War Girls Complete Collection Chapter 188

Chapter 2: Peter

Fallingbostel, Germany

P

eter Wolf, also known as Piotr Zdanek, sat behind a rickety table covered in lists.

“Name?” he asked in Russian.

The man’s shoulders slumped. “Dmitri Bylikov.”

“Nationality?”

“Russian.”

Peter checked the appropriate box. “Rank?”

“Private.”

Peter nodded, jotting down the rest of the information on the list and putting a number beside it. “

Russenlager

. Go to the next table and they’ll assign you a blanket and mess kit.” He handed the newcomer a piece of cloth with the letters “KG”, which stood for

Kriegsgefangener

, prisoner of war. “And put this on the back of your tunic.”

The Russian prisoner barely raised his head as he took the sign and trotted off to the next table.

Peter had been at the camp in Fallingbostel several weeks already. Taken captive after the surrender of the Polish Home Army in the Warsaw Uprising, he’d been tasked by the Germans with registering the newcomers. Apparently, they considered speaking fluent Polish, German, English and Russian an asset.

As an officer of the Polish Home Army, Peter was exempt from work according to the Geneva Convention, but the Nazis didn’t care much about international treaties. And he actually preferred sitting at his table all day long registering newcomers to sitting in front of the barracks with nothing else to do than stare at the sky or sleep.

The new job came with perks, like extra food, for which he was incredibly thankful. Even with slightly bigger rations than the rest, hunger gnawed at his intestines day and night. He didn’t even want to imagine what the other prisoners, and especially the poor Russian and Italian souls, had to endure.

As far as prisoner camps went, Fallingbostel, or Stalag XI B (357), was certainly not jolly, but he’d seen worse during his time working as a driver for Professor Scherer in Berlin, a scientist who socialized with all the top Nazis. Most of the close to one hundred thousand captured soldiers from about a dozen nationalities toiled in one of the Arbeitskommandos, the labor squads. While the work was certainly backbreaking, at least those who worked got to eat.

As in any camp, prisoners in Fallingbostel were separated by nationality, and those with a superior nationality according to Hitler’s racial ideology – Westerners with Aryan heritage – had much better prospects of surviving their ordeal than those of inferior or Slavic nationalities.

At least the Germans had stuck to their word and treated the Home Army prisoners from the Warsaw Uprising as POWs and not as partisans.

“Step forward,” he called out to the next man in line. The man attempted to stand up straight and adopt a pain-free expression, but failed miserably and limped the few steps to Peter’s table.

“Name?”

“Vasily Bulychev.”

Peter switched to Russian. “Nationality?”

“Russian.” The prisoner showed no surprise that Peter spoke Russian.

“Rank?”

“Private.”

Out of habit, Peter wrote

Russenlager

beside the man’s name and the prisoner number on the list. Lately most every newcomer had been Russian, save for the odd Englishman in between. But then he looked up and asked, “What’s wrong with your leg?”

“Gunshot in the thigh.”

Peter motioned one of the medics forward. “This prisoner,” he said, glancing at the list, “Vasily Bulychev, has a gunshot wound.”

The medic, a prisoner himself, nodded and squatted down. He pushed apart the tattered remains of the uniform and sucked in a breath. “He’ll need to go to the camp hospital.”

“Take him there,” Peter said and crossed out

Russenlager

on the list to put Camp Hospital instead, and took a deep breath before he looked up at the next prisoner and started the process all over again.

Peter didn’t like the role he played, but under the current circumstances this task helped to ensure the survival of his comrades. The camp commandant had discovered that Peter’s influence on the other prisoners made life so much easier for everyone involved, and would often grant requests for better treatment in exchange for good behavior.

Still, each morning Peter woke hoping that today would be the day of his liberation. Then he would see his German wife, Anna, again and if God was benevolent, he might even be reunited with what remained of his Polish family. His son Janusz, his brother Stan, and his sister Katrina.

With the war winding down and the Allies assured of winning, the Nazis still stubbornly held on for dear life, even mobilizing the last reserves, boys aged fourteen to sixteen and ancient men above forty years old, in a crazy effort they called Volkssturm, storm of the people.

Peter scoffed. Most ordinary German people had long given up on the idea that Germany could win this awful war instigated by a delusional man – a master manipulator whom they’d unwittingly believed for the longest time.