victorious German army in 1941 had brought us the freedom for which we had yearned. It li ed the insecurity and fear under which we lived and gave us an opportunity to again cultivate an inner life. The weight of uncertainty and the grinding struggle for survival naturally remained, compounded by the cares and anxieties felt for missing loved ones and those mustered into the Wehrmacht. Our exodus in the fall of 1943 created a totally new situation.

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Section Three The Great Trek, 1943–1944 (based on personal diaries)

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Chapter Nine

By Wagon Train across the Dnieper

Worrisome Signals and Rumours In the fall of 1941, with few losses, the German Wehrmacht had occupied Ukraine up to Rostov-on-the-Don [in the USSR], and then pushed farther and farther east, triumphantly and with great self-confidence. These were our liberators and those of the whole Ukraine. Who could have dreamt that the German army would be forced to begin their great retreat two years later? In our view, Providence had snatched a substantial part of the South-Russian Mennonites and several hundred thousand other Germans from the jaws of the Bolsheviks, our longtime tormentors and looters. Suddenly we faced the collapse of all of our hopes and dreams. Was our stunning and generous rescue to have been for nothing? And what would become of our cherished hopes for the liberation of our husbands, sisters, brothers, parents, and children [in exile]? Were the fortunes of war to elude the Germans completely? This could not be. Surely, judicious strategic retreats and a shortening of the front would restore the situation. Were we not to risk falling into Soviet hands again we would temporarily have to leave. On this la er point there was no disagreement. We would flee as far as necessary, even to the end of the world, and were grateful to the Germans for offering us their organizational assistance. The Germans had long since devised a so-called longterm rese lement plan that was now, in revised form, put into effect. This was a crossroads at which I tried to face up to our painful reality. Was flight not the end of a chapter in the history of Russian Mennonitism and of the rural south Russian Germans as well as of us personally? Would the start of another chapter not figuratively have to

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begin with the pains of childbirth? Would it not shake up our world, tear us from our native soil and from the foundations of our life? Would we not lose everything we had and face a future of dependency, of wandering about aimlessly in search of a place to call home, where we might again begin to build a new life and future for ourselves? On 12 September 1943, we climbed onto our horse-drawn wagons and, for the last time, turned our backs on our homes in the Molochna area. Many may well have been overcome by an extraordinary feeling that our departure marked a huge divide in our lives and in human history. It was an event as profound as it was eventful. The mood was tense and emotional, but we were all composed and positive as we took up our duties. With perils still a thing of the future, faint-heartedness was scarcely evident. For the moment the goal was to save our lives and those of our children from the approaching enemy. Nothing else ma ered. Despite poverty and shortages, the immediate task was to make preparations as quickly as possible. But how was such a mass flight to be accomplished? Our painful journey would demand much organization and forethought, and would not proceed without problems. And if we were not to succumb to fear and despondency we needed to have confidence in our German leadership and, even more, in the Lord of Lords, ruler of all destinies. Anxieties about our situation had started in late August and early September 1941 when rumours had hinted at a serious situation on the front and the possibility of rese ling all Volksdeutsche, but tensions and worries were not publicly evident. We had had no military movements or upsets in our area and work continued normally until the end. Our Ethnic German Liaison Offices were models of discretion and gave no indication of what was about to come. It was autumn, the season of harvest and hard work. During this golden time with its windless, dry, and warm days as we o en experienced them in the Azov and Black Sea area, the last fruits were ripening marvellously. Because of drought and strong east winds, the grain crop had been small this year, but it had been harvested, as had most of the corn. The fruit had been picked and dried or canned, and only sunflowers, potatoes, beets, and small vegetables still waited to be brought in. What a precious and beautiful time of year. Exodus So much greater was therefore our surprise when we were suddenly told to abandon everything – to pack up, get ready to travel, flee. It was,

By Wagon Train across the Dnieper 237

for those of us whose lives had long been fused with this land and our homes, a hard blow, painful beyond words. Our hearts and minds had go en used to the idea that this would remain our home. We wanted to stay and start over in this rich and fertile region of the Molochna with its once-glorious villages and the centres of Halbstadt and Gnadenfeld. Our forbears had se led the land, made it fruitful, and gradually built up a distinctive and many-sided culture. In our minds we had seen it rise again, taking shape and blossoming as before, no more beautifully than before. Now this was to disappear, be abandoned, and later, as we were to hear, be burned to the ground? This a er we and the German leadership had worked so hard for two years to bring order and new life to the area. Yet the reality would have been infinitely more demoralizing if the Soviets had not already plundered and enslaved us and our homeland for such a long time. That the same adversary and enemy should now threaten to seize us was something that could not be permi ed to happen. It was therefore a ma er of packing quickly and being off. War is relentless and unforgiving. A Foretaste Once before in that year, in February 1943, we had been on the verge of pell-mell flight. The situation had come unexpectedly and we were supposed to leave completely unprepared. This had occurred at the time of the great Soviet breakthrough at Kharkov-Voronezh when Soviet tanks had pushed through to Zaporizhiia (Alexandrovsk), reducing the population to panic. The German leadership had ordered all Volksdeutsche east of Rostov, Taganrog, and Mariupol to flee on horse-drawn wagons. In biting frost and driving snow, the wagons had blundered about, become separated and, finally, by roundabout ways found their way into the Molochna villages where we had given them shelter. At the time we had faced the same dangers and were terror-stricken. It seemed impossible for us to set off with our children, ill, and aged into such a nothingness of terrible weather, trackless roads, and ragged clothing. Besides, the villages had far too few wagons and almost none that were suited for such travel. We had been anxious, indecisive, had sighed and pleaded with our Lord. Services with prayer meetings had met in the villages, but the story ended quickly and we did not have to flee unprepared. War is cruel yet God had remained the Lord of all. Had He not shown us His mercy on that occasion? The danger passed and we could stay put. Relieved and grateful, all of us whispered a prayer of humble

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thanks: “Who is man, oh Lord, that Thou art mindful of him, who is made of dust and ashes.” Preparations This time it was different and a great retreat of the German armies did take place. Given three days to prepare, we were le in no doubt as to the seriousness of the situation. Everyone worked as hard as they possibly could. Larger-scale preparations also were needed. The whole village was, practically speaking, without flour, so wheat was quickly carted to mills in the distant villages of Chernigovka and Waldheim. Wagons and harnesses had to be inspected and repaired and spare wheels and harnesses somehow scrabbled together. Above all, we needed a lot of extra wagons. The 70 Gnadenfeld wagons were not nearly enough to transport our more than 200 families and their baggage. This was the job of the village mayor and his assistants. The smaller surrounding villages were in many respects be er off. They had relatively more wagons than Gnadenfeld and the job of organization there was easier and simpler. The offices of the Ethnic German Liaison Office (Volksdeutsche MiĴelstelle) dealt with larger, general problems, and their agenda, including the entire evacuation, was more than overflowing. The operation carried the title, “Rese lement beyond the Dnieper,” but it really made no immediate difference to us whether our rese lement goal was close at hand or far away. It was still an exodus, with all of the implications of that fact. Preparations moved ahead swi ly. The dry autumn weather was ideal. The sounds of hammers and saws could be heard from one end of the village to the other. In one way or another, the wagons were to be roofed, pigs, sheep, and chickens slaughtered and preserved, and washing, baking, and packing completed. Work continued around the clock. Most of it lay on the shoulders of the women, although many also had a prisoner-of-war or a refugee to help. What could or should be taken along? The local Liaison Office issued instructions that food was needed for a longer period, as well as clothing and bedding. All cows were to join the trek as well as other livestock (if possible), and we needed small cooking utensils and dishes. Yet where a wagon with two horses was to carry a family and its baggage, space was tight and close calculations needed to be made. What could come along and what had to be le behind? These were tough decisions.

By Wagon Train across the Dnieper 239

Since there were insufficient wagons to go around, two families o en had to share the longer ladder wagons. All cows came along (most families had one). Gnadenfeld’s flock of 500 sheep stayed behind in the care and custody of a neighbouring Ukrainian village. By hook or by crook we were ready to leave by 12 September 1943, the date set for our departure. Although I had to stay back and work in the Buergermeisteramt until the very end, preparations had also gone ahead full steam in our family. A male refugee helped Mother slaughter a pig and to load and partly roof our wagon that we had acquired at almost the last minute. We were enormously pleased to have a wagon to ourselves, but that did not free us of other worries. The night before our departure, our best horse ran away. The loss gave us a huge headache until we could acquire another horse. To comprehend the trek, the details of its organization need to be spelled out. The rese lement plan called for Germans in urban centres to be moved out by train. These included people from the Molochna centre of Halbstadt, such as the ill, the elderly, nursing mothers, mothers with small children, and hospital patients. Also slated to leave by rail were the same categories of people from other villages of the Molochna area. Such a train in fact le from Halbstadt, but it could accommodate only part of this group. A shortage of freight cars resulted in the cancellation of a further planned train departure from Halbstadt. As a result, many of the village elderly, ill, and children had to travel on horse-drawn wagons, seriously encumbering the treks and, of course, mainly their families. Many in these categories fell victim to the hardships of the exodus, and lie buried in solitary graves on the verges of the long trek road. The Gnadenfeld Liaison Office was responsible for the organization and functioning of the Gnadenfeld area trek. As one of the largest areas of the five areas of the Molochna district, it embraced, in addition to three [ethnic German] Stu gart se lement villages, the City of Berdiansk and the Olgafeld [Fürstenland] Mennonite se lement. Refugees from the la er two were dispatched on one train. The inhabitants of 15 Molochna Mennonite villages constituted our Gnadenfeld trek group: Elisabethal, Alexandertal, Schardau, Pordenau, Mariental, Rudnerweide, Grossweide, Franzthal, Pastwa, Sparrau, Konteniusfeld, Paulsheim, Mariawohl, Nikolaidorf, and Gnadenfeld. At the start, all of these villages were merged into a single caravan. Each village was to be a unit in itself, with its mayor as leader. Each

240 Tiefenwege: Soviet Mennonite Life and Suffering, 1929–1949

village group was further divided into subgroups of 10 families each headed also by a leader (a man or a woman) to supervise and provide assistance as needed. This arrangement was to be maintained without fail. There was to be no confusion. No one was to break into the trek line, leave it, or remain behind. In fact the entire trek of some 2,000 wagons was to remain firmly linked over a 20-kilometre stretch of road. Supervision and leadership of our trek group lay in the hands of the Liaison Office and its staff, with SS Company Commander H. Wendorf in charge. The assistants, among them a few Red Cross nurses, were distributed so that each supervised a village group for which it was formally responsible. The arrangements in the other four [Molochna Mennonite] trek groups, that had le a day or two earlier, were similar. The treks were of about the same size. These, then, in theory, were the arrangements. Experience, however, demonstrated that this ideal organization could not be maintained. Numerous unforeseen incidents threatened its unity and coherence. Still, the will to orderliness and the discipline of the German authorities, coupled with the unconditional obedience demanded in regard to all orders, made possible the realization of this massive program of rese lement with few casualties. That was its greatest justification. It should also be mentioned that, in addition to the roughly 35,000 [Ukrainian] Mennonite refugees, about 200,000 other ethnic Germans in Ukraine sought escape in this way. This was achieved in toto as well. Departure, 12 September 1943 Early this morning we begin our journey into the unknown. A fine drizzle sets in at the start. All wagons assemble at the Liaison Office near the end of the village. Organized, they are sent on their way. Konteniusfeld and Sparrau bring up the rear. Rain has so ened the road and made the start difficult. One last, lingering glance back to the village and our home disappears from view. Is it forever? Yet this is no time for tender feelings. From henceforward, it will be the journey, the road and the horses, that will demand our complete a ention. Many travellers set out on foot. Numerous stubborn cows have to be led by rope. Everything is new and galvanizing. We are to proceed through Paulsheim to Steinfeld, 12 kilometres across the steppe. There is a junction at Paulsheim, and the road fills with wagons. We are joined by wagons from Mariawohl and Nikolaidorf. Frontwards and backwards, as far as the eye can see, it is wagon upon wagon. We cross

By Wagon Train across the Dnieper 241

the field on the so road and many horses falter and fail. One of our horses has difficulties as well. The wagon loads are too heavy for the road. Our cow behaves beautifully, however, to our surprised delight. With great effort, we get to Steinfeld, but a li le late. The rest of the trek has already lined up in order along the road for a rest and refreshment stop. We find our place and get back into line. The children fetch water and fodder for the horses and Mother hands out something to eat. People from Steinfeld have le a day earlier and retreating military units have taken over the empty farmsteads. A loudspeaker blares out music onto the street. How is it possible to be making music in the midst of this general calamity? In rain and now deep mud, we inch our way along the 12 kilometre stretch to Alexanderkrone-Kleefeld, where we are to spend the night. Prangenau, Neukirch, Lichtfelde, and Friedensruh, the villages we pass through, have all le the day before. Our wagon and others get stuck in deep mud along the road. With great effort and the help of German troops, we manage to enter a spacious yard. The soldiers are friendly. They beckon us to enter and direct us to fodder and sleeping quarters. By the light of a gu ering candle we make our evening meal and get to bed. For the soldiers this is a welcome diversion. Yesterday they helped get the inhabitants of the house out on the road and today they host us as their guests. I keep my diary and it is late when we finally turn in. The horses are well stabled and regaining strength at a trough filled with oats. Another family from the trek spends the night with us. The first day has been a trial and we hope for be er weather soon. May the Lord be gracious to us. 13 September 1943 This morning the sky is clear and cloudless from the start. The street is nothing but deep, well trampled gumbo, of the sort that can probably be found only in Ukraine, but the rising sun li s spirits. This is no time to dawdle. Everyone recognizes that our loads are far too heavy for these roads and, with heavy hearts, we busily dump belongings we had just thought indispensable. Piles of discarded items are heaped up beside roads and on yards. We rid ourselves of a few hundred kilos. The village street soon fills with wagons. People search for their village group. Everything is topsy-turvy. The villages of Konteniusfeld, Sparrau and Gnadenfeld have gone on to Kleefeld for the night. The sun and wind dry out the roads making them passable by noon and

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hard and smooth by evening. Today many of the smaller village groups managed to stick together, but not our village. By evening we are at Terpenie, close to Melitopol, and stop at a crossroads. A part of the trek has gone ahead, but we do not know which road it has taken. “For reasons of security,” the leaders say, people on the trek are never given advance notice of the route or of our destination. But we have heard that our general direction is “to the Dnieper.” We look about perplexed and then see our group trek leader, Herr Buss, approaching. He directs us to the state farm of Terpenie, where we are to find accommodations for the night. We are overjoyed to meet most of our group here as well as the village groups of Marienthal, Schardau, Franzthal, Mariawohl, and Nikolaidorf. But where are the others? Part of our Gnadenfeld group, headed by Mayor Sperling, is missing. Stragglers keep arriving late into the night. Several large barns have been cleaned and prepared with fresh straw strewn along the walls for bedding. Mainly women and children will stay here tonight. There is li le noise. It is quite late when noodle soup and bread is passed around. Everyone gets milk from their own cow. A er the horses and cow have been tended to, Mother and Erika prepare emergency shelter for themselves on the wagon. Jasha and I find shelter on the straw bedding in the barn. As we prepare to leave the following morning, a Gnadenfeld group of some 10 wagons of women reaches our encampment. In the absence of road signs, it had driven down into Melitopol where the military had told them where the trek was spending the night. Worried, fearful, they had abandoned their exhausted cows and a er proceeding through the night had arrived bone tired but overjoyed to rejoin the group. We only hope that no one stays behind. But things look very difficult. 14 September 1943 Everything is harmonious and orderly today and there are few interruptions. We cover 45 kilometres and reach our designated stopping place late at night. We are exhausted from the heat and dust. The wagons stretch out in long rows in the dark. It is quite unpleasant to stop at such an hour in a strange place and to have to find fodder and water for the ca le in the dark, to feed them and to milk the cow. Individual campfires flicker here and there. A milk soup is quickly prepared for the children. The women do not have it easy. Many wagons carry sick

By Wagon Train across the Dnieper 243

people and a large number of children are down with the whooping cough. Most important, the ca le have to be looked a er if we are to move ahead and not break down. “Speed is of the essence” (Eile tut Not), is said over and over again. Somewhere nearby are supposed to be night quarters in a barn, but most people choose to bed down on straw beside their wagons. Our trek stop is the state farm of Izvestia. Perhaps it is the onetime Mennonite estate of Brodsky.1 15 September 1943 At sunup we are already well on our way. The night is very cool. The wagon train again moves forward in quick step until noon. But when individual wagons break down this pace cannot be maintained. Herr Buss now rides back and forth on horseback alongside the trek, remorselessly driving us on. The cows and their handlers are ge ing tired and have to run to keep up. It is very warm. Finally we make a rest and refreshment stop in a small village with a well that has lots of water. It also has a granary with oats for which Herr Buss puts forward a legal claim. We feed and water the ca le and are even permi ed to take along some oats. I am now in possession of a third horse, and we make good progress. The cow walks and runs along nicely beside the wagon. I can unfortunately do li le more in my condition than drive the horses, yet other help is o en urgently needed. The women have more than their share of trouble. A er many interruptions and stops that we do not understand, we reach a large Ukrainian village. It is again terribly late. The rows of trek wagons are lined up on the streets. But a er a lot of moving forward and backing up and standing and waiting, it takes our leaders until midnight to find a suitable place for us to park. Fodder and water have to be found. The nearby wells have been drained and fodder is somewhere on the threshing floors outside the village. But the thing must be accomplished, so Mother and Erika go out and fetch what is needed. It is painful for me not to be able to help. Erika is very brave. Although she has not worked with horses before, she leads the nervous animals through the darkness to the watering trough, where there is a great crush. Others do the same. It is a dangerous business. The boys o en fool around with the horses, recklessly banging into one another. Today things simply got to be too much for our li le cow. She lay down exhausted, and refused to touch the fodder, something that has already

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happened several times before. Many families have already le their exhausted cows at roadsides and moved on and we also have seen dead horses beside the roads. We pity the poor animals. ћizhni-sirogosii 16 September 1943 At night we have a steady downpour and we get up thoroughly soaked. Otherwise, a er the hot and dusty days, we find the change very agreeable. Yet the rain will not stop and it is already long past our time to leave. Everything is soaking wet, dirty and muddy – we, the animals, and the wagons. So the order is given for us to rest for a while. It is in the large Ukrainian village of Nizhni-Sirogosii. Here the German administration for military graves has established a large and lovely military cemetery. Economic units of the army are stationed here. Soldiers come and go through our wagon encampment, shaking their heads. On the public square, one of the soldiers delivers two sermons of comfort and reassurance. How remarkable in that miserable weather, but the sermons are good for us, and we thank him warmly. One text is Psalm 71. The soldier is quite surprised when a choir of Paulsheim women sing some beautiful hymns. The service ends with a hymn by the entire gathering. Preparing food in that mud hole is no easy thing and requires much discipline from the women. The soup is passed out. How do our elderly and ill manage? Herr Wendorf has caught up with us a er staying back in Gnadenfeld for several more days. He now tells us how things had gone a er our departure. The German Wehrmacht had issued an order that the German villages were not to fall into enemy hands. All of them were to be destroyed. Once the last Wehrmacht troops withdraw, formations of engineers will move in to accomplish this end. It is finished. What was no longer exists and will never again. For 25 years we had watched the Bolsheviks freely dismantling and destroying what we had, gnawing, so to speak, at our strength. Now what remains is to be obliterated. Yet even if it might somehow seem just to deny the Bolsheviks the reacquisition of what had been ours, it hurts deeply to know that everything we had considered our home will be destroyed, leaving no trace behind. Over the generations an inheritance of inestimable value had been created through the diligence of our forebears, fathers, brothers, and mothers. The product of 140 years of cultural

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creation was the handiwork of the sweat, enterprise, and tears of generations who have long since found their rest in our peaceful graveyards. Can anyone at this moment of tragedy grasp the enormity of what is happening? But it is war. 17 September 1943 The rain moves on but the sky remains overcast. At noon the sun breaks through and we are told to get ready to carry on. A few stragglers arrive, but the group from Gnadenfeld with Mayor Sperling at its head is still missing. Herr Buss informs a meeting of our Gnadenfeld group that from now on Herr Johann Neufeld, Elisabe hal, will be our interim mayor and lead us on. Neufeld is known as a cautious, sensible, and helpful man, so this is reassuring. We pull out in the a ernoon, past the large military cemetery where fallen soldiers from everywhere have been gathered together. They are identified and then buried in individual graves, with a cross and a memorial tablet. This is a noble enterprise. But what will the Bolsheviks likely do with this cemetery? A er some 10 kilometres, a huge thunderstorm again catches us. Horses stumble in the mud, harnesses tear and wagons need an uphill push. The trek is again breaking up. Part of our group stops for the night at a well on a field, which we reach at a very late hour. The water has to be pulled up by horse and the bedlam at the well continues until late at night. Others venture into the darkness, foraging. I worry that Erika and Jasha might get lost. Mother lines up for water at the well. The camp has not been set up in a very orderly fashion. People try to find one another by calling across the camp. Pordenau and Mariawohl have stopped here, too, and the others have likely proceeded on to the next village. The rain soon moves on, but it is noticeably cool and there is no straw for bedding. 18 September 1943 Today we make good headway of some 50 kilometres. The sunshine from early morning soon turns the road to dust. As difficult as this is for their owners, many cows are le standing at the roadside. As many a frightened soul looks back to see if the enemy is perhaps gaining on us, Herr Buss drives us on relentlessly. Sighing, everyone thinks, “If only nothing happens to my wagon.” Disabled wagons have had to stay back time and again and we have lost track of a number of people

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including three women and a man – Tante Kla , sick on her wagon with her daughter Fräulein Hannchen, Tante Görz, on an ox-drawn wagon, and aged Jacob Riediger, also on an ox-drawn wagon. We worry that they may fall into enemy hands. In thy mercy, Oh God, only not that. Herr Buss and Herr Wendorf dismissively shrug off our appeal for a search by assuring us that no one will be le behind. Soon the big truck with the spare [wagon] wheels is empty and we are still far from our destination. Fortunately we are moving across a flat steppe to the Dnieper River or our progress would be infinitely more difficult. Still, the crammed road, hodgepodge of horses and drivers, the atrocious roads and breaking harnesses makes driving no picnic. The cardinal point is not to bump into the wagon ahead of you, but this can occur in a split second with the many sudden stops and starts and the overtaking of broken-down wagons. It is almost as important not to fall behind and string out the trek. This is no great problem for me, but it is for many of the women who have li le experience with horses. But thanks to their spirit and gumption, everything moves along well enough, for their teacher is adversity, and they will not give up. All honour to them. ѐrossing the dnieper 19 September 1943 Tonight we find excellent quarters on a large Soviet state farm (sovkhoz) with plenty of water that is hauled up by horse from a big deep steppe well and enough fodder and hay. The weather is fine. We arrive early enough so that the women, in addition to their many other chores, can make a fire and cook a proper meal. But only a few villages from our trek are present. They say we are close to the Dnieper, no more than 20 kilometres to Kachovka. God be praised. We break camp early, before sunrise. The repair of the wagon wheels has not been completed and this delays us. Along a broad road, we move towards Kachovka in the great dust and heat, military trucks speeding by and enveloping us in clouds of dust. Around noon the head of our trek reaches Kachovka and the trek stops. Below us as through a fog we see Kachovka as well as the sparkling ribbon of water of the long awaited Dnieper. The river flows off to the right in a great arc. Across from us we can make out its high bank where we must cross. That is our refuge, but will this in fact be so? We stand for a while

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and then slowly approach the village or small town and stop again. Nobody knows why. Amidst frequent starts and stops, we cross sand and meadow and enter upon the long approach to the bridge. The movable pontoon bridge appears out of the gathering gloom and there is a great bustle. The traffic regulated by the military is supposed to move without pause, alternating military vehicles and refugee wagons. The soldiers gladly give us a hand with our horses that refuse to budge and with our less than experienced drivers. The crossing takes hours of waiting and commotion. It is dark and lights are forbidden for fear of an air a ack. At the bridge in front of us a wheel on the wagon of aged Johann Toews breaks. The old man is blind and the women with him are old and weak. Even his young, otherwise clever daughter cannot look a er this on her own. But before our own helpers can appear, the soldiers have already commandeered a spare wheel on another wagon and busily change it. It seems to fit, but perhaps not quite. The trek again moves and we wave goodbye to the soldiers with shouts of thanks. It is almost pitch dark by the time we cross the Dnieper. We slowly ascend the hair pin turns and reach the top around midnight. We spend the night in an open spot on a field. We are not permi ed to light a fire and it is too dark to fetch food and water. The animals, already in a sorry state, are supposed to rescue us and yet are in great need themselves. We hope for a few days of rest. At least we are across the river, although part of the Gnadenfeld trek is still missing. Will the hounding and fear now end? It is with joyful thanks that we bed down for the night. 20 September 1943 In the clear and beautiful sunrise we can see the sparkling Dnieper. Elevated as we are, we feel almost safely out of harm’s way. Thank God that we steppe dwellers have made it this far. With an unusually beautiful panoramic view, many of us can probably not help casting a lingering look back over the distant plain, to where our home was. More than 100 years ago, our ancestors had worked their arduous way over this same plain in the opposite direction. Their privations may have been more extreme but their prospects were be er. Now we are leaving, and as refugees. This is probably a final goodbye, also to our brothers who were forcibly sent east two years ago. Where will we find a new home? This question should not, however, be our first concern.

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We must start by finding some peace and security and by trusting in God and in our German leadership. Below us flows the mighty Dnieper River of Ukraine, once celebrated in verse by Gogol, Shevchenko, and other native Ukrainian poets. Yet a chapter of Mennonite history is also entwined with this legendary river. Earlier it had witnessed huge ba les among warring peoples, and survived them all. Yet has it ever seen so many refugees streaming back and forth across its two emergency military bridges and a ferry? We have crossed and what earlier seemed a remote possibility has now become reality. The Germans are very competent. On the west side of the river the trek is broken up into many widely sca ered groups. In the morning, we have a decent breakfast, water and feed our animals, figure out the location of our wagon train, and set out with renewed energy. The trek is mustered at Berislav. Through the night our people cross the river, repairing breakdowns and mastering fears. Yesterday I gave a horse to Frau Maisler who had le a very sick horse behind. We should be able to manage with two, even though one is quite weak. ю real day of rest 21 September 1943 Yesterday we covered 24 kilometres from Berislav, relaxed and under blue skies, and stopped early in a small steppe se lement that had fodder and water. Today is a day of rest that we desperately need. There is much to do. Everything in the wagons has been tossed about and is a jumble. Many things need repairs. Above all, we are filthy and need baths. Two head of ca le have been butchered and the meat distributed, as has the bread. Wagon loads of chaff and straw are hauled in from freshly threshed stacks in a field. It is a lovely autumn day. We find a place close to the village well. There is a hubbub throughout the camp and people cheer up a li le as they try to shake off the tensions of the last 10 days. There is singing and girls are laughing. For the first time we hear that our destination is Vladimirovka, close to Zagradovka,2 some 80 kilometres away. That li s spirits. But many wagons of our trek have not reached the camp. There are only the villages of Konteniusfeld, Alexandertal, Elisabe al, and Gnadenfeld. Even part of the Gnadenfeld group is still missing. Other villages have stopped at another se lement, a sensible decision since the water here will soon be scarce.

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I wander through the camp, looking about and visiting. The wagons are neatly lined up in a row facing the street. The ca le are in back, tied up and grazing. The children play in front and the mothers busy themselves with various tasks. Most light a small fire, cook food and wash and hang out clothes to dry. Repairs have started. Even here life is recovering something of its rhythm, its many-sided nature, and as long as life exists nothing can bo le it up. But it takes practise to cultivate something of a common life on the trek and in the camp. Things go much more smoothly where there is discipline and consideration for others. We still have much to learn in this regard. This is fairly obvious from goings-on around the great village well. Wells in the south and in Crimea are from 70–150 metres deep. A horse draws up water from the well in large buckets, a large rope twisting and turning around a huge drum-wheel. Then the water is poured out in large troughs for the ca le or carted in large barrels onto village yards. The southern and Crimean steppe dwellers have used this squeaking drum wheel for centuries. Water is a valuable commodity and although a well like this usually has sufficient water for a whole village, wells o en fail when there is a sudden demand from too many thirsty people and animals. There is all the more reason then to push one’s way to the head of the line. What a racket there is when a mass of people of every age and sex line up for water with pails and horses. Several prisoners-of-war start a fistfight.3 The colourful mixture of these people at the well includes Ukrainians, Cossacks, Turkmens, and others who have joined the trek as volunteer drivers and to help out some of the families without men. Hotheads among them insist on having their way. Some village mayors try to inject a li le order into the chaos, but as the great wheel pulls up bucket a er bucket of water, creaking and groaning, the well remains a lively and raucous place until late into the night. Horses are prodded to drink their fill and move on quickly, but will there be enough water for the timid who did not elbow their way to the front? I look in briefly on 80-year-old Tante Klassen. In the shade of a ladder wagon, she rests on a chair brought from home. “How are things? Major problems?” I ask. “God be praised,” she says in a friendly tone. “Much be er than I expected. We are being carried ‘on the wings of the wind.’” But this tiny, fragile, dear li le grandmother looks bone-weary and drained. At 75, elderly, blind Wilhelm Arendt, previously still strong and vigorous is now quite helpless. His usual cheerfulness and good humour have le him. Frau Agnes Voth looks a er him, but she is up to her

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ears in work with her own four children. The old man tends to her oldest, a seven-year old, and the youngest, still in a crib. The woman sees to the horses and other children and makes meals. She urgently requires a driver, and will have a hard time finishing the trip without one. Her wagon is without a roof and has no protection from the sun and increasingly cool nights. I pass by lame Frau Becker who usually fidgets, whimpering loudly, and sits or more o en lies in her wagon. A few days ago her wagon was given a partial roof. Her 18-year-old daughter is a kindly girl who looks a er her mother as well as she can, but the girl is also a driver and must care for the horses. She and Frau Voth have had to leave their cows behind. Further along is the Braun family. The father, who suffers from gout, is bedded down on the long, covered ladder-wagon, where he lies quietly, helplessly and without demands. His wife and older sister, who travel with the family, do what they can for him. Their three children, aged 12–16, tend to the three horses, a cow, and other chores. A er talking to the sick man I move on, but with a heavy heart at the sight of these people who have been brought so low. Katharina Loewen has equally serious problems with her helpless 90-year-old father-in-law who is feeble-minded and can no longer grasp what is going on. Frau Loewen is herself unwell and has great difficulty in calming down and caring for her father. Her plucky daughter Agnes is chiefly responsible for driving the team and looking a er the animals. I stop for a few moments to talk to my old friend Becker who is looked a er by a relative, Frau Bergmann. She shares her large wagon with her daughter Margarete and her daughter’s three children. One of the children is lame and feeble-minded. Although he is blind, my friend Becker still manages to pitch in and help. The women, who look a er him, the children, three horses, and a cow, have great difficulty in keeping up. He is grateful for the day off and hopes travel will get easier from here on. Despite the hardships and his personal handicap, his courage is still intact. Down the row of wagons, I meet the Johann Toews family that I mentioned in yesterday’s entry. Toews rests in the shade of his covered wagon while his wife and two elderly sisters-in-law, with whom they share a wagon, prepare food. The underage daughter Trude is a brave girl who looks a er the three horses and the cow. “How are things, Ivan

By Wagon Train across the Dnieper 251

Jakovlevich?” I call out to the blind man. He gladly responds. “Come over and sit down.” We rehash yesterday’s story of the broken wheel at the bridge. He is excited and goes into details. “Thank God for those good people. I doubt that Soviet soldiers would have given us such support.” He feels hobbled by his blindness on the journey. He cannot help but notice that much does not move along as well as if he were in charge. At one time he had owned one of the largest and best run farms in the village. His reputation had been that of a discerning wise owl, a man of sound judgment in every situation. Even in Soviet times he had not lost heart, but been prepared to pitch in and help, even in [postrevolutionary] reconstruction, so long as he was le alone. But then came the persecution of the kulaks and he and his wife and child had been deported to Siberia. His two sons had been arrested and banished as well. Under miserable conditions, he had fled his place of exile in an escape that was long, heartbreaking and marked by fear, extreme privation and suffering, including going blind. U erly helpless, the family had finally returned to his village, for be er or worse. Now he was in flight from the very monsters that had been his ruin. Still a man of great vigour, Toews finds it difficult not to be able to jump in with his considerable talents and help. But why tell this and other pitiful stories? Many people like this are sca ered among us on the trek. They have no choice but to share our hardships. Nor should we forget the many women whose husbands, brothers, and sons have been torn from their sides. In their loyalty and sense of duty towards their families and those who lie ill and helpless among us, they testify to the qualities of mercy and heroism present here among us enroute. These stories also round out the picture of the trek and help define what distinguishes it from an organized migration under normal conditions. A Worship Service in a Clay Pit A er the hustle and bustle of the morning dies down a li le, a church service is announced for the a ernoon. Not far from the well is an open spot with a clay pit. A large group of young and old gather to take part, si ing on the edge of the pit at the top or standing at the bo om. All listen a entively to the words of the venerable preacher, Abram Boldt, who speaks from his place near the edge of the pit. His opening

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words from Psalm 103 and the hymn, “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, King of Creation,” inject a note of thanksgiving into the service. The chorale bursts forth with great power, echoing across the camp in a single spirit of thanksgiving. In a subdued voice, Abram Boldt talks about the most recent days. The gentle words of the esteemed preacher touch our ears like a revelation and our hearts like a balm. Offering us consolation and courage, he calls on us to remain strong and not to succumb to despair. Led by Almighty God, under His protection and guided by our leaders, we have successfully escaped the dangers, he says. Let us not forget the thanks that we owe Him. He admonishes us to help our neighbours in need, for only through willing service can we fulfil Christ’s commandment and enjoy the Lord’s support. (Abram Boldt has doubtlessly noted many cases of people thoughtlessly driving past their neighbours in trouble.) With great energy and beauty, the women’s choir from Konteniusfeld and Paulsheim sing several hymns of inspiration and comfort. There is a congregational prayer of thanksgiving and a plea for God’s further leading. Then we go our separate ways. At least for a moment we have been li ed out of the restless rush that has surrounded our lives during these past days. But the great hurly burly at the well has not stopped and the call of “water, water” remains a ma er of grave concern. Still, the day of rest has done us some good. 22 September 1943 The weather is fine, and our journey moves on to the larger village of Davidov Brod, on the Inguletz River (a tributary of the Ingul). We encounter no significant stops or mishaps enroute, even in descending the long road down the hill, and we arrive early. That helps to keep up our spirits, as does the fact that we make camp on a large meadow near water. Divided as we are into village groupings with our wagons neatly lined up, the trek occupies a huge area. It is in fact an enormous encampment, consisting of more than one thousand five hundred wagons, and can scarcely be taken in at one glance. Involuntarily, I think of the people of Israel in the desert, our hut-like covered wagons reminding me of tents. Smoke soon starts to rise from campfires and there is, as always, bustle and commotion throughout the camp. The ca le are herded down to the water, fodder is brought in, food prepared, clothes washed, and animals and people bathed. It is a glorious se ing with much good water.

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23 September 1943 Today we proceed up the Inguletz River for about 25 kilometres. The river here is deep and snakes sharply back and forth. Branching off are many substantial valleys and ravines. We will have to cross some of them. The steep declines and the many ups and downs raise anxious questions: Will it go well? Will the harnesses and sha s hold? In fact a number of wagons lose control and careen wildly down the hillside, their occupants thinking themselves lucky if they reach the bo om in one piece. There are also daring and irresponsible boys. Many overly cautious women take an eternity ge ing their wagons down a hill. Every uphill and down dale takes time and can lead to unpleasant surprises and stops. A number of children have fallen off their wagons without injuring themselves. But a woman from Sparrau was run over and the prospects for her are not good. Not all women are so fearful. Among them are also many excellent drivers. Frau Rempel, whose wagon is directly behind ours, is meticulous in her driving and has not once banged into the rear of our wagon. Fearlessly and self-confidently she brings her double team down the hill. I look back and cannot conceal a small chuckle. A li le heavy-set, she sits like a countess in her hut-like wagon, her reins taut, face intense, her broad-brimmed straw hat pushed down and slightly awry on her head. She looks quite superior and sure of herself. Frau Poetker, who accompanies her, is quite the opposite. Fearfully she grabs Frau Rempel’s arm and peers apprehensively down the road. Between the two, peeping over their heads, is Frau Poetker’s li le daughter, curious but shaken. Otherwise, the three of them are nicely ha ed and do very well. In spite of the short distance, it is late when we arrive at our planned stop, a trek-station near the larger district (raion) centre of Beresnovatoie. We must criss-cross the village, followed by curious villagers, to reach the ridge behind the village where a number of ca le barns have been prepared as night quarters. In an open space several large cauldrons have been set in the ground, presided over by Ukrainian women making soup and boiling water for tea. What pleases us most is the presence of a large wind-driven pump that provides ample water for the ca le. Fodder is also nearby, but no grain. The night promises to be very cool and there is li le straw. Jasha and I look for a place to sleep in the barn. Mother and Erika, as always, bed down in the wagon to keep an eye on the animals. The animals o en break loose, have to be searched for, and that grates on the nerves.

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24 September 1943 We break camp at Beresnovatoie quite late in the morning. A few wagons need repairs and our trek leader, Herr Buss, has become more easygoing. But to start late also means arriving late, with many drawbacks. The women have to prepare food, look a er the children and locate and fetch fodder and water for the animals. This trek stop is new and darkness can also be a problem. We covered 25 kilometres today, and should really be in Vladimirovka. But it is late so we seek shelter along the street in a small se lers’ village, some five kilometres from our goal. There is chaff, straw, and grain for the ca le, but, as so o en, the women have bad luck with the water. Yet we cannot leave the ca le standing thirsty a er such a long and hot day. The villagers have had an excellent harvest, and tell us so themselves. Their small mud-and-wa le co ages literally lie buried in grain. People are already working privately, everyone for themselves. We spend the night at the straw stack, as do the Ukrainian families. Herr Wachtmann of the Ethnic Liaison Office drops by at a very late hour. He and his trek group have reached Vladimirovka. We are happy to be in sight of our destination. It is very late when we finally get to bed. at oѢr temporary destination 25 September 1943 This is a remarkable day. At noon, we suddenly see the village of Vladimirovka straight ahead of us on a hilltop. It is enclosed on three sides, hemmed in by the Inguletz River. A large, strong bridge leads to the village across the river. Seen from above, the village looks woebegone, almost ruin-like. Most of the houses, really huts, are built of grey limestone, but without stucco and whitewash, as is usual in these parts, and o en without roofs. There are almost no trees, which helps explain the village’s forlorn appearance. As we then learn, Russians, not Ukrainians, live here. A er crossing the bridge, we move slowly through the village, directly opposite the area set aside for the trek bivouac. Waiting for us are several village groups that are to provide shelter for us in the surrounding villages. We do not like the idea of staying here for only several days. We would much prefer having a genuine break that would give us time to clean up from the grime and dust and rest a li le in the shade.

Jacob Neufeld’s father’s family: first row, son Johann, Hans (1910–1930), second row, mother Sarah, nee Martens (1874–1913), son Abraham (1905–1925), father Abraham (1865–1943); third row, son Heinrich (1899–1938), son Jacob (1895– 1960), and daughter Sarah (1896–1960). (Neufeld Family Archives).

Jacob A. Neufeld in the medical corps, in Moscow, 1918, standing, back row, far right (Neufeld Family Archive).

Jacob A. Neufeld and his comrades in Moscow in medical corps, 1914–18 (Neufeld Family Archive).

A pencil drawing of the Neufeld Gnadenfeld house drawn by Neufeld in the Warthegau to submit for compensation for the loss of his property (Neufeld Family Archive).

The last Verband meeting in Kharkov in 1926 (Neufeld Family Archive).

Neufeld family: Lene, Erika, Jacob, son Heinie (Neufeld Family Archive).

Pencil sketch portrait of Jacob A. Neufeld in Dnepropetrovsk Prison in 1934. Two identification portrait inset photos: 1938 gulag photo and 1939 photo taken in Gnadenfeld shortly a er Neufeld’s return home from the gulag (Neufeld Family Archive).

Wife Lene brought this photo of herself and their three children to her husband in prison in Dnepropetrovsk on one of her first visits in 1934. Neufeld wrote on the back of this photo: “My wife made me very happy by bringing me this picture. How the children have grown. I don’t even know the li le one. God bless them till we meet again. 31 July 1934.” Children: Heinie, Erika, Jacob (Neufeld Family Archive).

A school group of more than 100 students and teachers in Gnadenfeld before the German occupation. The children are wearing red Pioneer ties. Erika Neufeld is in the third row from the front, third from the le (Neufeld Family Archive).

A class in Gnadenfeld carrying lilac bouquets, perhaps a graduation photo, late 1930s. Erika Neufeld, in the middle row, seated fi h from le (Neufeld Family Archive).

Prisoners in the Cheliabinsk mining area in the gulag (photo donated to H. L. Dyck by a participant who wishes to remain anonymous at a conference on Germans in the USSR in Orenburg, Russia, 1997).

Construction work by gulag prisoners using hand tools in extreme climate conditions in the Cheliabinsk Siberian area (photo donated to H. L. Dyck by a participant who wishes to remain anonymous at a conference on Germans in the USSR in Orenburg, Russia, 1997).

Mennonite women from Gnadenfeld village on the trek from Ukraine to Warthegau, occupied Poland, in winter 1943–4. Note the covered wagons and outdoor cooking (Neufeld Family Archive).

Erika Neufeld (spo ed dress) and girlfriends (perhaps coworkers) with a German officer and occupation soldiers in 1944 (Neufeld Family Archive).

On the trek to occupied Poland (Neufeld Family Archive).

‘Stuck in the Mud.’ Travel on the trek out of Gnadenfeld to occupied Poland (Neufeld Family Archive).

Jacob A. Neufeld, photo taken in Warthegau, occupied Poland, in 1944 (Neufeld Family Archives).

Mennonite women on the trek to occupied Poland. Note the absence of men, tethered cow, and the dry roadway, suggesting this was taken in early fall 1943 (Neufeld Family Archive).

Celle, West Germany, 1947. Jacob’s wife Lene (Thiessen) Neufeld, daughter Erika, and son Jake, in short pants (Neufeld Family Archive).

The Neufeld family in Celle, West Germany. Back: Erika, unknown friend, son Jacob. Front, seated: Jacob and Lene (Neufeld Family Archive).

Fallingbostel refugee camp barracks in West Germany, 1949. Le to right: Erika, Jacob, reclining, Lene, seated (Neufeld Family Archive).

Fallingbostel military barracks used to accommodate refugees with Erika Neufeld and two friends in the foreground in 1949 (Neufeld Family Archive).

The Neufeld house in Virgil, Ontario, that was built by son Jacob and friends for his parents. On the porch is Jacob A. Neufeld (Neufeld Family Archives).

The Neufeld family in a studio photo taken in Canada. Back: son Jacob and daughter Erika. Front: Jacob and Lene. Date unknown (Neufeld Family Archive).

The wedding of son Jacob and Frieda Wall, in Virgil, Ontario, date unknown (Neufeld Family Archive).

Jacob A. Neufeld in his German-made wooden wheelchair in Virgil, Ontario (Neufeld Family Archive).

Jacob A. Neufeld at his typewriter in Virgil, Ontario, 1950s (Neufeld Family Archive).

Reunion of close colleagues Jacob A. Neufeld and B. B. Janz, former chairman of the Verband Buerger hollaendischer Herkun , in Canada in 1950 (Neufeld Family Archive).

By Wagon Train across the Dnieper 255

We are therefore more than happy when we happen to meet Obersturmfuehrer Herr Wendorf, who welcomes us warmly and tells us that this village will be the encampment for the Gnadenfeld group. The splinter group led by Sperling is already here and has been assigned quarters, and Mayor Fr. Sperling and his assistants have been instructed to find quarters for us as well. We return to the village to meet some of our missing people from Gnadenfeld who are already busy working on their “yards.” We too are taken to a vacant yard and are happy and grateful to have ended our journey for now. Once the horses and cow have been given fodder and water, we look around the yard and house. The yard, enclosed on all sides by stone walls, is spacious. The small barn has no trough and we can see no stake or other means to secure and feed the horses. The house has two clean rooms, but not a stick of furniture or its like in either. But that is not such a problem and much can be changed. Herr Wendorf then informs us that this is where we are now to se le. This seems quite inconceivable and foolish to us, and the others find it simply incomprehensible. We feel that we are wanderers still in flight, in the truest sense of those words. These plans should not, however, cause us too much concern for now. May God grant that we survive the war first, and that quickly. The village has three streets. Under strict orders, the inhabitants have had to clear out from about half the village. [The families thus displaced] have had to move in with residents in the other half of the village. That must have been a difficult thing to do and promises nothing but problems in their a itudes towards us. We find this radical solution to the accommodation question very upse ing. But it is war and war demands hard decisions, and has made us hard as well. But can any blessing follow from such action? God alone knows what will happen to us. Sunday, 26 September 1943 Today is Sunday, a real day of rest, but without a common worship service. I suppose we will first have to feel out the situation here. We started to arrange ma ers yesterday, bringing in the baggage, sorting through it and cleaning up. But a er 12 days on the road and endless wandering, dirt, dust, frustrations, and fears, we feel a lot be er. We also search around to see where our people are living, and a few also come looking for us. We are quite happy and in good spirits, and talk back and forth about the experiences of recent days. We live in times

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when our lives can o en change in a moment and in basic regards. A few days ago we were still in Gnadenfeld and now Gnadenfeld is out of reach for us. Perhaps it is no longer even there, wiped out and its ruins occupied by the enemy. Apparently only our Gnadenfeld group is to stay in Vladimirovka. Many houses already have two families or more. The other village groups have been sca ered among smaller Ukrainian villages. Halbstadt and its hospital as well as its Liaison Office is to be housed in Aleksandrovka. Our [Gnadenfeld] Liaison Office will have its headquarters here in the village. 5 October 1943 The days go by without anything in particular happening. We have our peace and rest, are recuperating and are being looked a er. We receive meat and bread and the horses have plenty of fodder. We simply drive out to the threshing places on the field and return with quantities of chaff and feed grain. Our horses should recover nicely. Since much grain remains unharvested and the threshed grain lies in uncovered piles on the fields, the younger people must take up field work. The crop has been exceptionally good here as well. Many of our people have made contact with the nearby Zagradovka [Mennonite se lement] villages and received gi s of watermelons and fruit.4 I would one day love to go there myself and look things over. Besides, I have numerous acquaintances there, comrades, if they are still alive, from World War I. But it is seemingly impossible to arrange a church service here. The Liaison Office shows no interest whatever, and this makes many of us restless. Our own preachers, Boldt, Harder, and others, are overly touchy and cautious, and remain in the villages. Perhaps some of the Zagradovka preachers will look us up. 15 October 1943 We have now spent three weeks at this rest stop recovering. The autumn weather is magnificent, warm, and sunny. We are not, for now, being consumed by pressing worries other than the big question, what is going to happen to us next? The situation at the front remains precarious. The Bolsheviks are seemingly pushing ahead with great force. Will the German front along the Dnieper hold? Our village as well as other villages have had to do collective farm work again, even take over

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entire kolkhozes. It is not a situation our people like. The Liaison Office organizes and directs all of life here. This is naturally, at least in part, at the behest of higher levels, of SS General Hofmeyer and his staff, from their headquarters in Speier, near Odessa. Ma ers sometimes proceed in very strange ways for us, in a typically military, Prussian command style that moves ahead without bothering much about our views. This we find offensive. Yet we are not here to criticize. What would we do without this leadership and support? There has to exist a respectable [German] administration and order. This also gives us confidence that the [Germans] will not leave us in the lurch, indeed that they dare not. It is a conclusion and decision reached at the highest levels. Everything is in flux. As a people we have become completely reliant on others and as long as the war lasts, we are dependent upon a leadership. The best thing for us is, of course, to strengthen our trust in God who is Lord over all. He seems also to have placed our further fate in the hands of the German leadership. Let us then be at peace with the outcome, whatever that may be. 20 October 1943 We have recovered and become accustomed to our situation. Our preference now would be to stay here until spring and the end of the war, but as we have been told, that is not to be. The military situation has deteriorated so rapidly that we will have to move on. But to where? Where will we ultimately find a place where we can feel secure? War brings terrible things in its wake. We have been here for a long time already and through many dry days, yet as we head out into late autumn we will certainly encounter a lot of ro en roads and nasty weather. I fervently wish that our trek into the unknown were over. May God have mercy on us. We must be prepared to endure anything that may come except to fall into the hands of the Soviets. That nightmare should be enough to make us forget what we may face, to stop complaining and to focus on the single task of preparing ourselves so well that we reduce to a minimum the chances of a disaster. That means inspecting as much of our equipment as possible and repairing wagons and harnesses. Wagon coverings should be improved and rebuilt. Many wagons started out with poor tops or none at all. But where will we find the materials or the men to help our women with their harnesses? Weak or unfit horses should also be exchanged. But is there time to do all of this properly?

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Long columns of loaded trucks stream westward through the village. These are German administrative offices being “relocated to the rear”; in other words, fleeing. We should already be on our way. Every day of beautiful weather not spent on the road will exact a heavy ransom from us later on. There is a large smithy in the village where work is proceeding and wagons are being knocked into shape. Some of our own men are working there. I will bring in my own wagon to have its wheels tightened and I have repaired our harnesses myself as well as I am able. Some local elderly peasants have been assigned to help the women with their harnesses. As for wagon coverings, that is a different story. No one, a er all, has genuine tent material and so we must improvise. We have been told to cut reeds at specific places and to use them for roofcoverings. Some people are doing this. I have acquired some old boards to improve and enlarge our wagon cover, but there is really li le that can be done. The date for our departure has not yet been announced and we sometimes wonder whether it has perhaps been called off. Meanwhile, the military situation may yet improve.

