OZ BABY BOOMERS: BOOMERAMA

After about two weeks in the tent we were transferred in the Fallingbostel POW Camp huts. The bunks were occupied by people who had arrived before us so we had to find some space on the concrete floor, but at least there was a roof over our heads.

Every day, small groups of POWs were sent to clean the nearby English officers mess. On some occasions the lucky ones selected for this task received scraps of food. That was a major topic of conversation, but only a small percentage of those volunteering for the job ever got picked.

One day, I happened to be among the lucky ones. I was given the task of cleaning an office and found three green cherries left on a plate. I ate them and sucked the cherry stones for the rest of the day. In my own mind I tried to work out how many vitamins those three green cherries contained.

The second time, I was included in a work gang to clean up the grass outside the barbed-wire perimeter fence. We were, of course, escorted there by English soldiers and kept under strict surveillance. We weren’t given any cutting implements given to us, so we had to get down on our knees and pull the grass out with our hands.

The grass was about 30 centimetres high and among the tough blades there were also some juicy weeds. Inside the camp there was barely any grass at all. Every new blade that appeared around the washroom and toilet block was picked by early risers while only a few millimetres long.

Now I had a whole field of luscious grass, ready to be picked and eaten. Of course, you had to be careful not to let the English guards see what you were doing. This was my best day in the Fallingbostel camp and I was sure that I managed to get some nutrition into my body.

The third time, I was picked to peel potatoes. The room we entered seemed like a top-secret establishment. We were searched when entering for bags or containers or rags where something could be concealed. We worked under strict surveillance and any one trying to put a piece of raw potato into his mouth was warned. Anyone managing to swallow any potato was immediately escorted from the room.

The peelings had to be very thin. I managed to get a couple of bits of peel into my mouth and sucked them till they disintegrated. On our way out we were body searched. Until that day, I didn’t believe that any potatoes had been included in our soup. But now I saw with my own eyes that potatoes were indeed prepared for the soup. But apparently they became invisible afterwards.

There were no Ukrainians nor Russians either. They had been repatriated to the Soviet authorities, only to be immediately shot as they were taken over across the border.

From time to time we received some cheese and butter, but in such small quantities that I think it was only meant to remind us that there such things existed. There was no doubt in our minds that if things didn’t change for the better we would soon go downhill rapidly.

We also discovered that there were no German soldiers among the many thousands of us. There were Latvians, Lithuanians, Estonians, Belgians, Dutch and French. There were no Ukrainians nor Russians either. They had been repatriated to the Soviet authorities, only to be immediately shot as they were taken over across the border.

Russian ex-POWs, who had survived the horrors of the German camps, didn’t fare much better. Some either liquidated, but most were sent straight to the Siberian permafrost. Life in the West had contaminated them and letting them loose among the population at large could cause trouble.

But even at this early phase of the Stalin–Churchill–Roosevelt “honeymoon”, there were odd lone voices of warning. One was the US Ambassador to Moscow, Averell Harriman, who reported to the State Department in June 1945:

“The Embassy knows of only a single instance in which a repatriated prisoner — imprisoned by the Germans during the war — has returned to his home and family in Moscow. Trainloads of repatriates are passing through Moscow and continuing east, the passengers being held incommunicado while the trains stand in Moscow yards.”

The picture was clear to us. Unlike the Germans, who were “forced by the despicable Hitler” into his armed forces and were therefore victims of circumstance, we were regarded as “volunteers” who were the core of all evil and should be treated accordingly.

The Latvian, Estonian and Lithuanian conscripts were seen as attacking the “peace-loving” Soviet State" and were described by Stalin as the worst type of Nazi and deserving of due punishment.

No proof was required, of course. Some four years earlier Stalin and his mate Hitler had divided the Baltic state between themselves. Now that Hitler was dead — and all the better for that — Stalin now probably saw himself as the “legitimate” owner of Hitler’s share of the deal as well. Please pardon my sarcasm.

But it was of great importance to Stalin that those Baltic “Nazis” be given back to him as soon as possible. The devils might start to talk about his “peacekeeping work” back in 1940-41 when he sent many thousands of innocent Latvians, Lithuanians and Estonians, for their own good, of course, to the wide open spaces of Siberia. That process had barely been half completed, but the cattle trucks were ready, waiting ...

But the Western leaders did show some conscience. While doing everything possible to please and appease their great friend Stalin, they couldn’t send back to him the victims of his and Hitler’s crimes — especially given that, officially, Britain and the United States had never recognised the forceful inclusion of the Baltic States into the Bolshevik empire. Latvia, indeed still had ambassadors in London (Karlis Karins) and Washington (Alfred Bilmanis).

Journalists, and even more so the top politicians, were loud in their praise of Stalin. At the time of the Yalta Conference, the Permanent Undersecretary at the Foreign Office wrote:

“I have never known the Russians so easy and accommodating. In particular Joe [Stalin] has been extremely good. He is a great man and shows up very impressively against the background of the other two [Roosevelt and Churchill] ageing statesmen. The President [Roosevelt] in particular is very wobbly.”

There was no doubt that any foreign troops in German uniforms were looked upon by the Western allies as Nazi supporters. This to a large extent was true as far as the Norwegian, Dutch, Belgian and French troops were concerned. Those nations had only the one enemy — the Germans.

All my thoughts are about food. I really don’t need that much. I would be completely happy and satisfied if I had a small loaf of bread, any kind of bread, stale, fresh, white or black.

But the inhabitants of the Baltic States were the innocent victims of the two dictators, but few, if any, in the West at that time believed that Josef Vissarinovich Stalin, their great friend and ally, was in fact a worse terrorist and murderer than Hitler, the common enemy they had just defeated.

We have an almost complete eclipse of the sun. It is a bright, sunny day which suddenly begins to get darker, and after a while we are in semi-darkness. After an hour or so, the sun appears again as bright as ever. Today it is 11 months since I first stepped onto German soil.

All my thoughts are about food. I really don’t need that much. I would be completely happy and satisfied if I had a small loaf of bread, any kind of bread, stale, fresh, white or black. Today’s ration of bread I sucked in my mouth in small morsels until they melted. But even this way eaten, my bread lasted only for two hours. I now have to wait another 22 hours for the next “feast”.

I haven’t got anything left but my stomach feels as empty as ever. How long can it go like this? I have been a POW for a little over two months now. I cannot think of anything else but food. I have no strength left in me, no wish to move or do anything. Even slow walking takes an effort. I am worn out.

Dreadful ennui and hunger. So far the boys have managed to keep their chins up, but cracks are appearing everywhere and we all are getting edgy. I think we are dying of hunger. Wild rumours about our future. Desperation and hopelessness.

The days drag on like worn-out people. They are all alike and grey. From time to time we hear hopeful rumours, but then everything returns to normal. There is no other topic but food in our conversations. Many feel we all will go crazy. I am afraid it could be true.

We tell each other of the wonderful dishes we have eaten. My thoughts are most of the time on pancakes, soft, smooth pancakes, like those I baked for myself when living in Ventspils.

I don’t care any more where they send me. As long as I get something to eat. Some smart boys are catching rats in the toilets and cooking them. I haven’t had an opportunity to try them, but I’m told that they taste okay.