War Girls Complete Collection Chapter 342

Chapter 9

W

inter returned with all its might and every evening after work the men busied themselves making their barracks cozy. Under Heinrich’s guidance they organized old tin cans, bottles, and petrol, hiding the booty in secret holes beneath the hut.

“I really miss Karsten,” Johann said, cutting super-thin strips from a blanket with a wooden knife. Each time he had three strips, about ten inches long, he handed them to Helmut.

“He’ll be home by now and we will be soon, too.” Helmut had taken the disappointment of being swept off the

Heimkehrer

list surprisingly well. As always, he found solace in the Bible. His positive mindset was contagious, and Johann looked slightly more optimistically into the future.

Helmut took the threads and twirled them into a cord, which he handed down to the next man in line.

“No, not like that.” Heinrich scrutinized the wick and returned it to Helmut. “It has to be twirled tighter, or it won’t work.”

As soon as Helmut was done, he showed his work to Heinrich again, who gave an appreciative nod and tied a knot at both ends. The next man in line was tasked with soaking the cord in the liquid petrol they’d pilfered from the camps’ vehicles.

Heinrich examined the work again, gave a few hints here and there, and took the soaked wicks to let them dry. Meanwhile other men prepared the container, using either a tin can or a bottle to make the lamp. Bottles were preferred because they gave more light, but they were also harder to organize.

Johann looked at the row of wicks hanging to dry. Having light in the barracks during the long winter months was something to look forward to. At the lumber mill they had collected small wood remnants and a group of fellow prisoners drilled holes into them.

It was ridiculous, but his heart was pounding with suspense. Would it work? Forcing the slight tremble from his hands, he took one of the dried wicks, removed the knot and threaded it through the piece of wood. Then he handed it to Heinrich. “It was your idea. You light the first one.”

Heinrich’s eyes gleamed with joy as he poured some of the pilfered petrol into a tin can and dropped the wood with the wick inside. Then he lit a match.

All two hundred men in the barracks held their breath as Heinrich’s hand hovered over the can. An explosive flame shot up, but settled into a steady flicker after a few moments.

“It works! We have light!” someone screamed with joy.

Quickly they manufactured more lamps and distributed them across the hut. Heinrich gave strict orders not to waste petrol and only to light them for an hour or two each evening before bedtime.

The lamps smoldered like chimneys, spitting black clouds into the already thick air, but that didn’t spoil the happiness of the men.

One day

the Soviets sent another delegation to the camp and instituted educational classes for the prisoners to teach them the many advantages of communism. Attendance was obligatory.

“What exactly are we doing here?” Johann whispered.

“Listening to what the Soviets have to say,” Gerd answered.

Johann cast him a dark stare. In his opinion, this was lost time that could be better spent on mending his torn tunic. The door to the big room in the administrative building opened, and the men went inside. A fire burned in a crate and warmed the room.

“They’ve gone all out to show us how well they’re doing,” Helmut remarked.

“I’ll take the warmth. But I won’t convert to another fascist ideology.”

“Shush.”

Johann furtively glanced around, but nobody was within earshot. Although one could never be entirely sure about the Russian bastards and their helpers. The sadistic Romanians had been sent home in the fall, along with the Yugoslavs and others from the new

brother nations

. Former SS men and those who had no qualms over betraying their own kind had taken their place. The position came with perks: more food, less work, better treatment.

The Soviet official held a lengthy speech about Marx, Engels, Lenin and, naturally, Stalin. He ended his sermon with the words, “We’re here to end the evil of fascism and are offering you the opportunity to become better people. Therefore you’re invited to join the Antifascist Committee that has been installed in this camp. You can sign your membership on the forms near the door. Any questions?”

Nobody dared ask.

The officer made a satisfied face and said, “Who wants to be the first one?”

Some men rushed to the door and, under celebratory shouts of the guards, were welcomed as anti-fascists and members of the brotherly communist society.

Johann glanced around. The majority of the prisoners didn’t seem willing to defect and join the ranks of the former enemy.

Since not enough men had jumped at the generous opportunity, the Soviet officer, who surely had a quota to fill, clapped his hands and said, “Everyone who refuses to renounce his abominable fascist ideas and doesn’t voluntarily join the Antifascist Committee will be treated as the traitor he is.”

Immediately a big number of prisoners rushed to fill the forms.

“Do we have to sign right now?” someone asked.

“No, no. Of course not. This is completely voluntary, and you can take as much time for consideration as you wish.”

“I’m never going to sign,” Johann murmured under his breath as they returned to their barracks.

Helmut cast him a surprised glance. “Why would you say that? Haven’t you told me many times what Hitler did was wrong?”

“It was. But what Stalin does is equally wrong. I’m not committing the same mistake twice.”

About half of the men had joined the ranks of the communists, and surprisingly, the rest of the men were left alone. The officer had reached his quota and that was what mattered. Antifascists had slightly better conditions, but Johann decided it wasn’t enough to justify betraying his own conscience.

As the cruel winter wore on men were dying like flies left and right. The unbearable cold and ever-dwindling rations, combined with arduous work, was too much to bear. They passed out at work, never to stand up again, froze to death in their sleep, succumbed to infectious diseases or simply closed their eyes when the last morsel of life energy in their broken bodies had been used up.

One day Helmut relayed the rumor of another transport for home leaving soon.

Johann pulled a face. “And you still believe this? Haven’t you heard the Russian saying, ‘Please forgive me for not promising anything today’?”

Gerd nodded. “Never heard more fitting words. Empty promises are all they’ve given us so far.”

“I’m starting to think they do this on purpose. Dangle the possibility of freedom in front of us, get our hopes up to keep our behavior in check.”

“Why would they even bother?”

“To extract more work from us,” Helmut said. “A man without hope has no reason to work. We all do everything to stay alive for the sole reason that we want to go home.”

“That’s kind of depressing. To know they can blackmail us to work for them with the dream of seeing our families again, even if they have no intention of ever making good on that promise,” Heinrich said.

Like the three of them, Heinrich hadn’t joined the Antifascists. They had discussed the topic again and again and always decided a bit of bread wasn’t worth selling one’s soul.

But today, as the hunger gnawed more viciously than ever, Gerd suddenly said, “It’s not reprehensible wanting to live, right?”

Johann peered at him, sensing the change in conviction. “No, it’s not.”

“Right. I can’t take it anymore. I’m gonna join those bastards. Just yesterday Rolf told me that you get an entire loaf of bread for your signature.”

“You do what you must.” Johann looked at Gerd, hoping this wouldn’t be the end of their friendship.