Chapter Ten

West to the Polish Border

On the Road Again, 24 October 1943 Our departure on the second leg of the trek has been announced for early tomorrow morning. What has not been done will simply remain unfinished. We are somewhat concerned that we could not shoe the horses. (This was a failure of our leaders that would have fateful consequences for us later on.) Foodstuffs are distributed and wagons packed. By now all of us have some experience with this sort of thing. Everyone is caught up in feverish activity, especially the women, who still want to bake. A number of soldiers who have taken to living with us report a Russian breakthrough across the Dnieper River at Piatichatka, towards Krivoi-Rog. The Soviets are trying to encircle us. The thought of this makes me go hot all over. Dnepropetrovsk [formerly Ekaterinoslav] and Zaporizhiia [formerly Aleksandrovsk] are said to have been evacuated. Administrative personnel from Krivoi-Rog are passing through, and we find the great bustle on our village streets quite unse ling. Will the German Wehrmacht really have to abandon the Dnieper line? Where can it create a new defensible front? Earlier it had been officially stated that the Wehrmacht would draw back to the Dnieper as a strategic line [of defence], but no farther. So what does this mean? Worrisome questions like this give me no peace. Maybe the disloyalty and desertion of the Italians, these traitors to a common cause, have led to heavy reversals. I have difficulty seeing the larger picture. Still, we are very pleased at the courage and self-confidence shown by the German soldiers. They do not seem to take everything so much to heart. “Dear people,” they say, “the fortunes of war will not always be ours. Reverses will happen from time to time, but the ultimate victory will be

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ours.” In a word, “All is not lost” (Polen ist nicht verloren). If only we and the German people could keep up our spirits in the same way. Meanwhile, the Liaison Office has received a number of blankets and more clothing that are distributed to the needy, mainly the elderly and children. This will really help out our people on the road ahead. How I wish we were already far away. Now surely the villages of the Zagradovka and Khortitsa [Mennonite] se lements and other sca ered German and Mennonite se lements on the west bank of the Dnieper River will also have to leave. The great Völkerwanderung (migration of people) is growing by leaps and bounds. Will everyone manage to get away? We have had certain advantages over [other Mennonite] communities [west of the Dnieper River] in our trek experience. Yet they are really be er off in that they dispose over more manpower. In 1941, the Soviets lacked time to deport all of the men from the west side of the Dnieper to the east. Moreover, during the occupation the Germans did not organize a mounted squadron [a Reiterschwadron] west of the Dnieper as they did among us on the Molochna River. No fewer than 500 of our [Molochna] young men who managed to flee back to us [from the eastward deportations in 1941] had been organized into such a mounted unit. In this way, they were denied to their families and are not here now to help on the trek. But the flight of these groups will inevitably lead to terrible disappointments. Through our contacts in the Zagradovka villages, we know of their good harvest this year of fruits, vegetables, and watermelons. We also know that the Zagradovka villages recovered remarkably well during the two years of German occupation. Most farms are now worked individually, and the farmers again own a lot of cows, horses, sheep, and pigs. The Zagradovka villages were therefore deeply shaken when they heard of our migration into their area and undoubtedly started to prepare themselves for flight as well – on the side, so to speak. But until quite recently they continued to boil off watermelon syrup and to dry fruit, much of which they will now have to leave behind. Our flight is therefore a calamity, even in its early phase, and we will have to survive each of its stages. 25 October 1943 Today we are back on the road into the vast unknown. We line up in the morning in our usual order and then proceed along for 20 kilometres at

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a measured pace and in orderly fashion. Herr Wendorf has instructed us not to start off too quickly on the first day, a sensible command. It is a hot and sweaty day and the people and horses keep a lookout for water. Early on we enter a small village, next to a large lake and water is immediately at hand. We line up in two rows along the street. So far everything looks fine. The horses, cows, and people seem cheerful and the wagons are in good condition. A er the usual routine of feeding, watering, preparing meals, and so on, we bed down for the night on straw next to the wagons. We should be satisfied with the first day of our travel, but here in Malinovka there is much uneasiness as well. The German chief, known as the base leader (Stuetzpunktleiter), is also preparing wagons for the retreat. In fact the tin from the roof of an administrative building is being pulled down and used to cover wagons. That is perfect for us and a number of our people manage to beg some of the tin for their own use. 26 October 1943 Today we drive as far as the large Ukrainian village of Novi-Bug. We should have go en a lot farther except for an unforeseen delay. Just short of the village where two major roads intersect, we encounter a huge traffic jam, and as far as we can see military vehicles and trek wagons are strung out on both sides of the road. A military policeman tries to regulate traffic, which means the military always has the rightof-way. Yet the trek groups also resist being torn apart, fearing that they will not be able to reconnect later on. They have been strictly ordered not to become separated. What confusion. Finally, a er we have watched impatiently these goings-on for two hours, our trek leader takes ma ers into his own hands. He goes to the front [of the line] and leads our splinter group through. By rights we should probably have spent the night in the village, but our trek leader finds it too restless and overcrowded. By the time we have passed around the village, night has fallen and we move along without a sense of distance or direction, scarcely able to make out the wagon in front of us. In the pitch darkness, wagons keep stopping and starting and we are blinded by [the headlights of] passing trucks. In the distance we again hear the thunder of cannons and see balls of fire rise and fall. Have the Soviets really come this far? The answer is obvious. What a misery to be trekking again under the sound, pressure, and fear of enemy fire. Soon it is almost impossible to move and

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at a bend in the road some wagons hurtle down a slope, spilling out their people and possessions. We hear calls and screams from somewhere but do not know what has happened. Then we receive the order to stop. We pull off into a nearby field and wait out the night. We could not even think of fetching fodder and water. But by the first morning light we realize we are on the edge of a gorge. We spot a well in the distance, where our people are already drawing water, and can see stacks of straw and chaff nearby. Our world recovers a certain order and those who have come to grief can be helped. In fact, they have managed to survive without much damage. Our third horse, given us in Vladimirovka, is doing quite well, but I will probably have to abandon the one that is lame. ѡhe need for patience 27 October 1943 It is almost noon and we cannot get away. We are close to a bridge over the Ingul River. Things slow to a snail’s pace as we meet military traffic coming from the other side. It has been decided to give the villages of Paulsheim, Mariawohl, Nikolaidorf, and some others, priority for a few days. This means that they move out past us towards the bridge, which lies in a deep gorge. Men are brought to the front of the line to manoeuver and to slow down the wagons. That takes a lot of time, but we manage to cross over safely around noon. This is a bad spot where sha s have snapped and harnesses have been torn, and the trek has been widely sca ered. By the time we finally reach the encampment, literally as the last wagon, it is ge ing dark and we have travelled only 20 kilometres. The days, too, are ge ing shorter. 28 October 1943 Our trek stop is a marshy lowland behind the village of Elanets. In the distance is a river. We are always on the lookout for water, fodder, and fuel, our most urgent needs. To arrive late in camp or even as the last wagon is a big liability. Campfires are already burning brightly. A er Erika and Mother have fetched fodder, they must prepare the meal. Everyone is hungry. Erika has already scavenged sunflower stems for fuel, but must fetch water for the animals. And so while Mother cooks a milk soup from the fresh milk, Erika carries pail a er pail of water

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for the three horses and cow. The large grounds are so chock-full of wagons, and it is so dark, that it is not easy to find one’s way back. We have no idea where our leaders are or whether there is still food at hand. Fortunately, we still have some reserves of our own. A er the chores and soup, we prepare beds of straw next to the wagon. It is late and very cold. Breaking the silence, as always, are the calls from throughout the camp of people who, lugging water, have lost their way back: “Where is Mariawohl?” “Where is Sparrau?” “Nikolaidorf?” “Gretke Rempel, where are you?” (Woa steit Mariawohl? – Woa es hiea Sparrau? – Nikolaidarp Rampelsche, Gretke – woa bes du?) 29 October 1943 It is very cold when we break camp this morning at Elanets. Later we come across a pathetic sight at the river. Two oxen lie half submerged in the marsh and water with only parts of their heads and bodies sticking out. They had frozen into the ice while still alive and no one had helped them out. The scene haunts us all day. The wind is cold, but it is, thank God, still dry and sunny. The day drags on with many delays. Wagons at the front of the line have probably already reached the encampment. Still, at a crossroads in the dark, the trek starts to grind to a halt and fall apart. Which direction should we take? We choose a road at random and manage to find a village. But is this the right road? We turn off for night on the first narrow street that is at least protected from the wind. Here we find a unit of German infantry bivouacking for the night. They help us to find water, fodder, and a place to stop. It is Arbusinka, a very large village that is also said to harbour partisans. The trek stop is said to be at the village centre. misfortune never slumbers 30 October 1943 Most of the trek has stopped over in Arbusinka. We meet it the next morning on the main street. At night many of our people wander about in the dark and spend the night without fodder and water on an open field with high winds and bad weather. This is a terrible thing for groups

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that always include single women with children. A er more delays, we finally get close to Pervomaisk (the former city of Elisavetgrad). We are also shaken by an accident nearby, down a bumpy macadamized road. While Frau Maria Stark steers her wagon she falls in among the hooves of her horses, is dragged along for some distance and ends up, unconscious, on the road. She has been badly knocked about. Her head is seriously injured, bleeding profusely. She is li ed up and taken to the hospital in Pervomaisk. We still do not know the seriousness of her injuries. Her three li le girls are taken into the care of their courageous Aunt Justina and her grandmother. A driver is found for the wagon. Our trek group stops in the open field, quite far from the city, the river and the stacks of fodder. It will be late before everything is done. What about our mothers with children? They already have so many chores. Why in the world do our leaders pick such a place? The children have to water the ca le down at the Bug River, three kilometres away. It is much too far for the children to lug the water to the camp ground. With reckless boys and restless horses, there is also a lot of pushing and shoving at the watering places and accidents happen easily. I have a li le time to write. I watch as my friend, the blind Johann Becker, who is led by a small boy, takes off with a horse and pail. His sister-in-law, who walks ahead with her three horses, simply can’t manage everything on her own. I have o en seen Becker try to feed the horses and lend a hand. 5 November 1943 As the days grow shorter, I again have li le time to keep my diary on a daily basis. We enter the larger town of Grushka, where we camp in a big, open space. It has a train station and sugar factory, and a nearby river with enough water. But the children have to go far for fodder. Besides our group, the trek of the Waldheim Liaison Office also stops here. The caravan of covered wagons seems to have no end. Occasionally I meet an acquaintance. With long faces people from the local town stand at the roadside watching the unusual commotion. It has started to rain, and we seek shelter with refugees who fled the Caucasus in spring. They have room enough, but no furniture. Our hostess prepares a bed of straw for us on the floor. Sharing the room is the Peter Dueck family, Mariawohl, whom I know. Our hosts relate the story of their own flight, and worry about what will happen if the Germans retreat. “Oh God,” the women sigh, “If it comes to that we are lost.”

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Because our trek group is so large, it was divided into two sections a few days ago. Platoon Leader Hans Foellmer has taken over Gnadenfeld, Paulsheim, Mariawohl, and Nikolaidorf. Herr Buss remains in charge of Konteniusfeld, Sparrau, Rudnerweide, Grossweide, Franzthal, and Pastwa. This should have happened a long time ago. The trek is still too unwieldy because of its size, but things have improved. There are fewer delays, especially at night stops when shelter, fodder, water, and fuel have to be found. Platoon Leader Wachtmann leads Marienthal, Pordenau, Schardau, Alexanderthal, and Elisabe hal, and the three Stu garter villages. the єoal remains distant 10 November 1943 We spend the night in Haivoron, also a large place with a train station, sugar factory, and perhaps other factories. The spot is well located on the large square of the town centre. Overnight accommodations are provided in a nearby cinema. We have enough water close by, but fodder has to be fetched from more distant places, and this drags on late into the night. Food and fodder will remain a problem until the end. Yet how long will that take? We have been on the road for two weeks and need a break of several days to relax, clean up, and reestablish order in our wagon households. The sick and the children also need baths and basic care. Most of us have exhausted our stores of clean clothing. And how are our sick faring? No one has time to visit them. The trek should have reached its destination by now, but we do not even know when and where that will be. Meanwhile we have passed through Elanets, Arbusinka, Blagodatovie, Bratskoie, Golovansk, and Grushka. We have managed reasonably well until now, above all thanks to the Lord. We have had enough fodder and water and limited night quarters, although ge ing it all together has o en been a torment. We have also had food. To be sure, rations have been irregular, but most of us still have a few foodstuffs of our own and the cows contribute a lot to our diet. All this is worthy of thanks. Yet things are ge ing harder by the day. Days and nights have turned cold and windy, with five to six degrees of frost. The nights outdoors are wretched and days spent si ing on the wagon are bone chilling. In the evenings we and our children long for a li le warmth. Clothing and footwear is poor and shabby and this will soon

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be an acute problem. As long as the weather stays dry, people warm themselves by running beside their wagons. We will, however, be in trouble once the expected abominable weather descends. Many already suffer. I am gloomy about the rest of our journey, and see things very much on the black side. May God have mercy on all of us. Death Puts in its Appearance A few days ago we mourned our first human losses. The life of 96-yearold Onkel Loewen simply faded away. Without having been especially ill, the tired pilgrim quietly abandoned our wearisome trek for the royal road to his eternal home. Since there was no immediate place to bury him, he was carried along for a day on the wagon with his relatives. Then, just before reaching Golovansk, 80-year old Tante Kla died. She had been ill since before leaving home. On the first leg of the trek by oxdrawn wagon, she and her daughter Hannchen and Tante Goerz had become separated from the group. Catching up has been harrowing. She had still been brave and cheerful at the start of the second leg of our journey, but then she came down with a serious case of dysentery, and already weak, was no match for the illness. She had lain for days in her wagon, worn and enfeebled and worried over by her daughter. We had tried to help. But suddenly, without warning, her soul le her. Late at night we carried our pilgrims, followed by a long procession of mourners, to the wooded cemetery near Golovansk, and buried them. Preacher Harder, Nikolaidorf, gave a brief funeral sermon and several women’s choirs sang hymns of consolation and farewell. It was one of the loveliest funerals on the trek. Now our two dear people rest from their sorrows and misery in a strange and lonely place, awaiting the dawn of eternity. May they rest in peace. We would have wished them an end under more peaceful conditions. Our hearts go out to their nextof-kin, especially to the deeply grieving and now forsaken daughter, Fraulein Hannchen Kla . 7 November 1943 We spend the night in a pine forest, next to the village of Sutiski. The day had been rainy and the road sodden and heavy going. In the woods, on the other hand, it was sandy and pleasant. This was the first forest we had encountered and we found it novel and interesting. Had it not been for the rain we would likely have spent the night under the

West to the Polish Border 267

pines. But our first concern must be our tasks and problems. If we had a choice, we’d build a campfire and warm ourselves, dry out and cook a real meal. Yet the rain never lets up and it is heavy slogging, almost impossible, and never a pleasure. We draw food from the food depot in the nearby village of Sutiski. The campsite overflows with people of the Waldheim trek, from the villages of Klippenfeld, Hamberg, Waldheim, Hierschau, Landskrone, Friedensdorf, Gnadenthal, and Margenau. It is a huge throng. Everything in the village is soaked and muddy and we wonder if we should perhaps have camped out in the woods. Yet water and fodder there was at a great distance and our teeth are put on edge by rumours of partisans in the woods. At night we post sentries and hear a few shots that inflate our already great worries into near-panic. In the morning we find a dead person in a pit but cannot establish the cause of his death. Yet what does a single human life count for in this war, especially in Russia? Meanwhile we have had neither dry weather nor good roads. The roads are either deep in sticky gumbo or smooth slippery surfaces on a hard foundation. In the la er case, the unshod horses have li le traction and experience the hilly ups and downs with loaded wagons as sheer torture. People walk alongside, pushing their horses uphill or leading them downhill, making every kilometre of road hard-won. Since leaving Pervomaisk eight days ago we’ve managed to cover only 100kilometres north along the Bug River. We are not allowed to cross to the other side of the river, into “the Rumanian sphere of interest.” The Bug itself is a majestic and picturesque river with beautiful curves and bends, a deep riverbed and numerous steep and rocky banks. But in our situation it arouses neither interest nor joy. We in fact see it as an obstacle that forces us to cross smaller and larger ravines, in poor weather and on wretched bridges. We have been told to stick to this road to prevent a chocking up of larger routes already jammed with military vehicles. The day before yesterday we had to cross a bridge that was in a deplorable condition. Only part of the trek managed to cross, and that with delays and much outside help. The bridge is a total ruin. As it gets dark, wagons become bogged down in the deep mud of the bridge approaches. Our leaders, recognizing that we cannot reach our camp site in the next village today, order us to spend the night on an adjoining field and move on the next day a er first repairing the bridge. We bivouac along the river shore, with its easy access to water. Almost everyone from Gnadenfeld and Paulsheim are here except for stragglers

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whose horses or wagons have broken down. They stray in late at night. Our poor horses are worn out and we wonder how long they will last on these muddy roads. The cows stumble unsteadily along the road verges and collapse in the sticky mud. A er we set up camp we scour the surrounding area for fuel and fodder. Everyone wants a warm cup of coffee. The rain stops and behind a hill a straw stack is found. Despite the late hour and inky darkness, Erika and others begin to fetch straw and chaff, tapping into reserves of almost superhuman pluck to manage the hard and unusual tasks demanded of them. When will we repay them? The next morning the mayor assembles a group of experienced men to do communal repairwork on the bridge. Brushwood needs to be found, chopped up, and brought to the bridge. Everyone is required to find at least one stone from somewhere to fill in the potholes on the approach. The brushwood is laid down, earth shovelled over, stones placed on top, and before long our bridge of lamentation is again minimally passable. The entire group crosses over safely and moves on to the next village, where the rest of our group has spent the night. The Waldheim trek group, into which we sometimes stray, spends the night there as well. A group of stragglers catches up with us. It consists of seven or eight wagons of Gnadenfelder, mostly women with children, who had spent the night on a field somewhere behind us. The women are almost too weary to express the joy they feel at being reunited. What a terrible misfortune for a group to stray from the trek in total ignorance of their location, and yet it does happen. They had first been delayed by a broken wheel on the bridge of lamentation, then a harness had torn and, finally, while helping one another out, it had become dark and made further travel impossible. Frantic that they would never catch up or find the right road, they had heavy heartedly resigned themselves to spending the night on the open field. We are happy to be together again, and gratefully acknowledge the leading of a higher power. It does not rain the next day but the road is churned up, potholed and wretched and the horses move forward only with huge exertion. We are frequently delayed to pull out stuck wagons. The Waldheim trek travelling in the area also holds us up, sparking great annoyance. We encounter ru ed bridges and impassable places that require us to help the wagons through, one by one. We fail to reach our camp and the mayor orders us to turn off into a small village, where we spend the night on a collective farm yard. There is fodder in a nearby stack and water close at hand. The women and children seek shelter in a large but

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filthy kolkhoz stable. We look a er the animals and prepare the meal, all by daylight. Jasha and I bed down in the barn where I have been keeping my diary during the past few days. It is roomy but indescribably dirty, with kolkhoz horses stabled at one end of the barn and we at the other. A large group of women and children, including the elderly and ill, gather together in what is soon a lively company. But since they feed the ca le and keep watch, most of the women will have to spend the night out on the wagons. If the weather had held, everything would have been fine and we would have been out on the road the next morning. But we awake to a miserable scene of snow and ice and animals shivering and freezing on the yard. To warm up, people crowd into the barn, but we have nothing with which to cover the animals themselves. Their tails are clumps of ice. Snow covers their backs. When the cold lets up we are swamped by heavy rain and snow. We have grown weary and perplexed and our hearts sink at the thought of returning to the road. The mayor sees the fatigue and orders a day of rest. A wagon is sent out into the camp to inform others of our whereabouts and to bring back some food. We are depressed at the hopelessness of our situation. What is our goal? When will we reach it? Our clothing is ta ered and our footwear torn. We share a single thought. If only we had le Vladimirovka two or three weeks earlier, in the lovely dry fall weather. This idea shares pride of place with the ever more anxious question, and how are things at the front? Are the Soviets closing in? Are they being thrown back? We hear nothing about what is happening in the larger world and at the front, and feel quite abandoned. Ghastly rumours abound, of course, and are enough to trouble our spirits. Many of us are consumed with worry by rumours of surprise partisan a acks on rail lines. “It would be child’s play for them to suddenly a ack and plunder us here in our seclusion,” my friend Becker says. “Don’t whisper a word,” I protest. “Let’s not get people’s feelings churned up even more. And aren’t we in God’s hands?” Amidst confusion, worries and fears, someone calls out, “A ention.” And then we hear the tender words, Befiehl du deine Wege/ und was dein Herze kraenkt/ der allertreusten Pflege dem, der den Himmel lenkt. (“Commit thy ways/ and what your heart afflicts/ to the faithful ministration/ of Him who rules the heavens.”) At first everyone is silent. Then the hymn with its redeeming power wells up from every tortured soul. Verse a er verse, it is like a comforting prayer: Weg hast du allerwege an Mi eln fehlt’s dir nicht …, and Hoff, o, arme Seele, hoff und sei unverzagt, Go wird dich aus der Hoehle, da dich der Kummer nagt, mit grossen Gnaden

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ruecken, erwarte nur die Zeit. Everyone is touched. There is scarcely a dry eye. Had we, in our melancholy, forgo en that a Lord and Loving Father reigns over us? A er the singing ends, I relate the story about the origins of the hymn, as I remember them. At one time, Paul Gerhardt, the songwriter, had to flee his home and country with his wife and child. It was a long and difficult journey, full of trials. Then, trusting in God, he remembered the well-known Psalm, “Commit your ways to the Lord, trust in him and he will act.” Resting in a quiet spot, he had composed the hymn, pouring into it his faith and trust in God, and his plea for deliverance. Since that time it had given thousands of desperate people strength and consolation. In faith, we who have an omnipotent and gracious Father in heaven, want to place our destiny in His powerful hands. We sing a few more hymns and the trekkers’ faces seem a li le brighter and more hopeful. Even a touch of wit reappears. Frau Rempel has a humorous bent and proclaims in her cheery voice, “However bad things are I want to celebrate my birthday and that with real coffee.” (Doaweegen well wie doch Geburtsag fiere, eenen ajten Koffee well wie ons aunsati.) She informs everyone that her birthday is today, 10 November. And since she has never missed a celebration, she wants one now. This creates a bit of a sensation and a lively response. But who among us has real coffee? Everyone volunteers to join the party, but she laughs them off. There is not that much real coffee, she says. Outside, snow and rain continue to fall. Some foodstuffs arrive in the evening, most importantly bread. To li spirits, the mayor tells us that the other part of our trek and its leader, Herr Foellmer, are in a larger village some 20 kilometres away. There they await our arrival. He is dissatisfied that we had not travelled today, but the how of this seems to be of li le concern to him. Our fodder is running low so we hope to leave tomorrow. A few days ago an exhausted trek group from Gnadenthal, Steinfeld, and Krivoi-Rog settled in at the other end of the barn. Now it also waits for be er weather. None of us will ever forget this day of involuntary rest. troubled daѦs 12 November 1943 Yesterday morning, with inner reservations, we leave the kolkhoz yard and force our way back onto the road. The sun shines down on a glittering field of snow. It seems that the horses, stiff from the frost and

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snow, will never leave the spot. They require help, even up the smallest hills. We are wet and grimy. The sun slowly thaws the snow but we bog down in mud and arrive late at the trek station Sobolevki. Foellmer has le this morning with part of the trek, but we fail to reach the new encampment ourselves. Some bed down on the street and others drive onto people’s yards. We are lucky. The Sperling family’s driver, Ivan, a loyal and helpful Uzbek, knocks on Ukrainian doors, and a er becoming a li le insistent finally secures night quarters for the Sperlings and us. With two extra families, the small house is a tight fit, but we are delighted to be in a warm dry room. Refugees have been passing through the village for weeks, draining stores of fodder and making Ukrainians edgy. They have begun to balk at providing night quarters. Who can blame them? 13 November 1943 Today we finally catch up with the other part of the trek. The trek leader has ordered a day of rest to gather together all stragglers. The weather is be er, as are the roads. We again share quarters with the Sperlings. Arriving early, we have time for a regular meal and to feed the animals. The mayor rides out in search of stragglers, most of whom are brought back or arrive by nightfall. But we are upset to hear the many horror stories about partisans and their goings-on. Are the storytellers wellwishers or do they want to frighten us? 14 November 1943 Our escape route, with its unfamiliar regions, people and unique ways of life, is rich and varied. Were it not for the privations, hardships, and unexpected difficulties we experience daily, there would be enough here to pique our keenest interest. But we are deeply suspicious of every novelty and change. Today, for example, we passed through a pine forest and glanced around nervously looking for partisans. Now we are again out on an open field, and have set up camp. The weather is pleasant and we can satisfy our endless needs for fodder, fuel, and water without going too far. That makes everything easier. Although we manage to cover only 12 kilometres today, we make camp early. There is the usual bustle as we fetch food, water, and fuel, and campfires flare up. Horses and cows are led to the watering place. We get fuel from a nearby field with its familiar sunflower stems. Li le Jasha will fetch them today while also pasturing the cow. But there is

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no food for us or grain for the horses, although most of us still have some potatoes in reserve. For night we post watchmen – one can, a er all, never be sure. Some of our people are still missing, including our mayor. May God protect them in their lonely places. A few days ago we finally reached a solid road. This seemed a lifesaver at first, at least for the animals, and we were pleased. “You’ll have a smooth road like this right into Poland,” we were told. But we are bi erly disappointed when we encounter stretches of wet roadbed that have been churned up and potholed by thousands of wagons passing through. The hooves of our unshod horses and the cows are soon so sore that they can barely walk. The cows have to be led unsteadily beside the road. We spend the night of 14 November outside of the industrial centre of Haisin. Here we are given food, bread, and sausage, and ready-made hot soup. Straw has been brought into the classrooms of a large nearby schoolhouse where the women with children, old, and sick people gratefully bed down. The day is exceptionally agreeable. We were told that we will reach Nemirov in a few days time. There we will recuperate and many of our refugees will be sent ahead by train. The prospect li s spirits. We are exhausted and drained and feel in need of a cleanup and rest. In the three weeks since departing Vladimirovka, our horses, wagons and canopies have been worn down. The cows are lame and suffer from hoof-and-mouth disease. Their equally tired owners drag them along the trek roadside. We long desperately for a change in our situation. nemirov in vieѤ 17 November 1943 Around noon we leave the muddy side roads and get onto the big solid road leading to Nemirov. The road is crowded with military vehicles and horse-drawn wagons. Since there are no ferries or other means of ge ing across the river, all vehicles will have to cross a single bridge. Order is therefore mandatory. That means staying strictly in line, with military traffic naturally receiving precedence. It is the same old story. We stand and wait, approaching the bridge in fits and starts until we reach it by evening. This gives me an opportunity to keep my diary. Our animals have unfortunately had no fodder all day and we cannot risk seeking it out at too great a distance. We are also ignorant about

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the time of our crossing or the conditions at the bridge. Meanwhile the missing wagons have caught up. Their occupants had spent last night alone at a straw stack, afraid they would never see us again. It was so dark that Frau Maria Schmidt and her daughters, plus a second wagon, strayed from the trek road over onto the Rumanian side of the border. The two wagons blundered around for several days but are now with us again. We are overjoyed to have Maria Schmidt and the others back. It is clear that we have enjoyed much protection underway. Had it not been for this invisible hand … 18 November 1943 Finally we reach the long awaited Nemirov, but are deeply disappointed when we fail to uncover any of its promised benefits. We take our orderly place on the large, open, yet filthy and muddy, trek area outside the city. (The Waldheim trek moved on from here early this morning.) Nearby stands a long straw-covered shed, sheltering many of the Waldheim trekkers who stayed behind. Everyone looks at his neighbour, questioningly. “What is the meaning of this?” To top things off, a steady drizzle has set in and we can see no trace of fodder or fuel. It is a place that looks less suited as a rest camp than any we have previously seen. Yet this is no time to vent feelings of discontent or disappointment because we must remain active, pull ourselves together and fetch water, fodder, and fuel. Life confronts us with tasks and we must push ahead if we are to discharge our duties to others and to the animals in our care. In its last stages, the approach to Nemirov is extremely difficult. The overnight stay on our wagons is rough. Our turn to cross the bridge into Nemirov comes only a er nightfall and we enter the city with unending and puzzling stops and starts. A large number of wagons line the streets and people call back and forth in search of their wagons. It is so dark that it is virtually impossible to find the right street or to pick one’s way along the bumpy broken pavement. Military vehicles break into our line and a number of wagons lose control and end up in the ditch. Until we finally reach camp in the morning, we are filled with uncertainty, misfortune, and terror. The women and girls, including Erika, lead the cows through the dark, uncertain of where they are going or how to find their way back. Tired and desolate, everyone is haunted by the question, where and when will all this finally end?

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“stucј in the muck”: nemirov, the great disappointment So this is Nemirov. I had fantasized about large empty schoolhouses, houses, and barns where we and our animals would be able to recuperate. I had thought that we might even find a bathhouse and finally be able to clean up. We have reached our limit. What meets us is a large miserable shed, its floor covered with dirty straw, full of sick and feeble people who lack the strength to continue on by wagon. How can this go on? There are also no private quarters. Our own people, moreover, are anything but plucky, happy and self-confident. The rain and movement of people and animals back and forth across the camp has turned the trek stop into a place of filth. We are stuck in the muck (Der Treck im Dreck). This is true of wagons, people, clothes, and animals. Many try to find a place for themselves somewhere in the shed. Still, the women have to prepare food out in the open and the girls and children ride onto the field looking for straw, chaff, and fuel. They return with what they have found, stuffed in sacks or in bundles on the backs of the horses or dangling from their sides. Most people are trying to rid themselves of their cows, either to the local representative of the Provisions Supply Office for a receipt or into the care of a local Ukrainian. The Mariawohl group has brought along a flock of sheep that they now distribute among us. The sheep are butchered and then cooked, roasted, or preserved. There is bustle everywhere. Directly opposite us, across the street, stands a certain Boese, a giant of a man with a blond beard, who busily carves up one of the sheep. Perhaps someone from our side cast him a covetous glance or the man had some other motive. In any case, he hands my wife a respectable-sized piece of meat, with the cheerful words, “for a good borshch.” (to’n goodin Borscht). Somewhat embarrassed but grateful, Mother accepts the gi and, following his directions, manages somehow to fashion a decent borshch. Our sorely tried women are poor, but out of a sense of duty they almost magically accomplish the impossible. Think of it, not a single one has broken down. 19 November 1943 We are still here today “resting” and otherwise doing our tasks. Herr Foellmer arrives from town, where he has found private quarters, and inconspicuously asks me to draw up a list of people from our Gnadenfeld

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group who can no longer manage on the trek because of children, illness, disability, or the condition of their horses and wagons. I estimate the list will comprise about a hundred names. These people would be sent on by train. This is a highly delicate and unpleasant assignment that I would gladly decline. Yet Mayor Sperling is somewhere enroute and I know that most people in our group would happily board a train just to leave the trek. Only about a eighth of our group can therefore be included on the list. How can I fairly choose those who are most in need without be er research? (At that time no one knew that the trip by train would be no less difficult than that by wagon.) I therefore quietly draw in a few advisors and begin my thankless task. It could easily arouse suspicions. Almost everyone thinks his own situation is by far the worst. Meanwhile, people get wind of what is happening and a throng gathers around my wagon pleading that they not be le off the list. Surely there are be er ways to make a decision of such importance. We then look for the list of the weak and sick and families with small children that had been drawn up in the more peaceful atmosphere of Gnadenfeld. With these names and the results of today’s deliberations we prepare a list that is still more than 100 names long. We begrudge no one, knowing that everyone has sunk terribly low, especially our horses and ca le. Our job would naturally be easier if we could have at least 150 places to fill. Once the document is approved, those listed and their belongings are moved to the shed. The Provisions Supply Office receives the wagons, horses and cows of those leaving by train. They will be placed at the disposal of those continuing on the trek. We remaining trekkers are thus able to improve our transport a li le by trading up for be er wagons, horses, and harnesses. I exchange our long-faithful lame, brown horse that can no longer cope with the waterlogged roads and almost kills himself trying. But I doubt the new horse will be any be er. With heavy hearts, we also resolve to give away our cow. This friendly li le beast has become dear to us, following along faithfully, generously giving us her milk. But she is in a bad way and with fodder ge ing scarcer, it would be quite wrong of us to take her one step farther. A local Ukrainian woman begs for her, promising to look a er her as her only animal. In return, she offers us lovely ripe apples and dried fruit for the road. Many Ukrainians have come to the camp, and a number of our people heavy heartedly entrust their cows to them. Our second “day of rest” in Nemirov thus comes to an end. It is sheer necessity that drives us on to “mobilize” for the next stage of our journey into the unknown. The roads are wretched. In our

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innermost we resist facing these hardships again. But our situation and the circumstances of war and the front leave us no choice. We have to move on. We are grateful to the German authorities for having looked a er us so faithfully. Under the darkest conditions of trackless steppe and military retreat they have not abandoned us. In the shed where our stranded people must seek shelter, life carries on as in an overcrowded beehive. There is a confusion of people, belongings, bundles, and children and mixed in among these are the moaning ill and the very aged. It is virtually impossible to get through the passageways. The buzz of voices makes it hard to do anything. The nurse with supervisory responsibility for the sick helplessly throws up her hands and pleads, “People, we can’t go on like this.” She urges the leaders to move the embarkation of the trekkers to the next railway station. But everyone is satisfied to have at least a dry corner in the shed and her plea falls on deaf ears. The loading of passengers from here stopped yesterday a er partisans dynamited the railway bridge near Nemirov. To board, the train passengers must now be bussed 40 kilometres to Vinitsa. There are several busses, but things move along slowly and there is congestion. Authorities have unfortunately neglected to provide sanitary facilities of any kind. There is nothing to wash or bathe in, no toilets of any kind, no clean straw. It is wet and filthy up to the door of the large shed, and far beyond. It is also here that pests have become our common mania. People who had earlier kept their distance from the communal shelters managed to stay free of them. But in the crowded conditions that prevail here, such immunity is clearly impossible. Occasionally we see some of those hit hardest by infestations taking things into their own hands. But since no one can manage to kill all the vermin, people simply start le ing them drop unobtrusively into the straw. The weather is rainy and the straw scarce, so Jasha and I find a place for the night in the shed. We see many acquaintances from neighbouring villages. In the distance we recognize white-bearded Onkel Kornelius Neufeld, Sparrau, who will soon celebrate his 80th birthday. He is no longer the eager and lively conversationalist he once was. I also spot old, severely afflicted Onkel Gerhard Thiessen, Paulsheim, the aged, heavy-set and much persecuted farmer-“kulak,” Klaas Richert, Konteniusfeld, who still has his sense of humour, the elderly, blind Willm Ahrendt, and my friend Bekker, the sightless teacher. I sit down next to the elderly teacher, Heinrich Pennner, Konteniusfeld, more recently from Gnadenfeld. I have not seen him for ages, ever since

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he joined the Konteniusfeld trek with his daughter-in-law. Before that, as recently as August of this year, he and I had been together in the city of Berdiansk, he to convalesce and I for a mud bath cure. We had shared a room in a nice inn maintained by the Gnadenfeld Liaison Office for visitors and guests. There we had taken our food and stayed overnight. We had also shared an experience that could easily have cost us our lives. During a [German] aerial a ack a bomb had dropped next to the inn where we were sleeping and destroyed it almost completely. Earlier, for over 30 years, Penner had taught the children of Gnadenfeld and he was the only older teacher kept on to teach during the German occupation. In fact, the Gnadenfeld Liaison Office entrusted him with the headship of the Gnadenfeld school. Meanwhile, his asthma had weakened him and made his work difficult. He had even occasionally preached in church. The trek has been anything but a period of recovery for him. Recently, moreover, tragedy has struck and he now sits here, bent over, frail and exhausted, seemingly indifferent to the bustle going on around him. A er some chitchat he slowly shares details about his sadness that I already know something about. Some days ago his village group had found night lodgings on a kolkhoz yard where another trek group was staying. A few men in this la er group had guns, he said. At night, members of a partisan band crept up and demanded the surrender of the weapons. The challenge was answered by gunfire. The exchange of fire lasted for some time and cost the lives of several trekkers, some sleeping in their covered wagons. Penner and Selly Wiens, his 13-year-old granddaughter, had been bedded down in the wagon at the time. They awoke to the gunfire, but remained hidden and quiet. When a hand grenade exploded nearby Selly had emi ed a so groan. Her grandfather called to her a few minutes later, but she did not respond. A shell-splinter had sha ered her arm and pierced her heart. All of us knew Selly well and her death touches us deeply. Her mother, Penner’s daughter, is inconsolable and can find no peace. (Selly was the oldest of her four children.) Her husband, the son of the well-known minister, Dietrich Wiens, Konteniusfeld, had been deported by the Soviets. His exile and the sudden brutal death of her beloved child is almost too much for her to bear. We know of several other partisan a acks. A family from Nikolaidorf had become separated from the trek and been looted. It is known that partisan groups west of here are far more active. These are the threatening conditions under which we must now resume our journey. We still have some

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250 kilometres to go before we reach Kamenets-Podolsk, on the Polish – Rumanian border. There, according to plans, we are to spend the winter. That means two or three more weeks of trekking in rain, snow, frost, and mud. Our footwear and clothing barely holds together and we and our horses are half dead. May God have mercy on us. Will anybody arrive there in one piece? But we have no choice. We are all determined to escape the enemy, whatever the price. So let us strengthen ourselves and with trust in God and in our German leadership (who surely have no be er alternatives), do what we can to free ourselves from this terrible danger. We leave behind some fellow trekkers, the weakest, [who will come by train]. That may lighten our burden a li le. Yet when I look out over the crowd of fellow travellers, weary figures, dressed in dirty and ragged clothes, no one offers a smile. Everyone seems unable even to speak, to break out into song, or to offer words of consolation. Drained of courage and strength, we are overwhelmed by a sense of hopelessness. Still, we may well be on the verge of the last mighty push needed to reach our freedom. we take another run at it 20 November 1943 We cover a difficult stretch of 22 kilometres of ru ed road and arrive late, but safely at Varnavitza, the next trek stop. Mother leads us the last part of the way, lantern in hand. A few wagons slip off the road and stick in the mud. The Unruh family of women and children tip over into a ditch on their large rack wagon, spilling its contents. We can do li le in the dark. We unhitch the horses and seek shelter in a nearby Ukrainian hovel. Teams of horses are brought around and several families are pulled out of the ditch. It seems impossible for us to orient ourselves. Erika and others uncover a li le fodder that we feed to our tired horses. Former neighbours in Gnadenfeld set up camp next to us. Somewhere the boys find wood for a fire. Others crowd together in covered wagons. Heinz Loewen and I sit down at a fire to await the morning, thinking back to Gnadenfeld. I ponder the failings of our flight and of life in general. But in the morning the world takes on a somewhat more cheerful look. We have sunshine and this stop is at least less of a mud hole than that at Nemirov. Our trek leader, Herr Foellmer, informs us that another 100 Gnadenfelders will be sent ahead by train. Spirits soar.

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People from other villages will join the ride. The immediate result is a further upgrading of our horses and wagons. The weaker ones will be le behind. From these, we choose a fourth horse, even though this will increase our needs for fodder. Yesterday our wagon was knocked about and is sadly in need of repairs. There are seemingly no barracks here so we seek out quarters among the surrounding population. Jasha and I find shelter at the local sugar factory in the home of a Ukrainian doctor who is himself a refugee from the Caucusus. He relates how he had travelled the road from Melitopol by horse and wagon alone, managing the trip in three weeks, a child’s play compared to our trek. These are the possibilities for someone who is on his own, in good weather. He arranges places for us in his reception room on the floor. It is “contrary to all regulations.” Here is someone who readily extends shelter to a host of “guests,” as he calls us. Every place is occupied. He knows what it means not to have a roof over one’s head. we too collapse 25 November 1943 We have reached the trek station of Lopatinsi, an unforge able place. Yesterday, a er a superhuman effort, we arrived in rain, snow, and mud, hardly making it through a quagmire onto a spacious yard. We have lived through indescribable conditions over the past days, and are in despair. We feel we cannot go on like this. Our horses are unshod, lame, and stiff from the cold. They lack fodder and are wasted and worn. Even our Orlik, a magnificently loyal and courageous horse, so spirited at the start, now hangs his head in despair. Our pitiable animals. Mother and Erika are worn out. O en they run along beside the wagon during the day. Evenings they track down and fetch fodder and water and do other chores. Nights are spent on the cold wagon. Their feet and footwear are ruined and they feel trapped in the mud and rain. Even the wagon is no longer dry. My felt boots and coat never dry out and my feet suffer from the wet weather. But God be praised, we have at least arrived safely. During the past few days a wheel on our wagon caused us much concern. What if it should break? No one has any more to spare. Most of our Gnadenfelders are somewhere behind us, including Mayor Sperling. Lukobarski was a respectable trek and rest station in empty factory rooms, with fresh

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straw, warm meals, and caring Red Cross nurses. That felt good a er the unending dirt and wetness. But two days later we did not manage to reach our designated trek station and had to spend the night out on an open meadow, next to a small village and close to fodder and water. It was bearable once the rain and wind died down. The following night, despite raw and rainy weather, several families again spent the night at the roadside, outside a village with a trek camp that consisted of a kolkhoz yard and barn. The camp, however, is virtually impossible to reach over narrow streets and through knee-deep mud. The cruelty to our animals is unspeakable. There is no room to walk beside the wagons and a number have to be pulled out with teams of horses. Unfortunately, I have forgo en the name of this village. Now we are in dry night lodgings in a larger house with soup and bread. For once mother does not have to worry about supper. With everything water logged there is, in any case, no fuel. The horses are stabled in an empty house without windows, but under a roof. When we arrived yesterday, Jacob Delesky was making arrangements to bury his mother-in-law, the 80-year-old widow, Maria Goerz. Until now the sick and infirm woman had somehow managed to stand up to the hardships of the trek. Then her failing energies finally gave out. Like the others, she did not find a peaceful haven in this troubled world. Delivered from its pain and suffering, she will now be lowered into an obscure grave without song or ceremony. There will be few present to pay their final respects. How many more will there be like her? The rooms here in Lopatinsi are tightly packed. The straw is poor and the cla er of the back and forth of children and adults is almost unbearable. Still we are pleased to have found a dry spot for ourselves, where I can make a few notes. Since the wind and snow keeps on blowing, Erika and Mother have joined us inside. For the sake of the horses and because of our exhaustion and the need to dry out clothes and belongings, I am determined to stay here a few days. Mother and Erika object, however, saying this trek stop station gives us no real rest, and the fodder still has to be dragged in from a distant field. What should we do? Our Gnadenfeld group itself is sca ered. I suggest we have the horses shod and return to the road with new energy a er a day of rest. A few hours later, we are still of two minds. Down in the dumps and in despair, the Paulsheim, Mariawohl, and Nikolaidorf groups prepare to return to the road. Other somewhat smaller groups seem more disciplined and be er organized.

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Meanwhile, Erika has gone out to talk to the trek leader, Foellmer. While we sit on our straw beds sighing, indecisive and distraught, Erika returns. She is excited and happy. We are to be put onto a truck and sent ahead with several other families. A large truck has been sent out from Kamenets, the new gathering point for refugees. It will return along our route as far as Nemirov to pick up sick and otherwise weak people who have been le behind. Herr Wendorf has ordered that we join them. We let out a deep sigh of surprise, relief, and joy. “God be praised.” Filled with new courage and desire, we feel transformed: “Lord, what is man that Thou art mindful of him.”’ is our advantage a betraѦal of our fellow trekkers? 26 November 1943 On orders of the trek leader we have had to remain behind for now. For several days, we therefore find lodgings in a Ukrainian house. This works to our advantage but provokes resentment. We are informed that the truck from Nemirov will return to pick us up. The sudden change in our circumstances seems almost unbelievable. No more foraging for fodder and fuel and no more running alongside wagons through deep mud. We unload our belongings and prepare to dispose of our horses and wagon. We pity the devoted animals, especially Orlik, who has valiantly carried us here from Gnadenfeld, through thick and thin. What will happen to him? 29 November 1943 On the evening of 27 November, the truck returns for us. It is loaded down with a Rommel family, husband, wife, and daughter, their possessions, and a few other people. The woman’s arm is in a sling. A lamp she had been filling with fuel exploded, se ing off a fire that seriously burned her, her husband and the child. A er a month spent recuperating in the Nemirov hospital, the three are now more-or-less restored. The next morning we are joined by another family and their belongings. The truck driver, a man by the name of Moron, takes along a cow that he manages to crowd in among the baggage. We have our misgivings about the size of the already large load. But the men, who know about such ma ers, are unconcerned and cheerful. First they stow our

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baggage and then give us a hike up, until somehow and somewhere, suspended between heaven, earth, and our fellow passengers, we find a place to sit. We are 15 people, plus the heaps of baggage and the cow. “If only all goes well,” many of us probably think. Otherwise we feel fortunate as the huffing and swaying truck is set in motion on the hill beneath us. It has snowed, but the vehicle rolls ahead on a firm surface and makes good time. This is no longer a miserly snail’s tempo at the behest of our poor tormented animals. It feels good. We soon pass trek wagons. But with aching hearts we look back to see faltering horses and wagons that have turned off the road. We are overwhelmed by feelings of compassion and a sharp sense that we are betraying our own large and long-suffering community. Are we enjoying advantages while we leave others in the lurch? We stop off at the next village to talk to Herr Foellmer. The trek will take a several-day break to have the horses shod, he explains. At another village along the road, we meet Herr Buss, another leader of the trek who oversees the care of other villages under the supervision of the Gnadenfeld Liaison Office. The situation of his group is critical. Wagons are sca ered along the route, some deserted, some falling apart and le behind. We see dead horses lying beside the road or an occasional one still alive, or a cow. The feet of these enfeebled animals are so sore that they stand immovably as though pinned down in fields of snow. As the drizzle starts, we again seek protection under blankets. The truck enters a hilly countryside. Swaying back and forth on top of the luggage we feel almost dizzy, but the truck moves resolutely forward without stopping. We must have covered half of the 150-kilometre stretch before nightfall. As we take in the same cheerless scene of scattered refugee treks inching forward, the rain again turns to snow. We pass the occasional village but early darkness soon envelops our world. My joints are stiff and sore from the cold and I long for an end to this venture. It increasingly resembles a stormy sea voyage. Still, it is sheer joy for us to be always on the move. The falling snow obscures the road, the driver slows down and the lights of Kamenets-Podolsk hove into view. It is a larger city with a rich history that was long the capital of the [Imperial Russian Province] of Podolia. Kamenets-Podolsk lies a ractively in a hilly region, through which the Dniester River flows. We skirt the city and are le with some 30 kilometres to cover westwards to the border. The truck sways around sharp curves in the road and the cries of some of the women are

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reduced to whispers. Pressed together tightly, buried beneath blankets, they, quietly and longingly, wait for our destination. We finally reach the bridge we had been looking for. The truck makes a slow, difficult climb up a hill and turns right. There is a sudden jerk and the swaying vehicle comes to a stop. We have arrived. Although we do not know where we are, the truck has stopped in front of a house in the large village of Landskorun. Here the men from the Gnadenfeld Liaison Office have established their temporary quarters. We are li ed down and shown into an empty room. The officials from the Liaison Office have already se led in a li le, greet us and inquire a er those we have le behind. We thank them. Around midnight we bed down on the floor for the night, tired but grateful. Today I write these lines in a Ukrainian house. This morning, Erika went out looking for lodgings with the billeting official. Quarters with Ukrainians are limited and hard to find. Most families have only a room for themselves. Yet Erika finds us a li le room that we gratefully occupy. It is somewhat more spacious than our wagon, dry and in a location where we will not disturb anyone. Has our gypsy life and flight now really come to an end? Who can say? We know nothing about the immediate situation along the front. Yet that need not concern us at the moment. We are grateful to God and our leadership for ordering this extended rest and recuperation stop. We urgently need a respite. Our entire community of refugees is on edge. How I wish all were safely here. This will be where we recuperate over winter. That is agreeable to us. I sit quietly at the stove, and cannot draw in enough of the warmth. Meanwhile, Mother tries to arrange our quarters and create a kind of washing-and-bathing facility. Our young landlady is friendly and helpful. a long halt in landskorun, podolia, at the border 5 December 1943 With a few exceptions, we are all together again since several days ago. Of our group, three old people and two children have found lonely graves along the road. Frau Maria Stark and Liesbeth Becker are still back somewhere in the hospital and railway officials have inadvertently sent a few families directly on to Germany. Several days a er we arrived a few trek groups moved into quarters nearby. In the first days of December our trek villages arrived, one a er another, interspersed

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and without order. The people and animals are all frighteningly run down. They have enjoyed some relief on the last leg of the trek – be er food, shod horses, and improved roads – but they are still much the worse for wear. Tuckered out, they need rest. Parts of the Gnadenfeld, Franztal, and Rudnerweide communities have also found temporary living quarters in Landskorun or in nearby villages. Most have moved in with Ukrainian hosts. Where refugee and host families are small and the hosts friendly, things go tolerably well, but where the opposite is true and there is strife, leaders must intervene. Given present conditions, this will likely be the case here. Moreover, the area is, as they say, infected with the partisan spirit, which gives us an uncanny feeling and much concern. Almost all the trekkers stranded along the road or sent by train have arrived. All of the la er have had a difficult time and look more beaten down than those who came by wagon. Because of an understandable shortage of freight cars, more than 50 people and their baggage, o en with li le food, were stuffed into filthy, vermin-infested, and unheated freight cars. Things would have been be er if the trains had moved quickly, but with numerous delays, trips o en lasted seven to ten days and the passengers almost perished. They tell horror stories about the grime and vermin they were helpless to overcome. Their appearance confirms what they say. Most suffer from bad colds, as do those from the trek, and many are now in the hospital. Finally we have a Gnadenfeld group of stragglers who had thrown themselves on the mercy of a stationmaster and arrived here by train. The man was obviously so -hearted or turned agreeable at the sight of the women, children, and horses and they too have arrived safely. It is astounding what a large area around Kamenets-Podolsk through to the Rumanian and Polish borders has become a gathering place for ethnic-German refugees. In addition to those from the Molochna, there are refugees from [the German colonist se lements] of Prishib and Gronau, ethnic Germans from west of the Dnieper River, Zagradovka, and Krivoi Rog, all in treks. Many others were sent on train straight into the Reich. The German Ethnic Liaison Office has established offices in the larger villages of the trekkers where they protect, police, and supply their charges. Food is regularly brought in from Kamenets, with its large supply depot. Much effort and organization has gone into ensuring a supply of food, but it is not plentiful. Periodically we receive bread, meat, potatoes, a li le jam, bu er, and sugar. Since most refugees still have a li le meat and lard from home, the situation is bearable. But where extras run out, rations will be short. Our people

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also help fetch fuel. The leadership has arranged access to a woodlot 18 kilometres away where they fall trees and haul back the cut wood, but it is alas wet and can scarcely be used. The refugees’ horses and cows have been put up in kolkhoz barns and are cared for by specially appointed men. Of the Gnadenfeld animals, only 100 horses and five cows, out of a total of 450 horses and 250 cows, managed to get here. The other village groups have brought along a significantly larger number. All together, we have covered over 1,000 kilometres since leaving home, under o en indescribable conditions. Rarely have frontline soldiers encountered greater privations than these poorly equipped women and children. But, God be praised, for now we are taken care of. With our stomachs full, in dry and warm lodgings, we enjoy the protection and care of the German leadership. We can recover from many of the unpleasant consequences of the trek and gather our courage and strength for what may lie ahead. May our Heavenly Father accompany us in grace, and deliver us from evil. For this we unite in thanks and beg Him for His further assistance. Reflections on the Trek As I look back over the extreme experiences of the past months, I would, in addition to what I have recorded above, draw a ention to several general issues that deserve further a ention. These include the question of what shaped our flight, moving it forward or holding it back. During the trek we shared a difficult fate that became an acid test of our spiritual strength (although our physical strength was also put under great strain). In our normal day-to-day lives we may be friendly, charitable and peaceable with others, eager to help when needs arise. This can, however, change quickly when we are threatened or afflicted and experience extreme want. At times when mutual assistance, comradeship, and compassion for our neighbour and the weak are at a premium we may o en falter and fail. In place of upli ing behaviour and a love of neighbour we may evidence egoism, self-love, selfishness, and an indifference to the fate of others. In our normal lives, we may act in a friendly, charitable, and peaceful way with others, ready to help when needs arise, but this can unfortunately quickly change under conditions of threat, affliction, and severe poverty. And o en the greater the misery, the more narrow-minded and brutish is our response. Our trekkers were not completely free of such failings. It is embarrassing to confess that incidents of this sort happened in the midst of our common tribulation. In fact there welled up among us the spirit of

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the Soviets’ long-standing influence over us – a belief that a neighbour counts for nothing if he is personally not of use to us. It was painful to see an apparently healthy man coolly pass by a woman with children who, a er a minor mishap, stood helplessly beside their wagon at the side of the road looking for help. And how tragic it was when a bridle, rein, or other essential for travel was cold-heartedly pilfered by a travel companion. And how humiliating when Ukrainians shook their heads in wonder and complained that German trekkers were insolent on the presumption that they would be protected [by German officials], come what may. Some simply helped themselves to a [Ukrainian] family’s modest fodder supplies without even asking. Others flippantly occupied a poor co age when [Ukrainian] family members did not instantly comply with a request for lodgings. How distressing when the weak and needy who deserved assistance with accommodations, fodder, and food were pushed aside by the strong. At the start of our trek, the few men remaining in our midst, on their own or when asked, rode up and down the wagon train helping those in need. As conditions deteriorated, this readiness to help, and other virtues, gradually faded away. Moreover, as everyone, including leaders, increasingly concentrated on their own dilemmas, discipline and supervision declined – to the hurt and damage of the trek and its participants. I do not wish to generalize overly much about such shortcomings and distasteful episodes. We must also remember many noble deeds. Men and women o en took the side of the weak, making sacrifices publicly or anonymously. Many engaged in acts of charity. Such behaviour should naturally be simple givens for a Christian, but let us not forget how difficult it was under conditions of personal privation and need. Who would question the point of these reflections? Things could undoubtedly have gone be er on the trek, and more could have been accomplished even under existing dire circumstances. This should not, however, be taken as a criticism of our leadership. Despite mistakes and blunders, we were recipients of much support and care without which we could never have made it to here. In judging shortfalls, we should not ignore the conditions under which they took place. There was much that could not be anticipated and many plans that had to be revised. Everything was simply new, unique, and shaped by the exigencies of war. Yet in assessing the trek, we need to remember that such a common, difficult enterprise could be mastered and made bearable only if comradeship, a readiness to make sacrifices, charity, and discipline

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were also present. But for that to happen, strength, preparedness, and wisdom had to be sought in the Almighty. One ma er, however, places the trek in a more favourable light and bears noting – the willingness to serve and the matchless deeds of our women. Without becoming effusive, one could sing the Song of Solomon in recognition of the pluck, courage, and dogged perseverance of our women. They quietly and heroically did their part, caring for the children, looking a er the animals, nursing the sick, taking charge of wagons and horses and mastering problems large and small, o en single-handedly. Faced with many dangers, inconspicuously, out of a profound sense of duty and order, they simply rescued their families. Not one of them collapsed. Hounded, frightened, and starving during years of Soviet slavery, these women and girls are the dauntless heroes of the trek. And here at the place of our convalescence they have again found their bearings and stepped into the breach, despite serious shortages in lodgings, food, fuel, and other necessities. In this strange and unusual se ing, they have revived their choir and delight us with their glorious spiritual hymns. Skilfully, gracefully, in the midst of much that is unpleasant, they have given us back a piece of our old home and directed our hearts to what leads to our eternal home. Now they are preparing for Christmas. We owe them our respect and heartfelt thanks.

