John Stieber - Against the Odds - Survival on the Russian Front 1944-1945 [2nd Edition]

What I enjoyed most about my work were the trips on which I acted as interpreter. The subjects discussed almost invariably dealt with getting industry going again, rebuilding the infrastructure and assessing the immediate needs in various districts. This meant meeting important people and getting an insight into the workings of civic authorities and business generally. One other advantage of these trips was that I usually accompanied officers of a much higher rank than I associated with in my office job and they did not seem to have any anti-German bias.

As soon as Erika and I had settled into our jobs we set about our aim to get back to Ireland quickly. Germans had no regular way of communicating with the outside world, so we had to find another way of getting a message to our parents. Making enquiries around the office building, we came across an officer who came from Dublin, a Captain Mulholland. We put our problem to him and he promised to contact our parents when he went over on leave in a week’s time.

Our big difficulty was that it would not be easy to get permission to leave Germany; as Germans we had no rights. We thought of claiming that we were “Displaced Persons,” which was not strictly accurate, but we hoped the umbrella organisation might take up our case. With this in mind we took a train to Bremen on our first week-end off and placed an application with the relevant authorities. While in Bremen we also visited the Red Cross on the off-chance that they could help us, but they said they had no responsibility for us. Satisfied that we still had two irons in the fire, Erika and I returned to Rotenburg to await developments.

Our problems aside, we were extremely lucky to be where we were. With six million refugees from the East looking for housing and work, we had both.

A few weeks after our arrival in Rotenburg we had a minor set-back when we got a letter saying that we did not qualify as Displaced Persons. As Germans living in Germany we were not reckoned to be displaced, even if our home was in Ireland. Towards the end of June we got some good news and some bad news. One Saturday afternoon we had a surprise visitor called Sean Twomey who was a private in the British army and came from Mallow, where my parents lived. They (my parents) had been told about us by Captain Mulholland and had managed to get in touch with a soldier on leave who was stationed in Hamburg, only a short train journey from Rotenburg. He had very kindly brought us letters from our parents as well as clothes, but the bad news was that our parents could do nothing to get us back home. We had to achieve that ourselves, but they would meanwhile keep on trying through diplomatic channels. We gave Sean Twomey letters for him to post on to our parents and he promised to see us again after his next visit to Ireland and to act as a postal service for us. Sean Twomey’s news from our parents put an end to our schemes for getting home quickly, so we had to think of something new.

Ever since 5 June, four Control Commissions, British, French, American and Russian, had been formally set up to assume overall control of the four zones of occupation in Germany. Erika and I decided to approach the British Control Commission with the claim that we had been born in Czechoslovakia and that a special case should be made to allow us to leave Germany. This turned out to be a catastrophic idea which could have cost me my life.

One day a sergeant from British Military Security came to my office and questioned me in detail about my background and also my army service. I gave him all the information quite frankly; how I was sent to school in Germany and got caught up in the war. The sergeant, called Levy, took down copious notes before he left.

Three days later, Sergeant Levy returned when I was at work in the office and arrested me. He said I would be sent to a prisoner-of-war camp with the recommendation that I be deported to Czechoslovakia in order to stand trial as a traitor to the country of my birth! It was a patently monstrous accusation, but it spelt major trouble for me. It was as much as I could do to persuade Sergeant Levy to let me tell Erika what had happened and to also go back to the farm to get a tooth-brush and a few things I would need. Poor Erika was quite shattered by my news and promised to contact Major Carver right away to see if he could help.

What happened next was quite ridiculous. Sergeant Levy called in two soldiers who, with rifles at the ready, marched me to a jeep. He himself sat in front with the driver and I sat in the back between the two soldiers who still held their rifles ready for action. We drove to the farmhouse where one soldier was put guarding the front door pointing the rifle at the entrance and the other soldier was sent to do the same at the back. Then I was allowed to go into the house and the sergeant, pistol in hand, walked behind me taking all the professional precautions as if I was James Bond personified.

This ludicrous performance did not bother me, but I felt for the embarrassment of my host whose neighbours had witnessed this undignified spectacle. When I had put a few things together, I was marched back to the jeep and the same precautions were again taken as we drove off. Our destination was the town of Munster about thirty miles east of Rotenburg and there I was handed over at a prisoner-of-war camp. Sergeant Levy gave the authorities a copy of my interrogation report and also gave me a copy for myself.

The first thing I did was to read the report. It contained a lot of wrong details, not important as such, but inexcusably erroneous all the same. What was more serious was a vicious bias with which he sought to misinterpret the motives behind my going to school in Germany and volunteering to join the Division Hermann Göring. His concluding recommendation that I should be handed over to the Czechoslovakian authorities could turn out to be the last nail in my coffin. After all I had gone through in the past year, the problem of survival had come back to haunt me.

I had arrived at the camp at midday and by four o’clock I began to feel the psychological pressure caused by my confinement. The effect on me of being surrounded by barbed wire was something that I had not anticipated and made me take a desperate action which seemed foolhardy in the extreme. When an NCO made the rounds some time later calling out, “Are there any foreigners here, the Camp Commander wants to see anybody who is not German,” I was on my feet in an instant calling back, “Can I see him, I am Czechoslovakian.”

I clearly remember my feelings when I threw all caution to the winds. It was partly that I already sensed the spirit-breaking effect of incarceration and could not remain inactive any longer. What also influenced me was the childhood bond with English people which had survived recent negative experiences. I was convinced that I would not so soon come up against another man like Levy.

My request to meet the Officer-in-Charge was allowed and moments later I found myself in the presence of Major Bilsland. I immediately admitted that I was not a Czechoslovakian and said that I had been brought into the camp with a damning report containing completely distorted information about me. I quickly went on to tell the major about myself, since he would not yet have seen the report, and then I handed him my copy. When the major finished reading, I saw the trace of a wry smile cross his face and he remarked quietly, “Yes, I think the sergeant is a keen man.” He went on to say, “I will look into this,” and he gave me such a kind smile that I was sure everything would be all right. I returned to my view of barbed wire, but now felt happier and I breathed a sigh of relief that my impetuous action had not catastrophically back-fired. The following morning I was called to the camp office at eight o’clock; my discharge papers had been signed and I was free to collect my belongings and leave. It was yet like another miracle.