Chapter Eleven

Refugee Life in Western Ukraine and the Warthegau (Poznania)

christmas abroad 10 January 1944 The old year has passed with its joys and failures and a new year has started, veiled and dark. All of mankind awaits the end of this calamitous war. Every nation craves victory, and we hope and pray that it will be Germany’s, and hence ours. Who knows what the year will bring. We have become beggars, ignorant of what is happening and incapable of making choices. We must depend on the leadership and orders of the German Ethnic Liaison Office, whom we see as a tool in His all-powerful hand. The Lord has helped and will continue to help. A er convalescing, we are rid of colds, filth, and vermin, and praise and thank God. Several fellow sufferers died before ge ing here and others, equally frail and ill, are at the point of death. Certainly shelter and medical help are easier to get here than on the trek. Christmas, even in our modest circumstances, was an exciting time. No one lavishes as much a ention on Christmas as do the Germans, and so senior officials and Liaison Office personnel tried to foster a festive air by distributing extra food and Christmas trees. Decorations appeared almost magically, and as a Christmas treat for the children our women baked pastries from specially allo ed white flour. At a schoolhouse Christmas Eve celebration, the Christmas story was read, lovely carols were sung, and the children were given the usual bags with sweets from under a brightly lit tree. What really raised spirits, however, was a distribution of clothes by the Liaison Office. Given our grave shortages in this sensitive area, we are overjoyed. At a service on Christmas Day, our beloved preacher Block gave a fine sermon and the

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Gnadenfeld and Franzthal-Rudnerweide women’s choirs sang. With overtones of the blessed peace proclaimed on that holy night by the angels, the service allowed us to forget briefly the coarse reality of our daily lives and to recover a bit of our former homes. We Have Not Been ForgoĴen Yet this-worldly as we are, such flickering moments of peace do not liberate us from the anguished question: “And what of our future home?” It is a pressing issue, but more compelling is the ma er of our immediate security. We are ignorant of what is happening at the front, only that the army is in retreat. It is a fact that torments us. It means we will be moving on from here. As for the question of our final destination, the leaders have been reshuffling the cards for some time. They no longer command the situation, a truth we only whisper among ourselves. This requires a constant revision of plans. I conclude from a few reports and maps that I have seen, that we were first destined to se le on the west bank of the Dnieper. There officials had mapped out se lement sites for us, thinking the area would remain in German hands. That plan was je isoned in favour of a north – south se lement belt in western Ukraine that has now also been scrapped. Hoffmeyer, the general in charge of the whole refugee movement (which he still calls a rese lement operation), tells us in an open letter that, a er our recuperation, we will again be moving, this time to the former Russo-Polish area around Bialystock designated as the new German se lement area. We do not favour this but are also not particularly worried, since the outcome of the war remains unresolved. Otherwise, Hoffmeyer’s le er is couched in a tone that is understanding and supportive of us. It li s spirits a li le, especially a er German trek officials had acted as though they did not particularly care for us. Hoffmeyer knows our indigence, ills, and problems when, in his words, “we had to take fodder from places where this was not permi ed.” At a field near Pervomaisk hundreds jumped from their wagons onto a field to pick a few corncobs. German authorities drove us back, even with gunfire, a mean-spirited rebuff that offended us deeply. He suggests we not make an issue of the episode. Many Germans, he writes, are simply unfamiliar with our difficult past and present, but this hardly makes us into thieves. Hoffmeyer also praises the women for their pluck and perseverance and addresses their worries about clothes for themselves and their children. He is a well-informed official and we feel close to him, so we will

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let the issue rest. Above all, Hoffmeyer has raised the possibility that we will soon be moving on by rail rather than by wagon train. The le er is a Christmas gi for us that puts us in a more positive frame of mind. We have replied with our own le er that acknowledges his concerted efforts, including his promise of clothes, and expresses our confidence in him and his colleagues. 12 February 1944 Part of our Gnadenfeld family and a few other groups are recuperating in the nearby village of Kuhajewzy. We enjoy exchanging visits with friends and acquaintances to break the tedium. Otherwise life drags on monotonously without books, journals, or entertainment. There is li le new. What is going on in the larger world reaches us only as rumour. I should mention that we have had additional funerals with formal burials, one for old Tante Marie Voth, aged 74, who collapsed under the weight of our affliction, the other for li le Edi Janzen a er a serious illness. Blind old Willm Arndt, still a robust senior at the start of the trek, has succumbed as well, under especially grievous conditions. As mentioned, Frau Agnes Voth had taken him under her wing, but she had her hands more than full tending to her four children, the wagon, and burying one of her younger children in a lonely place along the way. Eventually conditions became too much for Arndt. It is a touching but also puzzling story, the la er because trek leaders failed to offer the poor man a helping hand when he needed it most. The case is an indictment of them, of course, and maybe also of us as bystanders. Soon a er reaching the hospital, Arndt died and was probably buried without a formal service. I will remember him as a mighty oak cut off at the root. I would gladly have visited him during his illness since he had always gladly entered into a li le conversation. In Gnadenfeld where he had managed on his own, he had loved company, was possessed of a wry sense of humour, and eagerly accepted dinner invitations at which he regaled his hosts with tales out of his eventful life. oѢr period of recuperation approaches its end The rising tide of partisan activity causes us much worry. Soldiers have been robbed of weapons and clothes, and refugees of other objects. Those of us who survived the Makhnovite terror have vivid memories

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of that time and cannot free ourselves of our fears. Recently, moreover, we saw the tragedy resulting from one raid in the death of Selly Wiens. Yet we should not forget that these partisans are really Ukrainian freedom fighters. For a long time, Ukrainians have thirsted for their independence from the tsars, Poles, and Soviets, who opposed them. They therefore welcomed the Germans in the hope that they would offer them freedom, as they had in 1918, and they had started to help the [Soviet] Germans. But now they feel betrayed by Germany and fight Germans and Soviets equally. Nor should one imagine that an underground resistance movement of this kind can move ahead without brutality and excess. Germans, however, have no understanding of the partisans and resist them tooth and nail, to their own damage and that of the civilian population. 1 March 1944 Our period of recovery seems to be nearing its end. A large number of transports have been dispatched from villages where Liaison Office groups are housed. Soon it will be our turn. This naturally makes us uneasy but also eager to get on with it. As rumours suggest, time is running out. The front retreats, partisan a acks mushroom, and fears mount that our path will soon be blocked. It has been a mild winter with rain, snow, mud, and wind regularly spelling one another off. “home into the reich” 2–3 March 1944 Surprise. On the night from the second to the third of March we are ordered to pack our belongings quickly and be off to the train station by 6:00 a.m. the following morning. This is so abrupt and unexpected that we all fear that we may be in immediate danger and may not be able to finish arrangements on time. Again we stuff our belongings into sacks and crates and pack a li le food on the side. Our diminutive and friendly landlady bakes a going-away Kuchen (cake) for us. We have scarcely finished packing when a wagon appears and Ukrainians from the village stow our belongings. There is li le room le for us. As the sun rises on a clear winter day that is cold but without the deep mud that has dogged our previous steps, we are already lined up waiting for

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the signal to depart. Even though we have only recently been forced on these villagers, many Ukrainian women appear at the street to bid us a friendly farewell. What a touching expression of mutual esteem. Our greatest concern is Erika, who, with her secretarial skills, has to stay back to help the Ethnic German Liaison Office dispatch other transports.1 But our protests are to no avail. Herr Wendorf, the responsible official, tries to reassure us, saying there are no dangers and he will personally see to it that no harm befalls her. We entrust Erika to the care of our Heavenly Father and take leave of her with heavy hearts. We have already lost one child to the Soviets and do not wish to loose another. War is no easy thing with children. fuљl speed ahead by train With dri ing snow obscuring the road, the 16-kilometre trip to the train station is difficult. Wagons tip over and have to be righted and reloaded, but we reach the Balin station late in the a ernoon. Empty freight cars stand waiting on the tracks. We form into train car groups of 35–40 people each. By evening our baggage is aboard, but it barely leaves room for us, especially when everyone insists on remaining close to their belongings. With passengers at one end of the train and horses, cows, and empty trek wagons at the other, the train pulls out into an uncertain future. We are some 800 people from our large Gnadenfeld group as well as the Franztal and Paulsheim groups who had lived with us in Landskorun. Standing in the centre of our freight car is a small iron stove whose care has been entrusted to my friend, Wilhelm Voth. It is a hazardous responsibility, given the crush of belongings, adults, and children. But doubled over and squeezed to the ceiling in every corner of the car, we are happy to be in a warm, dry place and to have the car wheels turning under us. Still, we are unaccustomed to such travel and o en feel as though we have lost our sight and hearing. May the Lord graciously guide us. This is everyone’s prayer. Sunday 5 March 1944 At 10:00 a.m. we reach the border at Volochisk and Pod-Volochisk, old border stations familiar to us from our World War I service [in the medical corps]. We move along slowly by roundabout ways and o en have to yield the right-of-way to military trains. It is real March weather,

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with a mixture of rain and snow, and we are relieved at the mild temperatures. Our friendly li le stove throws off a li le warmth. All cars are not similarly outfi ed. Some, bere of window panes, are dra y. The noise and back and forth makes conversation virtually impossible. But once the train comes to a stop life resumes its normal pace around the li le stove. Our 10 families get on well together. We warm up coffee from time to time or prepare some potatoes, but when the train starts to move again everyone falls silent and the challenge is to stow our belongings quickly and to look a er the food, fire, water, and baggage. Everyone is of a mind that this sort of travel certainly beats anything by wagon train. We should reach our goal in a few days, reportedly in the Posen [Polish, Poznan] area, the Warthegau, which was German until ceded to Poland a er World War I. We are therefore bound for the Reich, not Bialystock as we had earlier been told. The shi ing fortunes of war have obviously upset carefully wrought German plans, but naturally we applaud the change. The train passes blown-up bridges, derailed trains – hair-raising reminders of partisan activities. At night, the train covers stretches at a snail’s pace or it races along full thro le and we feel ourselves shaken up and at the breaking point. 6 March 1944 This morning we arrived in Lemberg [Lviv/Lvov/Lwow]. With its university, it is an important old capital to which Germans and Poles, and not least of all Ukrainians, had made important cultural contributions. The train comes to a stop close to the halls of the enormous railway station where trains pass in and out without interruption. This is a sight all of us want to see. Out of curiosity, military police visit our cars and assure us that the surrounding area is quiet and largely free of partisans, unlike more dangerous areas deeper in Poland. We will likely take on food here. Last night we spent some time in the Tarnopol station. 7 March 1944 The children are fed milk and food. Then, late at night, the train pulls out of Lemberg and we survive a night of unfamiliar swaying, ra ling, and knocking about, back and forth. In the morning we pass through Roswadow and Sandomir, both old Polish cities of historical importance. Widely visible near the former is a marker of the German – Soviet

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border a er the partition of Poland, I think. We travel along the bank of the Vistula, a glorious sight, and through a wooded, hilly landscape until we catch sight of a massive bridge directly in front of us that our train slowly passes over. This region of contrasts intrigues us as steppe denizens, but we find the farmsteads of the sandy, wooded, hilly landscape poor and would not want to farm them ourselves. “delousinє” 8 March 1944 Since early morning we have been stopped at the train station of the textile centre of Coernau (Sgersh), near Litzmannstadt [Lodz], where everything somehow feels foreign. It is where we are scheduled to be fed and deloused. The la er has a degrading ring to it. Are we RussianGermans really thought so unfit for the Reich that we must undergo a thoroughgoing ablution? “What does this mean?” our people ask. A er Landskorun we had felt so clean. But then we are told that all soldiers returning from Russia have to be deloused and that no one may enter the Reich without a Certificate of Delousing. 9 March 1944 Today it is our turn. A trainload of Volhyian-Germans was processed yesterday, including the disinfection of their clothes. Wagons and trucks constantly move about, taking people and belongings to and from the bathhouse. In this spotless city, curious people stop to gawk at us. Once in line, we find that the washing is really quite pleasant, but the investment in time and energy is costly. A er the bath and disinfection has been completed, everyone has “deloused” stamped on their hands. With endless lineups, everything moves ahead like clockwork. 10 March 1944 Yesterday, a er receiving an assortment of foodstuffs such as sausage, bu er, preserves for the children, and white bread and milk, we resume our trip. The food will have to see us through to our destination, but what touches and embarrasses us is that under such grave conditions for every one, authorities treat us with such care. In the evening near

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Thorn we cross the Vistula again and late at night pass through the Hohensalsa health spa. in dietfurt [znin] Saturday, 11 March 1944 We awaken as the train is pushed up to a loading ramp. “Where are we now? Is this finally our destination?” Then Herr Foellmer, who has accompanied the train, announces: “We have reached Dietfurt [Znin], capital of the Posen region. You will leave the train and be given further instructions. Please remain where you are until the reception commi ee comes by.” So this, a er all, is our destination. The excitement is tangible. Will the greeting be friendly? Where are our lodgings? Will we be sca ered? A row of uniformed officials arrive. The city mayor, representatives of charitable organizations, and the mayors from surrounding villages step forward to provide information. There is agitation among people on the train. Then I notice festive decorations of pine boughs and garlands on the train and banners prepared on the initiative of Herr Foellmer reading: “The Homeland Means Much, But the Fatherland More” (Heimatland viel, Vaterland mehr); “Thanks to the Fuehrer!” (Dem Fuehrer Dank!); “Home into the Reich” (Heim ins Reich); and others. The refugees disembark. They form into rows of four and the women and children march off to a nice breakfast of pea soup and meat. We are assigned places to stay. Wagons and trucks pull up, names are called out and we, together with our baggage and children, take our places and depart for the nearby villages and estates assigned for our residence and work. Our Gnadenfeld group of some 170, as well as the Paulsheim and Franztal groups, board narrow-gauge railway cars, our destination Jannowitz, a small city about 40 kilometres away. Once the luggage is stowed on small, open freight cars, we take our seats in equally small coaches accommodating around 25 people each. The small train jolts to a start and we snake our way into a charming region of woods, fields, lakes, and hills. We are soon in a jolly mood. “Now will you look at that,” one exclaims. “Straight out of a fairyland” (Nu kickt blos, daut’s je groad aus em Zaubalaund). A er all, this is Germany, the land of our thoughts and dreams, the subject of reading, and for many also the object of a quiet yearning. Small groups disembark at stations here and there and around

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4:00 p.m. the small train comes to a halt at Oschnau, our end station. Wagons await us there to load belongings or pick up people and within an hour and a half we reach Jannowitz, a friendly, small town that will shelter us for some time. The local administration has arranged temporary lodgings for our two-week quarantine in an empty schoolhouse. Then we will be assigned permanent quarters in houses. Our sleeping and living quarters for now are five airy classrooms with fresh rye straw along the walls. A classroom has been set up as our dining room with tables and chairs and a provisional kitchen established in the yard. There are rooms for baggage. We move in, stow our belongings with the help of local inhabitants, and sit down in two shi s to an evening meal of noddle soup and meat prepared by women and girls from the town. In free moments the women look us up and down, perhaps wondering whether these strange Russo-Germans have preserved the faintest traces of a German essence. The mayor as well as the doctor (also Party leader) and other city fathers extend their greetings. We are gratified to have reached the goal of our wanderings. Although we would prefer not having to live so close together, we accept the fact that private quarters in peaceful and clean surroundings are a thing for the future. camp life in їannowitz 12 March 1944 It is Sunday, and through a window we see people strolling to church, a sight that creates such a festive mood that many prepare to join in despite a clear prohibition against doing so. As for Jannowitz, its rhythm and order, despite years of war, are evident at every hand. Houses, yards, streets, and local arrangements are models of orderliness. People seem decent, well-mannered and we know that life for us will change in many ways. We le home on 12 September 1943, also a Sunday, li le knowing that in six months we would be in the old Germany. Much has changed in that short time. O en it seemed that there was no future for us and we cried out in despair at the knowledge that our homes had been burned to the ground. Yet we have reached our goal. We should cast aside gloomy thoughts as we gratefully li up eyes and souls to our Heavenly Father whom we praise for His goodness and compassion. We also thank our leaders and the German people for their all-important help as we departed our homeland, with its horrors and afflictions.

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28 March 1944 We have now been confined to camp for two weeks and although the prohibition on going out is no longer taken seriously, one of our men still stands guard around the clock at the entranceway. Those with nothing to do, mainly children, are not allowed to traipse through the streets. While we are well looked a er as refugees life has started to become dreary. The rooms are fine and warm, each with a long table and benches, but with the raw weather and rain most of us stay indoors on our straw beds. We are 36 adults and children all told, squeezed into a common lodging, with one day much like the next, a din in the rooms and children incessantly cla ering up and down the stairs. Although some men and women have found work in town, at the railway station, and other places, it is virtually impossible for me under these conditions to read and write, and life becomes tedious. Visitors drop by out of curiosity and offer a li le diversion, but they seem to find us rather odd. The mayor, Herr Bade, and the doctor, Dr Eckert, visit us o en. Herr Bade is doing what he can to make life more agreeable for us. Knowing that our arrangements cannot continue for long if people are not to become slack, indifferent, and discouraged, he is trying to free up quarters in town for us. He says this will take several more weeks. We further understand that it is difficult to provide board at a time of great shortages. With only one small piece of bread daily, meals are meagre. Luckily most of our people still have a li le in reserve from back home to tide them over. Frau Boenisch, head of the local National Socialist Women’s Commi ee, who supervises the kitchen, and Herr Wi ig, the manager, do what they can to prepare meals from scarce supplies, and our women and girls serve at table. Meanwhile we are relieved that Erika has finally arrived with the last group that had been exposed to constant danger from the enemy. At one point the group thought it was encircled and started to destroy documents. Their leader had even told them that he would not tolerate their surrender, and was prepared, if necessary, to arrange his own suicide and that of the group. How dreadful. Otherwise, the remaining refugee groups had been dispatched quickly, o en on open freight cars in snow and rain, leaving behind many horses and wagons. As a result, a trek of some thousand horses and wagons had been organized, and was supposedly still underway in Rumania. Its present location is unknown. The important point, however, is that we have all been safely brought out of Russia. No one has been le behind.

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Funerals and Visits As a welcome change, a few fellow Gnadenfelder visit us and some women and girls have started classes for the children, which we strongly encourage. This provides us a few hours of relative peace daily and useful activities for the children. We hope the children will later be integrated into the regular school system. We already have a death to mourn. Fi y-year-old Fräulein Maria Rabsch caught a cold on the trek that turned into something much more serious. The funeral was arranged by the town administration. She reached her goal but did not survive. May God grant that she is the last trek victim. Finally, the infant son of Frau Agnes Voth has died as well as 17-year-old Liesbeth Becker, the la er in the Nemirov hospital. 9 April 1944: Easter Sunday The camp is caught up in a festive mood. Yesterday, women busily prepared for Easter and early this morning the women’s choir broke into a resurrection hymn. Extra pastries and coffee, served for breakfast, raised the spirits of our poorly fed people as did the church service a ended by many. The day was lived in a celebratory spirit with much singing and visiting back and forth. Our conversation harkened back to southern Ukraine, to our holidays and our people. The town also helped lighten spirits by permi ing us to clean up and bathe ourselves in their small but lovely bathhouse. But a er almost a month of camp life, everyone longs to again se le down around a family stove and table, but we must have patience. It is springtime and we sometimes get out into the nearby area and the yard which is important for the children. Some of our people have already moved into private quarters in the village and others have found long-term jobs, including a few girls with the town administration. It is still uncertain when the rest of us will be given separate quarters. The answer is always the same: “We are doing our best. Be patient a li le longer.” 28 April 1944 [Almost three weeks later.] A er being told for days on end that we would soon leave, we are still in camp. Yet we are learning to fit in which is easier to do now in spring, in fine weather. The rooms are almost empty during the day, with the children at school and the women busy with the washing. The remaining idle adults wander about aimlessly or

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occupy a bench in the large yard, as I do. We have a few donated books to read, but camp life is obviously not good for any of us. It makes us listless and indifferent and robs us of the spark needed to start or create something new. We have everything we need to carry on a poor and needy existence, but it is one and the same thing every day. Erika and Frau Anna Voth have found temporary work in Eichenbrueck, some 30 kilometres away, but we have no idea what the future may hold for us. lodєed in private homes 5 May 1944 A er a long and patient wait we have le the camp and moved into private quarters, our family receiving a small but not very liveable room and kitchen. The la er we share with the W. Voths, who occupy a room next door to us. On private loan we have received an old table and two chairs and the National Socialist Women’s Commi ee has promised us new bedsteads in time, as well as clothing, linens, and other supplies. Five other families make up our community of fate: the Wilhelm Voths; Frau Justina Schmidt and daughters; and Frau Maria Stark, who is fully recovered from her accident on the trek, and her three li le girls. Downstairs is Frau Anna Janzen and her daughters and daughter-inlaw, a total of four well-behaved children among them. We get on very well together. The yard is unfortunately small, but has storage space. We are quite happy, recognizing that our needs should remain modest. In Germany’s fi h year of war we gratefully accept what can be scraped together for us. What gives us our greatest joy is that we can be close to fellow trekkers living nearby. On Sundays other Gnadenfelder from surrounding villages visit one another. Since we will remain strangers here for a long time, we must seek fellowship among our own people. On the surface most Germans are friendly towards us, but otherwise they keep their distance and avoid closer contacts of any kind. Our women, who need help in establishing their own households, feel this sharply. We are prohibited from having contact with the Poles, who are the majority here and have been squeezed together to make room for us. This is embarrassing for us. There are, of course, some women and men in the welfare organization National Socialist Women’s Commi ee who are at pains to help us orient ourselves and make our adjustment easier. This is also true of the government offices. But in our poverty, it will take a long time to get used to what is new and to the oddities on both sides – ours

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and the Germans’. We want to do what is necessary to adapt and to do so gladly. This is, a er all, our future home where everything will change for the be er once the war has reached a successful conclusion. Jannowitz is a lovely clean town that has always been German. It is surrounded by pleasant villages. It has an Evangelical and a Catholic church. The pastor of the Evangelical church is serving in the Wehrmacht. Services in the church that we eagerly a end are therefore conducted every other Sunday by preachers from elsewhere in the area. The town was ceded to Poland a er World War I and has increasingly been inhabited by Poles over the past quarter century. But li le has changed, and the town, as they say, has kept its essential character. Yet despite the fact that Polish Catholics in town constitute a large majority of the population in the surrounding area, the Catholic Church has been closed and is being used for storage. This, and much else in the treatment of Poles, we find strange, incomprehensible, and offensive (befremdend). Germans here insist that the Poles are a deceitful people who were always hostile to the Germans and need to be bridled. They are accused of having commi ed terrible atrocities against Germans at the beginning of the war, as documented in photographs and documents. Yet we who were long humiliated, persecuted, and enslaved in Soviet Russia ourselves, are not of a mind to regard Poles as our enemies or to treat them as such.2 Nor do we have any sympathy for a policy of seizing the homes and farmsteads of the Poles and giving them to the Bessarabian- and Baltic-Germans, arbitrarily and without compensation. Some of our own people are also slated to receive property in this way. For us this would be deeply painful. Were we not driven out of our homes and farmsteads years ago ourselves? Should the maxims, “As you do unto me I will do unto you,” and “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth” not be put aside and others adopted in their place? Perhaps the time for this has not yet come, but it surely will. Our former lodgings in the schoolhouse have been occupied by a new group of German refugees, the Odessa- and Tiraspol-Germans. They le their homes later than we did in a long and difficult trek through Rumania and Hungary. They are now here, dispossessed of their homeland, property, and effects and look despairingly into the future. Looking Backwards and Forwards Once we climbed down from our trek wagons and faced a new start, it slowly dawned on us how much we had lost in the USSR. We find

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it comforting to still be together. This struck us with great force as we got ready to disperse to separate lodgings in our last days together in the Jannowitz schoolhouse. Suddenly we were filled with misgivings. Where will we end up? The common life of our villages and shared pain of the trek have brought us closely together. Perhaps our paths will now part. We therefore gather in the dining room for one more time to conclude our shared life. The women’s choir sing lovely songs and we reminisce about the trek and the community of suffering it forged. Many have lost loved ones, burying them at roadside leavetakings that still evoke anguish. We reflect on all this that had also brought us closer to God. Almost certainly we would not be able to stay together. The trek, moreover, has increased the distance from our banished loved ones, making an early reunion with them more remote. We wish to remember one another fondly and visit one another when possible. This was our small memorable farewell celebration. In future many of us will undoubtedly shed a few hot tears when we recall this gathering. We have reached a new landmark. Every family is establishing its own household and planting a small garden plot, which we have been assigned. Most will find work and receive money and food and those who cannot work will receive the support they need. We will doubtlessly develop new interests, embrace different viewpoints and enrich the content of our lives. But a worsening military situation burdens us with the selfsame questions. What is our future? When will it be decided? What else awaits us? These questions inevitably force their way into the mind of a layabout like me. Others among us have li le time for such misgivings. The Germans are not inclined to permit themselves such perplexing questions or gloomy thoughts. We are a people in life’s stream Washed to the ends of the earth Filled with sorrow and distress Until the Saviour calls us home Jannowitz, Warthegau, 1944

Our Life in the Warthegau Our Russian Mennonite refugees are found chiefly in villages and cities of the Warthegau and through into Upper Silesia and the Sudetenland. Thanks to local authorities, in the 10 months of our stay we have found our way around and accustomed ourselves a li le to our surroundings.

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These officials provide work, lodgings, and schooling and also deal with other needs, including support for children, unemployment insurance, house furnishings, and clothing as circumstances permit. Our physical health is likewise tended to. But our spiritual needs remain a private ma er, unless we choose to avail ourselves of what the Evangelical church has to offer. The so-called se lement offices busy themselves with plans for the refugees. Even Gauleiter Greiser, the Fuehrer’s deputy in the Warthegau, takes an active interest in the fate of the refugees in his district.3 He takes up correspondence and contacts with us, sometimes even personally, and establishes special offices under his jurisdiction to meet the needs of the ethnic Germans. The offices are instructed to observe the refugees, pinpoint their racial characteristics, and their needs and problems. Impediments to their integration into new surroundings are to be eliminated. This is all worthy of note. Towards the end of our stay in the Warthegau in early December, the Gauleiter even organized a large conference to which he invited around 500 Russian-German refugee delegates. The conference convened in the beautiful auditorium of the University of Posen. There Greiser and his associates introduced us to various se lement plans for the future and invited discussion. At the time, no one imagined that within a month, all of us would abruptly have to abandon everything and flee for our lives. Efforts to se le us permanently would come to naught. For 10 months, we had been able to lead a relatively calm and peaceful life in the li le town of Jannowitz, free of the dread and harassment of Bolshevism. We had worked peacefully, visited back and forth in the surrounding area and availed ourselves of opportunities for church services and spiritual fellowship. We had even made provisions for the winter by receiving allocations of coal, wood, and potatoes. Most women and a number of men had go en used to blue and white collar jobs. Our Spartan household existence affected everyone. Some of us were even given a chance to receive free treatments in health spas. We were certainly not spoiled and would gladly have waited out the end of the war here. The situation for other refugees was roughly the same. We had meanwhile lived through two highly disturbing and painful ordeals. The first, in September 1944, was the induction into military service of all able-bodied ethnic German men. That led to a muted lament in thousands of families that had already been ravaged and decimated by the heavy loss of their men and family members in the Soviet Union. No one complained publicly but the grievous induction

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tore open deep wounds, in many cases forever. Yet did we have a right to complain when Germans suffered similarly? The Germans had rescued us from Soviet misery and absorbed us into the German nation. Yet as uprooted, tormented, and hounded refugees from Soviet Russia, the military call-up seemed to touch us more deeply than it did the Reich Germans. A further unse ling episode came in the fall of 1944 when Soviet armies broke through into East Prussia, where they caused terrible havoc. The penetration shocked Germans who firmly believed that the enemy would never cross the German border. On this occasion the German Wehrmacht drove the Russians back, but our sense of security had been basically compromised. If security was no longer certain even within the borders of the Reich, what if a like incident were to repeat itself, would be our lot? Yet even we accustomed ourselves to si ing on a powder keg. We celebrated Christmas in 1944 as joyfully and festively as we could, but quietly. We managed to put the times and pain briefly out of mind. This was our first Christmas in Germany. We were impressed with the effort and expense all Germans poured into the celebrations despite the heavy material and spiritual burdens that the sixth year of war had exacted. As refugees from Russia it was a special thrill for us who had foregone the festivity for many years. Almost every family had a small Christmas tree, with or without candles, and many of our refugee families had them as well. There were small gi s and pastries for young and old. Extra foodstuffs were distributed including a chicken or goose for every refugee family. On Christmas Eve almost everyone a ended the Evangelical church service that was unusually beautiful and exalting. The minister was home on leave and delivered a deeply serious sermon. There were lovely songs and speeches, all under the words, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace and good will to all.” Everything proceeded in the glow of a candlelit tree. Our Gnadenfeld women’s choir was asked to sing a few songs. Small gi s for the children completed the happiness. On the previous Sunday the National Socialist Party had invited all refugees to its own Christmas celebration. A Christmas tree again stood at the centre of the festivities and there were Christmas carols, speeches, recitations, and small presents for the children. Lacking, however, was a sense of inner exaltation. Finally, on the evening of Christmas Day, we had our own Gnadenfeld Christmas festivity in the home of Frau Edelburg. Bound together as we

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were by our common homeland, we gathered with our children, likewise under a sparkling Christmas tree. We read a Christmas sermon and sang familiar carols. The women’s choir added its usual touch of beautiful songs and the children recited well-known poems. We talked about church services and festivities as we remembered them from the Gnadenfeld church and our loved ones buried in the Gnadenfeld cemetery or banished to nameless places. Would we ever see them again? We also remembered Christmas on the trek. The entire evening called forth memories of our old Molochna. It was a familiar fellowship in which we could feel simply at home a er all of our sorrows, hardships, and privations. Bound together by mutual sympathy and understanding, we shared our common joys and sorrows. Many of our women were naturally bent over in woe and wiped tears from their eyes. And who would deny them their sorrow? Is there any place in the world where mothers and women have had to bear greater hardships? Yet in this new homeland, their lined faces and bent figures do not always evoke the understanding they deserve. Many a ractive and well-groomed local German women look down upon our women as set aside by fate and abandoned to poverty. They find them repulsive and would never consider meeting them socially. Small wonder when our women sometimes feel themselves bruised and humiliated.

Section Four Germany’s Collapse, 1944–1945

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Chapter Twelve

Pell-Mell by Horse and Wagon to West Germany, 1945

Believing the Unbelievable We celebrate New Year’s in an atmosphere of calm. It is a deceptive calm, to be sure, but gratifying. Then suddenly there is the alarm. The Soviet offensive starts on 12 January, followed by a deep breakthrough behind German positions from south of Warsaw to Cracow. In the north the Soviets thrust forward across the Vistula. “Panzer penetrations are meant to do that, to spread panic,” we are reassured. Urgent directives order our area to prepare to receive refugees. The fear is palpable, but no one imagines that we ourselves will suddenly have to flee with virtually no warning. People are still beguiled by that old victory self-confidence that minimizes setbacks: “Ah, well, it can happen. Remember last fall. Weren’t the Soviets beaten back with bloodied noses?” Till the end, everyone goes about their work as usual. Then, on 17 January, tensions suddenly erupt with rumours that the enemy is nearby: “Soviet tanks have broken through everywhere. If we do not leave quickly we are lost.” The news passes from door to door and many prepare for headlong flight. We of all people have suffered grievously at Soviet hands and can hardly remain indifferent. I try to track down the mayor, but he is off gathering the news and perhaps orders on what to do next. His associates try to counter the panic. At first I cannot share the extreme anxiety. I find that radio and press reports do not warrant it. My view is also rooted in a personal belief that the German Wehrmacht will not be beaten on its own soil. Because such a frightening, incalculable disaster would leave us without purpose or a destination, I think it a huge blunder to flee unorganized and without leaders, support, or a goal.

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A messenger arrives unexpectedly from the Mayor ordering me as a representative of the Russian-Germans to appear at city hall the next morning to receive details of our evacuation. “It is true a er all,” I think, scarcely able to grasp the enormity of what awaits us. It seems frightful and insane. “Shouldn’t we be packing?” my wife asks. “There is much to consider,” I reply. In any case, I think, what is there le for us as refugees from Russia to pack? The following morning, 18 January – that unforge able date – we meet the heads of the city administration, surrounding villages, and Party at city hall to receive directives and start preparations for the evacuation. The Mayor and leaders of local groups describe our immediate situation, pass on evacuation instructions, and assign leaders to carry out the general plan of evacuation that has been decided upon by higher authorities. We are told that Germans from towns and villages are to withdraw in orderly fashion by rail or wagon train, taking along all Poles under [German] protection. The trek roads, intermediate stopping places, and possible destinations have been designated but the la er are kept secret for security reasons. Refugees in the villages are to leave by wagon with local farmers while refugees in the cities are to depart by train. Departure times are to be announced once preparations are complete. Discussions are still underway when the Mayor is called to the phone: “Prepare immediately. Do not lose time. You must depart today.” In the disorder, the Mayor issues a few orders and people everywhere rush home. I am deeply troubled, doubtful the plan can work or that we refugees have much chance of ge ing away. The mayor repeats his orders: “Villagers will pass through the city, pick up Russian refugees and move out in organized fashion. It is doubtful that a train can be mobilized for the evacuation.” There is no opportunity to discuss details with the Mayor and everything is, in any case, unclear. Everyone is to gather in the market square in two hours time with no more baggage per family than what a person can carry. I leave perplexed, thinking that we will be le behind, unless the Lord works a miracle. I pass on the orders to some of our women I meet on their way home from town, where they have been shopping. Bewildered, they look at me and then at one another. Is there no escape? The plans seem equally hopeless to them. Another Heartbreaking Departure There follows a short interval of feverish, panicky running and packing. Then everybody heads to the market square to catch a ride. What

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should we bring along, what leave behind? A er quickly taking stock we decide to abandon all of our household belongings, including the few still le over from Gnadenfeld. Ge ing to the square is more troublesome. I return to work and join fellow employees in an urgent appeal to our management for permission to use the firm’s wagon. Rohloff, our German boss, is not well and does not consider fleeing. Besides, as a longtime resident, he has many friends among the Poles. But his son, a war-disabled soldier, decides to come along. The spacious livestock wagon is loaded with fodder and we harness and hitch up the horses, a pair of strong bays. While our three Vulried Fräuleins pack, I return to my family, somewhat relieved, and find them already at the market place with a few suitcases. There 70 families of our Russian Mennonite refugees with children, their sick, and a few belongings gather in small groups waiting for wagons. What a gloomy sight. The day is luckily overcast and mild since the light clothing of these people is hardly suited for travel in frigid weather. The first wagons from neighbouring villages stop to pick up refugees while others refuse to take along more than a few extra people who find perches high among the baggage. When families and luggage are split up, mothers strongly protest, fearing tragedy. Several will in fact never again see their separated family members or belongings. Our wagon arrives and we take our places. Police load on two more women and a 10-year-old boy, making a total of 10 people on our wagon plus baggage and fodder. I will do most of the driving. Our bays, Max and Moritz, look fine, so let us be off, in God’s name. Swaying back and forth on the high seats, we move towards the edge of town where other wagons have lined up, waiting. The marketplace is, thank God, empty, suggesting that all of our people have hitched a ride. The trek sets out in the gathering darkness, most wagons drawn by strong horses. I catch sight of the elderly carpenter Wein, with his wife, and his daughter, on a wagon drawn by a small and weak horse. None of the wagons have coverings. We start out slowly, with frequent stops. Meanwhile the sky has cleared. Underfoot is ice and snow, and ahead we can make out the road. The First Night Around midnight our trek stops in the already deserted village of Elsenau where women and girls of the local National Socialist Women’s Commi ee serve coffee in a deserted inn. The mayor, Herr Bade, and

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Dr Eckert provide instructions, restoring a li le confidence that some governmental organization still exists. We stable our horses in a barn with plenty of fodder and uneasy cows. Perhaps they sense their imminent abandonment. Everything in the house is topsey- turvey, the rooms open and cold. In despair, the farmers have le many belongings behind. We enter the house, warm ourselves until morning, eat a li le, and return to the road. We witness a few farmers trying to rid themselves of the passengers assigned them, shouting that the wagons are too overloaded for the snow-covered roads. It is terribly cold. Women wail and children cry. We report what we have seen to the village mayor. He intervenes, again demonstrating that some leadership still exists and can issue commands. Where Are Our Own People? Around noon we pass through the district centre of Eichenbrueck where we expect to pick up our daughter and the Voths theirs, but learn to our dismay that all Germans had le town yesterday. Another fear. Have our missing daughters go en away and where will we find them? It is Sunday and the Poles stand inquisitively at their yard gates, watching. The streets are jammed with trek wagons and military vehicles. A monastery that had long housed many of our refugees erupts in a dull roar of smoke and flames. War supplies are reportedly being set afire. It is an uncanny moment. The enemy is supposedly close at hand. We again spend the night in a deserted farm, which has some fodder for the horses and something for us. Our group now includes Jacob Deleske, his wife, and his child, and the family of his boss, a certain Diesterhof of the dairy [in Jannowitz]. The place is heated and straw is brought in for night quarters. The women prepare a hot meal with le over potatoes and open jars with canned fruit. Early the following morning we return to the road in extreme cold and move ahead only slowly. The trek is vast in magnitude, as far to the front and back of us as we can see, but we have no idea of the whereabouts of our people. Late on the third day we arrive in the small town of Rogasin to look for night quarters. The streets are crowded with wagons and we move to the Market Square, where the trek stops and we feed the horses. A er a short break, someone orders us to move along. Grownups and children howl and our two Bensing women, who are quite delicate, lightly clothed, and chilled to the bone, refuse to run alongside the wagon to keep warm. The town is inhabited by Poles. Since I have not been off

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of the wagon all day, I push my way through to the sidewalk in total darkness to loosen up and warm my joints walking. Around midnight a door in a nearby house opens and a few people come out, light and steam escaping with them through the door. Aha, I think to myself, maybe I can warm myself here, and move closer for a look. Inside Poles are busily serving coffee for a few Pfennigs. How surprising to find Poles in the middle of the night helping refugees a er having so o en been denounced as German-haters themselves. Indeed they are even friendly and offer milk with the coffee. I drink a cup and beg a few extra cups for my fellow refugees. Revived and touched by the affability of the Poles, we return to our wagon. As we resume our journey, the horses slip from side to side on the road and several wagons end up in ditches or hanging from tree limbs beside the road. But the trek keeps moving forward as quickly as it can. In the morning we are joined by a throng of pedestrians pulling hand sleighs and a few belongings. It includes a youth camp, or is it a school? With backpacking teachers and pupils, it has formed into a long row beside the road. From the right a trek forces its way into our line of wagons. Roads are jammed with thousands of wagons that press forward helter skelter or stop and wait. Military units appear out of nowhere, blocking movement. Suddenly we hear cannon thunder nearby. Well now, how can that be? Where does it come from? The roads are jammed and motionless. Will We Get Across the Netze? Slowly, with many stops and starts, we reach the small town of Scharnikau on the Netze River. The penetrating cold forces people to run alongside their wagons to keep from freezing, but the ladies on our wagon say their feet are too sore to walk. We are told the area is swarming with partisans and there have been incidents, a rumour confirmed when soldiers in white camouflage approach, tanks and cannon in ba le position, and observation posts at the ready. We see trenches being dug at approaches to the town and corpses in civilian clothing at the roadside. All of the elements of a major military confrontation seem to be drawing together at the Netze and we are terrified at what might happen. Will we even manage to cross the river? We slowly push our way into town along increasingly dark and deserted streets. Armed military guards stand at street corners, cannons have been set up in the market square, and a soldier directs trek

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traffic. Since the large bridge across the Netze could be blown up at any moment, our section of the trek detours le wards along the Netze. Soon we are outside town and with the road less crowded are soon making good time. We would normally plan our night stop at this hour, but we sense danger and keep pushing forward despite fatigue and darkness. Later we learn that we had missed falling into Russian hands by only a hair. To the right the Netze flows eastward. To the le rises a forested ridge from which cannon thunder, machine gun fire, and rising fire balls erupt. We keep moving, determined to put as much distance as we can between ourselves and this terrible place. We manage to cover 20–30 kilometres overnight and reach Filene where much less anxious people direct us to the river crossing. There a wagon trek is forming. The one familiar face is that of Deleske who has stuck closely to us throughout the night. We cross safely over a rickety hanging bridge and seek shelter in a farmer’s yard close to the river. We are tired, stiff from the cold, and the horses, standing, covered in blankets, are sunning themselves in the yard. Finding lodgings is difficult. Refugees crowd available rooms, warm themselves, and drink hot coffee served by women from the town. We are shown to a free spot at the corner of a long table and wait our turn. The refugees are uncommunicative, troubled, the farmers flustered as they sponge up information on what has happened and prepare to flee. Yesterday at Scharnikau, Russian tanks had launched a surprise a ack that penetrated the refugee trek columns, causing much havoc and damage. People had been robbed and shot, refugees turned back and partisans had suddenly emerged out of nowhere. For a long time we talk about the possible fate of our own people, only one of whom, Deleske, is with us. We thank our guardian angels for protecting us. We sigh, pondering the meaning of this act of grace. A er thanking our hosts we climb back onto the wagon, Max and Moritz give a mighty tug, and we are again underway, thanking God for our strong and cooperative bays. Meanwhile it has been announced that we are to travel through Frankfurt on the Oder. We turn to the southwest and rejoin the trek along a good road through the Netze lowland. The large number of military units, observation points, and infantry incursions make us restless and insecure. Towards evening we reach a spread-out village looking for lodgings, but a roadside guard advises us that the place is already over-crowded and we should proceed to the town of Kreuz, where we arrive in pitch

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darkness. The Fraeuleins Vulriede and Rohloff look up the National Socialist Women’s Commi ee for the night and Herr Diesterhoe searches for an inn. Rohloff informs us that he has been assigned a larger space at a farm whose mistress at first refuses our request for accommodation before relenting. With good shelter and fodder, the place seems ideal. We are served hot coffee and bed down for the night. The Bersing sisters bemoan their fate, complaining that their feet are frozen and ache. My own fingers and hands are badly swollen from holding the reins. The next day we return to the road at a late hour. Our hostess has meanwhile turned into an open and friendlier person. When we suggest that she should also perhaps be preparing for flight she bewails her future. Dear God, where will this end? Unexpectedly on a city street we encounter a Frau Janzen and her child Hugo, weeping, bewildered, and lamenting their misfortune. She had been separated from her mother and sisters. Her wagon driver had dumped her on the street with a few belongings, telling her to look up the National Socialist Women’s Commi ee. She declines our offer of a li saying she and her son are too lightly clad. The child whimpers. We are reluctant to leave her behind, but recognize that many like her are in similarly hopeless situations. Confused and fearful for their own lives, many have lost their feelings of obligation for the poor, forge ing the commandment to love one’s neighbour. Moreover, those entrusted with leadership and responsibility for the welfare of the refugees, have difficulty wielding authority in the midst of the confusion. We for our part have seen nothing of our own leaders since the second day of the flight. A Remarkable Occurrence We rejoin the stream of refugees through Vordam and Friedeberg, but somehow forget that our own Gnadenfeld ancestors had le this very area by trek about 100 years ago. At the time, they had been full of hope, anticipation, and gratitude, departing their villages of Brenkenhofswalde and Franztal to se le crown land granted them by Emperor [Nicholas I] on the Molochna.1 To their minds, they were moving to a promised land where fellow believers had already established homes. How strange that a century later their descendants, a er losing everything, were fleeing past onetime homes into a clouded future under the threat of Russian guns. What a sad destiny for our community of believers.

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In the crush of trek wagons and military vehicles in Vordam, we meet Johann Neufeld, Elisabe hal, who had led his village trek group as far as Scharnikau. There Russian tanks had broken into the Elisabe hal refugee trek and sca ered it. Neufeld now rides his bicycle back and forth along the trek route searching for them. He relates his experience, but since we know nothing about anyone’s whereabouts he resumes his search. Neufeld is one person who still feels responsible for his fellow man. His personal story is, moreover, very sorrowful. On the eve of the German occupation, while he and other villagers had been away digging trenches, his wife and child had been deported to Siberia. A er ending up behind German lines himself, he had, at the start of the occupation, returned to his village only to find it deserted. Since then he and several others who had similarly found themselves alone in Elisabe hal and Alexandertal, had banded together in a tightly-knit group that had stayed united during the occupation, on the trek, and in the Warthegau. Their feelings of solidarity seem to characterize our larger community as it flees the Soviets. These will likely reappear during our coming separation and dispersion. On 25 January 1945, the fi h day of our flight, traffic thins a li le, the weather has turned somewhat milder and we move along more confidently. Our route now passes through lovely German villages and countryside that despite the dilapidation amaze us as refugees from Russia. By our steppe standards, the landscape seems incredibly a ractive. How sad to cross it under tragic circumstances that make it hard to appreciate the beauty. I must focus exclusively on the road, the horses, and the wagon. My responsibilities are what they were on the trek out of Russia. Avoid banging into the wagon ahead of us. Stop when others stop. Stick to the right side of the road. Avoid slipping into a ditch. Yield or overtake as needed. Directly on to the Oder We are now pointed to the northwest which means another change in destination. Rumours from the front admit that the Bolsheviks can no longer be beaten back. At the start of the flight we had still hoped that the Russian breakthrough could be reversed and we would be able to return to the Wartegau. No one believes this anymore. It is a calamity. People everywhere are quietly preparing to flee and the refugee stream has turned into a torrent. Yet our immediate worry is still to find night lodgings for ourselves and our horses? There is a li le le over fodder

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and food. We can again buy bread with ration cards. But will we find a friendly housewife to take us in for the night, one who sympathizes with our plight and would willingly give us a few potatoes and heat up a pot of coffee for us? We are not made of steel and crave a warm place to wash, to recover a li le, and to eat a hot meal. Yet luck has also been with us. People have not always been open-handed with their help, yet we should not forget that they too are tired, lack space, and have to deal with refugees day-in-and-day-out. We are, moreover, a large group of ten. Nor have all refugees been unfailingly courteous and grateful. Still we also notice a certain prejudice among Germans against their Black Sea compatriots, seeing us as dirty people. We sometimes enter a village that billets soldiers and give up hope of finding an empty bed. Then we continue to the next village where we arrive in the dark. Our quartermasters go from door to door begging for lodgings while we sit on our wagons, sighing, “Lord, open their hearts and doors.” Things are naturally be er when a mayor appears at a village entrance and directs wagons to nearby farms and schoolboys organize the rest of the welcome. Such occasions are rare. On the street of Friedeberg we meet the Vulriedes’s aunt who is beside herself with worry. She had stopped off for a bite to eat and returned to find that her Polish servants, horses, and wagons had disappeared. A two-hour search had turned up nothing. She now stands here quite alone, stripped of her last possessions, including ration cards, and wails. We take her aboard our wagon. Many German women have been treated similarly. In Friedeberg I feed the horses while our group heads off to the community kitchen for a rich soup. They return with what is le for me. From here on we o en have a hot square meal. We are also touched when groups of women or children occasionally appear at the roadside with pots of coffee for us. One time the children even received some milk. In times like these we hear much cursing, but much love is also being sown that will one day come fully to light. Meanwhile we search for a safe harbour, hoping against hope that we will meet up with our compatriots and daughter Erika en route. Crossing the Oder River We have passed through Berlinchen, Lippehne, Soldin, Bad Schoenfliess, and Koenigsberg in Pomerania and reached the Oder River. It is a time of terrible anxiety. The high bank of the river is being quickly fortified. The city of Schwedt stands at a bridge where we cross a er a lengthy

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wait. The traffic is well regulated and the delay is shorter than it was at the Nemirov bridge [during the winter of 1943–4]. Yet we are dismayed when we witness the ice being blown up and engineers installing explosive charges and fuses along the bridge. How tragic if the enemy were to leapfrog the river. We cross the Oder to the soothing words of a man on the street in Schwedt: “Relax, you’re across. The Russians won’t cross the Oder so easily.” This we would gladly believe, but the opposite seems more likely to be the case. With these depressing thoughts we move on through Angermuende, Herzsprung, Joachimstal in Uckermark, Gross-Schoenebeck, north of Berlin, Loewenberg, and Neu Ruppin in Brandenburg. We are first told that our destination is the Templin district, Mecklenburg, then Neu Ruppin. This suggests a degree of leadership. The icy roads take a heavy toll on our horses and we take a day’s break in Herzsprung on the farm of a certain Frau Krause. It is well supplied with fodder. Our kindly hostess asks Leonard Rohloff, a trained butcher, to slaughter a large pig, to which he devotes a day. Herr Krause is away in the Wehrmacht. She is preparing to flee and will leave behind a well-stocked household and farm – a barn full of cows, four good horses, many pigs, geese, chickens, an excellent house, and farm buildings. Bombs over Berlin A er passing through Gross-Schoenebeck and Loewenberg we enter the area 40 kilometres north of Berlin where we hear grim stories of enemy a acks on the capital. In Gross-Schoenebeck, a lovely country village, we are hosted by a Schaefer family. As we lie down in beds with clean linens and enjoy the excellent care, we are sure that we will never again be so agreeably received. Retired from their butcher shop, the elderly couple had undoubtedly put aside enough for their retirement. Over morning coffee, the old man fetches an extra pair of smoked sausages for us from his secret larder. Sometime later we wonder what happened to these good people a er the Russians arrived. For a few days the weather turns pleasantly mild, with good roads, and we move steadily along. Were it not for the overhead drone of bombers heading towards Berlin and wailing sirens in nearby villages, the area would have le a favourable impression on us. But we shudder at the explosion of falling bombs and the horror unfolding nearby as throngs scurry helplessly through the hell of a large and beautiful city being blown apart and set aflame. Although the sky is overcast, we fear

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strafing from low-flying planes and, on the insistence of the women, seek shelter beneath trees at the side of the road. Then the women relent and we resume our travel to the accompaniment of deep rumblings and the wail of sirens. The images of what is unfolding in Berlin haunt us. How can you reconcile Christian morality with the obliteration of cities and a people in this way? On 1 February we enter the district capital of Neu-Ruppin on quiet Sunday streets that are almost devoid of refugees and other traffic. We seek out news from the National Socialist Women’s Commi ee about our destination, friends, and darling daughter. The horses are fed. As a group of curious bystanders surrounds us, Mother greets one woman as a long-lost sister. She is a Frau Siemens who had been on the wagon train from Gnadenfeld and had lived in the house with us in Jannowitz. Meanwhile, she and her two daughters have experienced great hardship. A er being abandoned by the farmer on whose wagon they had fled Jannowitz, they had become separated from their group. Taking a train through Berlin, they had reached a nearby camp where Mrs Siemens and other refugees were now searching for their fellow trekkers. We are the first friends she has met. Our meeting touches her deeply and she pours out her personal story and recounts the tragedies that had befallen the Voth, Schmidt, and Rempel families. Frau Auguste Voth and daughter Erna, as well as Frau Rempel and Nelly, the daughter of Frau Maria Schmidt, had fallen to Russian bullets. When Russian tanks had broken through German lines, Frau Schmidt and her li le girl had reportedly been critically injured at the train station in Kolmar, close to Scharnikau on the Netze River, and taken to hospital in Schneidemuehl. We had been present at the time and fled the area in great panic. Frau Siemens also describes how Frau Margarethe Loewen had been knocked off her wagon and run over by a Russian tank, but does not know the fate of her four children. (This proved not to be true, however. Frau Loewen did not perish at the time but was detained in the eastern zone and later sent back to Russia with her children.) One of Frau Siemens’ sons had been killed fighting in the German Wehrmacht, another is missing, and her husband and another son had been exiled in Russia. We leave shaken and moved by our conversation with Mrs Siemens and ask whether it is providential that we have done relatively so well. There is much to be grateful for. Fraeulein Vulriede returns with news of our destination and we sadly take leave of Frau Siemens, exchanging new addresses and promising to stay in touch. Our destination is now

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Sieversdorf, 30 kilometres west, near Kyritz. A er some noodle soup with meat at the public kitchen, we return to the road. An Uncertain Goal? 2 February 1945 We arrive in Sieversdorf where communal authorities have been forewarned and are on the street, allocating refugees among the farms. The Bersing women and their li le Paul are taken to a separate house while the rest of us and the horses are directed to the farm of someone called Paul Neumann. Elderly and friendly, he is somewhat dismayed as he receives us in his yard. His earnest-looking wife gives us a thorough going over. It would, he says a li le embarrassed, be hard for them to accommodate our three-family group of eight in one room. They had already offered shelter to two bombed-out families from Berlin. Yet a er some hesitation, he invites us to get down from our wagon and discuss other possibilities with authorities. The Neumanns have a wellequipped farm with a large number of cows, horses, and farm buildings as well as a Polish worker and Ukrainian maid. Their house looks solid and spacious. None of their children is at home and he tells us of one son who is reported missing in action. Gradually Mrs Neumann warms to us and she and her husband end up treating us generously and with great sympathy. In our long travels through Germany we have had no choice but to count on the good will of local residents. We encountered many, of course, who were le untouched by the distress of the time. They seemed simply to be immune to the fate of refugees and rejected our pleas for shelter. But many others, God be praised, far exceeded our expectations. We must remember that it was not easy to provide lodgings for the 11 people on our wagon. In addition, there were our faithful steeds, Max and Moritz, who had go en us through many tight spots and needed a roof over their heads. Shelter and fodder for them was difficult to find especially when a potential host had only a small chicken barn. The public response to the unprecedented crisis should also be judged against a se ing in which the comings and goings of refugee hordes had stretched out over weeks. In a world defiled by war and egoism, those who reached out were people like the Paul Neumanns. Their lives were devoted to doing more than they were obliged to do. May our heavenly Father reward them.

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We rest for several days, cleaning up and doing laundry. Then to our surprise we are ordered to pack up and move farther west to make room for a new batch of refugees. Since we badly want to end our life of ceaseless wandering and stay with the kindly Neumanns, we are almost tempted to protest. Yet this is not to be. Soon we look back gratefully on this move that got us out of the area before the Soviets put in their monstrous appearance. We pack and stow belongings, and on 8 February, our fi h day with the Neumanns, resume our flight, this time without the Bersing women who have decided to continue on by train. It is Frau Neumann’s birthday and a er a farewell coffee and birthday Kuchen, we take our leave. The weather is fine, the horses keen, and with good roads free of snow, we feel renewed. Our new destination is Uelzen (a funny name), in the Hannover area, west of the Elbe River, about 200 kilometres away. Barring accidents, we should manage it easily within a week. Farther, Always Farther We stop in the li le town of Kyritz where a representative of the National Socialist Women’s Commi ee provides information about night quarters, food and onward routes. Worried about fodder shortages and prospects of a night in communal quarters, we consider moving on. But a member of the Hitler Youth jumps up beside me on the coachman’s seat and points to good hostel quarters nearby that have a supply of oats. We stop in the yard of a starch factory. It seems a li le strange. We are then baffled to learn that our quarters will, in fact, be in an air raid shelter. The women do not find this appealing, and suggest we move on to the next village. But a man appears to assure us that all is fine and that the wagon and contents will be well guarded. Coffee is being served, he says. We look a er the horses and enter a shelter consisting of a labyrinth of corridors and rooms. A large, brightly-lit chamber with tables and benches, that serves as a dining room, leads into heated rooms with straw: our night quarters. Our friendly host reappears with cups of coffee and milk and looks a er our needs. “We will take care of you,” he says proudly. “In the past weeks thousands of people have stayed overnight or for a day or two of rest.” Only a few guests are here tonight. We reconcile ourselves to the unique inn, have our snack and coffee, and bed down. The next day we pass through Lenzen, Perleberg, a small old town, to Domeitz on the Elbe, an old fortress where Fritz Reuter was once

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imprisoned.2 We are repeatedly warned about daytime low-flying planes and their deadly fire. But since it is mostly overcast, we decide to risk travel by day rather than on unfamiliar roads in the dark at night. People in Perleberg advise us of a route that minimizes chances of a traffic tie-up at the Elbe River crossing. So for a hundred kilometres we follow the Elbe with its embanked shores and spring runoff flowing peacefully north to the sea. Manoeuvring in midstream are small ships, barges, tugboats, and launches. “This is the German Dnieper,” I think as I take in the panorama. The difference is that the Dnieper has no firm boundaries. It lacks a defined bed and spreads itself across kilometres during runoff. While Gogol described the Dnieper “roaring” and “groaning,” the Elbe flows undisturbed within its embankments, even in spring. We pass through a beautiful marshy area, a centre of ca le breeding, and see small herds out on the greening pastures. Because of the danger of floods, sca ered farms and some villages are built on slightly higher ground. Lying hidden beneath gigantic old oak trees are low, portly farmhouses, in the old Lower Saxon style, replete with low gables, walls mixed with straw, and large entrance gates to threshing floors. The straw- or tile-covered houses are mostly moss-covered, suggesting solid old age. The farmer, labourers, livestock, fodder, and unthrashed grain share space under a single roof. Traditionally the house has an inscription on its gable that gives the name and year of birth of the original owner: Johann Knopp, Amelie, nee Rippke, 1748 AD. There follows a mo o: Vor Fuer en Stormbebrus, bewor de leewe God dit Hues (“Against fire and storm, dear God, protect this house”). The farmers are long-se led and a ached to the soil. The hereditary family properties usually remain in a single family for centuries. The oak trees are tall and strong, but I see no orchards. This seems strange when I think of Ukraine, the Caucasus, and elsewhere where a German peasant farmstead is unimaginable without an orchard, not to speak of a Mennonite farm.

Chapter Thirteen

The End of Hitler’s Reich

Safely Across the Elbe River We pass through German city suburbs with a ractive new houses surrounded by neat gardens that leave an impression of modern progress and well-being. But the inner cities, with narrow streets, closely crowded, high-gabled, half-timbered houses, and old adornments still carry the stamp of the Middle Ages. Old centres are still o en enclosed by massive city walls and large gates surmounted by huge ornate clocks, the la er seemingly intended to prod wanderers into quickening their pace or inviting them to spend the night. This is the layout of Perleberg, Uelzen, and Dannenberg with core areas that evoke a comfortable and secure bourgeois life. Our appearance as refugees and the passing clatter of our horses and wagons on rough pavement intrude briefly on this peace and evoke glances that are interested, reflective, or distressed. Do the la er indicate compassion or an effort to divine something larger? Who can know? For many we are likely an evil omen, a portent of a desolate future. At the Doemitz Fortress we cross the broad Elbe on a boldly arched bridge that sways high over the river. At the moment it is not crowded with refugee wagons, and we cross without stopping. A train ra les over a second bridge nearby resting on five or six arches. We see li le of Doemitz, other than its few high walls and ba lements that remind us of its role as a fortress, or onetime fortress. We seek out night shelter in Quickborn, a village already west of the Elbe River, where we drive onto a large farmyard whose owner has space for our wagon in a large shed, fodder for the horses in the barn, but li le for us. The family watches sullenly from a distance, quite uninvolved in the encompassing

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catastrophe. How can such a deep and unrealistic sense of peace and security survive? We move on and are welcomed by the family of a friendly public official. Although the architecture and buildings remain much the same, the farther west we travel the larger and more well-to-do the farms seem to be. In Uelzen we are told to continue to the neighbouring district of Celle that has been designated as the goal of refugees from the Dietfurt, Warthegau area. Well, that should be it, we think. Even if the weather remains ideal for us as world-girdling tramps, our wandering has to stop sometime. On a more serious note, we are happy at the thought that Celle is only 45 kilometres away, two days travel at most, and that we may finally meet someone from Gnadenfeld, perhaps even our Erika. Suddenly the alarm in Uelzen sounds and the police force everyone down into an air raid shelter. There, to the dull thud of falling bombs, we wait out the a ack. On the sixth day of flight from Sieversdorf we reach Enschede, district Celle, where we stop at the reception centre to register, eat, feed our horses, and receive our final destination, Klein Hehlen, near Celle, 15 kilometres away. The day is warm and sunny and the road exceptional, meaning we o en seek shelter at the roadside in an area that fortunately has many woods. As fighter pilots and air raid sirens fill the air with their alarm we hear the crackle of machine-gun fire and later learn that a nearby passenger train has been hit and people killed. “What barbarism,” people curse. Dark and Sombre Reception in Celle A er having been denied lodgings in Garsen, the town before Celle, because it is too close to our destination, it is dark when we finally enter Celle. In searching for the suburb of Klein-Hehlen we almost lose our bearings, but finally drive onto the yard of a Herr Rippke, the head of the local farmers [association]. He takes in part of our group and the wagon and sends the three of us Neufelds on to the home of another large-scale farmer, the Lodemanns. The Lodemann family is forewarned of our coming and turns out in the hallway of their home to examine us, these Black Sea Germans, closely. Although we are led up to the a ic, where beds are already made, and Frau Lodemann brings us a milk soup, we notice that the family is less than thrilled at our arrival. The following morning, Herr Rippke informs us that the Lodemanns had been looking for a larger, more robust family and asks us to move

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to a smaller farm. The small-scale farmer, a Herr Koop and his wife, give us an equally frosty reception. They offer us a tiny, cold, unheated room, hardly large enough for the three of us to sleep. Since we have no alternative we move in. Since my rheumatism will tie me down to my room, the situation will affect principally me. This we explain to our new hosts and Mr Rippke. At our request, during the following few days, the la er finds us new lodgings. Frau Braul, the new hostess at our third place, receives us with tears in her eyes. She has recently heard about the death of her mother-in-law, and that her husband is missing in action on the western front. Our arrival has now filled her cup to overflowing. As we learned later, Frau Braul had at first argued with local authorities about their decision that she provide us with two rooms with beds, a table, and chairs. It is a painful situation for us. We try to reassure her that we do not want to intrude on her life, or burden or constrain her. We are not willful people, but have acted simply out of necessity on the orders of others. We would like to come to a friendly understanding with her and her two daughters. For our part, we are grateful simply to have found two spacious rooms with two single beds plus feather comforters and a few extra pieces of furniture, lodgings that we hope to keep for some time. This is surprisingly much and we are grateful. We do not, however, have a kitchen, and our hostess has no wish to share hers. But this is not a problem. Mother would like to have her own kitchen, even though there is no possibility of real cooking in our rooms. For now she will happily try to prepare meals over the iron heater in our lodgings. Other possibilities for cooking may emerge later. Since the main problem is fuel we feel the need to canvass local offices for a li le coal. But who will do this? Mother is inexperienced in such ma ers, Erika is not here, and Frau Braul adopts a somewhat distant a itude, leaving us to struggle with the problem on our own. She feels she has done what she can for us. We agree that she should not have to give up everything for the refugees. Mother puts off requesting even a pail of coal from her, naturally on loan, for some time. SeĴling in Celle Today is Sunday, 18 February, exactly a month ago since we fled the Warthegau. The temperature is luckily mild and we sit and ponder how to think and feel our way into our new situation, which is not easy. We are naturally grateful for being here, but these feelings are

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overshadowed by the problems of refugee life in a place where we are unfamiliar with local circumstances, people, offices, and many regulations and customs, and where we must set up a new household with virtually empty hands. As the person chiefly responsible for this side of things, Mother sighs wistfully, “Here we sit marooned like a duck on a stubble field and don’t know up from down.” (Doa seĴ wie nue aus dee Ent opem Stobbe en weeti nich han noch hea). Things had been easier in the Warthegau where Mother had managed our own household, but we had been less isolated from others at the time. Refugees had helped one another and outside support by authorities had been be er organized. With now genuine empathy, Frau Koop, our previous hostess, invites us for dinner, which we gladly accept. We linger on until late in the a ernoon. As we take our leave, she provides us with a gi of some potatoes and turnips and friendly advice from her family on how to secure a li le wood and other supplies. On Monday Mother and Jacob go off into the city to gather some information and provisions and to search for people from Gnadenfeld. So far from home, we can scarcely imagine life without them. Where can they be? Everyone from Jannowitz was instructed to come here, yet we have met no one. This is not anyone’s fault, of course, since our flight had turned everything head over heels. Those who managed to reach our destination a er four weeks of dangers, privations, and exhaustion, are naturally happy. Although we will only later learn the full story of the miseries suffered by many of our friends, we already know something of the horrors and tragedies that befell a few people from Gnadenfeld. How will our Erika find us? If only she had managed to leave [the Wartegau]. The first day of our search remains fruitless. Mother visits the city daily for news and on errands. She drops by the National Socialist Women’s Commi ee central refugee camps and checks the refugee lists, where our names have also been registered. One fine day she and Jacob are standing at the Celle Rathaus watching people come and go, looking for a familiar face, anyone at all. “Wouldn’t that be lovely?” “Ah, look, look, isn’t that Walter Janzen? Jacob, look over there, that man. And look, who’s that walking next to him?” “Erika!” Jacob shouts. “Dear heaven, can it be?” But Jacob is already racing through the heavy traffic. “Erika!” He is already at her side, thumping her on the shoulder. “Erika!” “Jasha!” The two are already in one another’s arms, to the delight of passersby.

The End of Hitler’s Reich 325

Mother is immediately there. Our loved one, so terribly missed, has been found. What happiness. Erika had been on the lookout for us, as had Janzen for his wife, his child, and other family members. We learn that Erika is staying with other people from Gnadenfeld in Garsen, the village close to Celle where we had ourselves planned to spend a night. Overcome with joy, Mother and Jacob rush “home” with the good news. Thanks be to God, a thousand thanks. Erika, our treasure, our support, is back with us again. Also, a number of friends from home have been found nearby. What happiness. How fortunate we are and how marvellously the Lord has led us, albeit through dangers and fears. On the flight from the Warthegau, amidst the military action and confusion surrounding the trek during surprise tank a acks we had frequently, at night, been in peril of becoming separated from our young Jasha. Now that we four are together again, unscathed, with friends from Gnadenfeld, our gratitude knows no bounds. Perhaps it might be possible to move together into one village where the unceasing siren alarms and enemy danger would be less immediate, fuel more easily available, and food less of a problem. Although everything at the start of the week had seemed quite hopeless, we can now move forward with greater courage and hope. If only our tragically deported son in Russia were with us as well, our joy, despite all, would be complete. But we will have to bear that grief patiently and with resignation until the Lord in his mercy perhaps restores him to us. May He, until that day, keep him well in body and soul. A few days later Erika joins us, much the worse for wear a er the hardships and ups and downs of her flight. She and her colleague and roommate, Frau Anna Riediger, had been at their desks [in the town of Eichenbrueck] when they got the startling command to evacuate the town and flee. They quickly packed a small suitcase with necessities and rushed to the town square to hitch a ride. When nothing came of this effort, they waited fruitlessly for other possibilities and then, terrified, rushed to the railway station. There they were told that the last refugee train had just le . Noting that railway officials were preparing their own departure, they pleaded for a ride. The ride soon ended, however. They then jumped aboard a train with open box cars. In frost and wind, a er many stops, it brought them to Berlin, suffering from heavy frost. A number of children had suffocated or frozen to death. Erika and Frau Riediger spent two weeks with a kindly woman in Ostpriegnitz, Mecklenburg. Finally, they fled westward to Celle. They were told it was the final destination of refugees from Jannowitz. A er a few days at the assembly centre for refugees in Celle, Erika and Anna Riediger, at

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their request, had found lodgings in Garsen where some of our people from Gnadenfeld were staying. In Garsen, they had discovered Frau Anna Riediger’s father, Wilhelm Voth. During the flight he had become separated from his family. With him was his grandson (Anna Riediger’s son), and her [sister-inlaw], Helene Voth. Tragically Anna’s sister, Erna, had been killed by tank fire. Her mother, Auguste Voth, had been seriously wounded and taken to hospital and her brother had simply disappeared. At the same time, Maria Schmidt, Anna Riediger’s aunt, had lost two daughters to tank fire. Gravely wounded, she had been le somewhere by herself to recuperate in a hospital. Anna’s sister-in-law, Helene, experienced the full horror of all of this and is now alone in her misery. The grandmother, Koehn, has lost one of her grandchildren. Our neighbour, Frau Loewen, has lost a son. W. Janzen is looking for his wife and child. Of the family of Susanna Isaak, only a 10-year-old son has appeared here. Boundless misery and heartache surrounded us. Yet we as a family are together again, something that moves us to the most heartfelt thanks and the deepest compassion for those so sorely afflicted. ѡroubles, afflictions, and defeat March 1945 Another month has passed and, to our relief, given our heating problems, spring has arrived. Meanwhile, many smaller and larger worries have been resolved. The question of maintenance and financial support is one. We have learned to find our way through the thicket of government offices and have made contacts with people locally. The German government is generously supporting refugees and bombing victims. Its clothing drives under the mo o, “The People’s Sacrifice,” have been particularly helpful. I have been given a good suit and a light coat. Large numbers of refugees keep arriving and are being given shelter. Factories and workshops are working at full steam under the threat of incessant alarms and air a acks. The la er is not so true directly in Celle, but within earshot at nearby airfields, at Nieenhagen, at oilfields, and o en in Hannover. For some time, Jacob has been a ending classes at a nearby public school, but the lessons are o en interrupted by siren alarms. Erika has found a job in a munitions factory in Hustedt, to which she commutes every morning by train. O en she finds herself

The End of Hitler’s Reich 327

in danger of enemy a ack and gunfire. As a result, new cares and worries have lowered us to the level of the surrounding population. Naturally, the greatest fear gripping every German is losing the war. Sombre news from the fronts keeps people under tension and in a state of alarm. Veiled and euphemistic newspaper reports permit the critical situation to peep through. The weak defence mounted against air bombardments reflects the tragic state of German air power and the collapse, under the weight of American superiority, of “Fat Hermann” (Goering). To bolster people’s courage and hope, faith is being stirred up in the recently developed German miracle weapons. This may well have the desired effect with some, but the faith of many is foundering. They do not say so publicly for fear that they will lose faith in their own capacity and in their trust in the abilities of the Fuehrer. According to Christ’s sayings, faith can move mountains or plunge them into the sea. This trust in the power of the Almighty is absent here in leaders and people alike. I sense that the German people stand at an abyss of deep humiliation because there is so much that God cannot leave unpunished.1 In the east the Russians have crossed the Oder at various places, in the west the Americans and English have crossed Old Father Rhine, and under heavy fighting, Hungary and Austria have fallen almost fully into enemy hands. Faith in victory has been sha ered for many. Others cling to it desperately. They assume that defeat would mark the end of everything, including that of Europe. We feel the same. Should the Russians flood Europe, what would the end be for us as Russian refugees and for everyone else? This scarcely imaginable outcome is not wished by anyone. We must therefore believe, suffer, struggle, and work as though we are possessed. The German leadership has accomplished much that is admirable. It has won difficult victories with its brave troops and mastered tricky situations. Will it now, at the end, collapse a er years of arduous economic and military struggle? This must not be. The astonishing heroism of the soldiers, their loyalty, and their willingness to fight more desperately than ever before, also stems from the presence of the enemy on the soil of the Fatherland. Five-anda-half years of struggle and victory have passed. Everyone has made titanic sacrifices. The soldiers are resolved that this not be in vain. May God the Lord, who holds the reins of fortune in His hands, in His grace, bring everything to a good end. In olden times, the city of Celle was a principality of the dukes of Luenenburg.2 With a population now of some thirty thousand, it is a

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city of culture and administration and a garrison centre with various barracks. It is the seat of the provincial court, of the provincial stud farm, a centre of silkworm breeding and silk spinning. The Institute for Research in Agriculture and Horticulture is located here, as is the Institute for Apiculture, and much else. Beautifully located along the Aller River, it is a leisurely place with parks, a ducal castle, and enclosed gardens at the centre of the city. It seems to have no industries other than a bun and biscuit factory, and the Hostmann-Steinberg paint factory, in whose house we live. Local air defences are correspondingly weak. Celle lacks large air raid shelters. There are only a few fragmentation cellars. Local people have less to fear from possible a acks. Despite howling sirens and alarms people are therefore a li le lackadaisical, fearless, with few seeking out shelters at night when the alarm sounds. It is an indifference that may one day have dire consequences. Given the huge number of incoming bombers it would be almost miraculous if the city were to be spared totally. This makes us uneasy. Since few of our people live close by, we tend to visit them at their places of residence. For our part, we feel ill at ease, even though the people in our house treat us well. It is as though we are in a cage. There is no yard, no small garden, only the exit of our building leading directly out onto the street. I have nothing to do and no suitable service to perform. To work in one of the many administrative offices, I would have to be more nimble on my feet. The weather is finally turning warm and beautiful and I feel the need to do something. The ma er gives me no peace. ѕeralds of collapse April 1945 Another month has passed with its unbelievable experiences for us, for Germany, and for the entire world. It is almost impossible to characterize briefly the difficult times through which we have passed. A month ago most people assumed that, however hard and grave the crisis, we were still far from the finish. “The last word has still to be spoken,” they said. The key was not to abandon hope and trust in oneself. This has now changed. However difficult it is to wrestle this military colossus to the ground, it has now occurred. Germany has inexorably collapsed. What will now follow are the agonies and convulsions of a dying giant. Bi er fighting continues, especially in the east. Weakened, poorly armed, people still perform acts of unequalled heroism on behalf of

The End of Hitler’s Reich 329

the beloved homeland. Yet the colossus has truly succumbed. It is a truth as clear to the untutored eye as to the fighting man. Having experienced the hardships and dangers of a change in military fronts, the collapse and the occupation, we have found it equally sad to share in the misery and humiliation of a strong and proud people. Yet we do not fully understand and share the calamity and feel less than fully connected to the many threads that hold life together here. This is what I feel as do [ethnic] Germans who fled the USSR with the help of Germans. These feelings animate Russian, Ukrainian, and other refugees equally. Yet in these trying times we feel bound to the German people in a community of fate. The blows and destruction, the jackboot and the fist of the victor, as well as the u er hopelessness of the situation a ending the collapse have affected us deeply. Our whole endeavour, the joys and hopes we have cherished these past four years, now appear quite senseless. We seem to be sinking deeper than ever before. The misery and slavery that await us could be more deadly than anything we have previously experienced. Everyone understands that the spectre of Soviet power overcasts this world, spreading across Germany with sheer terror. These are the birth pangs of an epochal watershed. How many of such abrupt transitions have we already experienced? Death and Destruction The change of fronts in Celle took place during the night of 12 April 1945. It will remain for us an unforge able date. We had already noticed for some time how the front began to break up, and the enemy came closer, especially from the west. Enemy bombers were more brazen, a acks multiplied, and an increasing number of cities fell under the dreaded assault of air bombardments. Soon the German Lu waffe abandoned the sky, a clear underdog to the superior power of the Americans. On 8 April our city, Celle, suffered an air a ack. Occasionally bombs had already been dropped, perhaps accidentally. But we are, without question, the target on this Sunday morning. The bombs are well aimed. It is a glorious, sunny, and warm spring day. Squadrons of enemy bombers have rumbled through the air from the west from early morning and have dumped their havoc, invisible to us. The warning alarms, secondary alarms, and full alarms, are so numerous that we no longer comprehend what is happening. We hear bombs dropping. The targets appear to be the nearby airfields of Wietzenbruch and Fastberg and the oil field at Nieenhagen. Heavy smoke clouds rise and the earth quakes

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from the force of the detonations. It feels eerie. We doubt whether we will be able to escape scot free this time. The city government orders a sale of foodstuffs. It is a timely measure to prevent hunger during the critical days of a change in fronts. Celle is about to fall to the enemy. The women have been out for hours shopping for groceries. There is a great bustle everywhere as they try to bring home a li le extra. Jakob accompanies Mother. Erika leaves early on business with friends in Garsen. The alarm sounds continuously. Around 10:00 we watch intently as squadrons of bombers dip and fly directly towards us. “Hold onto your hats. Watch out,” our neighbour says. “We’re ge ing it now.” The planes pass over the city in a wide arc and make their approach. We watch bomb bays open. “God have mercy.” A few bounds and we are in the cellar. The direction of flight is towards the rail station. We hear explosions from the area. They spread fear, destruction, and death. The bombers make second and third runs and we see clouds of dust and pillars of fire and smoke rising nearby. We are about a kilometre from the place of a ack. We feel houses and walls shake and collapse. Windows and plaster fall. The horror continues without end. During a half hour, 50 or 60 bombs, perhaps more (who can say?) have been dropped on the city. Then the monsters disappear. They are unscathed, unpunished. Agitation is great. That is understandable. Everyone is anxious about the outcome. Where are our families? We go out to search. Will the a ack be repeated? We see Mother, Jasha, and many others making their way down the street, terrorized. They had sought shelter somewhere in the cellars and emerge with only a good scare. Praise and thanks to God our Lord. Yet how much worse has it been for many others. Aroused to anger, I ponder the barbarity, the devil’s handiwork. And it all issues forth from a people who call themselves Christians. They profess to fight for law, justice, and humanity. Clouds of smoke se le over the city. Frightened, a mass of people with children and a few belongings move quickly past us, away from the destruction. Many weep. Others curse. The following day, with great effort, I venture down to the devastation to look. Trains have been hurled about. Bridges, the train station, and nearby houses have been destroyed. People had sought shelter in a train and under a concrete bridge. Now people si through the rubble, and will dig for a week to find the entombed bodies. There must be at least 100. A trifle, of course, compared to other cities. A trifle? Yes, with thousands of human sacrifices daily, that is how people feel. Yet how many broken hearts and tears do these hundred evoke? It was a never-to-be-forgo en Sunday.

Section Five Allied Occupation and Emigration, 1945–1949

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Chapter Fourteen

Come Look, The Tommies, 1945

The Change of Fronts Sunday is followed by a few more days of torment. The hail of bombs never seems to let up. The constant artillery fire and the many rumours keep people on edge. Celle itself continues to be spared. Infantry battles are taking place nearby. On 12 April we endured a night and day in which hell itself seemed to have opened its gates. Artillery fire is directed into the city and bombs fall round about. Nearby bridges, munitions depots, and factories go up in flames and sirens scream without stop. We are keyed up and stay near the cellar. There we spend the night. With us, from upstairs, are the Braul and Wiegand families. A er midnight it becomes quieter. There are sharp explosions at the railway trestle and the large concrete bridge across the Aller. A lump rises in my throat. Complete silence. As day breaks, someone calls, “Come look, the Tommies.” We edge our way to the windows and peek out. How astonishing. What manner of beings are these picking their way fearfully down the street, guns at the ready? At first there are only a few, then more, until finally a Tommy stands in front of almost every house. What will happen next? The Tommies peer around cautiously. We look them up and down, stunned at these nondescript boys, these comical figures – Tommies, the vaunted enemies. They force their way in as victors everywhere. They have subdued brave and valiant heroes, the German soldiers. That is scarcely believable. Surely other forces must be at work to have tipped the scales in this way. People protest: “This cannot be. The German soldier has always been superior.” Yet facts are facts. Tommies appear at the door, and before long groups of German

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soldiers emerge, hands in the air. They are guarded and accompanied down the street by the Tommies. The humiliation is abject. For five long years German soldiers had triumphantly defended their Fatherland, as they thought. Now, exhausted, they are without hope. The Tommies push them along. The German soldiers drag themselves into the misery of captivity. Yet many are also relieved – one way or another, war has come to an end for them. In the haunting silence, without screaming sirens or diving aircra , there is no sound of gunfire. The war has also come to an end for us. The German army has been beaten. It will never return in triumph. How will the enemy treat us? It is the question on everyone’s mind. To be sure, the Tommies are not Asiatic. But anything can happen in war and privation and barbarism are its offspring. We follow every move of the enemy on the street below. We see no signs of brutality. On the contrary, the Tommies invite curious children to approach and pass out white biscuits. A small child runs home to its mother with a small piece of chocolate. Maybe, despite air a acks and propaganda, they are not as bad as we had feared. But in the a ernoon the enemy reappear, now in a more brutal guise. Without any warning, British soldiers at every doorstep demand that we vacate our quarters within 10 minutes. Unfriendly, guns drawn, they search for hidden soldiers and weapons. Meanwhile, giant tanks fill streets with infernal noise, churning up sidewalks, crushing fences and trees. We are afraid. Where should we turn? There are no announcements – none in any case that we can understand. Raus, nur raus (“Out, get out”), they say. “May we take along a few things?” Raus, nur raus, gleich Soldaten kommen! (“Out, out, right away soldiers come”). Women, in their helplessness, groan. What does this mean? We can only leave as we are. But to where? For the moment, we try to navigate our way to the meadow across the street. We then discover that the evacuation order applies to only one side of the street and find temporary lodgings on the other. The street remains an unse led place, filled with tanks, until the next morning. The soldiers leave and we move back into our deserted quarters. We are unscathed and the damage and thievery are minor. Temporary billeting continues for some time. The be er streets, with larger, wealthier homes, must be vacated to accommodate needs of the occupation forces for longterm quarters and greater comforts. Where will residents stay? Could the victors not be more modest in their

Come Look, The Tommies, 1945 335

demands? Might they not perhaps leave a small corner of a house for the use of its owners? Their outlook appears also in the harassment and humiliation to which they subject the Germans. The la er are to acknowledge that they have fallen into an abyss and will no longer exercise the slightest influence in their own land. Even pleas for necessities will elicit only a small shrug. More is not permi ed. Our street leads to Bremen. With German soldiers digging in, everything has not been fully se led yet. Military traffic continues for some time. Powerful tanks and large trucks with soldiers rumble by. Other vehicles carry German prisoners of war and the wounded into Celle. British military units are housed in the barracks. Soon, moreover, thousands of Germans, without remuneration, will have to assist occupation forces run barracks, lodgings, and administrative quarters. Before long Erika and other refugee women are similarly employed as kitchen help in the barracks. They watch as occupation troops destroy le over food that they are forbidden from handing out to hungry Germans. English soldiers, who tend to be well mannered, polite, and helpful, would gladly fraternize with the Germans. They are forbidden from doing so by superiors. Yesterday’s enemies are to be treated as such in future as well. Existence without Hope During the following weeks the fate of Germans is finally sealed. With Berlin and western Germany occupied, the Fuehrer dead, and the country in ruins, the army capitulates and, contrary to expectations, it does so completely. This large and powerful land and population must now submit unconditionally to the victors without any rights for the army or people. They may not even create a government of their own. They are to suffer arbitrary rule without mercy and be completely subject to the dictates of the victors. We hear that a number of Germans will be held responsible for the war and condemned by a court of victors. People, in part, are to be rooted out through poverty and forced labour, the countryside reduced to a “potato patch,” and industry, what has not already been destroyed, dismantled, and turned over to the victorious powers. These are the decisions of the conferences and occupying forces. German prisoners-of-war will be sent to other countries to help in reconstruction, especially to Russia. Several hundred thousand women and civilian prisoners have already been dispatched.1 (This will be for

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long, and for many, forever.) What is to happen in the ruins of Germany? From whence will future perspectives arise? How to enkindle determination, a desire to work, to survive, a willingness to clean up rubble, rebuild bridges, electrical stations, train stations, factories, shipyards, ports, dwellings, ships, and other means of transportation and communication? How animate this whole world when Germans are forced to blow up factories and shipyards and dismantle, pack up and load machinery onto trains for shipment abroad? Germans are to cut down hundreds of thousands of hectares of the best woods and ship them abroad. To reduce milk and meat production, Germans are to trim their stock of ca le and hogs to a bare minimum. In truth, Germans are being denied the chance to survive. There is also much unadulterated thievery going on. One hears of thousands of German patents, authenticated discoveries, and cultural creations, including museum artefacts and paintings, being dragged off. Savagery is the order of the day, especially in the Russian zone of occupation. But the worst excesses, as in the darkest days of Vandal and Tartar depredation, are against people. One can scarcely describe the violence against women [rape],2 the shooting of prisoners of war, and the mass deportations of women, girls, and men to Siberia and Soviet Asia. Oh German land and German people, you are being ground into the dust. The massive retribution and God’s judgment are unimaginable. Many cannot endure the humiliation, shame, and ruin and take their own lives. As refugees from the Soviet Union, we feel a deep spiritual affinity for its victims here in Germany. It could not be otherwise. Rescued from extinction by the German people and brought here, we have witnessed and shared in the suffering. We are, moreover, bound to Germans as our kinfolk, with a shared language and culture. We were proffered German citizenship and a fatherland for the future. All this is now past. Stripped of everything, rootless refugees, our prospects for the future are more severely limited than even those of the German people. A Plague of Repatriates Leaving Germany In the weeks immediately following the collapse a further issue drives home to Germans their impotence, humiliation, and abandonment to the whim of others. This is the flood of freed prisoners and, more dramatically, Ostarbeiter [forced labour] from the east. Right a er the collapse, French, Italian, Russian, and especially Polish prisoners of war

Come Look, The Tommies, 1945 337

started to stream homeward, everyone as they saw fit. With belongings stacked on whatever handcarts they could find, masses set out on foot, o en with purloined bicycles in tow, westward, southward, but mainly to the east. For those freed and on the move, German farms and soon-uncovered previously secret urban food caches bear the brunt of the onslaught. Repatriates o en find rations at such designated food stations not quite to their liking and run amok. The French and Italians are soon gone, heading straight home as fast as possible. Most English prisoners-ofwar fly home, their departure scarcely noticed by the German population. Greater a ention is paid to the tide of departing Yugoslavs, Bulgarians, Rumanians, and others from the south. But the most troublesome for Germans and the occupation powers, is the almost ceaseless flow of departing Russians and Poles. In some areas west of the Elbe River, they turn into a plague, jamming roads and rail lines. When they spill out from all minimally usable barracks and tents along the way, 30, 40, 50, and more of them appropriate whatever they can find in kitchens, cellars, and barns on every German farmstead. The homeward-bound Russians are somewhat restrained in what they take, but the more aggressive Poles rob whatever comes to hand in chickens, ca le, and pigs. Small campfires flicker on every farmstead, surrounded by crowds of layabouts, cooking, roasting, and devouring whatever they can find. It is for them a season of unbounded freedom in which they can do as they please without directives or supervision. Before long they are no longer in a hurry to move on. For a time the Elbe is blocked. But even later, the eastern repatriates make li le effort to leave until the German farmsteads have been plundered to their last leg of chicken. Indeed, once they find they can rob at will, they cast off their prisoner-of-war garb, clothe themselves properly, and stuff their bags for the trip home. It is soon commonplace for them to relieve passersby of bicycles and to rummage through peoples’ households. This turns into a misery for local inhabitants. When the la er lodge complaints with the allied military they are told it is the people’s duty to provide emergency food and shelter to those they have themselves brought into Germany. But when incidents multiply and are accompanied by killings, military police step in to take ma ers a li le in hand. Meanwhile, entire food depots designated for the use of Germans have been pillaged. There is, for instance, the Trueller rusk and cracker factory in Celle. It had operated under contract to the German military

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during the war, and had a huge stock of biscuits that were ransacked by the repatriates. For years later, people felt a bi er mockery in the advertising slogan that had once lit up the evening sky. “Eat more, goes farther, Crackers from Trueller.” Once conditions in their own homelands had improved sufficiently to accommodate the Polish and Russian returnees, and the English and Americans had offered help with transport, the problem tails off. Well fed, loaded down with filched goods, they board ships in the port of Bremen or travel east across the Elbe. A er years of bondage, adorned with slogans, Stalin portraits, and garlands, they proceed homeward on trains and trucks. Yet large numbers of Russian, Polish, and Yugoslav prisoners and Ostarbeiter, some of whom I questioned, are also deeply troubled. Despite promises of their regimes, they anxiously fear what may await them at home and desperately seek out places where they can hide from Soviet repatriation units. But the economic crisis in Germany and the determination of Soviet representatives to repatriate all of their citizens makes this difficult. As a result, the stalking and pursuit of former Soviet citizens – prisoners of war, Ostarbeiter, refugees – will continue for two more years. Later, more than two million who refuse to return [to their Soviet] homes, are housed in barracks and cared for by UNRRA (the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Agency). These camps of foreigners remain an open sore for another five years, and a scourge and burden for the Germans. In 1948, the occupation powers transfer responsibility for the camps to the Germans, who are obliged to provide their occupants with work, housing, and care. Germans had to make do with their own small piece of bread. They were given nothing, humiliated and denied future perspectives. Germans, especially their leaders, were universally disparaged and heavily punished by the courts. As known, hundreds of thousands of [National Socialist] Party functionaries were imprisoned in miserable conditions, behind barbed wire, for years. Everyone associated with the Party and its organizations, including women and young people (and that included millions), was ostracized, dismissed from positions, and brought before denazification commissions. People and arrangements that had previously been held in high regard were ignominiously torn down as odious, cruel, and Nazistic. O en leading people were defamed as common thieves, murderers, gamblers, and adventurers. The humiliation and spiritual anguish triggered among Germans was doubly felt when numerous onetime German leaders, whose personal

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records were anything but sterling, eagerly joined in the chorus of abuse and persecution [against their former colleagues] in an a empt to save their own skins. The country and its people found themselves in a sinkhole of despair, with everything in ruins. No chimney smoked, millions of bombed-out people lived sca ered throughout Germany. Families lacked providers, their fathers dead, missing, or prisoners-ofwar. Huge numbers of other Germans were refugees, without homes and employment, and wandered about aimlessly across Germany. Was such a heavy judgment of the Germans and of us necessary and justified? The answer to this query must be a clear “yes.” But what remains unanswered is the question of whether the victor, both Christian and West European, needed to place his boot so harshly on the neck of the vanquished? Powerless, stripped of every right, Germans lay helplessly at his feet. Did he have to take everything from them, heap every humiliation upon their heads, and leave them without hope for the future? Why all this? These are difficult questions facing us and certainly many Germans. How to answer? Some German churches discuss guilt and atonement, and urge repentance. Yet most Germans reject the idea of collective guilt and hence also the need for a sharp about-face. Our deep sympathy for the Germans is probably understandable. It is not for us to judge harshly, to condemn, or to cast stones against our [German] rescuers and benefactors. That would be an unforgivable sacrilege, a sin. Yet as fellow-suffering members of this people, and as Christians, we do perhaps have the right, even more the duty, to ponder where the causes and guilt [for the catastrophe] lie whose atonement has now struck us with such terrible force. In a time of consuming chaos, it is difficult to dig deeply and judge fairly. Yet we who have come from the outside, have, from time to time, been struck by several things ourselves. We were familiar with the overweening [German] selfconfidence, the “we-can-do-anything” a itude that bordered on arrogance and megalomania. Nor were these traits restricted to Party heads and [German] leaders alone. We also were eye-witnesses of the persecution of the Jews, the subjugation of the east with the aim of its longterm political and economic enslavement, and the self-aggrandizing, panEuropean lust for power. Our experiences have raised many a doubt in our minds and forced us, in great pain, to ask ourselves whether such developments could long endure or go unpunished? Yet what we had never imagined was that the judgment would be so pitiless. Despite the shortcomings and failures of its leadership

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we had continued to hold Germany in high regard as a country and people with an elevated culture, advanced Christian morals and customs and major a ainments in art, literature, philosophy, and science. We esteemed Germans as devotees of order, hard work, and frugality who had managed to create an exemplary family life. They were a people who treasured wisdom and beauty. Germany was finally a country that had given birth to great men of God in the reformation and in pietism. We thought that in weighing up its shortcomings the Lord of the worlds might perhaps have shown some forbearance, consideration, and tenderness. The judgment has, however, broken in with all imaginable severity, without forbearance and with brutal consequences. Many Germans had not thought this possible. They are, therefore, bi er, resigned, and rebellious, but show li le remorse. We would like to believe that following upon His judgment, God has also stretched out his Saviour’s hand to prepare His German people for their great encounter with Him. People of Germany, “Might you recognize, at this crucial hour, what is needed for your peace (Wenn auch du erkennetest zu dieser deiner Zeit, was zu deinem Frieden dient)?” Let us repent in sackcloth and ashes, abasing ourselves in desolation, and the Lord, the God of heaven and of earth, the God of compassion, love and kindness, will stand to His word and promises and send us His help. The Danger of Being Sent Back Life goes on. Summer has gradually reached the countryside, and the surrounding farmers have done their seeding and are anxious to find the fuel, twine, and other provisions needed for the harvest. The occupation powers rule at will. Subordinate German authorities responsible for food and the economy are again cooperating. German Communists, Social Democrats, and former concentration camp inmates are influential and even set the tone for what is happening. Feeding the population, one of the most difficult of problems, is again regulated to a degree, although as foods become daily more scarce, barter and black market trade grows. As noted, during the first days of the occupation local workers emptied and demolished a number of food depots. The British opened stocks of potatoes for general distribution designated by the military. Refugees tried to get their share. Conscience, habituated to resisting such solutions, was muted at a time of need and despair. Many Germans

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met their needs in this way as well. Some German farmers became so driven by greed that they carted off wagonloads of loot for themselves from uncovered supply depots of the Wehrmacht. Later we also noticed that scarcely a refugee family had not somehow managed to acquire a li le something on the side: clothing, potatoes, dishes, or other provisions. Given the crisis, this was even seen as God’s providence. In Celle we had already re-established ties in the surrounding area with some 20 or 30 families from Gnadenfeld. We exchange visits among us, sharing sorrows and a few transient joys. Given shortages and worries, we are relieved that war, with its turmoil and perils, has ended. On 20 May 1945 we celebrate Pentecost with Gnadenfeld countrymen in a church service on a visit to the nearby village of Garsen. Services are again being held. Farmer Knoop, with whom we are still in touch, offers us a ride. He is going to Garsen with his wife to visit their daughter. For me, tied down with my disability, it is a marvellous change and happy occasion. On the second day we meet other friends from Altencelle and Altenhagen, familiar faces, dear people, to whom we feel very close. At the end of the reunion a number of Gnadenfelders gather at the lodgings of Frau Suse Willms, a former neighbour who works for board and room in the stable and household of a certain Doenicke. As a close fellowship, we sing devotional hymns and read Psalm 71 that had been commended to us for consolation and strength by a German soldier on our trek out of Ukraine. A er being sca ered on our risky flight from the Warthegau, we are grateful that at least some of us are back together again in close fellowship. We remember many whose fate is yet unclear and promise to stay in close touch in the future. But who can know this future? Frau Auguste Voth and Frau Maria Schmidt, their injuries healed, have fled here from Rostock in the Russian zone. Frau Schmidt is now completely alone. Her husband and son had been deported in Russia. Nelly, her grown daughter and main support, was killed on the flight near Kolmar, and her clever li le nine-year-old daughter Irene, who suffered serious injuries, is still missing despite strenuous efforts to find her. In Garsen I visited my friend, Wilhelm Voth, who arrived here without his family, and is inconsolable. Fortunately his daughter, Frau Riediger, found him quickly, but the whereabouts of his much beloved wife, Luise, daughter Else, and grandson Georg remain a mystery. Where are the many others? The darkest premonitions torment us. Were they overtaken by Soviet troops and dragged back to the Soviet Union, as we know happened? Some of our people even failed to

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leave the Warthegau. Others were tracked down in the Soviet zone [of Germany] and forced to gather at assembly points for shipment back to Soviet Russia. We tremble at such reports. Surprisingly, even here in Celle, in the British zone, we o en see Soviet military nosing about, supposedly eager to help deported Ostarbeiter get back home as soon as possible. Public notices, tacked up everywhere, summon refugees to gather for their “homeward journey.” They read, “Your home, the Fatherland calls you,” or like words. Many ethnic German refugees accept the notices at face value, foolishly gullible in trusting the Soviets’ candied words and smiling faces. Have they lost sight of yesterday’s grief? Why the appalling behaviour? We shudder at the near-sightedness. I went myself to observe such a Soviet [refugee] assembly camp in Celle, and made inquiries at several others where Mennonites had been brought together in large numbers. It is a tragic picture. Most feel the situation in Germany is hopeless and with tear-filled eyes are duped into believing the promises of Soviet representatives. I know of entire groups from [the Molochna Mennonite villages of] Waldheim, Hierschau, Landskrone, and elsewhere, who have entered the Soviet camp near Soltau. I also know that sometimes German farmers, their employers, and village mayors nudge the process along to rid themselves of extra mouths. Soviet officials, moreover, declare – a believable claim in present-day conditions – that all former Soviet citizens will be repatriated: “Today we will do this amicably, with support and benefits for you. The allies provide food, clothing, and transport. But those of you who still refuse to report voluntarily to the assembly points, will later do so under compulsion.” We watch our people going about with anxious hearts. Those who have freely entered a Soviet camp soon find themselves under the watchful eye of guards. Once they have seen the goings-on in camp and experienced Soviet methods of forcing compliance, many stand teary-eyed at barbed wire fences begging to be let out. It is again the song of the Lorelei: “Half she pulled him, half he sank, and he was gone.” Mass deportations are thus being orchestrated. Our one hope is that Soviet threats will not be carried out. Our situation is hardly enviable. Although German authorities treat us as they do other refugees and German nationals, we feel we are also outsiders, in part. Earlier in the Warthegau we were the responsibility of special social agencies. Now we are simply thought redundant by Germans who would like to see us leave. This sentiment is found not

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only in the villages, but elsewhere. O en people are ignorant of the dangers that await us in Soviet Russia. A neighbour, who wishes us well, says, “I assume you’ll now want to return to your homeland. Your son is there, isn’t he?” Or, when we plead with the English city commandant to protect us as a group from forcible repatriation, his German interpreter looks quizzically at us and asks, “What in fact do you want here? Our country has been crushed and lies on the ground, bleeding. There’s nothing le .” She is right, of course. Yet we would a thousand times rather share the disgrace and poverty of Germans whose fate and outlook we share than to be sent back to certain prison or certain death. No, these precious people do not understand. They have no idea of the anguish we fled. Dogged for years by misery, desolation, fear, and death, Germany discovered us in the Soviet Union as we were – trampled on, disenfranchised, sucked dry economically and spiritually – and liberated us from barbarity. Then under the most desperate circumstances of war, in tortuous treks, they led us into their country to give us a be er future. We are again weary, care-worn, sca ered, and sick with fear. We survive in the ruins of the great German Reich, but stripped of prospects and in peril of being pushed back into the old misery and enslavement. Germany, that once-splendid edifice of solidity and order, has collapsed. Bombed to pieces, its leadership destroyed, its people crushed, it has been abandoned to the whim of benighted victors. Broken in parts, it brims with refugees, a foreign occupation, and its own bombed-out citizenry. Millions of its best men are captive. For how long will this be? This is the bleak condition of this beautiful land, and of us. Is it not deserving of the deepest compassion? We belong to this family of fate. For hundreds of years, our small Mennonite people has wandered from place to place and land to land, looking for a serene and peaceful place of unhampered economic and spiritual life, where we might live our faith in close fellowship. Where is that place of refuge and safety now to be found? Deeply aware of the transience of this world, we are gripped by a terrible yearning. We are tired wanderers, bounding through the world on staffs of hope, seeking our home beyond the horizon (in Sonnenweiten), in motion towards a refuge beyond the sun. God’s love repeatedly leads us into affliction. We praise God that our Mennonite refugees again reflect on the nature of this love, note signs of His rule, and do not

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abandon their faith. Might we open our hearts and minds – both we and the German people – to God’s wise and righteous paths of love and judgment? Only then will we be able to bow down and confess: We have done wrong, have fallen deeply, We have turned away from thee. We did not hear thee when thou called to us. We tore ourselves from thy grasp. God, wilt thou take thy grace from us? Lord, Lord, we are ashamed. Is there anywhere still a faithful servant? But thou All-Highest, art righteous. Lord have mercy on us. Lord, we abase ourselves before thee in prayer. Do not judge our righteousness. God of compassion, we know our salvation is in thee. Hear us, O Lord. Hear us O Lord, be gracious. Lord, incline thyself to us. Absolve us, O Lord. Do not remove thyself from us. Lord, be thou our saviour in thy court of righteousness. Lord have mercy on us.

Chapter FiĞeen

Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949

A Visitor from Canada The picture of our refugee life would be incomplete were I not to describe our experiences in Germany in the four or five years a er Germany’s collapse. First, I must relate the story of an important and agreeable visit from North America. It came at an extremely difficult and desperate time for us, and gave us renewed hope and courage to persevere. I have already touched on the dangers and fears of repatriation to the Soviet Union that long caused us such terrible anxieties. These anxieties helped trigger the movement back and forth of our people across Germany, as well as finally the cry, “on to Holland,” that I will discuss in greater detail. Something needs also to be said about the activities and help of the Mennonite Central Commi ee.1 They are closely intertwined with our further fate. Throughout this time we were beset by worries and anxieties that ended thankfully with our emigration to Canada [in 1949], the conclusion of our refugee existence. To our u er dismay, not long a er the victorious powers occupied Germany we noted that the Soviets enjoyed great freedom of movement in the western occupation zones, and that the western powers were very helpful in assisting Soviet prisoners-of-war and deported Ostarbeiter to return home to the USSR. Then, however, came something that was wholly unexpected. Those unwilling to return to the Soviet Union, people like us who loathed and shunned the Soviet paradise, were being taken back by force. This was frightening and a horror. In the beginning everyone had simply believed that the allies would use German help to unshackle themselves from the Soviets. But now

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something like this had happened, and we were plunged into the greatest apprehension. We began to ponder, therefore, how we might establish contacts with relatives in Canada and America. Their intercession with the occupation powers might perhaps prevent our extradition to the Soviet Union, or, at the least, the use of force. Yet we were also disheartened in these hopes by occasional rumours that all Germans in Canada had been interned in camps during the war. Had we known English, we could quickly have established contact with relatives through friendly soldiers. In the event, however, weeks and months of misery and yearning passed – a time of anxiety and anguish spent in prayer. Meanwhile, I had taken up contact with a number of helpful German Mennonite authorities and individuals such as Professor Dr Kauenhowen, Dr Ernest Crous, and the pastor of the Mennonite church in Hamburg-Altona, O o Schowalter. It was my hope that, through them, we might get in touch more quickly with Mennonites abroad. In southern Germany, we tried to contact Professor B.H. Unruh, our long-standing supporter and representative. Yet for some time postal contact with the area, and others, was not possible. Each occupation power had sealed off its zonal borders, and closely controlled contacts across them. Dr Kauenhowen, [a German Mennonite church leader], whose name was on the [allied] black list, temporarily withdrew from contact with the outside world. Pastor Schowalter was still in captivity [as a prisoner of war]. Yet my le er writing was useful insofar as people learned that a group of Mennonite refugees from southern Ukraine had gathered in the area of Celle and had deep misgiving about their future. Soon I received several encouraging le ers from Dr Crous, Chairman of the German Mennonite [Ministerial] Association, and later also a pastoral le er from Pastor Schowalter, [Hamburg], addressed to Mennonite refugees. In the meantime, sca ered groups also of West Prussian Mennonite refugees had reached our area. Most of the latter had been taken by ship to Denmark and interned there in camps. Dr Crous suggested that there be a registration of all Mennonite refugees [from the USSR and West Prussia]. Subsequently he reported news from Switzerland of a certain American Professor Lehman who was seeking entry into Germany. He wanted firsthand information about Mennonites and their situation. This buoyed us up and gave us hope. Thus passed the months until the fall of 1945, a period during which we peered apprehensively into a grey and dark winter with its shortages and deprivations. Everyone had to fit themselves into the altered

Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949 347

circumstances as best they could. It was a li le easier for our Russian refugees in the villages than in the cities, since they had, a er all, been villagers back home. The life of Germans was similarly reduced to a kind of vegetative existence. Half starving, unemployed, they lived in fear for their immediate future and for the future of many German prisoners still imprisoned. Economic life, transportation, and postal service had collapsed as though forbidden by law. Everything had either been destroyed or was closed down and idle, for whatever reason. One could say that only those connected in some way to the occupation were actually able to live. The many barracks in Celle were occupied by [Allied] soldiers who had also requisitioned houses in town. Entire streets had been emptied of Germans and then filled with the occupation forces and their families. The occupation was in control of the administration and the economy. In the fullest sense, Germans had become its servants. The provision of foodstuffs was poorly regulated, limited, and ge ing scarcer. For a long time the supply of other necessities remained almost non-existent. That was especially difficult for the poverty-stricken refugees. The black market, however, began to thrive. Although refugees in villages periodically received something on the side from farm owners, their counterparts in cities lived chiefly off the much-discussed “calories available on ration cards.” Many undoubtedly had links with farm acquaintances; others supplemented diets from allotment gardens, but most had to get by on scanty rations and suffered hunger. Brother Cornelius F. Klassen One day during this dreary time a somewhat strange-looking car pulled up in front of our place with a driver in a British uniform. A tall man stepped to the door and asked if a certain refugee named Jacob Neufeld lived here with his family. He was brought to our door. “I am Klassen from Canada” (Eck sie Kloosse von Kanada), he introduced himself [in Low German] to our surprised and gawking family. Then, in a friendly voice, he added, “Am I right? This is where the Neufelds live, isn’t it? (Sie eck hier doch racht bei Niefelds)?” Happy and surprised, we replied “yes,” but in our puzzlement did not quite know what to say next.2 In fact we had been waiting for an overseas visitor for a long time. Our congenial guest wanted to know much and we were soon asking and answering a large number of questions. Brother C.F. Klassen – for this was he – told us that Mennonite churches in Canada as well

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as the Mennonite Central Commi ee (MCC) had sent him on a mission to track down Mennonite refugees from Russia. He had met Pastor Schowalter in Hamburg, who referred him to our address in Celle. Questions and answers now came in a flood. We soon discovered that we had many mutual friends and acquaintances and that he and I had once even met in Russia. He apologized for having li le time since he had other assignments, including locating other Mennonite refugees all the way down to southern Germany. There he also intended to look up Professor B.H. Unruh. He would then return to his constituents in Canada who eagerly awaited his report. This, then, was the first meeting with the man who would prove to be of such great and continuing value to us as Mennonite refugees, and who would long remain intimately involved in our fate. We, in turn, would come to owe Klassen, and others like him, a great debt of gratitude. For now, however, this encounter was to give a new and hopeful direction to our existence in Germany. Starting thus on 17 October 1945, C.F. Klassen and I spent a few days together in an atmosphere of elation and gratitude. I gave C.F. Klassen a list of names and details relating to the life and circumstances of Mennonite refugees I knew. Together we then drew up a plan for his further activities. We also discussed the assembling of our refugees in Berlin, about which I had already been informed by other refugees. These poor people, who had fled from the Russians, were now gathering in the ruins of the western zones in Berlin, where they lived in the greatest misery and anxiety. In addition, they had fallen into the hands of an adventurer from America.3 Together, we looked up Mennonite refugees in the immediate and surrounding areas of Celle and discussed future prospects and possibilities. For me and the many others we visited it was a joyful and uncanny experience. There was complete surprise, for instance, when our visitor was able to relate to our sorely-tested refugees, who thought themselves u erly abandoned, something about their own relatives in Canada. Remarkably, he had concrete news in this regard for almost every refugee family. We were equally moved when he held out prospects of future help. Yet what C.F. Klassen outlined on this la er subject was really quite limited. He admi ed that the churches intended to help with foodstuffs, but were also – and this was of greatest significance – considering rese ling everyone to Canada. This could obviously not happen overnight, since wartime conditions continued and a major rese lement would require prior complex negotiations with Canada and the

Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949 349

occupation powers. We, for our part, returned time and again to the acute danger of a forcible repatriation to the Soviet Union. Could this be prevented? Would he be able to help? Assistance was what we urgently needed. For the time being, we found C.F. Klassen’s presence with its promise of taking up contact with relatives in Canada electrifying and it raised spirits to the sky. C.F. Klassen also made detailed notes about almost every refugee he met, to assist him in future and enable him to report to relatives in Canada. He further told us that Canadian Mennonites had lived and worked freely without hindrance throughout the war. They were now, he said, turning the M[ennonite] C[entral] C[ommi ee] (MCC) into a large relief organization that had already started refugee and relief service in various countries. This was new and valuable for us to know, and we were grateful to hear it. Moreover, Brother Klassen had wonderful news about our own relatives. He told my wife that he was a personal friend of her brother Jakob [J. Thiessen] and that the two were working together closely in the same [refugee] cause.4 A er seeing and recording everything, and I had given him a list of Mennonite refugees we had compiled, C.F. Klassen promised to look us up on his return journey [from southern Germany]. Then, a few days a er arriving, he took his leave, doubtlessly deeply moved by all he had seen and heard. In my whole life, I do not recall another encounter of such significance. It was animating and upli ing and raised the spirits of our people who had been crushed by the hopelessness of our situation. What an act of mercy. Only those in our shoes could fully appreciate it. Yet it was equally important for our brother [C.F. Klassen]. He had learned much that filled him with joy. Even more, it had aroused his deepest concern. As an MCC-worker and a stand-in for the [North American] churches and the Canadian Mennonite Board of Colonization, he had encountered issues that would long shape his activities and those of these groups. Renewal and New Worries A joyful restlessness now seized our refugees everywhere. Only few had met Klassen personally. Many more had absorbed false or exaggerated rumours that they were about to leave for Canada that winter. This sent their restiveness and worries ballooning. People naturally felt imperilled by the threat of repatriation to Russia, and stymied in their efforts to track down relatives in America. O en they were even

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ignorant of whether they had such relatives. The long separation had led to memory lapses, and almost none of us had addresses. Opportunities for travel in Germany were virtually nonexistent at the time and out of the question for me because of my disability. Hard information was scarce. The widely sca ered families were o en recipients of “information” through the so-called steppe post. When they received a piece of o en distorted intelligence that people were about to depart Europe they were certain they would be le behind. Every Mennonite refugee was hence intent on leaving the German land of misfortune at the first opportunity. Such restlessness and sense of urgency, coupled with the stark dangers, impeded relief work in Germany and the later work of the MCC. For fear of repatriation, many refugees continued to leave their quarters and go into hiding. It was then extremely hard for them to find new lodgings. This was as hard as the flight itself. Time and again, Mennonite refugees fleeing from the Russian zone of occupation would end up roaming aimlessly in search of a safe spot to stay. Yet the simple truth was that if a wholesale emigration was to occur, it could not happen so quickly. While awaiting this development, we therefore faced the worrisome challenge of finding a safe place where all Mennonite refugees could gather in one or more camps under MCC supervision. At the time, Ukrainian and Polish refugees were being brought together and cared for by UNRRA. Thinking it might be possible to find a safe haven in a less threatened neighbouring country, we, for our part, started to focus on Holland as such a place. [Many Soviet Mennonites traced their ancestry back to the Netherlands and] Holland had its own Mennonite congregations. Meanwhile C.F. Klassen had returned from his tour through the rest of West Germany and Berlin. Full of new impressions, he now had a personal overview of the situation. He thought that perhaps some three thousand Mennonite refugees in the most urgent need of assistance could be assembled in one place. Full of impressions, freighted down with lists of refugees, greetings for their overseas relatives, and our fondest wishes, he set out across Holland and England for home. We later learned that his reports to the MCC and congregations had everywhere sparked their keenest interest, commitment and good will. We, in turn, responded to the news with tears of gratitude. It bears mention that our prospects in Germany at the time seemed the least promising of any group, whether bombed-out native Germans or refugees. It was an impression that mirrored a reality that gradually, however, would

Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949 351

change until we came to be seen as the group enjoying the best care, with the brightest prospects, and the most to be envied. But the road to that end was long and thorny. Representatives (Vertrauensmaenner) of the Mennonite Refugees Meanwhile, a refugee search-and-support service had emerged spontaneously from within the ranks of the Mennonite refugees and was in the process of development. Our first liaison representatives (Vertrauensmaenner), as they were called, were preachers who started to compile lists of the sca ered refugees and to speak for them on various issues. Soviet Mennonite refugees like us, who had arrived more recently from Poland [the Warthegau in Hitlerian Germany], had found shelter in the British zone in North Germany – in Hannover, Oldenburg, Schleswig Holstein, the Lueneburger Heide, and Westphalia. A er the Russians had occupied East Germany, Mennonite refugees fled that area and had been added to our group. In unfamiliar surroundings, they too had turned to the Vertrauensmaenner for support and help. The arrival and German tour of C.F. Klassen had given this process a shot in the arm. Indeed, the activities of the Vertrauensmaenner, [of whom I was one], constitute a significant chapter in the Mennonite refugee story. It is about people from within the Mennonite refugee community itself who initiated and evolved an assistance and service program for their fellow believers and for the MCC in its organization and activities. Since the work of these people was concerned mainly with small concrete ma ers, it may seem inconspicuous and inconsequential in its size and importance, but it was many-faceted, of great practical significance, and embraced every issue at stake in the desires and anxieties of the sca ered refugees. The heart of the mission was to assemble dispersed Mennonite refugees from throughout Germany, and to initiate searches for those still missing. The Vertrauensmaenner established contacts with refugees, maintained a network among themselves in southern Germany, and with the MCC. Later the organization was instrumental in supporting Mennonite refugees as they were hounded across Germany. It further developed into an information-and-intervention service, assisting refugees from the Soviet zone, interceding with western military authorities to forestall Soviet repatriation efforts, and offering refugees counsel on all manner of questions. The Vertrauensmänner further organized ministerial and

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pastoral care for their refugee groups, o en providing it themselves. Gradually this network of liaison people grew and developed into an orderly, closely knit organization. Without this organization, the work of the MCC and the emigration of Mennonite refugees from wartorn Germany would have been unthinkable under then existing conditions of collapse, tangled administrative and transportation networks, and the wide geographic dispersal of the refugees. Professor B.H. Unruh, Karlsruhe was from the start the acknowledged head and chief representative of the organization. [A RussianMennonite by background, he had arrived in Germany in 1920 to represent the interests of his fellow believers to the outside world, and had lived there since.] In 1945, once postal services among the occupation zones had been gradually reestablished a er the German collapse, a number of us took up contact with him. Because he was the one person widely known from his previous assistance, many refugees naturally gravitated to him for advice and help in locating missing kin. What we did not at first know was that he and his family had been bombed-out in the city of Karlslruhe themselves and were living somewhere in a village. Despite his own difficulties, however, our beloved, elderly onetime compatriot and Professor and his wife were keen to give people advice, to find them accommodations, and to help them in their search for missing relatives and friends. Under Unruh’s aegis our network of Vertrauensmaenner gradually took shape throughout Germany. He ran its central office, maintained a master list of Mennonite refugees in Germany, and advised Mennonite refugees who sought his counsel. We saw B.H. Unruh as an altogether trustworthy friend, “an immovable pole in our inconstant world.”5 At the same time, we established nine Mennonite refugee aid districts in the western occupation zones, each headed by an elected Vertrauensmaenn responsible for 700–1,200 Mennonite refugees. The districts were divided into smaller subdistricts with from 30–100 Mennonite refugees in each. These subdistricts, headed by subrepresentatives, had functions, on a smaller scale, similar to those of the district Vertrauensmaenner. Later these duties also included the distribution of charitable gi s from overseas among refugees. Each district consisted of from 10–15 such subunits. The aid districts (as depicted on a map in the MCC office) and the various Vertrauensmaenner leading them from the start and later were the following: Westphalia/North Rhineland, Jacob Wiebe, Preacher, Bad Drieburg;

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Lüneberg/Schleswig Holstein, Jacob Warkentin, Göddingen; South-Hannover, Gerhard Fast, Preacher, Goslar; Mid and East Hannover, Jacob Neufeld, Celle; Bavaria, first Peter Derksen, Funkkaserne, and Kornelius Kliewer, same address, later Heinrich J. Wiebe, Bamberg; Hessen, Heinrich Fast; Oldenburg-Friesland, Peter Klassen, Preacher, Wilhelmshafen; Pfalz-Baden, Heinrich Goosen, Neu-Kirchen; Gronau and surrounding area, Heinrich Wiens. The Acute Danger of Repatriation In late 1945 and early 1946, the mounting danger of forcible repatriation suddenly became acute for us and all ethnic Germans from Russia. Our appeals to English military authorities and German administrative offices for protection seemed largely ineffective. In many cities throughout West Germany, Russians maintained assembly camps with so-called liaison officers – snatchers, so to speak. German authorities were obliged to support Soviet assembly and repatriation initiatives, but English authorities, while acknowledging the injustice of such forcible actions, did so as well. The result was that many Mennonite refugees and others were dragged off into Russian assembly camps with British assistance. The refugees responded by fleeing their lodgings and seeking shelter in places where they were not known. This complicated life for German village mayors who were o en obliged to hand over refugees to the Soviet military. The risk of falling into Soviet hands was greater in villages than cities because refugees in the la er could live more anonymously and concealed than in the former. In February 1946 a Soviet a empt to seize Mennonite refugees in the village of Garsen, some six to seven kilometres from Celle, triggered a huge wave of fear and anxiety across our refugee community. It also set off an abrupt flight of Mennonite refugees across the border and into the Netherlands. As someone centrally involved in this episode, I know its context, details, and consequential results. At the time, English authorities had pledged not to use force in repatriating refugees from the USSR, and issued German officials and mayors in the Celle area appropriate directives. Yet despite such assurances, one day some Soviet soldiers, accompanied by 40 English soldiers and eight large trucks, appeared at the mayor’s office in Garsen, a village near Celle. There the Russians had already established the numbers and location of some 85 Mennonites whom they now wanted to round up.

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A day earlier, the village mayor [of Garsen], a noble and courageous man, had been informed of the planned Soviet action and been ordered to assemble the refugees and their belongings at his office the following morning. Defiantly, he had disclosed the plan to the refugees. They fled the village or hid in it. On the appointed day Soviet and British officers and troops, accompanied by the mayor, could find only a few desperately ill refugees lying in their beds. The mayor shrugged off the awkward moment while the Soviet officer raged that he had been reduced to a laughing stock. Cursing, “the wind now out of his sails,” he threatened punishment and promised to return. The date was 1 February 1946. The episode was a close call for all refugees and shocked our refugee community. Had the intrepid mayor, at his initiative and risk, not defied orders of British authorities our Garsen refugees would likely have been dragged off by the Soviets. Moreover, the Soviet action had proceeded despite the fact that the English commanding officer in Celle had been previously informed. The questions we therefore asked were: “What does this betoken?” and “How should we respond?” Fleeing, fearful Garsen refugees crowded our own lodgings. Deeply perplexed, they queried, “Dare we simply stay put until one day Ivan pulls up and hauls us off, out of the blue?” What could be done and what should I counsel? The incident was unlikely to repeat itself in detail, but who knew or was prepared to trust the situation? The Soviets were capable of anything, and tenacious to boot. I had for some time thought it timely to raise the question of a solution through Holland, perhaps through the Dutch and their [Mennonite] charitable organization? All of us had impressed upon Brother C.F. Klassen the seriousness of the danger, and urged him to intercede. This he had tried to do but without real effect. All of us knew that we could not count on the Western powers to stop the repatriations until their relations with the Soviet Union had basically changed. I knew that such a transformation would involve a long and wearisome transition and misunderstandings, not to speak of acute dangers for us and the Germans. In the Netherlands, Brother C.F. Klassen had initiated negotiations on the deportation threat with the Mennonite Relief Commi ee. At its head was Ds. Hylkema, a quick-wi ed, energetic Dutch Mennonite pastor who earlier, [in the 1920s and early 1930s], had helped Russian Mennonite refugees and was recognized for his deep sympathy with our dilemmas. This sparked a wide-ranging discussion of the ifs and hows of transferring Soviet Mennonite refugees to the Netherlands.

Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949 355

Their future in Germany looked bleak, and the possibility of finding a sure emigration route for them with Western help remote. Assistance from Holland, on the other hand, seemed more promising. Holland was unlikely to repatriate Mennonite refugees to the Soviet Union and the transportation of Soviet Mennonite refugees from Holland to Canada seemed easier than from Germany to Canada. Moreover, the Mennonite Central Commi ee already had an active presence in the Netherlands. Dutch Mennonites themselves seemed ready to help. They would provide lodgings and other support. Dutch authorities, for their part as well, seemed cautiously ready to receive Soviet Mennonites provided their stay in Holland was temporary and brief and their maintenance guaranteed by the Mennonite Central Commi ee. But they also insisted that the subject of sanctuary not be ventilated publicly, lest complications arise for the Netherlands’ delicate post-war international situation. C.F. Klassen estimated that up to 3,000 refugees might thus be transferred across the German – Dutch border. We therefore moved ahead on the assumption that the Dutch government was commi ed to some such project in principle, even though this had never been fully spelled out at the time. Against this uncertain background, the Dutch Mennonite Relief Commi ee and the Mennonite Central Commi ee began tentative preparations for the reception and accommodation of the Soviet Mennonite refugees in Holland. Under the direction of Peter Dyck, its representative in the Netherlands, the MCC had already stock-piled foodstuffs and clothes, looked into the question of border crossings, and created special “Menno-Passes.” The la er, that were to be given to each refugee crossing the border, were to permit refugees to enter Holland without hindrance. This information Brother Klassen had conveyed to me in confidence on his second trip, in order not to create a stir. Final assent from the Dutch had not yet, however, been given. Amongst ourselves, we were of one mind that the Mennonite refugees were to be warned against engaging in a disorderly, mass flight. It was further understood that if the danger of repatriation were suddenly to become acute I would be at liberty to make my own decisions. C.F. Klassen offered a few other practical suggestions, but they hardly cleared up the uncertainties. My hope, in any case, was to steer clear of a crisis that might demand emergency action. In late January, Ds. Hylkema unexpectedly dropped by at our place in Celle on a return trip from Berlin (where he had been looking into the flood of Mennonite refugees streaming into the devastated German

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capital). He confirmed C. F. Klassen’s reassuring words and gave me a few copies of the “Menno-Passes,” made out, I think in Dutch, English, and German. These I was to fill out, sign, and give to potential users wishing to cross the Dutch border. Officials at the border crossing at Gronau-Enschede, he said, had been put in the picture. In an emergency I was to secure larger numbers of Menno-Passes. He repeated, as an unbreakable rule, that those crossing the border not arrive in large groups and remain as inconspicuous as possible. At the moment we still felt that an early Soviet seizure of Mennonite refugees was unlikely. Had we known that a crisis was about to engulf us, we would have done more to clarify emergency procedures and make be er preparations to receive the refugees. Decamping for Holland Such was the less-than-clear se ing for the border-crossing imbroglio. There seemed to be reasons enough for moving refugees into Holland, yet dangers were palpable and help uncertain. Much outside help would be needed in an emergency. It was wintertime, with much thawing, rain, and flooding. The railways were still a shambles and people had no choice but to travel tightly packed together with baggage on uncovered coal cars. How could women, children, and the aged cope, particularly when the reception at journey’s end was so uncertain, even to us? Still, pressures were mounting on all sides to do something. We had two friends among the occupation forces, whom I called on for help. They were David Tjart, Ontario, and Frank Derksen, Steinbach, Manitoba, two Canadian Mennonites. Interpreters with the occupation forces, they had previously helped establish overseas contacts for us. On the eve of the mentioned surprise raid [in Garsen] on 1 February, the two arrived for consultations. They were of the view that a plea to their commanding officer to protect the refugees would be futile. Instead they offered to establish a phone link to Amsterdam through the military command. We agreed that we would use the figure of 500 imperilled refugees in all communications. Around midnight they returned with the joyous news that they had managed to talk to Ds. Hylkema and Peter Dyck in Amsterdam. Five hundred refugees (but temporarily no more) would be permi ed to slowly approach the border where they would be received by their representatives and accompanied onward. Instructions as to the use of the Menno-Passes would be given on the spot. The welcome news li ed a stone from my heart. Perhaps things

Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949 357

at the border would proceed smoothly even if ge ing there was likely to be a nightmare for the refugees. Our Canadians friends offered to inform our refugees in Garsen. Early the next morning the first Netherlands-bound refugees appeared at our home in Celle to receive instructions. They were mainly fellow refugees from Gnadenfeld. In order to save themselves and their children again, they were ready to hazard the flight and abandon their recently established homes. Half downcast at what might await them and half elated at the prospect of a way out, we made our farewells with good wishes and a reiteration of C.F. Klassen’s instructions and warnings. The flight, we cautioned, must proceed secretly lest German and Soviet representatives uncover the refugees’ hiding places. Thereupon I sent a detailed report on the crisis to Ds. Hylkema and Director Peter Dyck, Amsterdam, and to Professor Unruh, Karlsruhe. Since German postal authorities still refused to transmit mail across zonal borders, it was again forwarded by Tjart and Derksen. The report expressed my fears that the refugee movement to Holland could spark a mass flight that I would be unable to contain from my end. Since the refugees’ dread of repatriation to Russia and desire to reach Holland were so widespread, [and had been inflamed by the Garsen crisis], I begged them for assistance in stemming the threatened onslaught. Meanwhile refugee family a er refugee family had embarked for Gronau and I soon heard that the first had crossed the border. Well, thank God. Maybe the affair would end well a er all. But now refugees privy to the secret escape informed friends and relatives by steppe post and pushed them on to join the exodus. The stream turned into a torrent. Quickly refugees in Gronau exceeded 500 and the crossing was temporarily closed. Yet refugees from every corner of Germany kept coming. Soon they numbered over 1,500 and crowded the train station and hotels of the small German border town of Gronau. The Gronau mayor, railway officials, and other leaders, alarmed at the size of the throng, its rapid growth, and the pressures this placed on their small town, appealed to me for help, but my warnings were of no avail. Now the border to Holland was sealed. To accommodate the refugees, the Gronau mayor closed a school and several smaller facilities. Gronau officials responded to our plight with good will and herculean efforts to provide shelter and care. C.F. Klassen had earlier told me of a certain Preacher Jacob Peters, a longtime resident of Gronau and its only Mennonite, whom we could call on for assistance. I passed this information on to the first families to

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reach Gronau. But as the demands on Peters mounted he found himself in an impossible situation. People simply appeared at his doorstep, bag and baggage, and threw themselves on his mercy. He and his family did what they could, to the u er limits of their strength, something largely forgo en today. In fact, not only did Peters receive scant public recognition at the time, he was o en criticized for his selfless service – even a er refugees found lodgings in Gronau. “A drink of water given in my name.” From what I learned later, the movement of refugees across the Dutch border had not proceeded as we had hoped and expected. Representatives of the Dutch Mennonite Relief Commi ee had failed to appear at the border, as promised, although Dutch customs’ officials had let refugees proceed to the small Dutch border town of Enschede, pending new instructions from Amsterdam. In Enschede a Dutch pastor had received them in a friendly way, helped them find temporary lodgings and sent them on their way to Amsterdam. But in Amsterdam the refugees quickly become objects of public curiosity. The controversial flight was newsworthy and soon journalists surrounded the refugees, interviewing and photographing them and splashing stories of their escapades across the front page of every Dutch paper. There followed probing and sometimes hostile commentaries. Communists were the noisiest, charging the Dutch government with providing sanctuary to Soviet citizens who belonged back in their homeland. The Dutch reception of Mennonites was an anti-Soviet act, they asserted. Contrary to our hopes the refugees had become the subject of unwelcome a ention. Unexpectedly, the Communist inventions also achieved their purpose. The Dutch refused to admit further Mennonite refugees and were hard pressed to protect those they had already let in. The Fate of Mennonite Refugees Stranded in Gronau, Westphalia A er their harrowing journey through Germany, life for Mennonite refugees stranded in Gronau, on the German side of the border, was hardly easy. Moreover, the Gronau incident was widely interpreted as a fiasco and was undoubtedly a great disappointment to everyone involved in it. Personally, it did not leave me untouched either. I was, in some regards, its author and had been at its centre. Many who had suffered from the misstep were my friends. Yet no one investigated the episode and I never tried to rebut the accusations against me or to justify myself at the time.

Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949 359

Still, in reflecting on the ma er and considering what later transpired, I have concluded that the failure was less consequential than was thought at the time. First of all, Soviet pressures to have our people deported from Holland had the effect of forcing the much once-envied Mennonite refugees in Holland to emigrate to Paraguay rather than the more-prized Canada. Although these refugees were able to spend several good years in Holland, their eventual departure for South America was hardly what they had hoped for. A similar fate would likely have befallen any further refugees who might have entered the Netherlands in early 1946. It would further appear that, in the long run, the gathering of so many refugees in the Gronau area significantly reduced the threat of the forcible repatriation of members of this group. Soviet efforts to track down and deport Mennonite refugees on the German – Dutch border were necessarily weaker than in other areas farther inland from whence they had fled. Finally, it seems that the gathering of so many Mennonite refugees in Gronau, on the border with Holland, drew the Mennonite Central Commi ee into concentrating its resources there, with important consequences. The MCC’s distribution of foodstuffs from this location, drawing on foodstuffs and clothing in its Dutch warehouses, started almost a year earlier than from other places in Germany. In time Gronau also became the most important aid centre in the MCC’s overall program of assistance in Germany. Still, the crisis at the German-Dutch border in 1946 will forever remain etched in the minds of our refugees as one of hardship, fear, disappointment, and failure, and for many it would have fateful results. Assistance of the Mennonite Central CommiĴee and the Overseas Churches Refugee assistance by the Mennonite Central Commi ee and overseas churches formally began with C.F. Klassen’s visit to Germany in fall 1945.6 But those efforts for long remained without results because of military conditions and the preoccupation of occupation forces with their own worries and plans. My account in this regard below is based on my personal recollections as a refugee at the time. Brother C.F. Klassen and other responsible men suffered greatly when the desperately-needed MCC help did not arrive in a timely fashion and in sufficient quantities. Yet everyone was pleased when the neediest refugees hunkered down in the ruins of Berlin, under threat

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from their Soviet tormentors, were among the first to receive help. This aid then developed into a many-sided relief and care operation for more than 1,000 harried Mennonite refugees in a well-organized Berlin camp. Director Peter Dyck and his wife Frieda ran the camp and served as its house parents. The exemplary work was carried on skilfully and with the expenditure of large resources. Nor was it a simple ma er of supplying the camp without interruption for two years when foodstuffs and other supplies had to pass daily from supply depots in Holland through the English and Russian occupation zones. Soon therea er, the MCC started its aid to the Mennonite refugees gathering in Gronau, at the Dutch border, using supplies from depots in Holland. Everywhere, larger and smaller obstacles needed to be hurdled. In the destroyed cities, overcrowded with refugees and with much space commandeered by occupation powers, suitable quarters were hard to find. Before distributing aid, questions of transportation, the crossing of zonal borders, and, above all, permission to distribute emergency aid in Germany generated a host of trips, requests, and explanations. For some time, the victorious western powers were dead set against any aid program for Germany: Germany needed to be punished. Then, once permissions had been granted, foreign relief agencies had to join existing umbrella organizations for further distribution to the needy. This was cumbersome. Because of such complications, the first MCC relief to Mennonite refugees living sca ered in the British zone was delayed until April 1947, a er the MCC had concluded an agreement with the Evangelical Relief Commi ee and regulated the question of distributing aid. Aid in the American Zone was distributed by the Mennonite Relief Commi ee, Mennoniten-Hilfe, and in the British Zone through the already functioning multi-regional Russian Mennonite refugee representatives (Vertrauensmaenner). Once Danzig and West Prussian Mennonite had been declared eligible to receive assistance as well, further Vertrauensmaenner districts were created for their needs. Still, even then food relief increased slowly. The growth in private and CARE organization packages for the sca ered refugees from overseas relatives and friends was greater. The Evangelical Relief Commi ee distributed much of what it received from the MCC to other German refugees and bombed-out civilians and undertook to feed children in German towns. The distribution of aid proceeded with reasonable efficiency. Usually once a month, the Mennonite Relief Commi ee in the British Occupation Zone, with its chair, Dr Crous, in Goe ingen, received its

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shipment of food and relief supplies. The supplies were allocated to existing groups in proportion to their numbers as entered on lists and delivered directly from the supply depots of the Relief Commi ee in Bremen. Then Mennonite Vertrauensmaenner, as described earlier, further allocated donations among their constituents in proportion to the number of Mennonite refugees in each district. Aid workers encountered enormous obstacles in finding transportation and storage facilities while refugees required time, effort, and resources to bring home the small amounts of invaluable supplies they received: clothing, footwear, blankets (rarely), flour, sugar, legumes, and, less o en, canned meat and milk, soap, and lard. Especially memorable was the many-faceted aid to Mennonite refugees in Berlin, as said, and in the German camps of Gronau, Baknang, and in Rovierenstein, Holland. Later, emigration camps in Germany were founded in Hannover, Fallingbostel, Ludwigsburg, and so on. The life of refugees in these facilities would have been infinitely more difficult but for these supplementary foodstuffs distributed by the MCC. Of equal importance was the MCC’s role as advocate in support of special Mennonite interests, its mediation of refugee contacts with churches and relatives abroad, and its efforts to organize pastoral care. Efforts in all these areas gave refugees a li le courage to grapple with difficult challenges of everyday life until the day of their emigration arrived. This, for most, was four or five years down the way. The MCC and overseas churches also organized the ministry of preachers, including prominently those from overseas: H. Fast, H.H. Janzen, Elder J. Wichert, Elder Thiessen, Kornelius Wall, among others. O en MCC workers were themselves mature Christian men and women who spoke words of exhortation and solace. I think especially of C.F. Klassen, P. Dyck, Siegfried Janzen, among others, and B.H. Unruh. The la er stood by us faithfully from start to end. Pastoral services were also carried into districts headed by our Mennonite Vertrauensmaenner. Refugees in these districts, widely sca ered about, listened avidly to these visitors from abroad. The first itinerant refugee minister to serve for some years in the Hannover and Schleswig Holstein regions was the widely beloved Elder of the former Rosenort church in West Prussia, Ernest Regehr. In spite of his status as a refugee, the need to look a er his wife, and conditions in which every initiative had first to clear away enormous obstacles, he diligently took up the cause of his widely sca ered parishioners. He first tracked them down and then ministered to their needs

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through communion, baptism, and a ministry for youth. Another preacher from our refugee ranks was the Khortitsa Elder Heinrich Winters whose loyal service was an unforge able blessing for many of his fellow believers. Refugees in or near cities naturally had access to a variety of other churches and fellowships where many found comfort and blessing. The MCC Central Encampment of Gronau In time, the MCC centre in Gronau, as noted, became headquarters for MCC activities in all of West Germany. There the MCC established a larger office that maintained contacts with Mennonite Vertrauensmaenner throughout Germany who periodically reported on the work in their bailiwicks. The Gronau office maintained a comprehensive card file on all Mennonite refugees, and was the hub for the establishment of links abroad, principally to the Mennonite Central Commi ee and the Canadian Mennonite Board of Colonisation. It was also the place where all threads of emigration work for Mennonite refugees came together. Finally, at its establishment, the Gronau camp was set up to offer medical aid and, soon therea er, hospital care for refugees beyond what other German hospitals and doctors could provide. Work in the secretariat, as well as in all other branches such as housekeeping, the camps, and medical aid, were performed almost exclusively by the refugees themselves. The first longterm director of the Gronau camp was the well known and respected Brother Siegfried Janzen. With his wife Margarethe, he effectively oversaw the camp’s major work of welfare and care. The administration and organization of the main office was also for some time the responsibility of Heinrich Hamm (a refugee), and he was followed by others. Siegfried Janzen had the possibility of recruiting capable assistants from the ranks of the refugees. Space in the camp (as well as every arrangement in Gronau) was sparse, and le much to be desired. The lodgings in Gronau were tight and inadequate, people had to adapt to one another, and learn to get on together. Yet the common, shared privations and goals of the camp, its sociability generally as well as its preaching and pastoral care with choirs, youth ministry, and the like, constituted a unique and singular resource and deeply felt experience in the lives of many people. It is difficult for me to adequately honour the work of selfless devotion that I experienced in Gronau so personally.

Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949 363

Emigration Assistance Mennonite refugees looked to the Mennonite Central Commi ee, the Canadian Mennonite Board of Colonisation, relatives and churches chiefly for help in finding new and permanent homes overseas. This is scarcely surprising, given conditions in Europe and the threat of Bolshevism at the time. But the refugees also had virtually no inkling of the impediments. The psychosis of war lingered on, demanding that countries, including Canada, approach the issue cautiously, with reservations. Help in this regard was therefore extended initially to people who had been persecuted by the Nazis. These included Jews and several other nationalities. Mennonites, who had been led out of the Soviet Union by German authorities as Volksdeutsche, were not at first deemed desirable immigrants, even by Canada. The first country to offer Mennonite refugees immigration possibilities was Paraguay. In a display of great generosity, it offered Mennonite refugees unconditional acceptance as immigrants and the same legal privileges [extended to earlier Mennonite immigrants from Russia and Canada]. This was a tempting offer that interested the MCC and strongly appealed to many who were determined to escape the chaos and threat of repatriation of the time as soon as possible. Coupled with transportation aid from the International Refugee Organization (IRO) and the existence of restrictive Canadian and American immigration laws, this receptivity resulted in the se lement of a large number of refugees (probably too many) in Paraguay. At the same time, the Canadian Mennonite Board of Colonisation had started to lobby and negotiate for the opening of emigration doors to Canada while the MCC undertook similar initiatives with the occupation powers, principally through C.F. Klassen and others. For some time as well, official thinking among the victorious powers was dominated by a victory psychology that expressed itself in vengeful thoughts regarding everything German or German-friendly. There was also confusion stemming from the gradual reorientation in the relations among the great powers and a propensity of the Soviets to fish in troubled waters that landed them many a valuable prize. Under such circumstances, a peaceful, well-organized migration of people le stranded by the war could not be realized overnight. Incapable of judging these ma ers ourselves, we became extremely frustrated, impatient and disappointed. Those working on our behalf were o en equally

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burdened by reversals and sharp disappointments and needed perseverance and a trust in God’s power to confront and master the recurring constraints and problems. I know a thing or two about how difficult these ma ers were for C.F. Klassen, for instance, who suffered acutely when fresh obstacles kept arising. One of the toughest questions demanding resolution concerned our entitlement to help in emigrating from Germany. It was said that we Russian Mennonites were Volksdeutsche who had been led into the Reich by the Hitler government, had served in the Hitler army, and had fought the allies. We had, moreover, been registered as German citizens. This was charged against us from the start, and with some justification, and haunted our every step to secure help. The Canadian government created further difficulties with its immigration rules, especially those pertaining to degrees of relatedness as a criterion for admission to Canada. As late as 1949 and beyond, many who lacked sufficiently close relatives in Canada were, so to speak, placed in a holding tank and not permi ed to emigrate. Meanwhile, a large number of refugees had been transported to Paraguay on the ship Volendam. Their departure was a significant event for all of us. Involved, above all, were our most vulnerable refugees, those in Berlin, as well as most in Holland, some 2,300 people. The dramatic transport of Berlin refugees on a closed train through the Soviet zone had, in particular, been intensely stressful for everyone concerned. To sluice them through in this way without being stopped en route was a miracle and deemed an answer to prayer. Everyone who knew of the escapade experienced it as though present personally. Emigration in Progress: The Fallingbostel Emigration Camp Finally in 1947, a er a long two-year preparatory period of negotiations, formalities, and investigations, the first 500 Mennonite refugees from Germany were brought to Canada. A further 10,000 waited anxiously to follow. In 1948 the number of emigrants tripled and quadrupled, part of a broader acceleration involving tens of thousands of Displaced Persons (DPs) who now departed European shores for various overseas destinations. Emigration camps sprang up in the British and American zones and military transports metamorphosed into emigration ships. As part of the process, the small and primitive emigration camp of Hannover-Buchholz was transferred to Fallingbostel, a nearby modern and developed barracks town used by the Wehrmacht that consisted of some 100 large two-storied barrack blocks. There thousands of refugees

Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949 365

could be simultaneously housed and the complex needs of the emigration authorities accommodated. In April and May 1947 around 1,500 Mennonite refugees were hurriedly gathered together in Fallingbostel for processing. There was a long wait, but apart from the inevitable impatience, anxiety, and disappointment a ending such a process, all of us found it anything but a fallow interlude of marking time. Mennonites were permi ed to occupy a number of unfurnished barrack blocks separately. They prepared their own meals and upon request received a room for worship services and quarters for a school. These were major improvements that helped transform our stay in Fallingbostel into a meaningful and agreeable one. My family and I were summoned for processing in April 1948. This marked an important departure in our lives and required a break in our ties to our old place of residence in Celle. My function as a district Mennonite representative (Vertrauensmaenn) was assumed by D.D. Rempel in an election conducted at a farewell gathering of Vertrauensmaenner in the district. Although this group had been halved through emigration, I still felt my departure as an abandonment of unfinished tasks. As for the processing, most experienced it as a minor form of spiritual torture demanding great and time-consuming efforts. There were tests of one’s blood, heart, lungs, kidneys, and untold other ordeals. Failing to pass a single test could mean general failure. There were also political questions to be answered about origins, relatives, and much else on a long and wearisome road we were forced to walk before the Canadian Consul finally u ered his coveted “okay.” Most considered the test almost a life-and-death decision, and it did not end well for everyone. O en an examination had to be repeated, or the ma er was referred to London or O awa for final decision. In the eyes of some, emigration officials seemed determined to throw up almost every imaginable barrier. There were outright rejections. Processing thus had fateful consequences for many families who in their mind’s eye had already seen themselves se led in Canada. For them the end of the road was Paraguay. Living with Uncertainty Under these conditions it is clear that the refugees needed much spiritual energy and emotional support if they were to survive the period of emigration processing calmly and with dignity. This, we thank God,

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Fallingbostel provided in abundance. Those like us who spent much time in Fallingbostel felt that our trials and fellowship had united us into a single community of fate. The camp thus became a large meeting place for onetime co-pilgrims and co-sufferers. Our reunion was initially a congenial chit chat among friends and relatives about what had befallen us since our parting. This was a great deal. It also became a time for the kindling of new friendships and, most significantly, of spiritual communion. A number of our preachers in Fallingbostel came from Russia and they played an important role in our common life. These included Heinrich Winter, the afore-mentioned Elder of the Khortitsa church, the preachers Eug. Loewen, Franz Janzen, Franz Fr. Froese, Peter Sawatsky, Gustav Ratzlaff, Kornelius Penner, Peter Letkemann, Jacob Wiebe, and several others. Eager to preach, conduct Bible classes, lead Bible discussions and direct youth services, their work was much prized and became a boon to many. Thus despite the evident shortcomings of camp life and the tensions and worries that seemed to envelop us all, Fallingbostel remains in our thoughts as a time of blessing in which we freely dipped into the fount of our salvation. O en larger or smaller groups of emigrants took their leave at farewell celebrations, usually in the evening, with homilies, speeches, and singing. These were invariably impressive events, both for the migrants and those le behind. From time to time we were also visited by outside preachers from Canada and the United States – J.J. Thiessen, Korn. Wall, as well as by C.F. Klassen, and other MCC representatives. Brothers Peter Letkemann and Gustav Ratzlaff served the Fallingbostel congregation the longest, a er many preachers had already le . They spared no pain in their work, especially with the youth (and Gustav Ratzlaff also, in singing). For our young people this was of great significance since none had ever been engaged with peers in such intense interaction with a Mennonite orientation before. The camp had several choirs of eager singers and conductors. Large youth services featured Bible studies, the teaching of Mennonite history and singing.7 There were revival meetings where many, including parents, were awakened from their spiritual lethargy and guided to a new life. Others embraced lives of deeper spiritual commitment. A group of women and men took the schooling of our children, including its kindergarten youngsters, firmly in hand. Many volunteered their services as teachers. Camp administrators provided children with school materials and meals while a critical shortage of

Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949 367

suitable quarters was solved by housing classes in spacious barrack a ics. Men voluntarily fashioned benches and tables from materials provided by camp officials. What a joy to witness teachers – at first the Wiebe brothers, Miss K. Peters, Miss Nickel, Miss Unrau, and others – with their charges. For a time the school had over 200 pupils. At the same time, MCC representatives and a few of our men managed to acquire German books and open a library. We were also fortunate to have the MCC representative living in and working out of the Fallingbostel camp and hence present to clarify and remove problems and misunderstandings that arose in daily life. This was of momentous benefit for us who knew no English and had no access to his network of contacts. With his plate full, the MCC representative, on the side, also joined in our camp life with aid and directives. MCC representatives, in order of their service, were A. Voth, Kansas, Korn. Dyck, Rosthern, Saskatchewan and Franz Wiens, California. During his tenure, Korn. Dyck was also MCC Director for food relief in the English zone. That sometimes benefited the Fallingbostel camp when rations provided by the IRO food administration were very small. On occasion representatives also assisted in the allocation of scarce living space. Before coming to Fallingbostel, refugees had to manage in makeshi lodgings. In Fallingbostel five and more families had to crowd into a single large block room. Most occupants in these rooms tended to be on their best behaviour, o en almost considering themselves members of one family. Still, the old, the ill, and families with a number of small children craved separate spaces. Fortunately such quarters existed in the form of small rooms on the opposite side of the main hallway. Although these rooms could barely accommodate a family, they represented a huge improvement in the lives of the individuals and families involved. Overall, Fallingbostel nurtured a congenial atmosphere of mutual understanding and respect. Indeed we can proudly assert that everything there went extremely well for its Mennonite refugees. Since camp life, as we thought was our last and final major test before we turned our backs on an old and difficult life and embraced a more hopeful future, we were resolved to pass it with flying colours, heads held high. In barracks occupied by other groups there were not infrequently tumultuous scenes of camp administrators intervening, again and again, in fistfights, robberies, suicides, and so on. These o en kept people living there very much on edge.

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Christmas and Still in Fallingbostel By the beginning of 1949 the number of Mennonite refugees still in Fallingbostel had fallen considerably. Most had happily emigrated and the remainder had been brought together in one barracks block. (Those whose cases had been deferred had been moved to Gronau.) Willing hands now scrubbed and festively decorated our a ic meeting hall. This was the gathering place for school and kindergarten, choir practises, and all services. It was also the place to celebrate Christmas and New Year’s with children’s singing, performances, the distribution of Christmas presents to the children, and divine services. The women had whipped up a marvel of pastries. Old people and young, and not least our camp preacher Gustav Ratzlaff, plunged into turning this first shared Yuletide celebration since our dispersal in World War II into an elevated and enchanting experience. What be er way, moreover, to muffle our own feelings of sadness over our evident failure to join our fellow refugees already overseas. More could, naturally, be said about this refugee phase of our Russian Mennonite story. I have, for instance, said nothing regarding the equally important Mennonite refugee camps in Gronau and Baknang. Both offered shelter and services for up to 1,000 refugees. I have also not described other Mennonite camps in Ulm and Munich, and others, about whose life and peculiarities I have li le personal knowledge. What distinguished Fallingbostel’s unique character was its central role in the processing of Mennonite refugees for emigration. What is clear, moreover, is that the story of the refugees in Germany, including MCC help in meeting their needs and facilitating their emigration, embraced a not inconsiderable proportion of all Russian Mennonites and constituted a significant chapter in their history. In 1949 many of the remaining refugees in Fallingbostel were permi ed to immigrate to Canada. The overwhelming majority had thus found homes abroad: a large number in Paraguay and a handful also in the United States. Essentially, the once urgent and difficult challenge had been resolved. A er enduring lengthy trials of patience and faith, thousands had been able to turn their backs on the hardships of refugee life and its threats of repatriation to the USSR and look to a more hopeful future. Yet for some time therea er, a small number of refugees were held back in the Gronau camp, sighing and lamenting their fate. In the first days of 1949 my family and I finally received our longedfor permission to leave for Canada. Lovingly, those still in Fallingbostel

Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949 369

who had shared our fate took their leave of us. It was a glorious spring day and many accompanied us to the train station. Time and again we had said our goodbyes to so many and now we still had to leave a large number behind. Yet our years of roaming were over and we had reached our goal. For so long we and our fellow Mennonites had been stuck together in a “fragile cra on a raging sea.” Driven back and forth across terrible dangers, we had o en worriedly questioned where this was taking us and what our destination would be. Yet while man is hardly master of his destiny, our boat was not without its helmsman. This truth had filled our hearts with the courage to endure. An unseen hand had guided us, the hand of the Lord. May He also graciously lead our remaining homeless brothers and sisters to secure and tranquil homes. What Do We Owe the German People? Although the foregoing chapters suggest something of the help and sacrifice that the German people invested in our rescue, I and many fellow refugees feel we should acknowledge this assistance more particularly. As a small band of Mennonites and other ethnic Soviet Germans who were led out of the Soviet Union by Divine Providence, we recognize that the German government and people were solely responsible for our deliverance. We were, as related, rescued from our oppressors to the last person at a time of great danger along the German – Soviet military front. As refugees we then saw and suffered widespread bombing that rained down on Germany. It le behind general misery, a desperate flight of confused refugee masses, and despairing millions of bombed out civilians. A er hostilities ended, we lived through Germany’s postwar collapse marked by the destruction of its economy, the elimination of every chance for its recovery, and much injustice at the hands of the victorious powers. Under such conditions, our German fellow sufferers generously shared with us their short rations. They housed and fed us and gave us safe harbour until Canada and other countries would take us in. None of this should be taken for granted. It is true, that in the course of their relief work, our [overseas] churches through the auspices of the Mennonite Central Commi ee provided some assistance to the German people in their distressed condition. The Germans accepted it gratefully and repeatedly expressed their thanks publicly, also in official government statements.

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By “German people” I mean men in government, officials at all levels, public health officers, a deaconess, a medical doctor, a nurse, a soldier, an officer, a pastor or a peasant – in short everyone who reached out to us in our desperation with a helping hand, a gesture of support or a word of sympathy and encouragement. They all deserve our recognition and heartfelt thanks. To do less would be wicked and sinful ingratitude and injustice. Nor should we forget the assistance that the German people earlier generously provided large numbers of Russian Mennonites in their large-scale emigration to Canada in 1923–5 and hazardous flight to Moscow in 1929. We should not, however, grudgingly portion out our thanks in terms of who may or may not have pitched in with assistance at a particular time or in regard to a particular issue. Let us rather consider the larger question of how it was possible for us to overcome such menacing obstacles that o en, at the most difficult of times, stood in our way. If at those times the German people had shown us just a li le less sympathy or been a li le less helpful we would not be here today. Think only of how our lives hung by a thread when Soviet sniffers appeared to repatriate us to the Soviet Union. Other examples are sca ered throughout the pages of this memoir. Think also of some of the means that God choose to use. We believe in God’s leading and that divine wisdom, righteousness, and love are behind all that happens and behind every human action. We believe, and have experienced, that it is a trifle for Him to help with much or with li le. When necessary, He can also, for His own ends, use individuals and events that do not, in and of themselves, have the good as their purpose. Think only of the war, of the SS, of arduous treks and flight, and of much else that worked to our deliverance. Concluding Comments When the quarter century of Soviet Mennonite life a er 1929 discussed in this memoir passes before my mind’s eye in summary and retrospect, it appears to me as a single path of unrelieved misery and suffering. We know its hallmarks. At first people were brought low physically, economically and in their innermost spirits and reduced to soulless, vegetating beings. Robbed of their morals and faith, they existed rather than living amidst the greatest poverty and humiliation imaginable and in alienation from God.

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A er the outbreak of war in 1941, the overwhelming majority of Mennonites in southern Ukraine were deported east of the Urals and dumped into the desert steppes of Kazakhstan. Concealed from view, no one knew what had happened to them. They were labelled enemies and overnight turned into objects of hatred and mistrust. Their families were torn apart. All of their able-bodied men and single women, 16 years and older, were stuck into a “Labour Army” and deported or sca ered across the extreme northern regions. There in Soviet war industries, principally in mines, under the harshest conditions of shelter and sustenance, they were exploited as out-and-out slaves. Alas, alas, few will have survived. Meanwhile, the Almighty, with the help of the German Wehrmacht, rescued the minority le in southern Ukraine. A time of further affliction followed, marked by flight and homeless vagabondage, but also by great brotherly love until part of this group was generously transplanted into a new home. Welcomed by the care and kindness of churches and relatives, its members could start new lives and build new futures. What a contrast. What opposing destinies. Who can understand this? The picture becomes even more puzzling when we recall that twothirds of the minority so marvellously rescued a er such suffering was forcibly repatriated to the USSR [a er the war] where they were plunged into even deeper grief. Place these groups and destinies side by side and we are faced with a profound mystery, a reality we can hardly fathom and whose understanding must await the light of eternity. As mere mortals we can scarcely picture these sharply contrasting destinies without being repeatedly moved and shaken to our innermost. Yet should we not now already be seeking a deeper understanding of this mystery for ourselves? Should we not ponder the questions “why?” and “to what purpose?” Many of us understand that our Leidensweg (path of suffering) was also, in part, a judgment and punishment that we cannot simply ignore. For this we thank and praise God. Happy are we if, at the end of our suffering, we can stand humbly before our God and penitently confess: “Lord we have sinned, we and our fathers have done wrong before thee.” May we then cry out from the depth of our souls, “Seek ye first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness.” This knowledge can, moreover, embolden us to seek full and honest lives for ourselves as new immigrants. To fill our hearts with thanks and remember that God did not abandon us in His love, can also

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protect us from self-centred and indifferent lives marked by glu ony and a consuming materialism. God wishes not our perdition but His peace. Might this truth make us willing to serve our fellow man in love? We live in a time of human progress and prosperity, but also of consuming temptations to our faith. The dangers of spiritual shallowness, of religious hypocrisy, of a clinging to form, of lovelessness, of unbrotherly divisions are greater now than ever. Let us not be deaf and blind to the warnings implicit in the common sufferings and blessings described and documented above. Virgil, Ontario, Canada, 1954 Postscript, 1957 In this addendum I would like to remember fellow Mennonites in southern Ukraine who shared a common life with us of hardship until they were deported eastward in 1941 and disappeared from our view. According to our informed judgment all of them, men separately, as well as women and children, had been sent to their perdition. They were for us martyrs of a blind, heartless tyranny and aroused in our hearts woe and pity as well as copious tears and prayers. But today, a er many years, we have learned with joy and gratitude that not nearly all had died, although we know to our profound sorrow that most men had perished some time ago. Still a er years of misery and suffering, of starvation, of a mass dying, and the sca ering of our people across the world, the majority have survived. A er the death of the ruthless dictator Stalin, conditions and living standards in the USSR have even significantly improved. Not only do our fellow believers and relatives no longer vegetate in conditions of poverty and slavery, but they have started to live in many places. Moreover, the Spirit of God has started to bring new meaning into the lives of these coarsely rejected, trampled upon, and hunted-down individuals and groups. Modest, uneducated men, young and old, rise to their feet and fearlessly follow the call to serve in the Kingdom of God. Churches are being founded. Just think, a er suffering decades of the severest mistreatment and passing through the deepest valleys of human misery, these people now emerge as pioneers of the faith. They have become a light and salt to their surroundings in a world that still openly denies God. This appears before our eyes as a miracle. Several years ago I had come plaintively to the view that the history of Mennonites in Russia had ended. Today the situation in the USSR encourages new hope.8

PART THREE A Memoir-LeĴer From Jacob A. Neufeld to His Wife, Lene (Thiessen) Neufeld, on the Occasion of Their 25th Wedding Anniversary

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Gronau, Westphalia September 1947 Dear Lene, [first page missing] … [I remember] the unforge able aunts in Liebenau. I spent my village school years boarding with Aunt Marie (or Tante Mitschke, as father called his sister), Uncle Jacob, and their children. Other children and older people became part of our village circle and le a lasting impression on me. Later I moved with my parents and siblings to Klippenfeld. There I put off my childish ways. Children naturally long to be grown up, yet my experiences in Klippenfeld were painful and disagreeable. They caused a split in my young soul. Quickly I found myself in a group of more mature boys who spoke an o en coarse language that I did not always understand. Sundays they frequently engaged in strange and disgusting behaviour that made it hard for me to look my parents in the eye. Still, I did not want to seem “smaller” than I was, and so I tagged along. Those early unhappy years in Klippenfeld are why I feel so strongly that young and unspoiled children should play under the watchful eye of their parents. What followed for me was secondary school [Zentralschule] in Gnadenfeld, away from my parental home. A er three years, I returned home with a li le book-learning (Schulweisheit) to help my father in the family business, as was his wish. But secondary school had not given me much for my inner self. My views on life and conduct had remained much as before. I had at most matured a li le. I had grown up. A year later, in 1913, my dear mother died. It is something that you will remember, for how could we forget? I was sha ered by the loss. It had come so unexpectedly and turned my inner life upside down. I looked for answers to painful questions, bowing down before the authority of the Lord and quietly beginning my life afresh. A year later, the Great War broke out. I volunteered with others for medical corps service (Sanitaetsdienst), to the grief of my dear father who meanwhile had brought a stepmother into our home. I went to war, moved somewhat by feelings of patriotism but more by a thirst for adventure and a desire to see and experience a larger world. The dangers and responsibilities of medical service were still of li le concern to me. I recall that when we Klippenfeld and Hamburg “volunteers” (a few others joined us later on), le from the Stulnevo railway station. No one saw us off, and there was no festive leave-taking. But our

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mood was an elevated one and everything seemed terribly important. Did you feel a li le anxious for me at the time? I have no idea since our relations were still those between good neighbours, no more. Our headquarters were in Moscow with the large Zemstvo Union where we began our long period of service in medical trains at the front. Since I could not remain indifferent to the misery of the war that I experienced, I took life seriously and faithfully rendered what medical assistance I could to the seriously wounded. A er four and a half years of service I returned home more experienced and mature but not much improved inwardly. With the great revolution in full swing, the country was engulfed in frightful political and economic chaos. Instead of starting a constructive career that would have enabled me finally to begin reflecting on myself and my life’s work, I was thrown into the anarchy as a conscript “White Army” soldier fighting communism in the south. During the brief interval at home between my medical service and conscription into the White Army, I had joined in baptismal instruction. On the first day of Pentecost, the day of my induction [into the White Army], we hurried off to the Landskrone church where the venerable Elder G. Ple introduced me as the first baptismal candidate. A er answering several of the usual questions, I was baptised. My faith was sincere, and the gravity and sanctity of the holy act to which I was subject accompanied me through much of the [civil] war. You probably recall vividly, my dear Lene, how a er six months of the despicable civil war, and a er lying sick with abdominal typhus in Kiev and being reported dead to my family, I returned home weak and ill. Although I received good care, I hovered between life and death for a month. During that time the fronts around us kept changing and the Bolsheviks, in a decisive thrust, flooded the south. At the time you and your sisters visited me and showed me great sympathy. It was 1920 and you had turned into an a ractive young woman. With loving care and God’s help, I recuperated, and, in gratitude, again pledged my loyalty to the Lord, my inner life having taken on greater clarity and content despite the chaos. Over the next two years, as the civil war ended and I worked at home, in the village or somewhere nearby, you and I were drawn closer to one another. Maybe my heart, empty of love, sought yours or maybe you drew me to you with a budding love and longing. Who can really say? How do two hearts find one another? Is it fate? A er a longer period of visiting back and forth, we came to love and treasure

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one another, and to believe that we had been created for one another. Although I loved you, I did not idealize you, seeing you as a modest, unpretentious Gretchen from Goethe’s Faust, a dear girl who had brought me an open heart filled with love and devotion. I needed no more. This was the greatest, most promising guarantee of marital happiness. It was of no concern to me that you were not my intellectual equal for I felt that with good will on both sides, the necessary accommodations and adjustments would be made and I would find in you a good housewife and a loving mother for our children. Youth naturally tends to see the rosy side of things, and rightly so, for how otherwise could a loving couple join hands in a wicked and sinful world filled with hatred and deceit. Despite the terribly difficult economic conditions and a sense of hopelessness at the time, we were among the few at that time who took the risky step of marriage. The famine had just ended, but real order was still lacking everywhere. I regret that illness and the difficult times have so weakened my memory that I can no longer recall many details of the good and the bad of a quarter century ago. I do not remember how earnestly and deeply the two of us judged the worth of our relationship. I am sure we called on God for His help and were certain that we had been united in His name. A er all, you were 22 at the time and I was 27. We were both old enough to recognize the seriousness of what we were doing. What we principally brought to our marriage was the dowry of a Christian upbringing in our parental homes and some experiences along the way, yours probably fewer than mine. On your father’s birthday, our fathers gave us their blessing, most probably with heavy hearts, but what were they to do? Your father faced a life alone with your two younger siblings and naturally did not want to lose you as a homemaker. Just a year earlier we had accompanied your mother to her grave. My father had different reservations, believing that we were not intellectual equals and hence unsuited for one another. He had o en scolded me for my thoughtlessness, still considered me rash and my choice frivolous. I stood my ground, believing that love would create the necessary balance and support and enable us to come closer to one another in one mind and one spirit. Twenty-five years later we must recognize and confess that everything has turned out quite differently from what we had thought and wished for in our life together at that time. How o en has the evil one

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sown antipathy and discord between us and turned us away from the path of inner understanding and love. We, and especially I, the more responsible one, must lower our eyes in repentance before God and ourselves and admit that we cannot show much for our good will. Having walked so li le on the uplands of sacrificial love, we have o en grieved one another with unkindness and insults. But praise and thanks be to God, our heavenly Father, who has opened our eyes and made us aware that we do not need to surrender our idiosyncrasies and weaknesses for the sake of the other. We can support one another as we are, in love and humility, and carry and value one another. However insignificant we may be, God has placed all of us in this world as original creations. We are unique in our being, even though we may o en be incomprehensible to our neighbours. God wants us to respect and tolerate our differences, and not hold them in contempt. Why do we recognize so late in life that we must build bridges over our peculiarities and weaknesses and draw personal strength from one another, especially in marriage? If our love proves insufficient for this task then it is not that selfless, sacrificial love that is deeply grounded in the spirit of our Lord Jesus Christ. In the absence of such love in marriage, misunderstandings and dislikes may arise, at first weakly and then more strongly until they may result in permanent marital ill will. To our mutual sorrow, our mothers had been carried to early graves, yours a year before our marriage, mine earlier. At the time, we admitted this sad fact reluctantly, but it lay painfully upon us, and especially on our fathers’ hearts. We were inclined to think, “If only our mothers were still alive.” How tragic when mothers are taken from their children, whether young or old. I believe it would have been a great blessing for us if at least one of our mothers (for they were both real mothers) had been there to brighten our married life with her maternal experiences and humble Christian disposition. A practiced gentleness would have spared tears, gloom and discord, especially at the start when sorrows needed to be relieved and smoothed over. In looking backwards in this way, I would like to recover loving memories out of our past, and also confess and repent the incidents and times of unkindness, grief and misunderstanding that I have caused you. I recall the la er with considerable pain and am sure this will be the same for you. Surely we would have had more joy to celebrate and less sorrow if we had been more inspired by the love of Christ. In the meantime, the chapters of our pilgrimage have been recorded by the Eternal Judge in the great Book of Life. Since a new

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and final stage of our common earthly journey now lies before us, let us ask God for the wisdom and strength to fill it with greater joy and love as disciples in obedience and service to Him. The day of our wedding approached. We had enjoyed the usual bridal visits by horse and buggy to siblings, grandfathers, aunts, and so on, in the village and in more distant places – to your relatives in Tiegenhagen and to mine in Muensterberg, Landskrone, Petershagen, and elsewhere. In the fall of 1922, with the famine finally ended and the harvest promising relief, our necessarily modest marriage, provided by your father at your parental home, could finally take place. Lacking a mother to support and outfit you (nothing was available in this la er regard anyway), you worried and shed many a private tear despite the counsel of your older sister, Sara (with her own family in the village), and the help of your younger sisters Greta and Mariechen. In fact, the la er sometimes complicated decisions. Your father, a quiet man li le given to talk and seriously plagued by rheumatism, preferred to sit on the stove bench in the living room (grosse Stube), leaving you very much on your own. Yet despite problems, the big [carriage] cross shed (Querscheune) was made ready and festively decorated by the young people. A er friends and relatives on both sides, and probably the entire village had been invited, one Saturday in fall guests gathered joyously on your yard. There they were welcomed by a large festive banner: WILLKOMMEN (welcome). Inside, your grandparents and my grandfather occupied places of honour in the front row. Seated next to them in an encircling arc were our fathers, brothers, sisters, and other relatives. We were delighted that a few service buddies of mine from the war had also come and that the venerable Elder Gerhard Ple , despite his infirmities, officiated at our marriage. You looked beautiful in your white wedding dress, wreath, and veil and maybe I was quite handsome in a black dress suit borrowed from my friend, Peter Dirks. We were deeply touched by the solemn sermon and blessing filled with exhortations. Again we felt before God that we had assumed a heavy responsibility to one another. With a solemn, sincere and audible “I do,” we made our pledges before God and the congregation. Regretably, I have forgo en our wedding text. It would have been a treasured memory. I can no longer dredge it up from my faded memory. The eventful day ended. No longer single and free, we both were bound to one another as one flesh, one mind, and one will. That is what the dear Elder had said and what God and we ourselves wanted. Thus we pronounced our vows.

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A er the usual wedding meal, which your father had insisted on providing despite the straitened times, most guests gradually took their leave. The wedding evening usually belongs to the young people for customary games and music, and so it was on this occasion. The couple not only takes part in the games, but is expected to lead. It is their last evening of pleasure in fellowship with youthful friends and marks their leave-taking from one group and their entry into another. Life will now be filled with other pursuits, with struggles and cares to survive and with future responsibilities to one another and to children. Your wreath and my nosegay were removed and festively claimed by others. We formally entered the “senior” group. The words, “Lovely is the time of youth. Nevermore will it return,” were of course recited. It was simply the custom and so it is, we said. Because of my earlier life [in World War I and the Russian civil war], I had scant interest in the conversations of young people and in their games. Both of us really wanted to withdraw, to start building a mutual happiness and future and to found our own household. To be sure, none of this looked the least promising at the time. Still, full of courage and self confidence, we believed conditions in the country were improving and saw life, vast and alluring, stretching out before us. Since, in the short run, you, Lene, could not be spared in your father’s household, we temporarily moved into the summer room (Sommerstube) of your parental home, traditionally occupied by newlyweds. Nor could I refuse to help out your father on his farm since he was disabled by rheumatism and had no men to help. In any case, given the general ruin, extreme poverty, and lack of other prospects at the time, it made sense for me to stay close to farming. I knew I would get on well with your sisters, Greta and Michi, as well as your father and your li le brother Abraham, who had already endeared himself to me (and I probably to him). My acceptance into your family was friendly and unconditional and I gladly took on every kind of farm task. While much of the work was new to me, I had already adapted to many changes in my young life, passing, as the Russian saying goes, “through fire and water.” From the start of my schooling, I had o en lived with other families for long periods of time. The larger question, however, to give everyone pause, was of how our lives were to now unfold that the Bolsheviks had seized control of Russia. Hunger and starvation were widespread in villages and cities. Confusion and devastation reigned everywhere. What was needed was a longer period for comprehensive reconstruction. There

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was a will to move in this direction, but those in power lacked the trust of the masses. Meanwhile we plunged into the work on father’s farm. Since we had no horses, Michi and I trained two milk cows as draught animals and used them for the field work of plowing and seeding and for travel. In a kindly gesture, Father graciously put one hectare of good clean soil at my disposal for winter wheat, if I could find the seed grain. This the Klatz family lent us. A er a good harvest, that hectare of wheat helped give us economic independence. Thus the Lord richly blessed our small beginnings. In October of that same year [1922], prompted by B. B. Janz and others, our Mennonite farmers held organizational assemblies in various places, including our district of Gnadenfeld. The goal was to found a [Mennonite] economic [cooperative] association to improve our economy through organizational and economic initiatives and credits from home and abroad. [Entitled the Union of Citizens of Dutch Origin (Verband Buerger Hollaendischer Herkun ), or MennoVerband, for short], this association was also to serve, on the side, as a Mennonite central organization that would scout out emigration possibilities for Mennonites who had lost any hope for a future in the Soviet Union. Without my knowledge and presence, I was elected onto the executive of the association’s administration, [as chairman of its Gnadenfeld district affiliate]. That was hardly warranted. How could I as a young man still peering into the future be summoned to such a position of trust and responsibility? That was certainly not the way our conservative farmers usually behaved. Or was there simply a shortage of qualified persons during those extraordinary times? A er reflection and encouragement from others I agreed to accept the Association (Verband) position. At the time I was still full of selfconfidence and willing to take initiatives, and the prospect of work in the service of a larger, broader vision, with a longer-term perspective, intrigued me. Nor did I shy away from assuming responsibility for an undertaking that might have consequences for me in future. I, therefore, seized what seemed to be an opportunity for our future [as Mennonites]. Was this another example of the thoughtlessness for which my father so o en chided me? I no longer remember whether our fathers had any reservations about me taking on the job at the time. You, in any case, were in agreement with me, as you were from the start in everything I undertook. The new job was full-time. This meant I would have to give up work on the farm and we would have to move to Gnadenfeld where

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the Verband office was to be located. This happened in November 1922, you will recall. In fall weather and on fall roads, our belongings stowed on his ladder wagon, our friend Heinrich Franz moved us to Gnadenfeld and into our newfound independence. Thus began a new, many-faceted, and interesting chapter in our lives that would end in great pain for us. At first I was fully absorbed in association work, developing economic and organizational initiatives. You became an independent housewife, in charge of your own home, which held out much charm for you. We found the new position among new people stimulating and interesting. But did we bring the most significant ma ers sufficiently before God’s throne? I do not think that my job gave me a swelled head. Problems at work also kept me from growing arrogant. Besides, I had older, thoughtful coworkers, who excercised a positive influence over me and my job. For this I am still thankful. I enjoyed the work, but you were o en bored in the unfamiliar and lonely se ing. With what longings did you then o en greet me when I returned home a er being away on business for several days? And how happy you were when one of our siblings or relatives visited us. Yet my sister Sara also lived in the village. Soon we were befriending village people and began to feel at home. For us, Gnadenfeld was thus destined to become our home. There also our fate would play itself out. The year 1923 was filled with hope. When measured against the modest labour we had generally managed to put into farm work, the harvest was good. Life again had a stronger heartbeat. Meanwhile our Erika was born. The memory of this event, on 2 August 1923, will stay with us forever. Joys and sorrows now bound us together more closely than ever before. I became newly aware of my responsibilities toward you and our child and our love grew more intimate. What joy and happiness a firstborn brings into a marriage. What love did we expend, what sunshine enjoy? A child of pain, but also a child of joy – that was our Erika. Maybe that is why there are such special emotions and worries tied up with this child, even to the present. All this may explain why these Soviet years of the mid-1920s, as we bathed in our happiness, seemed so rosy to us. We were doing quite well. And how much did we really need to feel happy? Everyone had learned to make do with li le. We had managed to get ahead a li le economically. We owned a horse, the unforge able Arab, already mine before our marriage, and you brought a cow along as your dowry. That was much, very much, in those days. We soon added a piglet and

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a few chickens, some furniture and odds and ends. That was a great deal, and of enormous value during a time of terrible scarcity and new beginnings. Before long, Heini entered our world and lives. Do you remember how small and delicate he was, yet every inch a boy with his own character? He too brought us much joy. Both children were our happiness and sunshine. You had much to do and the seriousness of life, with its duties and responsibilities, increased. Then we moved into our own place [in the village of Gnadenfeld]. With help from father and a few friends, we had bought a house from the immigrant Krause. That saddled us with new responsibilities, new worries, but also gave us new prospects and possibilities. How glorious it seemed, to be able to live by ourselves, with our own stove, yard, and garden. Above all, the children were free to come and go as they pleased in our own yard. We may well have enjoyed the large yard and garden even more than we did the big house. That was in 1925, exactly three years a er our wedding. A er our first Jasha was born on 26 December 1926, our joy, at least at first, was less marked. You showed signs of ill health, and were o en tired. Rarely did you seem happy. Your condition led to serious anemia that we struggled with for years. We had no choice but to weigh up ma ers. What if your condition were to worsen? This struck a discordant note in our marriage and led to many worries. The result was the loss of much joy and many blessings. I o en pitied you, weighed down as you were with work and cares. Did we fail to place our inner needs and concerns before our Heavenly Father? We had started our married life with prayer and the mo o, An GoĴes Segen ist alles gelegen (“everything depends on God’s blessing”). Had we, in our joy and material advancement, forgo en to accept everything as God’s grace, and to acknowledge that with gratitude? Our happiness was further dampened by the misfortune of my arrest in December 1927 a er the liquidation of the Menno Verband. This placed our material existence in question and made us anxious about our future. This was the first fateful result of my work with the Verband. Was I now to become the object of unremi ing persecution by the Soviet government? With other courageous colleagues, I was sentenced to three years of labour, and put in prison. That was an unexpected blow, a hard blow. Completely surprised and in shock, I and the others were immediately taken into custody and driven away. You, Lene, were suddenly alone with the three darling children, and had to

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take all the worries upon yourself. Previously I had seemed indispensable, and could be away for scarcely a day at a time, and now we were to be separated for years. That seemed frightening and unimaginable. Who would feed you, support you? The burden almost crushed me because I was the cause of the whole misfortune. Did we, in our hour of need, bow down penitently before God, separately but united in our pleas and concerns? Yes, we did not forget to do that, Lene, and God, our Lord, in His mercy, helped us beyond what we had asked for, or understood, despite our repeated faithlessness. We felt ashamed, and humbled in our gratitude. The Lord, prompted friends of ours to help you out through that difficult beginning, giving both of us the strength we needed to bear the misfortune. More, however, was to come. Quite suddenly, He turned away the misfortune. None of us felt very guilty about our “crimes.” We had certainly broken Soviet law in trying to protect the interests of our suffering community. The la er had been our priority. Moreover, we would have to make good the material penalty on our own, in any case. Yet there was still the added penalty of three years in prison. It was therefore through God’s mercy that I had to serve only five months of my three year sentence. That was a great and merciful development. In June 1928, that same year, our darling youngest, almost threeyear-old Jasha, became ill with an inflamed brain. It was a frightening illness, perhaps as hard to bear for us as parents as it was for the dear child. As lively as he had always been, he now withdrew into himself until he was almost mute. He could not keep down any food, and was soon nothing more than skin and bones, pining away week a er week, and nobody could help. At first we pleaded for his recovery, but finally simply sighed, “Lord, release this poor worm from his suffering and take him into thy arms.” A er 11 weeks he was delivered from his suffering. We were humbled. Only someone who has gone through something like this can appreciate the long, intense pain we felt at his loss. That was an affliction from God. Maybe it was also a punishment. We must certainly, at the time, have reiterated our pledge of loyalty to the Lord. During this time, Lene, you had grown progressively weaker. Your anemia had go en much worse and we made every possible effort in those lean times to keep you alive. Even today I can see you in your emaciated state, with that frightening pallor. Fortunately we had been able to run the farm on our own for a time. We had been allocated a

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li le land and farmed as best we could under conditions of extreme poverty. We owned a lame li le horse, Diunka, the pride and joy of Jasha and Heini, who faithfully helped us out. The court had disenfranchised me and stripped me of my civil rights for five years, and that burdened our life in various ways. It was a time of abrupt and tempestuous change. There began the great economic revolution across the USSR [of the late 1920s and early 1930s]. Agriculture was beset by a fundamental transformation that was acutely painful and consequential for the peasantry. Thousands of be er-off peasant families were driven from their homes and lands and sca ered about the wastelands of Siberia. That led to deep and painful experiences and injected sharp conflicts into the life of village communities. Economic expropriation and socialism were lesser evils. Far greater was the hounding of people, the terror and the spiritual misery that accompanied all of this. It was as though the furies had been unleashed in human form. They appeared everywhere in people who cooperated with what was happening in order to torment others rather than be tormented themselves. It seemed that life itself had been brought to the edge of ruin. We were not directly affected at first. Yet, nonetheless, we had enough worries of our own. The court had ruled that I and my colleagues were to pay a considerable fine to the government. Given our strained conditions that was not so easy to accomplish. Greater financial sacrifices were required. What li le we had was desperately needed simply to live. With pressure from without, in which village officials several times came close to auctioning off our belongings, the sum was paid off. Thus passed several years in which we farmed on a small scale, including a year spent in the agricultural collective (kolkhoz), Neues Leben. All village farmers had been forced to join the collective farm, except those of us who had been disenfranchised. We had to stand aside like the black sheep of human society. We likely did not object to the discrimination since the collective promised nothing good. Some people almost certainly envied us, and this envy eventually proved fateful to those of us who had been punished. We, therefore, decided to contribute what li le we had to the collective – our implements, as well as a horse, wagon, and several smaller items – and I myself went to work in the collective as a member without rights. I did not have to render this forced labour (Frondienst) for long. Soon a bookkeeping position opened up for me in the Gnadenfeld consumer cooperative.1 A er some back and forth the job was given

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to me – if truth be told, when they could find no one else to do it. I plunged into the work with all my energy despite having li le experience in this area. How happy and (surely) grateful the two of us were for the turn this ma er had taken. That must have been in 1930. This new chapter in our lives, with which we were relatively satisfied, lasted for some three years. Gradually I worked myself into the job, to the satisfaction of my superiors. It did not pay well, but we were satisfied to have found a steady, secure occupation that was congenial and fed our children and ourselves. The collective farm could not even manage to do this for its members in the first years, although they slaved away from early morning until late at night. Life went on. In time you recuperated somewhat. The two children were our joy, and for this alone I would wish myself back in that time. Happily they played in the yard and garden with many friends. Sister Sara and her two boys lived close by, and there was much visiting back and forth. There were also the children of teacher Rempel and of the Bergens and the sons of our neighbours, the Loewens. Then school began for Erika and a year later for Heini. How eager they were to complete their assignments. What a misfortune it was, and how painful, when Heini broke his leg sledding. He was improving but could hardly wait until his leg healed. Several times I even drove him to school in a small sleigh. And what a joy it was when we could take a trip to visit our parents and siblings in Klippenfeld. How li le was needed to please the children. Much love and joy was sca ered about and absorbed at that time. I believe this must have been the loveliest and most enjoyable time of our marriage. Meanwhile, my parents had moved in with us in Gnadenfeld. Among much else, they had been harassed, denied rights and been heavily taxed in Klippenfeld. To avoid being driven from their home, they decided to leave on their own and surrendered the house to the collective. Where would they live? We had enough room and would naturally take them in, despite risks and crowding. There were four at the time, including my brother Hans who was still alive that first year. Yet to share housekeeping, kitchen, cellar, entryway, barn, and so on with my stepmother, who had her own oddities, took special efforts on your part. Still, life had already taught us a li le modesty and flexibility and we managed. Time marched on, pushed along by events that were simply hairraising. Collective life in the village was an unrelenting misery and distress. Everyone went about heavily burdened. The grief and misfortune of living ate away and dissolved every kind of fellowship

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and social bond. Joy and unity faded imperceptibly from village communities and from family life. Life itself lost its substance and allure. What remained was work without purpose, and fear for the preservation of one’s own wretched existence and of oppression. Love also grew cold. Where there had been sunshine and warmth, there emerged unkindness and suspicion. Under the weight of political pressures, persecution, and Godless propaganda, church services and religious life grew shallow. The goal of Christian life, to serve, to praise, and to seek one’s salvation, foundered in the misery and general wretchedness of the time. Religious and spiritual life undoubtedly continued to flicker in some places, as did the will to do good, but it no longer dared show its face publicly. Public life was everywhere characterized by egoism, mistrust, unkindness, fear, and insecurity. The composition of Gnadenfeld village was changed through the injection into our midst of masses of Volyian Germans and of Russians [Ukrainians]. Young people dissipated themselves in riotous living in the collective, and immorality spread more and more. Under great pressure, the hounded and tormented preachers disappeared from public view, and no longer dared to step forward with a word of stern admonition. Such was the situation in the early 1930s, which was still deeply marked by the famine of 1932–3. Although we were be er off than others in some ways because of my work, the cheerless surroundings unquestionably influenced our economic and family life. Nonetheless, we had much reason to be grateful. Despite the general destitution, we had been le largely shielded from many of the miseries that had struck the collective farmers. Were we grateful enough for this at the time? For a number of years we had managed to live in relative peace, together with our darling children and our parents. Then, in the summer of 1933, we were quite unexpectedly struck by a bolt out of a clear sky. Suddenly, with great malice, I was dismissed from my work by a political purge commission as a parasite and untrustworthy person with a counter-revolutionary background. I had given no cause for such accusations, and had only recently received a commendation for my work. The political accusations were fabricated and false, that was clear. But in those days of Party caprice, mistrust and hatred, that was not unexpected. Though everyone knew me to be an honourable man, no one found these accusations unheard of or unjust. Those were days of capricious despotism. Every day was chock full of outrageous examples of Soviet injustice and caprice that was useless to protest to

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higher authorities. But what a hard blow for us. Our existence seemed sha ered. Where, a er this, would I find a job? No one would risk hiring me. Would this mark the start of our further misery? In this way several weeks of anxiety and worry passed. You, Lene, were pregnant at the time, in “blessed circumstances,” to our great regret (Leidwesen), and on the eve of your delivery. All that weighed heavily upon us. How would it all turn out? Each one of us, and our father too, suffered greatly under the circumstances. I looked for a job, and since there were now no prospects in Gnadenfeld I travelled several times to Halbstadt. Through our friend Peter Dirks, who had just been appointed a public health official in Halbstadt, I landed a position as a bookkeeper in a public [Red Cross] health facility in Halbstadt. We saw that as providential, as offering a way out. With heavy hearts we agreed to accept the separation. Many troubles would still result from that decision, but there was really no choice, and I accepted the appointment. Meanwhile, Lene, you gave birth to two lively boys on a day when I was not even at home. Yes, two of them, in a time for us of oppression and general hunger. We were not at all happy but in despair, and our trust in God was weak. Yet many ma ers turned out be er than we had expected. The famine ended with the new crop. You had handled the birth well and recuperated, despite the worries and work surrounding the two infants. My job, however, despite not having board and room in Halbstadt, only permi ed me to come home every second weekend. I had to bring food along from home. That was not easy for you either. As a consequence, I could be of li le help to you, and that filled me with distress. Yet as a result of our being apart, my concern for you and your worries was very great, and our love and understanding for one another and the children grew. How great was the joy for us and the children when I returned home a er a two-week separation. We found reason to thank God and our faith was strengthened. Our parents, too, stood by you with their help. Erika and Heini a ended school. They were diligent and successful, and our two babies in the cradle simply blossomed on mother’s milk and loving care, peacefully sucking their thumbs. Jashel and Haensel were the marvels and joy of our lives and of those around us. Things proceeded thus reasonably well for several months, with good health and a sense of well-being, although we felt that the [living] arrangements would not do in the long run. But then we were

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struck by a calamity that put to naught further planning and our entire future. One night everything came suddenly to an end when, quite unexpectedly, the NKVD arrested me and tore me away from you for years, from you and the children. It was all over without a farewell, without rhyme or reason. Our life, not only mine, seemed to have been lost forever. That was the start of a long road of suffering lasting many years, one probably more difficult for you than for me. Around midnight, on 21 November 1933, a so knock on the door awakened me in my office, where I was temporarily camped out. A er committing myself and my loved ones to God in prayer, I had gone to bed full of misgivings. With a weak groan, I opened the door. Two NKVD officials stood there. They stepped inside and, a er a quick search of my room, ordered me to come along. “Should I take along clothes and food?” I asked. “Oh no,” they said. “That is unnecessary. It is simply a ma er of clearing up a few questions.” I would then return. Nowhere among the Soviets are falsehood and deception more widespread than in the NKVD (People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs). This I would soon discover and later experience painfully myself. Without much ado, I was searched on arrival by the NKVD. They took away my pocketknife, suspenders and a Bible that I had shoved into a pocket. I was then locked up in solitary confinement. No one thought of interrogating me the following morning. The same was true of the second and third days. Anger alternated with despair and tortured me. I was overwhelmed by feelings of opposition and rebellion against God. I fought and wrestled with my fate, but without any notion of how it would all end. Our friend P. Dirks had been placed under arrest a month earlier, and there were many other acquaintances like him imprisoned as well. On a business trip to Dnepropetrovsk, I had brought along some money and clothing for Dirks that I dropped off at the NKVD, where he was confined with many others. I had almost been forced to remain there myself. On the third day of my own arrest, I was taken under heavy guard to Dnepropetrovsk and delivered to the NKVD cellars. You, Lene, had no idea of what had happened to me. Thus began my time of repression. God our Lord and merciful Father gave me strength and brought me wondrously through. I had submi ed myself, penitently and humbly, to God’s will and repeatedly commended you, the children, and our parents to His protection. Submissively, I set out on the great path of suffering. The suffering

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was physical, of course, but it was far more spiritual. The despots of the NKVD sought to grind me down and destroy me through starvation and continuing mental exhaustion in some 22 nightly interrogations. Sometimes I seemed to lose my inner and external bearings. But the Lord in His mercy carried me through and kept me from betraying anyone else. The four-month-long interrogation process ended with a sentence of the NKVD that had been formulated somewhere else in our absence. It was brief but heavy with meaning. For counterrevolutionary activities paragraph number … five years imprisonment in distant camps of the NKVD. Five years. That was the worst part. To be separated from you for five long years. You would be alone with the children for five long years. For five long years in a Siberian prison camp. Was that even thinkable? It was not easy to reason myself into such a thing, to submit myself to God’s will. Would we ever see one another again? Would we ever be able to resume our interrupted life’s pilgrimage? I felt weary, sad, and u erly sha ered. The future was without hope. Yet we could seek comfort in the knowledge that our fate was in the hands of the Lord over life and death, and entrust our future to His further guidance. And this we did, even when you visited me the first time in prison for a reunion of 15 minutes. It is impossible here to give a full account of my imprisonment. I hope to be able to do that in detail sometime later on.2 When one thinks, what a sorrowful time that was. So many decent people, torn from their families, productive lives and responsible service, and innocently condemned – ruthlessly tossed about from cell to cell, and sentenced to a life of slavery for many years. How immeasurable were the baseness and crass contradictions embodied in Soviet power. Later I was able to establish that there were more than a hundred Mennonites in this group, including even a number of women – housewives and mothers. The fate of Frau Wiebe, known as Ira Janzen, pierced the hearts of the men and evoked their deepest pity. I was then moved to thank God for the mercy that had permi ed you to stay at home with the children. To make me more pliable, I had been expressly threatened with the tearing apart and banishment of my family, yet the Lord kept his protective hand over us and this did not happen. During the period of my interrogation, I had grown weak and emaciated and to top up my cup of misery had been laid low by an outbreak of boils. Now we were scheduled to be sent into the Siberian wilderness at hard labour as slave workers, a world removed from human society, and

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abandoned to the mercies of the NKVD and the blatnoie, those bands of depraved thieves and robbers. Who there would care if we were closer to death than to life? And yet everyone wanted to leave the prison [in Dnepropetrovsk] at the first chance, this place of our pain and misery, even if that meant going to Siberia. Lene, I will never forget our first meeting on this, our path of suffering. Tormented by longing, weakness, and worries about your fate, we waited in prison for your arrival, excited but more sad than happy. Many Mennonites were present and were permi ed to have a reunion on that same day. I had resolved to be brave and not burden your heart even more. Besides, we had so much to talk about and discuss in the brief time allo ed to us. When I saw your face, deeply etched by grief, I could not hold back the tears. During the period of our separation, I had known li le about your situation and was equally full of grief and sorrow about your further fate. Now you were here yourself, next to me in the prison, and your heartache spilled out. The tragedy had taken its toll on you as well. Our only cow that had been a great support for you had died, and there were no means to buy another. That was a heavy blow in our poverty-stricken conditions. I listened quietly without being able to give you the least help. What was the most painful for both of us was that you had meanwhile had to carry one of our darling boys, li le Haensel, to his grave. What pain and I could not be at your side. Bowed down, your voice threatened again and again to fail and you sought refuge in a flood of tears. The few minutes of our reunion were soon over, and yet we took leave of one another strengthened. We had looked into each other’s eyes and heard each other’s voices. How long would our separation last and what might happen in the interval? Separated physically we were united in spirit and wanted to entrust everything to our heavenly Father, to His help, and to remain firm in our trust and faith. You brought along warm greetings from our darling children, Erika and Heini, as well as from our parents, who had tried to ease things for you with their help. For a few moments we were closer together and that felt good. You had also brought along some money, food, and clothing, a gi from God and from your love. Although most of the men were soon sent to the camps, I and four of my friends had to stay back the entire summer [of 1934] in prison [in Dnepropetrovsk]. It was depressing to languish away in this way but we were fortunate in being able to have several more reunions. Each time it was a gi from heaven to fleetingly have a whiff of home and of your love and that of the children. Meanwhile, our friend

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Philip Cornies had lost his wife. She had died quite suddenly, soon a er visiting him. All of us shared in the great heartbreak of our good comrade. We pondered, “Today misfortune strikes you, tomorrow perhaps me.” Then, in lengthy stages, we were transported to a prison camp in eastern Siberia, 6,000 kilometres away from you, where a rail line was being built. For many months we waited in vain for word from you, our patiently suffering loved ones. Far removed as we were, we sought in spirit to guess what our beloved families were doing, how the women were coping with the many worries and tasks that such a life demanded of them. Days stretched into weeks and months until our separation had become a year. How long had that already been, and for how long would it yet go on? And how, in the interval, would we manage to survive? Then at last news reached us. You and my father wrote loving letters that set my mind somewhat at ease. The children, too, who were again back in school, had added their neatly folded li le le ers. How endlessly good that felt and yet how deeply it churned up my own emotions. All of your cares, your sorrows, and small joys seemed close enough to touch. I was only too well aware of how difficult things were for you, robbed of your provider, without income or savings, without a cow, and without the possibility of earning anything. What was to become of you? During my previous imprisonment, friends had rushed to your aid, but now everything was different. How I missed our darling children. I yearned for their love. How long would they have to manage without my love and exhortations? From here I could not even offer useful advice. The decisions were yours to make, sometimes with father’s help. I was no longer able to feel my way into your circumstances and life, and was helpless to offer assistance. That filled me with grief and sadness. I could do only one thing, and that was to draw near to our heavenly Father and fervently implore Him to take you, your lives, and welfare under His protection and to guide you and me safely through these dangerous times. This was to continue for many years. A er about half a year, in early May 1935, a few friends and I were transferred [from the railway building camp BAMLAG in Siberia] to the area of the Ural [Mountains] and the Pechora [basin]. That was several thousand kilometres closer to you, my dears, and that already gave me a li le satisfaction. Our lives there changed in a number of ways. We were permi ed to move about more freely and, in time,

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given more suitable work. Yet on one stretch of the journey I came down with malaria, had to stay back for a time, and was separated from my friends. This filled me with grief. I was ill with a high fever, bere of my friends, and at a great distance from you. Half a year later I took ill with erysipelis (Gesichtsrose) for almost a month, which I spent in a shabby hospital with pitiful service. I felt close to death, tried to come to terms with my fate, and to take stock of my life. That involved difficult struggles. I knew my Saviour as Redeemer, and had no reason to fear death. Faith and submission to Him promised me eternal life and an end to life’s many troubles, injustices, sins, and weaknesses. Yet I could not free myself of feelings of longing and love for you and the children, and responsibility for the grief I had caused you through my banishment to a distant, alien place. Till then my life had revolved about thoughts and desires to see you again. I could not so easily je ison them now. My prayers tended, time and again, in this direction. Although I submi ed myself to the Lord’s will, I repeatedly coupled this acceptance with the plea, “If it is possible, Lord, let me see my loved ones once again, for my happiness and for theirs.” And I was able to recover. Only then did I write you about my illness, struggles, and answers to prayers. Despite the many hardships of camp life, I was content. I was also happy that half of my sentence, the first half, was finally over. Things seemed now already to be moving on the downward side of the hill, according to your notions and mine. All these experiences tied me more closely to you and the children. My entire camp life and work was imbued with a longing for you and hopes for a reunion. I saved up my slave wages, and purchased a few items. They were mainly, I seem to recall, material for underclothing and clothes. With great love and care I did them up in a package and sent them to you. I imagined your joy [upon receiving them]. I know that my satisfaction was equally great, for in my helplessness and in your poverty, I had been able to stand by you a li le. Then, however, I waited in vain for news, for word that you had received my package. Months went by and still no le er. My worries mounted and began to heavily burden my soul. Meanwhile, our parents had moved away, a great distance from you, a er the Soviets had harassed them in Gnadenfeld as well. True, my dear father still wrote to me from time to time, but he had no information about you. A er an eight-month wait, with still no le ers, someone suggested in my travail

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that I send you a telegram with a prepaid response. I did so, although with li le hope. But within a week, or even less, a reply arrived: “Everyone well. Le er to follow.” What a comfort, a relief to know that you were alive and well. Life now recovered something of its former charm. I was again ready to bear patiently what I had to bear, to work, and to thank God in the hope that we would again see one another. The third year of my sentence had come to an end. What remained of my sentence was inching downwards, and this strengthened my hopes for reunion. If only all would go well, if only our merciful God would keep His protective hand over me and you, my dears. We did a er all live in a time of surprises and contingencies, especially on the nether side. What temptations and stumbling blocks still lay along the way that could easily make me fall or entangle me in a mishap? Some of these lay clearly visible but most were lying in ambush, waiting. Any weakness, act of neglect, or false step could lead to my undoing. Such anxieties drove me repeatedly into prayer. I knew that my friend and long-standing comrade-in-suffering, Philip Cornies, had again been imprisoned in the camp, was under interrogation, and threatened with a new sentence. And had I not too found myself personally at the abyss when a sow under my care had mysteriously disappeared. Luckily, it returned a er ten days. But how many such shoals still lay hidden in the waters of camp life for prisoners like Cornies and me, who had been drawn into positions of responsibility. At home much had meanwhile also changed. You, Lene, finding yourself in a hopeless situation, with scarcely enough to live on, or a way out, had joined the village collective. There, with the help now of our dear children, you earned your miserly piece of bread. You had also traded our summer kitchen for a cow, and the cow was a major boon. The children were growing up and diligently a ending school. They had suffered malnourishment, having until recently been denied access to the school food program. Now they wrote enthusiastically and happily that they were finally being given breakfast at school. There was much in this to make me happy, but more to give me concern. My poor, weak dears, mother and children, were valiantly struggling to get by, but I could do nothing to help. Yet in His infinite goodness, our Father in heaven had provided health, fortitude, and good will, and showed us that His arm extended sufficiently far and abundantly to help. He also demonstrated that, with the necessary trust and devotion on our part, His support was sufficient also, even without me.

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And so with alternating emotions of joy and grief, naturally more with grief, the last two years of my sentence had passed. In fact, the five long years had dragged by at a snail’s pace. The long-yearnedfor goal, my release on 22 November 1938 (the date of my arrest five years earlier) had arrived. Would I really be freed? Early release for good behaviour and good work had, in any case, been denied me as a “political criminal.” On the contrary, many of those like me who had been sentenced under the same provisions of the criminal code had [at their scheduled release time] been resentenced and le behind bars. Moreover, during the last years of my camp life, much to my disgust, rheumatoid arthritis had set in in my feet. It was so bad that I now had to walk with a stick and was hindered in my work. I hoped that the malady would again disappear when I returned home to the south. Thus did I console myself and you. But would I even be allowed to return to the south? Many like me, on their release, were banished to Siberia or Turkestan, while others preferred to go to distant places where they would not be known. When finally the longed-for day arrived nothing happened, nothing at all. It passed by like every other day. Similarly in the following days nothing hinted at my release. Was I now to bury all hope? A dull pessimism threatened to overwhelm me. Would God show me no mercy and stop the suffering and longing? Was this the work of the enemy trying to destroy our trust? Or perhaps our faithful God wanted to show us that, even at the last moment, so self-evident for every prisoner in its outcome, nothing would happen without His help. Certainly we did not forget His help, and prayed for it. Finally, on 2 January 1939, my hour of freedom struck. I was suddenly free, and was told to leave the prison as quickly as possible. Well yes, of course, but first I had to get my bearings. It was a hard winter and in all that snow and frost travel opportunities were poor. But I gathered together my few belongings in a sack and disappeared at the first opportunity. It was almost unbelievable. Could this really be the way home? The long wearisome journey transported me back into the real world step by step. The main point was that I could return home to my family. Besides the joy I felt, my heart and mind were full of thoughts and feelings. What all might I find at home? But God be thanked, He had given me back my family. At last I was home. I had prepared my family with a telegram, and they were not surprised. What a reunion. Even now I can scarcely describe it. There was none of the jubilation and joy I had so once

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experienced when I returned home a er a few days away. During that long separation, each of us had suffered too much. Feelings of joy were smothered by the accumulated pain that needed first to be vented at one another’s breast. And how were the children? They had been darlings when I le , fighting over who would get to sit on my lap first. Meanwhile they had grown up. They were distant from me and I from them. Six-year-old Jasha knew me not at all, only a nursing infant at the time of my arrest. I saw the poverty around you, the children’s palid faces, the ta ered clothing and your deeply creased face. A bo omless ache filled my soul. Standing before you and the children was a father quite different from the one you had imagined. I was aged now, bent over and hobbling with a stick, instead of that strong, supple man I had once been who could be counted upon to protect and maintain his family. If we were to create the common ground needed for our future weal and woe we would, in many ways, have to adjust and start over again. In face of this recognition, feelings of joy and thankfulness vanished. And given all that had transpired over those years, how could it have been otherwise? Soon there were worries about what I might do. Where might I find the work and income to secure our future? Was there any job for me in Gnadenfeld at all? People were friendly, but at a distance as though frightened by my past. Few welcomed me home, and those timidly. They did not want to be seen by others. This depressed me. Perhaps it would be be er to look for a job elsewhere. There was, of course, field work in the collective farm but none for me. Besides, it paid li le. How, with my handicap, would I manage in any case? I started to look farther afield, in various towns. Everywhere employers put me off with a nod once it was discovered from where I had recently come. This was the case despite the fact that most enterprises needed office personnel and that we lived in a land where people with prison backgrounds were no rarity. All of this lay like a dark shadow over our lives at a time when we longed for joy and some well-being. The reality surrounding us, in any case, was anything but rosy. Poverty reigned throughout the village. In 1937–8, a huge number of men, family heads, had been seized and disappeared without a trace. These included my sister’s husband and son, Edi, whose family had meanwhile been informed that Edi had died in a prison camp. The family of my brother Heinrich was similarly in a state of mourning having been told that he had died in a Siberian prison camp. Your three brothers and the husband of your

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sister Mariechen, as well as your sister Grete’s husband, had also been arrested and disappeared. Then there was our house that had become a tight fit. To make ends meet you had rented out quarters to two families and, as a result, on the yard, in the back, and in the garden, strangers had the final say. You yourself were condemned to doing heavy work in the collective. Instead of cheerfulness, our spirits and family life were thus weighed down by a mixture of sadness, disappointment, and dissatisfaction. The reality was not what I had expected, a joyful expectation that all would be well once we were again able to take ma ers in hand together. Instead we were weighed down by threats to our faith and our trust in God. Even my camp experience seemed to have lost something of its immediacy and importance – my experience of salvation (Heilserfahrung), my answers to prayer, wonderful leadings in every way, a personal vow to start afresh (ein Neues zu pflügen), and gratefulness for the miraculous survival of our whole family. All of that caused me great suffering. Yet even then, the Lord, our faithful God, led in marvelous ways. When we reflect on our life together during the following years [1939– 41], we know that we owe Him much more gratitude. This humbles me. In any case, to our great sorrow, I had finally no alternative but to beg for work in the collective. This involved lowly jobs including that of a night watchman in a cow barn. The la er provided scant income. At the same time, my condition, instead of ge ing be er, got worse, to our grief. Then, however, I landed a steady job in the collective farm office. You were in charge of the milk for the collective farm calves, a grueling job that got you up early and ended late at night – with a lengthy break in the day, to be sure. The collective farm administration forced the children to work in the summer months. Erika and Heini, who both were sensible and hard working, tried hard to earn as much as possible as their contribution to our family income. But our advancement was miserly, hardly more than modest overall. There were probably families in Gnadenfeld a li le be er off than ours, but many doing more poorly. Thus [from 1939–41], a number of years fli ed by. In the west, World War II had erupted. It affected us, but only indirectly during its first year. At first, the Soviets held back, involving themselves only in local wars. Then in June 1941, war with Germany broke out. It filled us with the most profound anxieties and fears. Much of that time remains vivid in my mind. I have recorded the details elsewhere. Since

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I was still an outcast in the eyes of the Soviets, I could count on being arrested and deported at an early date. But what, in general, were they likely to do with us Germans? Everyone experienced uneasiness, anxiety, and stifling fear. The misery began with higher taxes and the dispatch of men and women to dig tank traps. No one knew where they were being sent. Then came word that a group of our villagers had fallen into [German] captivity and could no longer return. As incidents multiplied, the situation grew ever more worrisome. Then you too, Lene, were sent out on a trench-digging assignment, out into the unknown. A few days later, you and the others fled a er learning that the men back home were being deported. You came home a wreck, your body and feet in terrible shape from the 75-kilometre flight home, under cover of night, in stormy weather. To our horror, you were then sent off again to dig trenches, this time in the direction of the front. I pitied you in your anguish, but what in my impotence could I do? Erika too was sent off with others for several days [of trench digging], but we knew that she was close by. Meanwhile, Heini and I were ordered to pack our knapsacks. We were to be deported with the other men. Here again our heavenly Father intervened. A er an NKVD official took us to a neighbouring village [on our way into exile], he ordered that we be returned home. That was more than we could have hoped for. This time you and Erika were to see us again, as well as Jasha, whom we had le at home alone. We were so happy and I am sure that we must have thanked our Lord and Saviour from the bo om of our hearts. Yet one day our beloved boy [Heini] was taken away. Small and helpless, torn from his school desk, he was forced to leave, dragging along his knapsack with a li le food and clothing. Those were sorrowful days of bo omless anxiety. Then on a Sunday you suddenly appeared at home from your third trench-digging detail. You were terribly distraught (verstoert). We were to be deported, you said. The expulsion order followed several days later. That such a thing could happen struck us as unbelievable, quite incomprehensible. Many undoubtedly pleaded with the Lord, but things took their appointed course. That night remains forever etched in my memory as though it were today. We le home with a few belongings for the train station. The goings-on in the village had a sinister feel as fireballs along the western horizon heralded the approaching front. Then followed five haunting (unheimlich) days at Stulnevo, the train station, sleeping outside, where we waited to be hauled off. Around us,

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tightly packed, were thousands like us. They had been dragged together from many villages. Trains with equally luckless people rolled by. But as the enemy, the German Wehrmacht continued its rapid advance the rail line could no longer accommodate the heavy train traffic and we woke up hopeful that we might manage to be le behind. That was on a glorious Sunday morning, a day in fall. NKVD officials vanished and frontline units of the Red Army moved rapidly to the east. There followed a night of explosions, fires, and shootings, and we were free. Very early Monday morning you, Lene, together with other women le the railway station encampment station despite the palpable dangers. You wanted to know what was happening in Gnadenfeld, and, if possible, find a wagon to move us back to the village. Many others had already broken camp during the night. Russian soldiers could still be seen everywhere in the villages as they moved eastwards, but no one bothered you. You could, in fact, find neither horses nor wagons, and most of you returned with handcarts. These you loaded up and returned home with children, past fleeing Soviet soldiers. In my helplessness I watched all of this unfold, guarding our few remaining belongings until somebody with a horse and wagon was willing to take me along. How quickly, how remarkably did the encampment of thousands dissolve? That was a memorable day, 7 October 1941. As for us, instead of moving eastwards to Siberia, we moved west into our villages. Who did not interpret this as a mark of God’s grace? It is a story that I recall vividly. Rescued by German soldiers, we were free. Now began a new chapter in our lives. It is not possible, in a few words, to describe in detail the many-faceted experiences of that time, the sufferings, the dangers, the fears and hardships, and yet these are essential to complete the picture of our life together. Even then we did not shout from the roo ops at the welcome change, the rescue from the Soviets and the NKVD. There had simply been too many melancholy experiences in our recent lives to permit this. Moreover, our child, [Heini], and thousands of fellow Mennonites and family members had been deported somewhere into the vast unknown. The front had come between us. When were we likely to hear from them or see them face to face? And since our domestic and collective economies had been destroyed and the men deported, we would, in many regards, have to start over again. Yet be er times lay ahead. Economically, difficulties dragged on in many spheres, but we could again earn a living in peace, without fear. We further recovered something of our

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sense of joy and gratitude. We believed in the victory of the German Wehrmacht and in an early end to the war. Li le did we suspect how differently everything would turn out. I resumed my work in the office, now that of the mayor (Buergermeister). Erika found employment in the Volksdeutsche MiĴelstelle (Ethnic German Liaison Office). You were busy around the house, and Jasha had just started his first year at school. Frontline or military hardships caused us no suffering. The Germans spared ethnic Germans as much as possible, conscious of how much we had already suffered. Our housing also improved over time, as did the food supply. Everything was slowly ge ing be er, despite the war. This lasted for almost two years. Then came the great turning point, the flight from the Soviets. The Germans could no longer hold the fronts and we had to leave our homes forever. Our hopes for the future were shattered. We quickly abandoned everything and took flight into an uncertain world. There was no time to deliberate, everything was rushed, the enemy near at hand. The first part of the flight, to Vladimirovka, [westward] beyond the Dnieper, went reasonably well. Like other families, we had managed to get ourselves a wagon, it was dry fall weather, and I was strong enough to act as coachman – although otherwise of li le help, to my great regret. The second stage of the trek, from Vladimirovka to the [Polish] border, followed quickly. It was a veritable lamentation, endless misery and privation, for us and the animals. The main burdens rested on you and Erika. You had to forage for fodder and water for the animals, find and prepare food and night quarters for the family, and much else, o en in rain, snow, and mud. It was chiefly the women who got us through this long period of suffering, in other families as well. Yet a er recovering for three months, we had to up and leave again, this time by train, into the region of Posnania, the Warthegau. We still believed in the ultimate victory of German arms. A er a difficult flight, we were happy to se le into a place of peace and security. Before long we were assigned lodgings in the town of Jannowitz [in the Warthegau], where others from Gnadenfeld found quarters as well. Jasha again a ended school, and Erika got a job in Eichenbrück. For six weeks I was treated in a spa for rheumatics in Hohensalza. You, as before, took up your housewifely tasks in small lodgings in Ludendorferstrasse 1C, on the second floor. Other Gnadenfeld families, friends, lived in the same house, and we got on quite well

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together. Our household was extremely modest, with what li le we had scraped together from the trek. But we adjusted, expecting everything to improve soon. We received a few gi s for the kitchen and bedroom, linens, and clothing. But all came to naught in January 1945, when [in a major breakthrough] the Russians came near. This time we fled with even less notice, helter skelter, abandoning what li le we had. The three of us, without Erika, joined two other families on a horse-drawn wagon. Our misery resumed. In bi er cold, with shabby clothing and footwear, 11 of us, perched high atop our belongings, joined the flight with many others. The enemy was closer than we had thought, pushing his way into the refugee ranks and causing much havoc. The flight degenerated into a mass confusion. People became lost, disoriented, and did not know what to do next. Many were stopped by the Russians, and forced back. A number were shot or wounded in ba le, including friends from Gnadenfeld. Yet we must shamefacedly confess that, here as well, we repeatedly experienced God’s merciful guidance and support, beyond anything we could ask for or understand. Although we found ourselves in strange places with people of different habits, we experienced much friendliness and good will. We emerged from the ordeal unscathed, and managed to reach the west, the city of Celle. The grueling journey of almost a month was especially hard on you, Lene, with endless vexations arising from the demands of our inexperienced fellow passengers. We found lodgings as refugees in Celle, and remain there to this day. It took us a long time to orient ourselves here among strangers and without means of subsistence. Our greatest concern was, of course, to find our darling child, Erika, but we managed that quickly, within a week. Be er said, you and Jasha ran across her in the city where you had made inquiries and where she was keeping a lookout for us as well. How happy and thankful we were. We also discovered people from Gnadenfeld in the environs of Celle, and, in time, many others, including our sister Grete and sister-in-law Lena with her children. Gradually the war came here also, rolling over Celle in bombing raids and the German collapse. In the past two and a half years, before and a er these events, we have gone through hard times. There have been adversities in our family, and much suffering in other families. Until this year we lived under threat of forcible repatriation to Soviet Russia. Yet we have also had the pleasure of making contact

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with relatives in Canada. We even have the prospect of immigrating to Canada in future. That has raised our spirits. How thankful we should be at these openings and for the help received from our families overseas. Although we presently live in peace and quiet, we long to immigrate to Canada as soon as possible. There is extreme devastation and the occupation powers are pursuing Germany’s further impoverishment. They ship entire factories and much else abroad and leave Germans with no chance to rebuild for years to come. We have really no hope of becoming independent here, of living without outside help. You, Lene, have your domestic work and duties, Jacob can attend school, and I have my job as a representative for our [Russian Mennonite] refugees in the Hannover area. Yet none of this provides any income. Erika has a position that likewise provides no money and gives her no satisfaction. Hence it is our desire to leave for overseas at the first chance. We had hoped to celebrate our [25th wedding] anniversary in Canada, among relatives and fellow believers. But that has not, to date, happened. Instead, as so o en in our married life on important occasions, I cannot even be near you and the children. For this reason and because I feel drawn so strongly to you these days I thought of writing this memoir about our past and of presenting it to you as a small gi . I have nothing else with which to gladden your heart. May this backward glimpse jog memories of our common pilgrimage, with its many happy and bright places, as well as sorrows and miseries encountered over 25 years of married life. Was our life together not in fact a single long trek, begun a quarter century ago, on a smooth dry road under cloudless skies and sunny expectations? Then followed bumpy and smooth stretches. It was now uphill, then down, through deep quagmires, in rain, on snow-covered or icy roads, in nocturnal wanderings, past dangerous precipices. Somewhat weary and with a rickety wagon, we have reached the 25th milestone of our journey together. Things have gone lost along the way, many puzzles remain, and we have only two of our children. But, God be praised, there remains an abundance of experiences, wonderful leadings, deeper understanding, and faith in God. Looking back, we can say in all humility and submission, let us accept the Lord’s leading as good; His way is right and holy. In one way or another our lives are directed, even when we choose to go our own way, be this infrequently or o en. May this le er be a

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vivid reminder of how the grace of God, His patience and forebearance, have kept us and carried us through a great deal of suffering, unhappiness, and distress, o en of our own making. He did not cast us aside, as we probably deserved, but blessed us richly in our work and undertakings and gave us many joys. But in our weakness, failings, and lack of charity, we have o en proven ourselves undeserving of His good deeds, blessings, and loving guidance. We have generally not sought out the heights of love and thankfulness, neither toward our Lord and God, Father, and pilot of our destinies, nor toward one another and our children. Perhaps we have, therefore, lacked the needed sincerity, mutual openness, and confidence that would otherwise have been ours. Insults and misunderstandings have o en, in consequence, overcast our relationship like a dark cloud. How frequently did pe y narrow-mindedness, selfishness, and unkindness result in days of misunderstanding and vexation? I know that the major fault and responsibility for this is mine, and this causes me much distress. I know that the responsibility rested on my shoulders not only for your welfare and stability and that of the children, but also for your spiritual well-being and the cultivation of our Christian faith. It o en saddens me that I have not been worthy of this duty. I admit that I have o en caused you, my dearest, mental anguish and vexation by being impetuous and unkind and by slighting your domestic skills and care for the children. My obstinacy, pride, arrogance, and whatever else, kept me from the humility needed to ask your forgiveness and to show my own grief over this, my behaviour. Bi erness thus crept into your soul. I have struggled against my vices, and implored the Lord for His help. But too o en my efforts miscarried. Was your support in this regard lacking? During the past years, my physical ailments caused you much additional trouble and work, a er we had hoped that my health would improve in the south. I also o en took for granted the help you gave me. That, too, le you with a bi er a ertaste. I know that our life in the past was dogged by the curse of a God-denying and scoffing government and environment. It rejected all Christian morals and stirred up and fostered every kind of lower instinct and vulgarity. Yet in no way can that relieve or excuse me a er I myself had experienced the love of God in so many ways. I have taken the opportunity here in Gronau to think about many of these ma ers, to pray about them, to repent them, and to beg God for more love, wisdom, patience, and a stronger faith. You see, separation helps one to see lots of things in a new light, to examine actions

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more carefully. This has happened before as well. I will not deny that these reflections have led me to renew my commitment to my Lord and God. I have equally vowed to serve and love you out of feelings of gratitude. May His power strengthen my weak resolve. Perhaps, my beloved, in light of this important occasion, you will choose to re-examine your relationship to God and your family. I believe that marital happiness can never reach its peak if it is not carried by a common will. This must include a common desire to grapple with these ma ers in prayer. That, I think, is the bedrock of marital trust, divine favour, and mutual understanding – in short, of happiness. This le er has become a confession on my part. It will, I hope, be pleasing to you, my dear Lene, and help both of us on our road ahead. I thought, too, that it might not be superfluous, and help clear the air, if I were to raise a ma er that has o en been a rock of offence and misunderstanding between us. This is our lack of agreement in the raising of our youngest child Jasha. This was not so with the other children. But [with Jasha] you ignored my advice and demands of him, even my occasional sternness, sometimes in his presence. You o en found me unfair. You never told him to respect what I said and wanted. That undercuts a father’s authority, and simply casts him aside. This, I always thought, I had not deserved. I had been filled with longings during my long absence, also for our children. Hence there was the feeling of injury, of offense. It had been quite different earlier. This is not meant as reproach. But discord of this kind cannot produce what is best for a child. We want to raise our boy as a decent, moral human being, who honours God and his parents. [Jasha] is fortunately gentle and trusting by nature and not much inclined to behave badly. This has given me joy and made me thankful toward God. But as he matures all that can change quickly, and your sole care and love will no longer be enough. But despite all that, or because of it, I should have been more understanding of your particular a achment to the boy. He was the object of your special a ention and concern, of your pain during my long absence – our li le Jashel, who, to your great joy, survived in the crib at the time of his twin brother’s death. It was your motherly concern to bring him through that time of crisis, to preserve him. It is not surprising that the full measure of your love and devotion was invested in the growing boy, and that you spoiled him, fearfully taking him under your wing. When I got back from exile you proudly, with great feeling, showed him off to me, our well-developed five-year-old boy. But he was my joy as well. Even though we were still strangers, we would

A Memoir-Le er from Jacob A. Neufeld to His Wife 405

learn to love one another, and I would enclose him in my heart like the others. A li le more tact, patience, kindness, and consideration on my part would have convinced you of my good will and reestablished our oneness in this ma er. I pray to God and hope that there might also be some changes in this regard. As with the other children, we want to commit our Jashel, now Jakob, to God’s guidance and care. May the heavenly Father bless and protect all of them on their life’s journey. We pray also for our beloved Heini, somewhere in a distant and forlorn place, about whom we still know nothing.3 I hope that this memoir will further provide us with some guidelines for our further pilgrimage. We do not know the years allo ed to us for this journey together. There may not be many. Nor do we know which of us will be the first to go. My physical condition has worsened markedly, and, despite hopes for be erment, could easily deteriorate further. But your health is o en worrisome as well, my dearest. My deepest desire – as well as best intention and will – is that our further life together, rooted in the great love of God and our Saviour Jesus Christ (everything hinges on His blessing) might be enlivened by deep-seated peace and tranquil harmony. These qualities alone can make life beautiful and worth living. I am sure you will share this desire with me. This requires God’s mercy, which we should beg for in deepest repentance for the wrongs we have done one another and, above all, commi ed against the Lord of our souls. Even then, however, our adversary, the devil, the enemy of all that is good, will find ways to exploit our weaknesses, to disturb our unity through a discordant note, and to sow tension. Yet it is really up to us, with the Lord’s help, to stay alert to such temptations and to defy them. We naturally remain human beings who can achieve the victory of the good only through trials and temptations. That should not discourage us. God helps the weak, but only if they wish to be helped. Let us therefore lay our endeavours before God’s throne in mutual prayer, continually pleading for His strength. In Him alone do we live and exist. We want to support and carry one another, including our weaknesses, with gentleness and patience. Let us point out our mistakes and blunders to one another, with kindness, good will, and without irritation. Let us encircle our children with great love and care, rooted in the responsibility we bear for them. Let us also guide them, as commanded in God’s Word and by His will, and have as our chief aim their grounding as disciples of Christ, happy and joyful human beings, ready to serve the good and to struggle for its a ainment.

406 A Memoir-Le er from Jacob A. Neufeld to His Wife

I have made these resolutions, alone here at some distance from you, prostrate and in prayer. It is with the desire to do the good, in order that we might lead a common life of great beauty that honours God. I hope and pray, my dear Lene, that you will make these commitments your own. The angels in heaven will then rejoice in our well-being, our peace, and the sunshine which our hearts radiate out into our surroundings. Our lives will then offer more joy and we will be animated with a desire to serve others and do the good. Then when we are finally separated from one another we will take our leave gratefully, knowing that our lives have not been lived in vain, and with a holy wish to meet again in eternity. That will be in blessed peace and harmony, united with many of our loved ones who have preceded us and followed us, to praise our Lord Jesus Christ. At the end of our journey, we will humbly and thankfully be able to join in the words of the writer of the Psalms: “Bless the Lord, oh my soul, and do not forget the good He has done for you, who has rescued you from ruin, who has forgiven your sins, and who crowns you with mercy and compassion.” May God grant His grace. Yours in love and faithfulness, Jacob August 1955 Addendum to a le er wri en eight years ago and intended for you, my dearest life’s companion, as a gi on the occasion of our 25th wedding anniversary. This le er was, unfortunately, completed only now. Was this the result of negligence or indifference on my part? It was neither. I had o en thought about finishing it, especially at that time, but there were always obstacles to keep me from doing so. In the main, it was the lack of a typewriter. The le er had originally been wri en with a pencil, o en light and unreadable, with corrections (at the time I had li le paper). That would hardly do as a present. Circumstances of the time and the condition of my health were also hindrances and someone else was hardly in a position to finish it. Eight years have since passed. Now that I am in possession of a donated typewriter, the question arose whether I should finish it, despite my painful hands and the fact that the le er was really intended for that time and had probably, meanwhile, forfeited some of its value.

A Memoir-Le er from Jacob A. Neufeld to His Wife 407

I therefore read it through again and saw that it still had value and would retain that in future. I regret, of course, that it could not be presented to you at the time of its composition. But I am sure you will understand, excuse me, and not reject it a er these eight years. Please accept it in love and forbearance, and view it as a mark of my good will. The Lord has granted us a further eight years on our joint pilgrimage. I have meanwhile reached the age of 60 and you have ascended life’s ladder to the age of 55. We are perhaps a li le tired from my illness which has also brought you down through my helplessness. We have had many experiences during these years and our life has been enriched, internally and externally. We must thankfully acknowledge that we have been led miraculously. A er writing this le er, we spent a further year-and-a-half waiting in Celle and the Fallingbostel immigration camp. This was a severe test of our patience, and yet was to our benefit. In 1949 we were able to immigrate to Canada, with the help of our brother Jacob [J. Thiessen], friend C.F. Klassen1 (now deceased), and many other friends. Here we were warmly received by your brother Jacob and cousin Ab. Wall. Many others assisted us, and we succeeded, with God’s help, in making connection with a Christian community and the [Mennonite] Kirchliche church. The beginnings in Canada were nevertheless difficult and there were numerous disappointments and adjustments. With much trouble, hard work, and economizing, five years ago we acquired a home of our own. It was built with the diligence of our children, and provides us with many comforts. Of greatest importance, our faithful Lord has blessed us with health – you too, my dear Lene – and unity in our goals and accomplishments. Our children, Erika and Jacob, to our joy, have been of inestimable help to us through their hard work and scrimping. To God be praise and thanks for everything. We must continue to bear our quiet grief for our Heini and many other loved ones, and pray that our merciful God will keep them in His love. My condition has, alas, not improved in the meanwhile, as expected, but has, in fact, worsened, despite many efforts. For the past three years, I have been confined to a chair, fixed and helpless, o en with painful inflammation. I am completely dependent on your help and that of the children, which you have given me with much devotion and kindness. The affliction humbles me deeply and is also a trial for you and the children. It is partly responsible for tying you to the house so that you cannot go out and work.

408 A Memoir-Le er from Jacob A. Neufeld to His Wife

Until a year ago we still hoped that my condition would improve. But a er repeated and futile efforts, we have largely abandoned that hope. Everything lies in the hands of the great physician. We must resign ourselves to the situation and learn to suffer patiently until the Lord finally intervenes, perhaps in the not-too-distant future. Until that time, let us exercise and strengthen our faith, love, patience, and humility and bring ma ers to a final victory in the last struggle for life and for faith.4 Unless we engage in this struggle, we will not carry away the crown of life. May the Lord lead our children to a lasting happiness and fulfilment through God-fearing lives. For only in Him do we live and breathe and have real purpose and goals. May His grace guide us to that end. Yours, in grateful love, Jacob

Notes

Introduction 1 All translations of Russian- and German-language quotations by author. 2 The story of arrival and se lement of the Neufeld family in Canada in Jacob A. Neufeld (herea er JAN), “Die Reise Deutschland-Kanada,” JAN Papers (herea er (JANP), May 1949, 48. The Neufeld Papers are a collection of dra s of memoirs and studies, copies of le ers sent and originals received, personal records, memorabilia from the gulag, articles wri en by JAN, etc. In the private possession of the Neufeld family, they have not yet been organized and indexed. 3 JAN, “Die Reise,” JANP, 44. 4 Psalm 107, 7. 5 JAN, “Die Reise,” JANP, 43–4 6 JAN, “Die Reise,” JANP, 43. 7 The phrase appears o en in Neufeld’s writings and private correspondence. See, for example, JAN to G.J. Derksen, Yarrow, British Columbia, undated, JANP. 8 Erika Thiessen, daughter of JAN, with author, Toronto, 3 Nov. 2006. 9 Jacob J. Thiessen, son of JAN, with author, St Catharines, ON, 20 Oct. 2007. 10 Note, undated and untitled, JANP. 11 German certificate a esting to Neufeld’s unfitness for German military service, JANP. 12 JAN to sister Sara Kla , Karaganda, Kazakhstan, 10 Jan. 1958, JANP. 13 JAN to editor, Bibel und Pflug, Witmarsum, Brazil, 12 Feb.1957, JANP. 14 Jacob J. Thiessen, son of JAN, with author, St Catharines, ON, 23 Feb. 2007.

410 Notes to pages 8–13 15 JAN, Celle, West Germany, to Benjamin B. Janz, Coaldale, Alberta, 10 Sept. 1945, JANP. 16 Gulag memoir composed during JAN’s early years in Canada. It survives in two versions: a complete final manuscript deposited by JAN in the archive of The Mennonite Heritage Centre, Winnipeg, MB; and a dra of the second half of the manuscript full of pertinent details not found in foregoing, in JANP. The version printed in this volume consists of two halves: The first half is taken from the above-mentioned final version in The Mennonite Heritage Centre, Winnipeg, MB; the second half comes from the dra in JANP, supplemented with the inclusion of several informative paragraphs from the final version deposited in The Mennonite Heritage Centre and not present in the dra . 17 JAN, Tiefenwege: Erfahrungen und Erlebnisse von Russland-Mennoniten in zwei Jahrzehnten bis 1949 (Virgil: Niagara Press, nd [1957]). 18 JAN to wife Lene, Celle, West Germany, undated, JANP. 19 Helmut T. Huebert, Mennonite Estates in Imperial Russia (Winnipeg MB: Springfield Publishers, 2005), 52. 20 Much of the li le-known story of Felsental is based on a dra copy of JAN’s, “Felsental: Ein Idyll und Kulturgeschichte einer Reimer-Familie,” handwri en, 18, JANP; see also Adina Reger and Delbert Ple , “FelsentalTrudovoie,” Diese Steine (Steinbach, MB: Crossway Publications, 2001) and Helmut T. Huebert, “Jacob David Reimer,” Russian Mennonite History and the People That Made It Happen (Winnipeg: Springfield, 1999), 45–7. 21 Reger and Ple , Diese Steine, 323. 22 Described in extract of le er of father Abraham Neufeld to son JAN in Gulag, undated, in JAN, Gesammelte Trostsprueche und Verse in der Wuestenzeit, 1933–39, JANP. 23 JAN, “Felsental,” 12, JANP. 24 JAN, “Felsental,” 16, JANP. Huebert, Mennonite Estates, 52, mistakenly reports that no one was killed in the 1907 a ack. 25 JAN, “Felsental,” JANP, 17. 26 JAN, “Felsental,” JANP, 11. 27 JAN, “Felsental,” JANP, 9. 28 JAN, “Felsental,” JANP, 10. Friesen, an important Molochna Mennonite leader before World War I, is author of a voluminous, ill-organized but invaluable chronicle and source collection of the Mennonite story in tsarist times: Alt-Evangelische Mennonitische Bruederscha in Russland,1789–1910 (Halbstadt, Ukraine: Raduga, 1911); English translation as The Mennonite Brotherhood in Russia, trans and ed by J.B. Toews, et al. (Fresno CA: Board

Notes to pages 13–19 411

29 30 31

32 33 34

35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

of Christian Literature, General Conference of Mennonite Brethren Churches, 1978). JAN, Path of Thorns; 186. JAN, Path of Thorns; 375. An excellent unpublished monograph in a poorly researched area of the history of Mennonite non-combatant service during World War I: John G. Rempel and David G. Rempel, “‘Of Things Remembered: Recollections of War, Revolution and Civil War, 1914–1920,”’ unpublished typescript, 269 pages, University of Toronto, Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, 108–10. See also, Waldemar Guenther, David P. Heidebrecht and Gerhard Peters, comp and ed, Onse Tjedels: Der Ersatzdienst der Mennoniten in Russland unter den Romanows (Yarrow, BC: Columbia Press, 1966). Numerous brief memoirs of World War I Mennonite non-combatant orderlies appeared in Die Mennonitische Rundschau and Der Bote. JAN, Path of Thorns; 376. Quoted in Rempel and Rempel, “Things Remembered,” 18–19, 30. Rempel and Rempel, “Things Remembered,” 30–2. For the story of the wartime confiscation of a large Mennonite estate in the Brodsky area, see Nicolas J. Fehderau, A Mennonite Estate Family in Southern Ukraine, (Kitchener ON: Pandora Press, 2013), 173-5. Rempel, “Things Remembered,” 30–2. Rempel and Rempel, “Things Remembered,” 10. Rempel and Rempel, “Things Remembered,” 67. JAN, Path of Thorns; 141–2. Julius Klassen, “Sanitaetszug No. 179, Schreiber in der Kaserne,” in Guenther, et al., ed., Onse Tjedels, 235–6. Rempel, “Things Remembered,” 123–73. Rempel, “Things Remembered,” 140. Julius Klassen, 235-6. Discharge certificate a esting to JAN’s wartime service from 22 Oct. 1914 to 14 Feb., 1918, JANP. John B. Toews, “The Origins and Activities of the Mennonite Selbstschutz in Ukraine (1918–1919),” Mennonite Quarterly Review, 46 (1972), 5–40. Also, J.P. Epp, “Mennonite Selbstschutz in Ukraine: An Eyewitness Account,” introd. and trans. by J.B. Toews, Mennonite Life, 26 (July 1971), 138–142, and Jacob A. Loewen and Wesley J. Prieb, “The Abuse of Power Among Mennonites in South Russia, 1789–1919,” Journal of Mennonite Studies, 14 (1996), 28–31. For a well-researched Ukrainian account on a related subject see A.I. Beznosov, ‘K voprosy ob uchastii nemetskikh kolonistov i

412 Notes to pages 19–23

45

46 47

48 49

50 51 52

53

54

55

mennonitov v grazhdanskoi voine na Iuge Ukrainy (1917-1921 gg), Voprosy germanskoi istorii nemtsy v Ukraine (1996), 112–124. John B. Toews, “Russian Mennonites and the Military Question (1921–1927),” Mennonite Quarterly Review, vol. 43 (1969), 153–68, and John B. Toews, Czars, Soviets and Mennonites (Newton Kansas: Faith and Life Press, 1982), 79–94. Identification document, JANP. See Harvey L. Dyck and John R. Staples, ed, Mennonites in Ukraine, 1789– 1941:A Guide to Holdings and Microfilmed Documents from the State Archive of the Zaporozhe Region (Toronto: Munk Centre of Global Affair, University of Toronto, 2001). Aleksandr Tedeev, Director, State Archive of the Zaporizhiia Region, with author, 24 July 1997. The Zaporizhiia State Archive contains numerous references to such discussions at the regional and district levels. Terry Martin, Harvard University, in an informed and thoughtful series of lectures, mentions that, from 1925–8, Mennonite issues were also given serious discussion at the very highest Party levels in Moscow. He explicitly refers to the Central Commi ee’s Secretariat in Moscow plumbing Mennonite issues in the mid-1920s and in 1929–30: Terry Martin, “The Russian Mennonite Encounter with the Soviet State, 1917–1955” Conrad Grebel Review, 20 (April 2002), 9–59. Harvey L. Dyck, “Reform without Class War: Mennonite-Bolshevik Dialogue and Conflict in the 1920s,” Preservings 13 (December 1998), 2–5. Harvey L. Dyck, Preservings 13 (December 1998), 245. For a significant study of this central subject in Soviet history see, Terry Martin, The Affirmative Action Empire: Nations and Nationalism in the Soviet Union, 1923–1939 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2001). Rempel, A Mennonite Family in Russia, 1789–1923, 220–51; Ingeborg Fleischhauer and Benjamin Pinkus, The Soviet Germans Past and Present (New York: St Marten’s Press, 1986), 29; and J.B. Toews, Selected Documents, 15–41. The situation of Mennonite se lements in the period of revolution and civil war is explored on the basis of Soviet archival documents in Aleksandr Beznosov, “Politicheskoe I sotsialnoe-ekonomicheskoe protsessy v nemetskikh I mennonitskikh posseleniiakh Iuga Ukrainy posle okonchaniia grazhdanskoi voiny (1918–1920)” Voprosy germanskoi istoriia (2003), 108–23. Discussed in numerous studies by John B. Toews, a distinguished pioneering scholar and leading authority on the Soviet Mennonite story in the 1920s and 1930s. His articles, source collections, translations, and books

Notes to pages 24–6 413

56

57

58

59

60 61

include Lost Fatherland: The Story of the Mennonite Emigration from Soviet Russia, 1921–-1947 (Sco dale, Penn: Herald Press, 1967); The Mennonites in Russia from 1917–-1930: Selected Documents (Winnipeg, Manitoba: Christian Press, 1975); Czars, Soviets and Mennonites (Newton, Kansas: Faith and Life Press, 1982) and Journeys: Mennonite Stories of Faith and Survival in Stalin’s Russia (Winnipeg, Manitoba: Kindred Productions, 1998). For a luminous contribution to Mennonite studies and an understanding of the Verband see Toews’, With Courage to Spare: The Life of B.B. Janz (1877–-1964) (Winnipeg, Man.: Christian Press, 1987), 23–56. B.B. Janz, Chairman of the Verband throughout its existence, was the chief advocate and organizer of Mennonite emigration from the USSR in the 1920s. For a well-documented and argued Ukrainian interpretation of the role of the Mennonite Verband during this period see, N.V. Ostasheva, Na perelome epokh: Mennonitskoe coobshchestvo Ukrainy v 1914–1931 gg, (Moscow: Gotika, 1998), 83–127. Minutes of meetings of General Conference of Mennonite Churches in Russia, Moscow (13–18 Jan. 1925) and Melitopol, USSR (Oct. 2–9, 1926). They document Mennonite appeals to Soviet authorities for guarantees of religious freedoms as well as the story of religious revival throughout Mennonite communities in the mid-1920s: John B. Toews, comp. and ed., Selected Documents, 428–48. Richly documented in the Mennonite newspapers Mennonitische Rundschau (1924–2000) and Der Bote, (1929–2007) and in minutes of Soviet Mennonite religious bodies in the 1920s. For a selection of the la er see: Toews, ed., Selected Documents, 122–294. H. J. Wilms, ed., Vor den Toren Moskaus: Go es gnaedige Durchhilfe in einer schweren Zeit (Yarrow, B. C.: Columbia Press, 1960); Harvey L. Dyck, “Collectivization, Depression, and Immigration, 1929–1930: a Chance Interplay,” in Harvey L. Dyck and H. Peter Krosby, ed., Empire and Nations (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1969), 144–59; Harvey L. Dyck, Weimar Germany and Soviet Russia, 1926–1933 (London: Cha o and Windus, 1966), 162–84; Terry Martin, “Russian Mennonite Encounter,” 25–6, reports that the Central Commi ee’s Secretariat discussed the mass movement of Mennonites several times, “including at least one discussion in the Politburo itself.” See also, Erwin Warkentin, “The Mennonites before Moscow: The Notes of Dr O o Auhagen,” Journal of Mennonite Studies, 26 (2008), 201–20. Harvey L. Dyck, “Collectivization.” See, for example, Ruth Derksen Siemens, ed., Remember Us: Le ers from Stalin’s Gulag (1930–37), (Kitchener, On: Pandora Press, 2007).

414 Notes to pages 26–35 62 Terry Martin, “‘Russian Mennonite Encounter,”’ 9–59. 63 The history of the Verband is documented in two outstanding source collections: John B. Toews, ed. The Mennonites in Russia from 1917 to 1930: Selected Documents, 89–294, a collection of German language Mennonite sources; and V.I Marochko, ed., Silskogospodarskii soiuz nashchadkiv gollandskikh vikhodtsiv na Ukraini: zbirnik dokumentiv i materialiv, a collection of recently accessed Soviet state and Communist Party sources from various archives in Ukraine, mainly in Russian. Marochka also includes relevant German-language materials reprinted from J.B. Toews, Selected Documents. For a pioneering Ukrainian account see Ostasheva, Perelom, 83–126. Sca ered throughout the vast holdings of the State Archive of the Zaporizhiia Region are numerous state and Communist Party sources about the Verband. See Dyck and Staples, ed., Mennonites in Southern Ukraine, 1789–1941. 64 Minutes of Verband congresses in John B. Toews, comp. and ed., Selected Documents: Mennonites in Russia from 1917 to 1930 (Winnipeg, Man.: Christian Press, 1975) 89–193. 65 John B. Toews, Lost Fatherland, 66–199; John B. Toews, Czars, Soviets and Mennonites (Newton, Kansas: Faith and Life Press, 1982), 107–19; Frank H. Epp, Mennonite Exodus (Altona MB: D.W. Friesen, 1962), 139. 66 JAN records and analyzes the activities of the Gnadenfeld regional Verband in a detailed unpublished memoir, “Erinnerungen eines Beteiligten des Verbandes der Buerger Hollaendischer Herkun in der Ukraine,” 36, JANP. 67 An impression based on a reading of hundreds of regional, district, and village records in the SAZR. 68 Undated note regarding JAN’s nicknames, JANP. 69 JAN, “Errinerungen,” 4. 70 JAN, “Errinerungen,” 20. 71 JAN, “Errinerungen,” 9. 72 Cornelius Krahn, et al., “Agriculture among the Mennonites of Russia,” The Mennonite Encylopedia, (Sco dale, Pennsylvania, 1955) vol. I, 24. 73 JAN, “Errinerungen,” 13. 74 JAN, “Errinerungen,” 9. 75 JAN, Erinnerungen, 32. 76 Neufeld, “Erinnerungen,” 19. 77 V.I. Marochko, Selskogospodarskii soiuz, 100–39. 78 Visti VUTsIK, organ of the All-Ukrainian Central Executive Commi ee, 12 Aug. 1925. 79 Minutes of the Kharkov Congress of the Verband, 17–20 Feb. 1926, John B. Toews, Selected Documents, 177–87.

Notes to pages 35–42 415 80 Marochko, Selskogospodarskii soiuz, 199–258. 81 JAN, Path of Thorns, 383–4. 82 Colin Neufeld, “Cleansing the Countryside: The Dekulakization of the Soviet Mennonite Community (1928-1933),” Preservings, no. 13, Dec. 1998, 6; and “Separating the Goats from the Sheep: The Role of Mennonites and Non-Mennonites in the Dekulakization of Khortitsa, Ukraine,” Mennonite Quarterly Review, 73 (April 2009), 234–40. 83 Terry Martin, “Ethnic Cleansing,”The Affirmative Action Empire: Nations and Nationalism in the Soviet Union, 1929–1939 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001), 328–43. 84 Erika Thiessen, daughter of JAN, with author, Toronto, ON, 2 April 2002 and 26 May 2007. 85 List of Mennonite arrestees, “Prosecutorial Conclusions,” State Archive of the Zaporizhiia Region (herea er SAZR), document collection 5747, inventory list 3, file number 7588 (herea er SAZR 5747/3/7588). 86 In April 2007, Jacob Neufeld’s son Jacob J. Neufeld received permission to examine files in the Zaporizhiia Regional State Archive relating to his father’s case. The files comprise 1,660 pages of interrogation records, summaries of evidence, prosecutorial analyses, conclusions, and sentences. Neufeld’s name appears in a number of dossiers – his own file, of course, and in the interrogation files of several of his prison colleagues who named him as a co-conspirator, including the files of Filip Cornies. Analogous interrogation records have been used with similarly illuminating results in studies by Hiroaki Kuromiya, Freedom and Terror in the Donbas: A Ukrainian-Russian Borderland (Cambridge University Press, 1998), Hiroaki Kuromiya, The Voices of the Dead: Stalin’s Great Terror in the 1930s (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), and Anne Konrad, Red Quarter Moon: A Search for Family in the Shadow of Stalin (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2012). 87 Minutes of interrogation of JAN, 28 Jan.1934, SAZR, 5747/3/7581. 88 Minutes of confrontation between Peter P. Dirks and JAN, 28 Jan., 1934, SAZR, 5747/3/7581. 89 Minutes of interrogation of JAN, 5 Feb. 1934, SAZR, 5747/3/7581. 90 JAN published an appreciation of the life and career of his close colleague and friend: “Philip David Cornies: Nachruf und Errinerung aus Tagen der Schicksalsgemeinscha ,” Der Bote, 6 July 1954. See also obituary by son Heinrich, “Philip David Cornies, Sowjetrussland (1884–1962),” Der Bote, 10 April 1962. Philip Cornies was imprisoned in the gulag for 20 years and spent the last decade of his life in Central Asia. 91 Interrogations of Filip D. Cornies, 28 Nov. 1933, SAZR, 5747/3/7583.

416 Notes to pages 42–3 92 Interrogations of Filip D. Cornies, 28 Nov. 1933 to 4 Feb. 1934, SAZR, 5747/3/7583. 93 Benjamin H. Unruh, Russian Mennonite churchman, scholar and educator (1881–1959). Sent to the West to find emigration opportunities for members of his Russian Mennonite community during the Russian Civil War, Unruh finally se led in Germany where he represented the Verband in ma ers relating to the 1920s immigration of Soviet Mennonites to Canada and became a valuable advocate of Soviet Mennonite interests to the German press and German Foreign Office. During the Mennonite flight to Moscow in 1929, he worked closely with churches and German officials to facilitate the se lement and care of Mennonite refugees from the USSR and became a powerful voice in publicizing conditions in the USSR that had triggered the flight of Soviet Mennonites to Moscow. A er World War II, he was centrally engaged in promoting the se lement of Mennonite refugees from the USSR in South America and Canada. Still in dispute is the nature and depth of Unruh’s relations with the Nazi regime and the SS in the 1930s and 1940s. Unruh undoubtedly worked closely with German state and Nazi Party officials on behalf of Soviet Mennonites and Mennonite refugees from the USSR in the 1930s and 1940s and developed a strong ideological affinity for the Nazi state order. See Heinrich Unruh, Fueugungen und Fuehriungen: Benjamin Heinrich Unruh, 1881–1959: Ein Leben im Geiste christlicher Humanitaet und im Dienste der Naechstenliebe, with an Epilogue by Peter Letkemann (Detmold, Germany: Verein zur Erforschung und Pflege des Russlanddeutschen Mennonitentums, 2009) and Gerhard Rempel’s critical review of this book: Gerhard Rempel, Mennonite Quarterly Review, 84 (April 2010), 275–8. 94 The Deutsche Ausland-Institut was founded in 1917 to document the life of German-speaking communities abroad and to provide counsel for Volksdeutsche pursuing emigration opportunities at the time. B. H. Unruh was a leading member of this organization. A er Hitler’s rise to power, the organization was gradually brought under Nazi influence and control. In 1943 the Deutsche Ausland-Institut came under direct SS administrative control. See Fritz Ri er, Das Deutsche Ausland-Institut in Stu gart 1917–1945: Ein Beispiel deutscher Volkstumarbeit zwischen den Weltkriegen (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1976). 95 Minutes of confrontation between Filip D. Cornies and David J. Friesen, 15 Feb 1934, SAZR, 5747/3/7583. 96 Minutes of interrogation of Filip D. Cornies, 11 Dec.1933, SAZR, 5747/3/7583.

Notes to pages 44–53 417  97 Minutes of interrogation of Filip D. Cornies, 11 Dec.1933, SAZR, 5747/3/7583.  98 Minutes of interrogation of Filip D. Cornies, 11 Dec.1933, SAZR, 5747/3/7583.  99 “Prosecutorial Conclusions,” undated, SAZR 5747/3/7588. 100 JAN, Path of Thorns, 225, 257. 101 JAN, Path of Thorns, 226. 102 JAN, Path of Thorns, 221, 225, 286, 291. 103 JAN, Path of Thorns, 300, 311. 104 David G. Rempel with Cornelia Rempel Carlson, A Mennonite Family in Tsarist Russia and the Soviet Union, 1789–1923 (Toronto University Press, 2002), 91. 105 JAN, Path of Thorns, 61, 65. 106 JAN, Path of Thorns, 127. 107 JAN, Path of Thorns, 162–3. 108 JAN, Path of Thorns, 138. 109 JAN, Path of Thorns, 208. 110 Jacob J. Neufeld, son of Jacob Neufeld, with author, 25 July 2011. 111 Recent scholarship adduces evidence that some two dozen Mennonites from the Khortitsa and Molochna Mennonite se lements in Ukraine (with a combined population of around 30,000) were directly involved in atrocities, including the massacre of Jews in Zaporizhzhiia. Further research is needed on this subject. Gerhard Rempel, “Mennonites and the Holocaust: From Collaboration to Perpetuation,” The Mennonite Quarterly Review 84 (October 2010), 507–49. Rempel is a recognized scholar on the history of the SS. 112 JAN, Path of Thorns, 327, 339, 340. 113 Speech by JAN entitled, “Die Mennoniten Russlands waerend des zweiten Weltkrieges und das Schicksal der Verbannten,” presented on JAN’s behalf to a Peace Conference in Saskatoon on 20–21 July 1950, typescript, JANP. 114 Peter Letkemann, “Mennonite Victims of the ‘Great Terror,’ 1936–1938,” Journal of Mennonite Studies, 16 (1998), 35–6. 115 Terry Martin, The Affirmative Action Empire, 328–43. 116 Erika Thiessen, daughter of JAN, with author, Toronto, 3 Nov. 2006. 1. Arrest and Interrogation, 1933–1934 1 For a comprehensive study of the origins and working of the Gulag, see Anne Applebaum, Gulag: A History (New York: Doubleday, 2003); patterns in the arrest and interrogation of prisoners, 121–45.

418 Notes to pages 54–81 2 For a description and analysis of the Mennonite self-defense phenomenen during the Civil War, see John B. Toews, ‘The Origin and Activities of the Mennonite Selbstschutz in the Ukraine (1918–1919),’ Mennonite Quarterly Review, XLVI (January 1972), 5–40. 3 The still imposing Dnepropetrovsk regional headquarters of the secret police was constructed in the early 1930s: Natalia Venger, Professor of History, Dnepropetrovsk National University, with author, 25 August 2003. 4 See history of JAN’s involvement in the Verband in Path of Thorns, 381–3. 5 Brueder in Not was a German relief organization in the late 1920s and early 1930s consisting of representatives of various churches and groups. Its purpose was to aid refugees from the USSR, mainly Mennonites, who had fled to Moscow in the fall of 1929 to escape collectivization. Only a small proportion of these managed to reach Germany. From there, in the following years, the la er immigrated to Brazil, Canada, and Paraguay. B.H. Unruh played a key role in the founding and activities of the organization. German President Hindenburg supported the organization morally and financially: H.S. Bender, “Brueder in Not,” Mennonite Encyclopedia, I, 445. 6 See David G. Rempel, “The Expropriation of the German Colonists in South Russia during the Great War,” The Journal of Modern History, 4 (March 1932) 49–67. 7 Peter Dirks, a close personal friend of Neufeld’s, served with him as a medical orderly during World War I, and was best man at his wedding. This is one of three minuted interrogations in Neufeld’s file. See: Minutes of confrontation between Peter P. Dirks and JAN, 28 Jan. 1934, SAZR, 5747/3/7581. 8 Trans., Julie K. Hausmann, “Take thou my hand, O Father,” Hymnal: A Worship Book (Sco dale, Penn.: Mennonite Publishing House, 1992), 581. 9 There is a discrepancy between the interrogation transcript of this episode and Neufeld’s recollection of it. The transcript indicates that it immediately followed the confrontation between Neufeld and Peter Dirks. Neufeld remembers it as having occurred some weeks later. 10 Minutes of this interrogation session likewise appear in Neufeld’s interrogation file: Minutes of interrogation of JAN, 5 Feb. 1934, SAZR, 5747/3/7581. 2. Marking Time, 1934 1 I have been unable to determine the fate of the Dirks brothers whose alleged organizational efforts on behalf of the “conspiracy” feature prominently in the NKVD’s case against the Mennonite group of 26.

Notes to pages 85–116 419 2 A pencil sketch of Neufeld is a treasured momento of his family, and appears on the cover of this book. 3 For a treatment of the broader subject of the transportation of Gulag prisoners, see, Applebaum, Gulag, 159–82. 3. Railway Building in the Far East, 1934–1935 1 JAN’s description of BAMLAG is correct in every essential. One of the gulag’s most significant early projects, it developed quickly during the time of JAN’s incarceration. Ultimately its work force rose from a few thousand to 180,000. BAMLAG is reputed to have been “one of the most chaotic and lethal camps in the Far East.” Applebaum, Gulag, 97. 4. Managing a Pig Farm in the European Far North, 1936–1939 1 Sergei M Kirov (1886–1934), a critic and rival of Stalin in the early 1930s, was murdered under mysterious circumstances in 1936, perhaps at the behest of Stalin. The assassination, in any case, was used by Stalin to unleash a series of persecutions that culminated in the “great purges” of 1937–38: Amy Knight, Who Killed Kirov? The Kremlin’s Greatest Mystery (New York: Hill and Wang, 1999). Eight to nine per cent of Soviet Mennonites in Ukraine (mainly men) were arrested during the purges. Around eighty per cent of that number (almost half of all adult men) were, according to Peter Letkemann, executed. Peter Letkemann, “Mennonite Victims of the ‘Great Terror,’ 1936–1938,” Journal of Mennonite Studies, 16 (1998), 35–6. 2 JAN, as he relates, was a prisoner in UKHTPECHLAG during its rapid growth into one of the most massive and varied industrial complexes of the gulag. By mid-1933, about the time of JAN’s arrival, its population numbered more than 17,000 prisoners. These figures rose dramatically in subsequent years. Over the decades it spawned a number of additional camp complexes. Stalin seems to have taken a close personal interest in its development and work. Applebaum, Gulag, 77–84. 3 “Hunger,” a poem by JAN about suffering in the gulag, JANP. 4 Sometime a er his release from the gulag, Neufeld advised his daughter that “when (emphasis added) you are imprisoned in a labour camp seek out a similarly solitary job. It will make life easier for you in every way.” Erika Thiessen with author, 8 August 1996.

420 Notes to pages 117–75 5 See Path of Thorns, 117. 6 In accepting this administrative position in order mainly to receive be er food, JAN became a “trusty.” While this job increased his chances of physical survival, it also exposed him to greater risk should he flounder or fail in carrying out his duties. In 1937 and 1938 his gulag superiors, in comments entered in his prison work book, lauded him for his effective work as a supervisor: JANP 7 Several such le ers from his children have survived in JANP. 8 The period of the Great Purges, 1936–38, was a terrifying time in which, as noted, about half of all adult Mennonite males, and ethnic-German males generally, were arrested. Terry Martin correctly terms these acts of Stalinist terror against Poles, German-speakers and others, “ethnic cleansing.” Terry Martin, Affirmative Action Empire, 312–33. 9 J. Arch Ge y and Oleg Naumov, The Road to Terror: Stalin and the Self-Destruction of the Bolsheviks, 1932–1939 (New Haven, 1999), 562. 10 This precious item from Neufeld’s gulag experience survives in JANP. Containing brief excerpts from le ers from family, reflections, insights, Bible verses, hymns, etc., it is entitled, Gesammelte Trostsprueche und Verse in der Wuestenzeit, 1933–39. 5. Coming Home, 1939 1 Recalled from his time of service as an orderly in WWI, see Path of Thorns, 15. 1. Stalin’s Upheaval 1 The “flight to Moscow” is discussed above: see Path of Thorns, 156. 2 Volynian Germans came to constitute about ten per cent of the total population of the village of Gnadenfeld. 3 V.I Marochko and others, Golodomori v Ukraini: Zlochini protiv narodu (Kiev: M.P. Kotz, 2000), 82–150. 3. The Establishment of Collective Farms 1 See Lynn Viola, The Best Sons of the Fatherland: Workers in the Vanguard of Soviet Collectivization (Oxford University Press, 1989). 2 For a balanced treatment of the politics of the Ukrainian famine of 1932–3 see Martin, Affirmative Action Empire, 300–5.

Notes to pages 180–230 421 4. Ge ing Rid of the “Kulaks” 1 Eloquently witnessed to by le ers from Mennonite villagers to relatives in Canada. For example see: Ruth Dirksen Siemens, comp., Remember Us: Le ers from Stalin’s Gulag (1930–37), Volume One: The Regehr Family (Kitchener ON: Pandora Press, 2007). 2 This combined number equalled about thirteen to fourteen per cent of Gnadenfeld’s Mennonite population of around 800: JAN statistics, JANP. 8. German Occupation and Rule 1 Neufeld wrote the basic dra of this chapter in 1941, soon a er the events it describes. A euphoric account, it portrays the Wehrmacht’s conquest of the Molochna area as the liberation of Mennonites from certain exile to labour camps, then already underway, as Neufeld describes. 2 The Volksdeutsche Mi elstelle (The Ethnic German Liaison Office), was an administrative unit of the SS. During the German occupation of Ukraine, it administered the roughly 250,000 ethnic Germans within its borders, including the Mennonite se lement. Its other responsibility during World War II was the rese lement of ethnic Germans in Eastern Europe into recently conquered areas of western Poland that had been incorporated into the German Reich. This was done piecemeal a er the deportation from the area of many Polish peasants. In 1943–4, Mennonites from Ukraine were rese led to rural and urban centres in this area. Jacob Neufeld was deeply offended by the expulsion of the Poles. For an overview of the history of the organization see Vladismo Lumans, Himmler’s Auxiliaries: The Volksdeutsche Mi elstelle and the German National Minorities of Europe, 1933–1945 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1993). See also, Horst Gerlach, “Mennonites, the Molotschna, and the Volksdeutsche Mi elstelle in the Second World War,” transl. John D. Thiesen, Mennonite Life, Sept. 1986, 4–7. 3 Eduard Reimer, teenaged son of Molochna Se lement Mennonites, was a member, first, of the Reiterschwadron, and later, of the Waffen SS. He wrote a memoir of his involvement in Nazi atrocities: Eduard Reimer ms. in Gerhard Lohrenz Papers, vol. 3333, file 63, Mennonite Heritage Centre, Winnipeg.

422 Notes to pages 243–302 9. By Wagon Train across the Dnieper 1 There is not one “Brodsky estate,” but around twenty in the area close to the town of Brodsky. Helmut T. Huebert, Mennonite Estates in Imperial Russia, 20–1. 2 Zagradovka was a once-prosperous Mennonite “daughter se lement” consisting of sixteen villages. Located along the Inguletz River, it was about eighty kilometres from the city of Kherson on the Dnieper River: Gerhard Lohrenz, Zagradovka: History of a Mennonite Se lement in Southern Russia (Winnipeg MB: CMB Publications, 1947). The se lement was close to Vladimirovka. 3 In this context, “prisoners-of-war” refers to Soviet combatants taken prisoner by the Wehrmacht in 1941 and assigned to work for individual families in Mennonite and, presumably, other German-speaking villages. On the eve of the trek of Mennonites out of Ukraine in 1943, a number of such prisoners of war escaped from their forced employment overnight. Others, such as the ones mentioned in this passage, accompanied individual families on the trek. I have been unable to establish the numbers and fate of these people. Jacob J. Neufeld, son of JAN, with author, 27 Jan. 2011. 4 Gerhard Lohrenz, Fire over Zagradovka (Rosthern SK: Echo-Verlag, 1947). 11. Refugee Life in Western Ukraine and the Warthegau (Poznania) 1 During the German occupation of the Molochna area, Ukraine, Erika J. Thiessen, nee Neufeld, the daughter of JAN, was employed as a secretary in the Gnadenfeld headquarters of the Ethnic German Liaison Office. Erika Thiessen, daughter of JAN, with author, Toronto, 3 Nov. 2006. 2 The Warthegau, where Mennonite refugees from the Soviet Union were rese led, was a large area in eastern Germany ceded to Poland a er World War I. Conquered by the Germans at the start of World War II, it was designated as an area for the rese lement of Volksdeutsche (ethnic Germans) from various regions of Eastern Europe, including the USSR. Lumans, The Volksdeutsche Mi lestelle. 3 Gauleiter of the Warthegau during World War Two, Arthur Greiser (1897–1946) was notorious for the leading role he played in the extermination of the Jews and the Germanization of his Gau. He was tried by the Polish government in 1946 and executed. Catherine Epstein, Model Nazi: Arthur Greiser and the Occupation of Western Poland (Oxford University Press, 2010).

Notes to pages 313–47 423 12. Pell-Mell by Horse and Wagon to West Germany, 1945 1 Home of the Neufelds, the influential Mennonite village of Gnadenfeld, Molochna Mennonite Se lement, was founded in 1834 by Mennonites from the villages of Brenkenhoffswalde and Franztal, province of Brandenburg, Germany. H.G. Mannhardt, “Brenkenhoffswalde and Franztal,” The Mennonite Encyclopedia, I (Sco dale, PA: Mennonite Publishing Office, 1955), 416–17. 2 Fritz Reuter (1810–74), a North German novelist, was one of the most prominent writers in Low German. His writings, many of them humorous, were widely read by Mennonites in tsarist Russia and the USSR: www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/500251/Fritz-Reuter. 13. The End of Hitler ’s Reich 1 A euphemism for the Jewish Holocaust (used for fear of Nazi censors and police), to judge by JAN’s view that Hitler’s loss of the war was God’s punishment of the German people for the murder of the Jews. 2 For history of Celle during military collapse and British occupation see, Mijndert Bertram and Rainer Voss, ed., Celle ’45: Aspekte einer Zeitwende (Celle, Germany: Bomann-Museum Celle), 1995. 14. Come Look, The Tommies, 1945 1 Antony Beevor, The Fall of Berlin 1945 (New York: Penguin, 2002), 106, states that 68,680 civilians, mostly women and children, were assigned to clear up war rubble in Soviet Ukraine. 2 Beevor, Fall of Berlin, 28–32, 312–13; Marlene Epp, Women without Men: Mennonite Refugees of the Second World War (University of Toronto Press, 2000). 15. Rekindled Hopes, 1945–1949 1 Peter Dyck and Elfrieda Dyck, Up from the Rubble (Newton KS: Herald Press, 1991). 2 For introduction to Klassen’s life and work, see hagiographical biography by son and daughter-in-law, Herbert and Maureen Klassen, Ambassador to His People: C.F. Klassen and the Russian Mennonite Refugees (Winnipeg: Kindred Press, 1990), 117–258; Dyck and Dyck, Rubble (pages to come).

424 Notes to pages 348–408 3 T.D. Regehr, “Anatomy of a Mennonite Miracle: The Berlin Rescue 30–31 January 1947,” Journal of Mennonite Studies, 9 (1991), 11–33. 4 Esther Epp-Tiessen, J.J. Thiessen: A Leader for His Time (Winnipeg MB: CMBC Publications, 2001). 5 For a biography by B.H. Unruh’s son, Heinrich, with a valuable addendum by Peter Letkemann covering the years of the Third Reich, see, as noted above, Fuegungen and Fuehrungen. 6 For work of Mennonite Central Commi ee among Mennonite refugees in post-war Europe see, Dyck and Dyck, Up from the Rubble. 7 Based on books in the local MCC library, Jacob Neufeld delivered some dozen lectures on Mennonite history from its origins during the Reformation until the present. Clearly organized around basic issues and themes, they tried to instill in young a endees an understanding of their past and a moral map for their future. JANP. 8 Suffice it to say that in the years since the mid-1970s some 140,000 people of Soviet Mennonite origin have been se led in Germany. Here they were granted full German citizenship and received generous financial aid. For most, as argued in the Introduction, being “Mennonite” had since the collectivization of agriculture, become, at best, a distant memory during Stalin’s dictatorship. A Memoir-le er From Jacob A. Neufeld to His Wife, Lene (Thiessen) Neufeld, on the Occasion of Their 25th Wedding Anniversary 1 The Neufeld Papers contain notes in Neufeld’s hand from a copy of a textbook on double-entry bookkeeping that he diligently studied in preparation for this job. JANP. 2 The product of this expressed hope is JAN’s gulag memoir included in this volume. 3 In fact, Heini, despite horrendous experiences, survived his exile. In the early 1960s, from his home in Kazakhstan, still fearful of being re-arrested, he guardedly, through an aunt, renewed contact with his family. 4 This belief in a necessary “final struggle of faith” for a believer before death was deeply anchored in the theology of some Mennonites and o en appears in descriptions of like experiences. See, for instance, Harvey L. Dyck, transl., ed., with an introduction and Analysis, A Mennonite in Russia: The Diaries of Jacob D. Epp 1851–1880 (University of Toronto Press, 1991), 73.

Index

aborted departure, 87–8 Abrahams (German bookkeeper): as cellmate, 59, 67; transfer of, 67 Abramovich, Abba. See Gurevich, Abba Abramovich agriculture: Commissariat of Agriculture, 142–3; economic revolution and, 385; Gnadenfeld Verband branch school of, 31–2; Iakovlev and, 178; kulaks and, 179–80; Landwirte and, 224; Lenger and, 220; Mennonite Agricultural Society, 23–4; Ukhto-Pecherskii Camp and, 113–14 air a ack, 316–18, 329–30 Aller River, 328 Allied soldiers, 347. See also Tommies All-Ukrainian Central Executive Commi ee (VUTsIK), 22, 34–5 American and British zones, 360–1 Amur River, 99, 108 anemia, 383 Angara River, 108–9 animal husbandry, 118 Arbusinka, 263 Arendt, Wilhelm, 212, 249–50

Arndt, Willm, 290 Artess, E., 77, 87, 104 arthritis, rheumatoid: coming down with, 126; Neufeld, Lene, and, 8; overview of effects of, 7–8; tent camp and, 130–1 autobiographical le er: accusations, 387–8; addendum, 406–8; anemia of Neufeld, Lena, 383; BAMLAG, 392; baptism, 376; birth of Neufeld, Erika, 382; birth of Neufeld, Heinz, 383; birth of Neufeld, Jasha, 383; Canada, 407; Celle, 401–2; children, 386; collective life, 386–7; confessions, 402–4; courtship, 376–7; economic revolution, 385; German occupation, 399–400; Gnadenfeld consumer cooperative, 385–6; house bought, 383; Jannowitz, 400–1; Klippenfeld experiences, 375; Lena’s father’s farm, 380–1; marital unity, 405–6; medical orderly, 375–6; Menno Verband, 381, 383; on mothers, 378; move to Gnadenfeld, 381–2; Neues Leben collective, 385; Neufeld, Jasha, 384, 404–5; NKVD

426 Index arrest and interrogation, 389–90; overview about, 10; prison release, 395; prison reunion with Neufeld, Lena, 391; Red Cross bookkeeper, 388; relationship reflections, 377–9; return home, 395–6; secondary school, 375; Stulnevo train station, 398–9; three year sentence, 383–4; trench-digging, 398; twenty-five years of marriage, 402; twins birth, 388; typhus, 376; Ukhta Soviet State Farm, 392–3; underclothing package, 393; wagon train, 400; wedding, 379–80; White Army, 376 Bade, Herr, 297 Baikal, Lake, 108–9 Baikal-Amur Camp. See BAMLAG prison camp Baknang refugee camp, 368 Balin train station, 292 BAMLAG (Baikal-Amur Camp) prison camp: departure from, 107–8; double-tracking and, 105–6; family le ers and, 103–5, 392; goods depot at, 103; harsh winter in, 101–5; nature of, 105–6; political prisoners at, 99–100; purpose of, 105–6; rail line work, 100–1 baptism, 376 Barabinsk Steppe, 109 Bartel, Ohm Heinrich, 161 bast shoes, 102 ba alion, destruction, 207 Becker, Frau, 212, 250 Becker, Johann, 199, 202, 205; Bergmann and, 250; Buergermeisteramt and, 222; horses and, 264; Stark, Emanuel, and, 209 Becker, Liesbeth, 283, 298

Becker, Marta, 166–7 bedbugs, 93 Benjamin, Ohm, 161–2 Berdiansk, 223 Bergen, Heinrich, 227 Bergmann, Frau, 250 Beria (NKVD head), 132 Berlin: bombs over, 316–18; refugee camp, 360 bespribornik (vagabond or homeless outcast), 137 Bielo-Tserkovka, 204 bill of indictment, 59–60 Black Maria (NKVD vehicle), 70; death’s victims and, 86 black market, 347 black-out commands, 208–9 blat (connections), 116 blatnie (thieves): card-playing and, 89–90; Cornies, Filip, warns, 98; corruption and, 116–17; depravity of, 124–5; Dnepropetrovsk prison and, 87, 89–90; higher righteousness and, 90; sex and, 124–5; strip search and, 87; workings of, 89 Boese (blond bearded big man), 274 Boldt, Abraham, 228, 251–2 Bolsheviks, 19; as arbitrary, 179–80; blurring of mine and yours and, 184–5; churches, demise of, and, 189–90; forced loans and, 200–1; last days of rule by, 207–17; Mennonite character and, 184–91; Mennonites fate following retreat of, 223–4; religious persecution and, 188–9; revolutionary law under, 154–5; submissive mass person creation and, 185–6; Union of the Godless and, 188; youth and, 186–7

Index 427 bombing, 316–18, 329–30 bomb shelter, 319 bookkeeper: Abrahams, 59, 67; Gnadenfeld consumer cooperative, 385–6; Red Cross, 388 Braul, Frau, 323 Braun, Wilhelm, 212 Braun family, 250 bridge repair, 267–8 British and American zones, 360–1 Buergermeisteramt (mayor’s office), 222 Bug River, 267 Buss, Herr, 242, 243, 246, 254 camel, 95 camp people: Chechen Muslim woman, 136; Chernetz, 136–7; fate of, 133–9; German, 134–6; Goldberg, 48, 138; grey figures, 139; Guenther, 137–8; Kuznetsov, 137; Mennonite, 133–4; Mierau, 134; Peters, Peter Joh., 134; Quapp, 134; range of, 133; Riediger, Aron, 134; veterinarian, 136–7; Wall, Gustav, 133; Widemann, 134–6; Wi , 134 Canada: Halifax harbour, 3; impressions of, 4; memoir-le er on, 407; reservations about, 5–6; visitor from, 345–7 card-playing, 89–90 cashier (female sentenced to death), 86 Cathedral of the Redeemer, 142 ca le, 31, 115–16 cellar, NKVD: bill of indictment presented in, 59–60; cell eight in, 59; cellmates in, 67–8; cell one in, 58–9; despair in, 60–1; in Dnepropetrovsk, 58–61; on guard in, 69–70; interrogation agonies

in, 61–7; Makhnovite leader in, 67; resolve established in, 61; train to, 58; transfer from, 70 Celle: air a ack and, 329–30; Aller River and, 328; Allied soldiers in, 347; black market in, 347; change of fronts and, 333–5; death and destruction and, 329–30; description of, 327–8; Gnadenfeld countrymen and, 341; memoir-le er on, 401–2; reception at, 322–3; reunion with Neufeld, Erika, at, 324–5; se ling in, 323–6; siren alarms in, 326; Soviet refugee assembly camp at, 342; Tommies arrive at, 333–5; Trueller rusk and cracker factory in, 337–8; unconditional surrender and, 335–6 cellmates: Abrahams, 59, 67; Artess, 77; Epp, 71; Lepp, 77; Litovchenko, 59, 67; Nickel, J.J., 77; in NKVD cellar, 67–8; Palaianichka, 67–8; Regehr, Aron, 71; Regier, 76; Wiens from Schoenau, 76 cell number 21, 70–1, 78, 79 cells: in Halbstadt, 56–8; at Petropavlovsk, Siberia, 95–6 Chechen Muslim woman, 136 Cheliabinsk, Siberia, 181–2 Chernetz, Petr I., 136–7 Chibia: as administrative seat, 112; arrival at, 111–12; free workers at, 116, 117 Chimkin (veterinarian), 141–2 Christmas: Eve, 1934, 103; in Fallingbostel, 368–9; 1943, 288–9; 1944, 303–4; in tent camp, 131–2 churches: demise of Gnadenfeld, 189–90; Gnadenfeld’s reopened, 222–3; life under German rule and, 222–3, 227–8; in memoriam,

428 Index 190–1; overseas assistance by, 359–62 civil war: non-combatant service in, 17–20; typhus contracted during, 376 class struggle: collectivization and, 155–7; kulaks and, 181 clay pit worship service, 251–2 coal, 113 collective farms: begging for work at, 397; charter establishment of, 169–70; crisis of 1932–1933 and, 174–5; eased government demands for, 175–6; establishment of, 168–77; improvement for, 175–6; Karl Marx Kolkhoz in Gnadenfeld and, 170–1; MTS dictates to, 172–3; Neues Leben, 385; organizing without end, 171–2; worker shortages, 176–7. See also Gnadenfeld kolkhoz; kolkhoz collective guilt, 339 collectivization: class struggle and, 155–7; consequences of, 155; elderly and, 161–2; eve of World War II and, 160–1; oppression of 1937–1938, 157–9; reflections on, 386–7 colonization program, 127 Commissariat of Agriculture, 142–3 condemned with acquaintances, 79–80 confession signing, 77–9 Cornies, Filip, 85, 87; background of, 41; blatnie warned by, 98; as ca le breeder, 115–16; confession of, 42, 65; depositions of, 42; family’s fate, 104, 392; Hitler as chancellor and, 44; imprisonment of, 128–9; Litman Mennonite narrative and,

41–4; Menno Verband testimony of, 43; sentencing of, 81–2; submission of, 41–2; tragedy of, 91; wife’s death, 392 courtship, 376–7 Crimean Germans and Mennonites deportation, 199–200 crisis of 1932–1933, 174–5 Crous, Ernest, 346 culture, elevated, 339–40 Davidov Brod, 252 Deleske, Jacob, 310, 312 delousing, 294 deportation: Crimean Germans and Mennonites, 199–200; from Gnadenfeld, 210–11; of Mennonites, 181–2, 199–200; during World War II, 199–200, 210–11 depravity, 124–5 Derksen, Frank, 356; Holland movement and, 357 destruction ba alion, 207 Dietfurt, 295 digging trenches, 198, 199, 202–3, 204, 209, 398 Dirks, Heinrich, Jr., 190 Dirks, Hermann, 165–6, 222 Dirks, Justina Wilh., 172 Dirks, Mrs., 55–6 Dirks, Peter, 37, 40; betrayal by, 73–4; purges and, 55–6; sentence of, 81 Dirks, Wilhelm, 55, 222; sentence of, 81 Dnepropetrovsk prison: aborted departure from, 87–8; added privileges at, 89; blatnie at, 87, 89–90; cell number 21 at, 70–1, 78, 79; complex layout, 92; death’s victims from, 86–7; departure

Index 429 from, 93–5; food at, 90–1; NKVD cellar in, 58–61; reunion with wife at, 83–5, 391 Dnieper, 228–9; Mennonite history and, 248; river crossing, 246–7; trek across, 235–58 Doemitz Fortress, 321 Dosso, Nikolai Johann, 172, 175 double-tracking, 105–6 Dueck, Johann, 161, 189, 190 Dueck, Peter, 264 Dvoretz Sovetov, 142 Dyck, Peter, 355; Berlin refugee camp and, 360; Holland movement and, 357 early-release program, 127 Easter, 1944, 298 Ebert, Frau, 217 economic revolution, 385 economic stagnation, 207–9 Ediger, A.P.: BAMLAG and, 99; sentencing of, 81–2 Eduard (nephew to Neufeld, Jacob), 144 Eichenbrueck, 310, 325–6 ekspertniki (experts), 179 Elanets, 262–3 Elbe River: repatriates plague at, 337; wagon train and, 320–1 elevated culture, 339–40 Elisabe hal, 314 emigration: assistance, 363–4; camp, Fallingbostel, 364–5; Paraguay and, 363; in progress, 364–5; test to qualify for, 365 Empress of Canada (ship), 3 Enschede, 358 epilogue, 147–8 Epp (cellmate from Schoenau), 71

erysipelas, 121–2 Ethnic German Liaison Office. See Volksdeutsche MiĴelstelle Evangelical Relief Commi ee, 360 Ezhov (NKVD head), 126–7 Fallingbostel: Christmas at, 368–9; departure from, 368–9; emigration camp, 364–5; MCC at, 367; preachers at, 366; school at, 366–7; spiritual support at, 365–6 famine, 38, 68, 156–7 fateful accident, 122–4 Fedorovka, 143–4 Felsental (rock valley) estate: a ack of, 12; devotion and, 12–13; geography of, 11 Filene, 312 fisheries, 113 Foellmer, Herr, 270 forced loans, 200–1 Franz, Heinrich, 382 freedom: granted at tent camp, 132–3; Mennonites’ curtailed, 24–5; in question, 130–1 Friedeberg, 315 Friesen, D.A., 81–2 Friesen, H.H.: BAMLAG and, 100; sentencing of, 81–2 Friesen, Peter M., 13 Funk, Franz, 160, 162 Funk, Gerh. H., 81–2 Garsen, 326; repatriation and, 353–4 geborgen (safe and secure), 75 Gemuetsfreundinnen (soul friends), 11 Gerhardt, Paul, 270 German occupation, 1941–1943: under, 224–5, 399–400; administration, 220–1; community and

430 Index church life under, 227–8; disappointments, 225–7; Dnieper area and, 228–9; German inflexibility and, 221; German soldiers as saviors, 218–19; Gnadenfeld church reopened during, 222–3; hunger and, 221–2; life starts over, 219–20; Mariupol’s encirclement and, 220; medical care and, 226; memoir-le er on, 399–400; Mennonites fate before, 223–4; moral leadership and, 226–7; Mounted Squadron and, 230–1; Old Colony and, 228–9; order to decamp during, 229; propaganda and, 226; religious education and, 225–6; rese lement plan, 239–40; selfreliance and, 224; Volksdeutsche MiĴelstelle and, 225; Zagradovka and, 228–9, 260 Germans: camp, 134–6; collective guilt and, 339; elevated culture of, 339–40; God’s judgment and, 340; Litman Mennonite narrative and, 41–6; oppression of 1937–1938 and, 157–9; punishment of, 338–9; self-defense unit, 54; Volga peasants, 134–5; we-can-do-anything a itude of, 339 Germany, 1944–1945: April 1945 and, 328–9; bombs over Berlin and, 316–18; change of fronts and, 333–5; danger of being sent back following, 340–4; death and destruction, 329–30; departure from Jannowitz, 308–9; departure rumors and, 307–8; Feb. 2, 1944, 318–19; heralds of, 328–9; Jan. 12, 1944, 307; Jan. 17, 1944, 307–8; Jan. 18, 1944, 308; Kyritz and,

319; March 1945 and, 326–8; occupation force arrival and, 333–5; Oder River crossing and, 315–16; refugee’s options following, 342–3; Reich’s end and, 321–30; repatriates plague and, 336–40; Sieversdorf and, 318–19; unconditional surrender, 335–6 Germany, 1945–1949: Christmas in Fallingbostel and, 368–9; concluding comments on, 370–2; decamping for Holland and, 356–8; emigration assistance, 363–4; Fallingbostel emigration camp and, 364–5; German people and, 369–70; Gronau refugees and, 358–9, 368; Klassen, Cornelius F., and, 347–9; living with uncertainty, 365–7; MCC assistance and, 359–62; MCC Gronau encampment and, 362; new worries and, 349–51; overseas churches assistance and, 359–62; postscript, 1957, regarding, 372; renewal and, 349–51; repatriation danger and, 345–6, 353–6; Vertrauensmaenner and, 351–3; visitor from Canada and, 345–7 “Germany–Canada Trip Journal” (Neufeld, Jacob): Canada impressions in, 3–6; sombre tone of, 6 Gierz, David D., 81–2 glazier, 116, 118 Gnadenfeld: back to, 144–6; Celle and, 341; change of fronts at, 216–17; church, demise of, in, 189–90; church reopened, 222–3; decline of, 145; deportation from, 210–11; destruction ba alion and,

Index 431 207; digging trenches and, 198, 199, 209; eve of World War II in, 160–1; Karl Marx Kolkhoz in, 170–1; kulaks and, 182–3; men sent away, 201–2; move to, 381–2; refugees traveling through, 208; rescued, 217; secondary school at, 14, 375; wagons in, 238; war front moves closer to, 198–9 Gnadenfeld consumer cooperative: bookkeeping position at, 385–6; success of, 53–4 Gnadenfeld kolkhoz: elderly working at, 161–2; evening at, 166–7; Gurevich and, 162–3; Herfort and, 160, 162–3; housewife fieldworkers, 163–5; worker shortage, 177; workshop at, 165–6; World War II and, 160–1, 197; World War II eve and, 160–1 Gnadenfeld Secondary School, 14, 375 Gnadenfeld Verband branch: agricultural school, 31–2; ca le and, 31; economic projects of, 30–1; establishment of, 28; leadership of, 28–9; long-term agenda of, 29–30; medium-term agenda of, 30; survival agenda of, 29 Goertz, Grandmother, 212 Goertzen, David D., 87 Goerz, David: Christmas Eve, 1934, and, 103; cooperative store and, 104 Goerz, Frau, 104 Goerz, Maria, 280 gold mines, 182 Gold-Search-Campaign, 138 Goldberg (Jewish inmate), 48, 138 goods depot, 103

Great Trek, 1943–1944: at Balin train station, 292; bridge repair and, 267–8; Christmas and, 288–9, 303–4; clay pit worship service, 251–2; commencement of, 236; deaths, 266; delousing on, 294; departure, 240–1; Dnieper river crossing, 246–7; Easter on, 298; Elanets and, 262–3; exodus, 236–7; foretaste of, 237–8; at Grushka, 264; at Haisin, 271–2; at Haivoron, 265–6; hymn sung during, 269–70; at Landskorun, 281–5; at Lemberg, 293; list for train ride created, 274–5; lodged in private homes, 299–300; looking backwards and forwards, 300–1; at Lopatinsi, 279, 280–1; at Lukobarski, 279–80; Nemirov great disappointment and, 274; Nemirov in view, 272–3; at Nizhni-Sirogosii, 244–5; Novi-Bug and, 261–2; to Polish border, 259–87; preparations for, 238–40; reflections on, 285–7; rese lement plan, 239–40; rest day, 248–51; on road again, 259–60; at Sobolevki, 270–1; at state farm of Izvestia, 242–3; at Terpenie, 241–2; travel to Jannowitz, 295–6; troubled days on, 270–2; truck ride to Landskorun, 281–3; at Varnavitza, 278–9; at Vladimirovka, 254–8; at Volochisk, 292–3; by wagon train, 235–58; Warthegau life and, 301–4; women and, 287 Greiser, Gauleiter, 302 Gronau: fate of refugees stranded in, 358–9; first refugees in, 357–8; MCC and, 359, 362; refugee camp, 368

432 Index Gross-Schoenebeck, 316 Gruenfeld branch, of Menno Verband, 134 Grushka, 264 Guenther, Frau, 137–8 guilt, collective, 339 Gurevich, Abba Abramovich, 47; background of, 162–3; economic stagnation and, 208; forced loans and, 200–1; Herfort and, 162–3; housewives and, 163–5; men sent away by, 202; office of, 198; Stark, Emanuel, and, 209; workshop and, 165–6 Haisin, 271–2 Haivoron, 265–6 Halbstadt: jail cell at, 56–8; purges at, 55–6 Halifax harbour, Canada, 3 Harms (friends of Neufeld, Jacob), 76 hemp shoes, 102 Herfort, Jacob, 160; as brigadier, 162; Gurevich and, 162–3 Hitler, Adolf, 44 Hoffmeyer, General, 225, 289–90 Holland: decamping for, 356–8; desire for safe haven in, 350; Enschede and, 358; Gronau and, 357–9, 362, 368; Gronau refugees fate, 358–9; Menno-Passes and, 355–6; movement, 357; repatriation and, 354–6 Holocaust, 48 hopes, rekindled, 1945–1949: Christmas in Fallingbostel and, 368–9; concluding comments on, 370–2; decamping for Holland and, 356–8; emigration assistance, 363–4; Fallingbostel emigration camp and, 364–5; German people

and, 369–70; Gronau refugees and, 358–9; Klassen, Cornelius F., and, 347–9; living with uncertainty, 365–7; MCC assistance and, 359–62; MCC Gronau encampment and, 362; new worries and, 349–51; overseas churches assistance and, 359–62; postscript, 1957, regarding, 372; renewal and, 349–51; repatriation danger and, 345–6, 353–6; Vertrauensmaenner and, 351–3; visitor from Canada and, 345–7 Hostmann-Steinberg paint factory, 328 housewife fieldworkers, 163–5 Hylkema, Ds., 354; Holland movement and, 357; MennoPasses and, 355–6 Hymnal: A Worship Book, 75 Iakovlev (Soviet Commissar of Agriculture), 178 Igoda (NKVD head), 126 Inguletz River, 253 Ingul River, 262 International Refugee Organization (IRO), 3 interrogation, 389–90 interrogation agonies: beginnings of, 61; first interrogation, 61–4; in NKVD cellar, 61–7; second interrogation, 64–5; third interrogation, 65–6 Irkutsk, 109 IRO. See International Refugee Organization Isaak, Franz, 172 istrebitelnyi otriad (destruction ba alion), 207 Izvestia state farm, 242–3

Index 433 Jannowitz: camp life in, 296–9; departure from, 308–9; described, 300; lodged in private homes in, 299–300; looking backwards and forwards at, 300–1; memoir-le er on, 400–1; rumors of departure, 307–8; ten months in, 302; train to, 295–6 Janzen, Edi, 290 Janzen, Frau, 313 Janzen, Hans, 85 Janzen, Hugo, 313 Janzen, Irene. See Wiebe-Janzen, Irene Janzen, Nicholas, 85 Janzen, Siegfried, 362 Janzen, Wilhelm Mich., 170 Jews, 47–8 Kamenets-Podolsk, 282 Kamennyi Most, 142 Karl Marx Kolkhoz, 170–1 Kauenhowen, Professor Dr., 346 Kazakhstan, 371 Ketat, Dr., 226 Khirgiz, 95–6 Khortitsa Mennonite Se lement, 23 Kirov, Sergei M., 107 Klassen, Cornelius F.: Berlin refugee camp and, 359–60; Holland repatriation and, 354–5; hopes rekindled by, 347–9; new impressions of, 350; Thiessen and, 349 Klassen, Johann, 226 Klassen, Julius, 16–17 Klassen, Katya, 211 Klassen, Tante, 249 Kla , Abram, 212 Kla , Hannchen, 212, 266 Kla , Tante, 211–12, 266

Klippenfeld Mennonite village, 12; childhood at, 375; Wirten in, 13 Knoop (farmer), 341 Knopp, Johann, 320 kolkhoz (collective farm): employment with, 147; Lena and, 104, 121; Neufeld, Erika, and Neufeld, Heinz, and, 129; Predsedatel, 162; religious persecution and, 188; Stalin’s establishment of, 37. See also Gnadenfeld kolkhoz Komi Republic, 135 Konteniusfeld, Heinrich Pennner, 276–7 Konteniusfeld, Klaas Richert, 276 Koop family, 323, 324 Korotkov (NKVD representative), 198, 203 Kotlas, 141 Krasnoiarsk, 109 Kremlin, 142 Kreuz, 312–13 kulaks (exploiters or onetime affluent peasants), 22, 33; agriculturalists victimized as, 179–80; Cheliabinsk and, 181–2; class struggle and, 181; deporting, 180–2; ge ing rid of, 178–83; Gnadenfeld and, 182–3; gold mines and, 182; liquidate, 178–9; Mennonites dekulakized, 37–8; revolutionary law affecting, 154–5; Stalin and, 178 Kuznetsov, Seriozha, 137 Kyritz, 319 labour, forced, 336 Labour Army, 200 Lake Baikal-Amur River rail line, 99 land reform, 168–9 Landskorun: long halt in, 283–5; truck ride to, 281–3

434 Index Landwirte (agricultural landlords), 224 laptie (Russian bast shoes), 102 Lebedev (prison camp foreman), 99, 100–1 Lehman, Professor, 346 Leidensweg (path of suffering), 371 Lemberg, 293 Lenger (agricultural and administrative head), 220 Lenin Mausoleum, 142 Lepp, Khortitsa A., 77 Letkemann, Peter, 366 library worker, 91–2 Lichtenau railway station, 223 Liebenau Mennonite village, 13 Das Lied von der Glocke (Schiller), 101 Lindemann (German scholar), 72 Litman (chief investigator), 39, 41, 47; confession signing and, 77–9; deliveries forbidden by, 75–6; Dirks, Peter, betrayal and, 73–4; family eviction threat by, 66; first interrogation by, 61–4; introduction to, 61; second interrogation by, 64–5; third interrogation by, 65–6 Litman Mennonite narrative: allegations, 45–6; Cornies and, 41–4; Menno Verband illegal phase and, 43–4; Menno Verband legal phase and, 43; prosecutorial conclusion, 44–6 Litovchenko (Ukrainian cellmate): disposition of, 59; resolve of, 67 loans, forced, 200–1 Lodemann family, 322–3 Loewen, A.A.: BAMLAG and, 99–100; Psalm 23 and, 100; sentencing of, 81–2

Loewen, Franz, 190 Loewen, Katharina, 250 Loewen, Margarethe, 317 Loewen, Onkel, 266 Lopatinsi, 279, 280–1 Löwen, Abram A., 87 Löwen, Onkel, 212 Lukobarski, 279–80 Machine and Tractor Station (MTS), 172–3 Makhnovite leader, in NKVD cellar, 67 Malinovka, 261 Mariupol, 220 mass person, creation of, 185–6 mat (cursing), 116 MCC. See Mennonite Central Commi ee medical corps service, 14–20, 375–6 medical orderly, 14–20, 375–6 memoir-le er: accusations, 387–8; addendum, 406–8; anemia of Neufeld, Lena, 383; BAMLAG, 392; baptism, 376; birth of Neufeld, Erika, 382; birth of Neufeld, Heinz, 383; birth of Neufeld, Jasha, 383; Canada, 407; Celle, 401–2; children, 386; collective life, 386–7; confessions, 402–4; courtship, 376–7; economic revolution, 385; German occupation, 399–400; Gnadenfeld consumer cooperative, 385–6; house bought, 383; Jannowitz, 400–1; Klippenfeld experiences, 375; Lena’s father’s farm, 380–1; marital unity, 405–6; medical orderly, 375–6; Menno Verband, 381, 383; on mothers, 378; move to Gnadenfeld,

Index 435 381–2; Neues Leben collective, 385; Neufeld, Jasha, 384, 404–5; NKVD arrest and interrogation, 389–90; overview about, 10; prison release, 395; prison reunion with Neufeld, Lena, 391; Red Cross bookkeeper, 388; relationship reflections, 377–9; return home, 395–6; secondary school, 375; Stulnevo train station, 398–9; three year sentence, 383–4; trench-digging, 398; twenty-five years of marriage, 402; twins birth, 388; typhus, 376; Ukhta Soviet State Farm, 392–3; underclothing package, 393; wagon train, 400; wedding, 379–80; White Army, 376 Mennonite Agricultural Society, 23–4 Mennonite Central Commi ee (MCC): American and British zones and, 360–1; assistance of, 359–62; Berlin refugee camp and, 359–60; Dyck and, 355; at Fallingbostel, 367; Gronau central encampment of, 362; Gronau refugees fate and, 359; Holland repatriation and, 354–5; impeded relief work of, 350; Klassen, Cornelius F., and, 347–9; as relief organization, 349; as special interests advocate, 361 Mennonites: camp people who were, 133–4; Canadian society of, 5; character of, 184–91; churches, demise of, and, 189–90; class struggle waged against, 155–7; collectivization of, 37–8; cooperative unions of, 23–4; Crimean Germans and, 199–200; curtailed freedoms of, 24–5; dekulakized,

37–8; demonizing Soviet, 37–46; deportation of, 181–2, 199–200; Dnieper and, 248; exodus to Moscow of, 25–6, 156; fate before German occupation, 223–4; Fedorovka and, 143–4; healthy core of, 187–8; Hymnal: A Worship Book, 75; Kazakhstan and, 371; Khortitsa Mennonite Se lement, 23; Klassen, Cornelius F., and, 347–9; Klippenfeld Mennonite village, 12–13; land reform and, 168–9; le behind in Ukraine, 372; Liebenau Mennonite village, 13; Litman Mennonite narrative and, 41–6; Molochna Mennonite se lement, 11, 211; NEP and, 23–4, 25, 153; NKVD deportation of, 199–200; NKVD seizure of men, 157–8; oppression of 1937–1938 and, 157–9; persecutions of, 153, 188–9; religious persecution and, 188–9; Soviet 1920s context regarding, 20–6; Soviet a empts to integrate, 22–3; Soviet preoccupation with, 21–2; Soviet state records on, 21; as Soviet sympathizers, 20–1; under Stalinism, character of, 184–91; submissive mass person creation and, 185–6; suffering deepens for, 154–5; torgsin and, 157; in UkhtoPecherskii Camp, 133–4; Vertrauensmaenner and, 351–3; Virgil and, 4; Warthegau life and, 301–4; world’s transience and, 343–4; youth, 186–7 Menno-Passes, 355–6 Menno Verband: central office of, 27; conclusions about, 36, 49; Cornies’ forced testimony against, 43;

436 Index as democratic institution, 27–8; establishment of, 23–4; false conspiracy phases, 43–4; Gnadenfeld branch of, 28–32; Gruenfeld branch of, 134; levels of functioning of, 27–8; liquidation of, 33–7; Litman Mennonite narrative and, 41–6; memoir-le er on, 381, 383; mission of, 27; 1922–1927, 26–32; overview about, 26–7; regional functioning of, 27–8; sovietization and, 33–4; VUTsIK and, 34–5 Metro, 142 Mierau (from Spat or Karassan), 134 military call-up, 302–3 Molochansk court, 36 Molochna Mennonite se lement, 11, 211 Molotov, Commissar, 196 moral leadership, 226–7 Moras (camp boss), 117 Moscow: Kremlin in, 142; Mennonites’ exodus to, 25–6, 156; sight seeing in, 141–3; travel to, 97 Mounted Squadron (Reiterschwadron), 230–1 MTS. See Machine and Tractor Station Muslim woman, 136 “My Path of Thorns” (Neufeld, Jacob): overview of, 9 nachalnik (boss), 118 Nachtigall, Johann, 162 Nachtigall, Karl, 172, 175 Narym river, 108 Nazi Germany, 46–7, 48. See also German occupation; Germany, 1944–1945

Nemirov: great disappointment and, 274; in view, 272–3 NEP. See New Economic Policy Netherlandic Concession, 77 Neudorf, 182 Neues Leben collective, 385 Neufeld, Abraham, 11, 12, 104; back to Gnadenfeld, 144–6; Fedorovka and, 143–4; words of comfort from, 121 Neufeld, Erika, 3, 38; air a ack and, 330; birth of, 382; Eichenbrueck exit, 325–6; Elanets and, 262; free breakfast and, 126; German self-image of, 50; horses and, 243; kolkhoz and, 129; as maid, 5; munitions job of, 326–7; reunion with, 145–6, 297, 324–5; scarlet fever and, 129; separation from, 292; trench digging, 202–3, 204, 209; words of comfort from, 121 Neufeld, Hans, 38 Neufeld, Heinrich, 144, 396 Neufeld, Heinz, 3; birth of, 383; broken leg of, 386; joy replaces sorrow of, 202–4; kolkhoz and, 129; reunion with, 145–6; skates and, 121; to war, 205–6 Neufeld, Jacob: aborted departure of, 87–8; arrest and interrogation, 1933–1934, 53–81, 389–90; a itudes towards Jews, 47–8; a itudes towards Nazi Germans, 46–7, 48; back to Gnadenfeld, 144–6; back to Siberia, 97–9; Buergermeisteramt and, 222; childhood and youth, 11–14; collapse of, 74–6; coming home in 1939, 140–8; condemned with acquaintances,

Index 437 79–80; confession signed by, 77–9; courtship with Neufeld, Lena, 376–7; death’s victims and, 86–7; dekulakized Mennonites and, 38; departure from Dnepropetrovsk, 93–5; Dirks, Peter, betrayal of, 73–4; erysipelas and, 121–2; ethnocultural -religious communities and, 46–8; false arrest of, 38–40; at Fedorovka, 143–4; fever delirium of, 110–11; final charge of, 76–9; first imprisonment of, 36; Gnadenfeld Verband branch and, 28–32; on guard, 69–70; in Halbstadt jail cell, 56–8; health advantages of, 8; homecoming of, 144–7; hour of destiny for, 56–8; impressions of Canada, 3–6; infirmity of, 6–8; interrogation agonies of, 61–7; interrogation transcripts, 40; joy replaces sorrow of, 202–4; Klassen, Cornelius F., and, 347–9; Klippenfeld experiences, 375; as medical orderly, 14–20, 375–6; Molochansk court and, 36; to Moscow, 97; 1920s and, 20–6; 1938 and, 128–30; in NKVD cellar, 58–70; in Petropavlovsk prison, 95–7; purges and, 53–6; reunion with Neufeld, Erika, 145–6, 297, 324–5; sentencing of, 81–2; as swine herdsman, 117–26, 129–31; wedding of, 379– 80; wife’s first reunion with, 83–5 Neufeld, Jasha, 3, 38, 203; air a ack and, 330; death of father Jacob A., 384; horse and, 167; memoir-le er on, 384, 404–5; as orchard labourer, 5; reunion with, 145, 396 Neufeld, Johann, (son who died in infancy), 38, 384

Neufeld, Johann (from Elisabe hal), 314 Neufeld, Lene, 3, 38, 167; air a ack and, 330; anemia of, 383; husband’s arthritis and, 8; Bielo-Tserkovka and, 204; Boese and, 274; courtship of, 376–7; disagreements with, 404–5; Elanets and, 262; father’s farm and, 380–1; first reunion with, 83–5, 391; Jewish refugees and, 48; kolkhoz and, 104, 121; 1939 reunion with, 145; prison reunion with, 83–5, 391; reunion with Neufeld, Erika, 324–5; trench digging, 202–3, 204, 209, 398; village collective and, 104, 121; wedding of, 379–80; words of comfort from, 121 Neumann, Frau, 318, 319 Neumann, Paul, 318 Neu-Ruppin, 317 New Economic Policy (NEP): benefits of, 153; Mennonites and, 23–4, 25, 153; Stalin abolishes, 153–4 Nickel, Frau, 166–7 Nickel, Gerhard, 189 Nickel, J.J.: BAMLAG and, 100; Netherlandic Concession and, 77; sentencing of, 81–2 1937: difficult year, 126–8 1937–1938, oppression of, 157–9 Nizhni-Sirogosii, 244–5 NKVD. See Soviet secret police non-combatant service: in civil war, 17–20; in World War I, 14–17 northern lights, 131 Novi-Bug, 261–2 Novosibirsk, 109

438 Index Octoberfeld, 182 Oder River: crossing, 315–16; travel to, 314–15 oil, 113 Old Colony, 228–9 Omsk, 109 Ordnungschutz (police protection), 230 Ostarbeiter (forced labour), 336

Psalm 107, 4 purges: Dirks, Peter, and, 55–6; German self-defense unit and, 54; Halbstadt and, 55–6; Neufeld, Jacob, and, 53–6; purpose of, 54; Stalin and, 126–7

Palaianichka (Ukrainian gardener), 67–8 Paraguay, 363 Pechora camp, 110 Pechora River, 113 Penner, Heinrich, 222, 228 Penner, Jacob Abr., 170 Perm, 109–10 Pervomaisk, 264 Peters, Jacob, 357–8 Peters, Peter Joh., 134 Petropavlovsk, Siberia: camel and, 95; cells at, 95–6; farm near, 96–7; Khirgiz at, 95–6; prison in, 95–7 Ple , G., 376 Ple , Johann Karl, 172 Poetker, Frau, 253 Poles, 47 Polner, Tikhon, 15 preachers, 188 Predsedatel (kolkhoz chairman), 162 preservation, 124–5 Prishib area, 182 prison: BAMLAG, 99–108, 392; in Petropavlovsk, Siberia, 95–7; Sysrani, 93–5 prisoner transports, 98–9 private homes, lodged in, 299–300 propaganda, 226 Psalm 23, 100

Rabsch, Maria, 298 radium, 113 rail line: BAMLAG, 100–1; Lake Baikal-Amur River, 99; Lichtenau railway station, 223; Stulnevo railway station, 211–16, 398–9; Ukhto-Pecherskii Camp, 114 rash, facial, 121–2 Ratzlaff, Gustav, 366 red cow, 31 Red Cross bookkeeper, 388 refugee life: Apr. 9, 1944, 298; Baknang refugee camp, 368; at Balin train station, 292; Berlin refugee camp and, 359–60; Celle Soviet assembly camp and, 342; Christmas and, 288–9, 368–9; Christmas in Fallingbostel and, 368–9; concluding comments on, 370–2; danger of being sent back and, 340–4; decamping for Holland and, 356–8; delousing, 294; Easter and, 298; emigration assistance, 363–4; Fallingbostel emigration camp and, 364–5; Feb. 12, 1944, 290–1; following Germany’s defeat, 342–3; German people and, 369–70; Gronau refugees and, 358–9, 368; Hoffmeyer and, 289–90; Jan. 10,

Quapp, Aaron, 134 Quickborn, 321–2

Index 439 1944, 288–9; at Jannowitz, 296–9; Jewish, 48; Klassen, Cornelius F., and, 347–9; at Lemberg, 293; living with uncertainty, 365–7; lodged in private homes, 299–300; looking backwards and forwards, 300–1; Mar. 1, 1944, 290–1; Mar. 2–3, 1944, 291–2; Mar. 6, 1944, 293; Mar. 7, 1944, 293–4; Mar. 8–9, 1944, 294; Mar. 11, 1944, 295–6; Mar. 12, 1944, 296; Mar. 28, 1944, 297; May. 5, 1944, 299–300; MCC assistance and, 359–62; MCC Gronau encampment and, 362; new worries and, 349–51; overseas churches assistance and, 359–62; Paraguay and, 363; postscript, 1957, regarding, 372; renewal and, 349–51; repatriation danger and, 345–6, 353–6; search-and-support service and, 351–3; traveling through Gnadenfeld, 208; travel to Jannowitz, 295–6; Vertrauensmaenner and, 351–3; visitor from Canada and, 345–7; at Volochisk, 292–3; Warthegau, 301–4 Regehr, Aron, 71 Regehr, Ernest, 361–2 Regier, Fr., 76 Reimer, Tante Trudchen, 11–12 Reiterschwadron. See Mounted Squadron religious persecution, 188–9 Rempel, David G., 47 Rempel, Frau, 253, 270, 317 Rempel, Heinrich Johann, 172 Rempel, Johann, 17 repatriates plague: at Elbe River, 337; Germany’s collapse causing, 336–40; punishment of Germans

and, 338–9; runs amok, 337–8; Soviets and, 338 repatriation: danger of, 345–6, 353–6; Dyck and, 355; Garsen and, 353–4; Gronau and, 357–8; Holland and, 354–6; Menno-Passes and, 355–6 rese lement plan, German, 239–40 Retzlaff, Anna, 216, 217 revolutionary law, 154–5 rheumatoid arthritis. See arthritis, rheumatoid Riediger, Anna, 325 Riediger, Aron, 134 Rippke, Herr, 322 Rogasin, 310 Sanitätsdienst (medical corps service), 14–20, 375–6 Sawatzky, Frau, 208 scarlet fever, 129 Scharnikau, 311 Schiller, Friedrich, 101 Schmidt, Dr. (district commissar), 220–1 Schmidt, Maria, 273, 317, 341 Schmidt, Peter Daniel, 172 Schmidts, 161 school: at Fallingbostel, 366–7; Gnadenfeld Secondary School, 14, 375; Gnadenfeld Verband branch agricultural, 31–2 Schowalter, O o, 346 Schwedt, 315–16 search-and-support service, 351–3 secondary school, 14, 375 Selenga River, 108 se ler’s effects, 6–7 sex, 124–5 Siberia: Amur River in, 99, 108; back to, 97–9; Barabinsk Steppe in, 109;

440 Index Cheliabinsk, 181–2; harsh winter in, 101–5; immeasurable, 108–10; Irkutsk in, 109; Lake Baikal in, 108–9; Petropavlovsk, 95–7; prisoner transports in, 98–9 Siemens, Frau, 317 Sieversdorf, 318–19 sight seeing, in Moscow, 141–3 siren alarms, 326 Sobolevki, 270–1 sovietization: antagonistic classes and, 33; Menno Verband and, 33–4 Soviets (work-related councils), 18 Soviet secret police (NKVD), 8; arrest and interrogation, 53–81, 389–90; Beria and, 132; Black Maria of, 70, 86; in cellar of, 58–70; Crimean Germans and Mennonites deportation by, 199–200; Ezhov and, 126–7; Goldberg and, 48, 138; Gold-Search-Campaign, 138; hour of destiny and, 56–8; Igoda and, 126; Korotkov and, 198, 203; at Kotlas, 141; men sent away by, 201–2; 1937 and, 126–7; purges and, 54; seizure of Mennonite men, 157–8; torgsin and, 157; Yezhov and, 132. See also Litman; Litman Mennonite narrative Soviet Union: Iakovlev and, 178; Mennonites demonized in, 37–46; Mennonites in 1920s and, 20–6; refugee assembly camp at Celle and, 342; repatriates plague and, 338; World War II and, 200–1. See also Ukhta Soviet State Farm; Ukhto-Pecherskii Camp; specific location sow story, 122–4

Sparrau, 223 Sparrow Hills, 17 Sperling, Franz, 220, 255, 271 Stalin, Josef: agrarian policy of, 37; blurring of mine and yours and, 184–5; churches, demise of, and, 189–90; elevation of, 32; kulaks and, 178; Mennonite character and, 184–91; NEP abolished by, 153–4; purges of, 126–7; religious persecution and, 188–9; submissive mass person creation and, 185–6; youth and, 186–7 Stark, Emanuel, 208–9 Stark, Maria, 264, 283 St. Basil’s Cathedral, 142 Steinfeld, 240–1 Stenka Razin, 142 strip search, 87–8 stuck in muck, 274 Stulnevo railway station: change of fronts at, 214–16; dawn at, 211–12; memoir-le er on, 398–9; open field camping at, 213–14; under open sky at, 212–13; unforge able Sunday at, 214–15; World War II and, 211–13 submissive mass person, creation of, 185–6 Sutiski, 266–7 swine herdsman, chief: animal husbandry challenges and, 118; challenges of, 119; erysipelas and, 121–2; events leading to becoming, 117–18; fateful accident and, 122–4; fodder and, 120; freedom in question, 130–1; missing sow and, 122–4; time off work, 125–6; transfer to tent camp, 129–30;

Index 441 Ukhta Soviet State Farm and, 118–19 Sysrani prison: conditions, 95; travel to, 93–5 “Take thou my hand, O Father” (Hymnal: A Worship Book), 75 Tavonius, Dr. Er., 226 tax collections, 201 Tedeev, Aleksandr, 21 tent camp: arthritis at, 130–1; Christmas 1938 in, 131–2; freedom granted at, 132–3; northern lights at, 131; transfer to, 129–30 Terpenie, 241–2 Thiessen, Jacob J., 4; Klassen, Cornelius F., and, 349 Tiefenwege. See “Tragic Passages” Tjart, David, 356; Holland movement and, 357 Toews, Johann, 250–1 Tolstoy, Alexandra, 15 Tolstoy, Leo, 15 Tommies, 333–5 torgsin (hard currency stores), 157 Töws, Tante Gretke, 216 “Tragic Passages” (Neufeld, Jacob): overview of, 9–10 train: Balin station, 292; to Jannowitz, 295–6; list for ride on, 274–5; to NKVD cellar, 58; Stulnevo station, 211–16, 398–9; Zemstvo Union’s hospital, 14–15, 18. See also rail line trenches, digging, 198, 199, 202–3, 204, 209, 398 Tretiakov Art Gallery, 17 Trudarmiia (Labour Army), 200 Trueller rusk and cracker factory, 337–8

Tsar, as remote, 135 tuĞa (bullshit/deceiving an overseer), 116 Twenty-Five Thousanders, 170–1 twins birth, 388 typhus, 376 Uelzen, 322 Ukhta Soviet State Farm: conditions at, 119–20; crackdown at, 126–7; depravity at, 124–5; erysipelas contracted at, 121–2; fateful accident at, 122–4; memoir-le er on, 392–3; 1937 oppression at, 126–8; 1938 at, 128–30; swine herdsman at, 118–24; time off work at, 125–6 Ukhto-Pecherskii Camp: agriculture and, 113–14; arrival at, 111–12; Chechen Muslim woman in, 136; Chernetz in, 136–7; corruption at, 116–17; diet at, 114; fate of camp people in, 133–9; first barrack and, 111–12; Germans in, 134–6; Goldberg in, 48, 138; grey figures in, 139; Guenther in, 137–8; Kuznetsov in, 137; Mennonites in, 133–4; Mierau in, 134; overview about, 112–13; Peters, Peter Joh., in, 134; purposes of, 113–14; Quapp in, 134; rail line at, 114; range of camp people in, 133; Riediger, Aron, in, 134; routine at, 114–15; swine herdsman at, 117–20; veterinarian in, 136–7; Wall, Gustav, in, 133; Widemann in, 134–6; Wi in, 134; workday, 116–17. See also tent camp; Ukhta Soviet State Farm

442 Index Ukraine: class struggle in, 155–7; German inflexibility and, 221; Mennonites le behind in, 372; oppression of 1937–1938 and, 157–9 unconditional surrender, Germany’s, 335–6 underclothing package, 393 Union of Citizens of Dutch Ancestry. See Menno Verband Union of Citizens of Netherlandic Extraction, 45 Union of the Godless, 188 United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Agency (UNRRA), 338 Unruh, Benjamin H., 43, 45, 222, 361; a empt to contact, 346; Vertrauensmaenner and, 352 Unruh, Heinrich, 190 Unruh, Ohm, 161 Unser BlaĴ (Our News Sheet), 24, 49 Urals, 109 Urulga, 108 Ust-Vym, 140 Varnavitza, 278–9 Verband. See Menno Verband Vertrauensmaenner (liaison representatives): activities of, 351–2; aid districts of, 352–3; of Mennonite refugees, 351–3; mission of, 351; Unruh, Benjamin H., and, 352 veterinarian: Chernetz, 136–7; Chimkin, 141–2 Viatka, 109–10 Virgil (Mennonite hamlet), 4 Vladimirovka: arrival at, 254; condition of, 254; Oct. in, 256–8; preparing to leave, 257–8; Sunday in, 255–6; yard at, 255 Volga peasants, German, 134–5

Volksdeutsche (ethnic German), 10 Volksdeutsche MiĴelstelle (Ethnic German Liaison Office): disappointments and, 225–7; medical care and, 226; moral leadership and, 226–7; propaganda and, 226; purpose of, 225; religious education and, 225–6; strengths and shortcomings of, 229–30 Volochisk, 292–3 Vordam, 314 Voth, Frau, 208, 216, 249–50, 290, 317, 341 Voth, Heinrich Peter, 172, 198 Voth, Tante Marie, 290 Voth, Wilhelm Joh., 172, 222, 341 Vulriedes, Frau, 315 VUTsIK. See All-Ukrainian Central Executive Commi ee Vychegda River, 110 Wachtmann, Herr, 254 wagons, in Gnadenfeld, 238 wagon train, 1943: bridge repair and, 267–8; clay pit worship service, 251–2; commencement of, 236; deaths, 266; departure, 240–1; across Dnieper, 235–58; Dnieper river crossing, 246–7; Elanets and, 262–3; exodus, 236–7; foretaste of, 237–8; at Grushka, 264; at Haisin, 271–2; at Haivoron, 265–6; hymn sung on, 269–70; list for train ride created, 274–5; at Lopatinsi, 279, 280–1; at Lukobarski, 279–80; memoir-le er on, 400; Nemirov great disappointment and, 274; Nemirov in view, 272–3; at Nizhni-Sirogosii, 244–5; Novi-Bug and, 261–2; preparations, 238–40; rest day, 248–51; on road again,

Index 443 259–60; at Sobolevki, 270–1; at state farm of Izvestia, 242–3; at Terpenie, 241–2; troubled days on, 270–2; at Varnavitza, 278–9; at Vladimirovka, 254–8; worrisome signals and rumors, 235–6 wagon train, 1944: bombs over Berlin, 316–18; Braul and, 323; daughters missing, 310–11; departure from Jannowitz, 308–9; Elbe River and, 320–1; first night, 309–10; at Friedeberg, 315; Koop family and, 323, 324; Kyritz and, 319; Lodemann family and, 322–3; Netze river and, 311–13; Neumann, Paul, and, 318; Oder River crossing, 315–16; at Quickborn, 321–2; reception at Celle, 322–3; remarkable occurrence, 313–14; at Schwedt, 315–16; in Sieversdorf, 318–19; stay in bomb shelter, 319; travel to Oder River, 314–15; at Uelzen, 322 Wall, Abram A., 4 Wall, Gustav, 133 Warthegau: Christmas 1944, 303–4; Greiser and, 302; life in, 301–4; military call-up and, 302–3 we-can-do-anything a itude, of Germans, 339 wedding, 379–80 wells, water, 249 Wendorf, H., 240, 246 wheelchair, 6–7 White Army, 19, 376 Widemann (elderly German farmer), 134–6 Wiebe-Janzen, Irene, 72; departure from Dnepropetrovsk, 93–5; fate of, 101; as library worker, 91–2; sentence of, 82

Wiens (cellmates from Schoenau), 76 Wiens, Selly, 277 Winters, Heinrich, 362 Wirten (proprietors), 13 Wi (German pastor), 134 Wi e (Lutheran Pastor), 118 women, as heroes, 287 worker shortages, 176–7 workshop, 165–6 World War I: medical orderly in, 14–20, 375–6; non-combatant service in, 14–17 World War II: black-out commands during, 208–9; change of fronts during, 214–17; Crimean Germans and Mennonites deportation, 199–200; danger of being sent back following, 340–4; deportation during, 199–200, 210–11; destruction ba alion and, 207; digging trenches during, 198, 199, 202–3, 204, 209, 398; economic stagnation and, 207–9; ethnic Germans migration rumor during, 195–6; eve of, 160–1; forced loans and, 200–1; front moves closer, 198–9; Gnadenfeld kolkhoz and, 160–1, 197; Labour Army and, 200; last days of Bolshevik rule and, 207–17; men sent away during, 201–2; military call-up during, 302–3; more agitated days during, 204–6; Neufeld, Heinz, joins, 205–6; 1941 and, 196–7; open field camping during, 213–14; outbreak of, 195–206; rescued during, 217; Soviet apparatus and, 200–1; Stulnevo railway station and, 211–13; tax collections, 201; unforge able Sunday during,

444 Index 214–15; war with Germany commences, 196–7. See also Germany, 1944–1945 Yezhov (NKVD head), 132 youth: Christian values and, 186–7; Neufeld’s, Jacob, 11–14

Zagradovka, 228–9, 260 Zemstvo Union’s hospital trains, 14–15, 18 Zentralschule. See Gnadenfeld Secondary School Zielke, Herr, 161 Zielke, Olga, 167