The author: ERHARD SCHULZ was born in 1933 in Elchniederung County, at that time a remote marshland in North-East Prussia, Germany. He graduated from high school in Lehrte, Lower Saxony and worked as a financial accountant for the companies Hanomag, Salzgitter-Chemie and Bahlsen’s Keksfabrik. He retired in 1995. In 2010 he died of pancreatic cancer. The translator/ editor: Dr. Ortrun Schulz was born in 1960 in Hannover, Germany to Erhard and Rita Schulz. The author describes his childhood on his parents’ farm in East Prussia and his first school years in Erlenrode und Kuckerneese. The Second World War changes people’s lives. As an eleven-year-old boy, along with his mother and two brothers, he experiences the Great Trek on a horse-drawn harvest wagon. It starts in October 1944 and ends six months later in April 1945, after a drive of more than 750 miles through East Prussia, West Prussia, Pomerania, Mecklenburg, and Lower Saxony to Sievershausen near Hannover, Germany. The stages of their struggle and their encounters along the way are depicted with remarkable honesty. Many striking details, often strange and unimaginable, sometimes touching to the heart, are included. Dedicated to my daughter Ortrun and our friends, Katie and Don Wolgemuth, Pennsylvania, USA Editor’s Preface to the Third Edition My dad originally wrote this book in German and dedicated it to me so that the younger generation might learn something about life in the old days in this remote part of Germany, and the experiences and hardships of the refugees during World War II. It made a deep and lasting impression on me. Their life on a farm, surrounded by abundant nature, was determined by the seasons and family traditions. Then all this was gradually subjected to a dramatic change. The cries of hares in the fields wounded by farm equipment were replaced by cries of people. Formerly friendly phenomena turned into their life-threatening counterparts: songbirds in the air were substituted by war planes; kids who had been ice skating for fun later had to struggle in the Great Trek of thousands of refugees, where many fell in and died in the icy water of the bay. The fire, which had been burning in their cozy stove before, was finally taking over their whole homeland. To make this book available to our friends in Pennsylvania, USA, I translated it into English in 2003, and after several more people there also became interested in it, we published it. One day my parents’ phone was ringing and there was an English- speaking guy on the phone who introduced himself as John Bush from Western Australia. He wanted to let my father know that this was the best book he had ever read on this matter. His wife was from the same part of Germany, too. We were amazed and delighted to hear this. Sometimes I have given a literal translation of names in brackets because of their connotations. For example, my father was born in Rehwalde (translated as Deerwood), in Kreis Elchniederung (translated as Elk Valley County). A note about the animal on the book cover: East Prussia had a large population of moose. I hesitated whether I should call it “elk” instead, especially since this sounds more like the German “Elch”, and it says in Wikipedia that “The moose (North America) or Eurasian elk (Europe) ( Alces alces )” are the same. I may use either one to denote the same animal. I am not a native speaker of English, so I’d like to give special thanks to Cathy Crosslin and Daniel Walker for proofreading my manuscript. With their help, this edition could be improved a great deal. There are also a few more pictures added which will enhance the reading experience. Two maps for reference can be found at the back. Ortrun Schulz, Hannover, Germany, 2015 Table of Contents Foreword Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Foreword Almost sixty years had to pass before I got the inner strength to write down my experiences of that time, particularly those of the escape, and save them from being completely forgotten. Once already, many years ago, I had taken my writing paper along on a vacation because I wanted to work on it when the weather was bad, but nothing came out of it. At that time, the memories of those terrible months upset me so much that I was not able to write down any of them. Only now, after I have finally written them down, I am miraculously freed from the shadows of the past. Now at last, I feel that I have gained enough inner peace to expel the images of the escape from my mind. I may occasionally take this book into my hand, turn the pages and state without emotion, “So that’s how it was at that time.” I was eleven years old then and perceived the first days of our escape in October 1944 as highly interesting. While sitting on our flight wagon, I thought of writing down all these impressions to preserve them. Since I had neither pencil nor paper, I couldn’t carry out this idea. However, this was good in a way because when the flight continued through the winter of 1945, I wouldn’t have had the strength or opportunity to keep a diary. Cold, ice and snow, constant fear, hunger and exhaustion suffocated every thought of taking notes. Survival alone mattered. Persistent danger and hunger sharpened my senses and forced me to continuously keep an eye on my surroundings. I can very clearly memorize many incidents of the escape because they were imprinted in my mind like photos. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t want to rule out the possibility that I misplaced some memories here and there. I experienced the war as a kid, which is why my recollections are those told from a child’s point of view. I have also tried to use some of the slang expressions common in that region at that time. And since the dramatics of the flight cannot be fully understood unless one has at least a rough idea of the general situation concerning the enemy’s front line, I have included some historical facts in my narrative which I later learned from the literature about this time. This book doesn’t blame or accuse anyone for the horrible war events. My intention is to report impressions as an eye-witness, as far as my memory allows. It’s obvious to me now, that my childhood was a carefree, beautiful and peaceful time in Elk Valley County, despite the war having been going on for some time already before it actually came to us. The people in the cities, particularly children, were much worse off. They starved for many years, and found no sleep at night because they had to hide from bomb attacks in bunkers. Many people were hit, lost their homes or lives, or were evacuated. These things were happening at a time when we were still living in almost perfect peace in our area. Even our escape would not be noteworthy if it was compared to the experiences of many other refugees. We neither starved nor froze to death on the way; we didn’t drown and we weren’t shot. We didn’t get caught between the fronts in direct war activities. And our luck was that we didn’t experience the rabble of Russian soldiers. Nevertheless, I have decided to record my memoirs after such a long time because this has always been a deep wish of mine, and I wanted to free my soul at last. Furthermore, I thought that it might also be of interest to my daughter to learn something about her father’s childhood, the war and the Great Trek of refugees. Finally, for my closer relatives and friends of the family, it may also be interesting to read about what some people were exposed to at that time. The war, especially the months of the flight, were a terrible and very sad time. I’m hoping very much that I have succeeded in conveying this mood. Should this not be the case, I ask you to forgive my incompetence and to take into account that I am no writer. Hannover 2003 Erhard Schulz 1 I was born on my parents’ farm in August 1933. By that time, my brother Siegfried was already a stocky four-year-old farmboy. Seven years after me, my younger brother – a latecomer, so to speak – was born. During his birth my parents didn’t have use for a curious little boy, especially since he did not suspect or know anything about the impending event. So they sent me on a trip. Summer vacation had started. The morning promised a sunny, warm day. My parents suggested that I should wander into the wide world today. I was already almost seven-years-old. I should hike to our relatives in Nassenfelde. Aunt Ida and Uncle Adolf would be very happy and I could play with my cousins there. Aunt Ida Gassner was a sister of my mother, and she had an impressive number of children with Uncle Adolf. So I became enthusiastic about this trip right away. I walked outside after my father had explained the itinerary to me once more. After all, it would be a walk of about 12 kilometers (7 miles). In Rautersdorf, I had to take the ferry over the river Gilge to Rauterskirch and then wander a few more kilometers to the north, onto the embankment. It was important not to miss the path branching to the side and leading to my relatives’ farm. The way was relatively far, but I was used to walking since I had to walk to school every day for 2 kilometers (1.3 miles) one way and another 2 kilometers back. On my excursion to Nassenfelde I didn’t have to carry the kit bag with the reading book and school-slate. At home it was somewhat hectic these days and something wasn’t quite right with my mother, so I was glad to be allowed to leave. I arrived safely but exhausted at my relatives’ place. I was there frolicking with my cousins for several nice days in 1940. We played catch on a big cattle pasture. The players were free in the four corners but they had to change corners on a signal. After this game, I was so exhausted that my nose started bleeding and I fell sound asleep in the chair even before dinner. The last thing I noticed was that my older cousin Renate was washing my feet in a bowl. Of course, we were running mostly barefoot during the summer months. Along a ditch was a row of old willows ( salix viminalis ). They were wide and broad on top. We kids could easily climb up these trees because of the many branches all around and the knots and holes in the bark. We could sit in the willow’s crowns, well- hidden in the dense foliage, and tell each other horror tales. In the numerous holes of these old trees tree sparrows were hatching. We had fun pulling out the loosely woven nests with many feathers and eggs and ripping them apart. Today, I consider this very evil. For decades now, I haven’t seen any tree sparrows. They are probably extinct now in many areas. A few days later, my Aunt Ida said to me, “Your dad called and said that you’ve got a baby brother, and he will pick you up.” This was a complete surprise for me and I didn’t have a clue what to make of it at that moment. When I delivered the milk cart at home, I already heard the unusual crying. In my former baby bed with staves on the sides, was lying a wrinkled little something. It was my newborn brother, Hubert. I should add that we didn’t have a telephone. When my father had to make a phone call in urgent matters, he went to Friederici’s Pub. Mrs. Friederici was born a Gassner and related to Uncle Adolf. Beside the restaurant, she was also running a country store with her family. A little episode concerning Hubert’s baptism should be mentioned. Hubert was born on June 26, 1940. My parents took their time with his baptism. Such matters were postponed, if possible, until the crop was stacked in the barn. Therefore, my brother was baptized four months later on October 27, 1940 in our octagonal church at Rauterskirch by Mr. Pilzecker, a retired minister. He was named Hubert Siegmar Schulz. We had gone to the baptism ceremony by horse-coach. The baptism took place outside the regular service, which may have been customary in those days. Mom and Dad were sitting in the first row, right beside the altar, with the baby in their arms. My older brother Siegfried and I wanted to watch all details of the ceremony and therefore occupied the best seats. For this purpose, we had walked up the crackling staircase to the gallery and were now standing behind the parapet. The location was excellent. We could overlook everything. The minister appeared but before the procedure had even begun, he turned around and disappeared through the same door he had just entered. Shortly afterwards, the staircase behind us was creaking again. Another guest? Suddenly the minister in his black robe appeared behind us and asked, “Who are you?” Siegfried replied, “That’s our brother down there and our parents.” “Ok, you may stay here but take your caps off! After all, you’re in church! Down the stairs there are hooks on the wall. You can put your caps there and then come back here. You may keep your coats on.” The minister went downstairs, and we were following him at a respectful distance. Then he disappeared through the church door and went around the building halfway to the backdoor of the sacristy. Siegfried and I quickly rushed back upstairs and stood behind the parapet again, holding the caps in our hands. We didn’t trust to leave them unattended down there. We were also worried that we might forget them in all this excitement. The baptism could begin. I must have been sick a lot in my childhood, since I remained very skinny for years and susceptible to infections. When talking about me, the adults often used the East Prussian expression Gnoß or later Spucht (very skinny person). My earliest childhood memories start accordingly with cod liver oil. I had to drink many bottles of the yellow cod liver oil. When the bottle was standing and the contents had settled, a finger-thick layer of oil formed on the surface. It tasted horribly. During the following years, it was manufactured as white cod liver oil. It didn’t taste good either, but compared to the yellow kind it was edible. One could swallow it without throwing up. In addition to the usual children’s diseases there were accidents, too. On the farms there were plenty of dangers for toddlers. I remember a sunny day in late summer. I was three years old at that time. It was after the crop harvest. In the yard a huge steam engine was humming, which was moving a threshing machine over a belt. Everyone was very busy with the threshing. My dog – his name was Luchs (Lynx), because he had short, yellow fur – was lying in the warm sun, watching the activity with interest. When I grabbed his tail, twisted it, shouted “go” and “trot” and perched on him, he turned his head at me in anger and snapped violently. His upper jaw went quite deep into my head right beside my left eye and his lower jaw hit me behind the right eye. I had to stay in bed with bandaged eyes for a long time. My parents were worrying about my eyesight for many weeks. I never saw my dog again. Dad said he had chased him off the farm. Later, I assumed that he had shot him dead with the gun. There were two more accidents, not quite as dramatic, but with visible consequences for a long time. My brother Siegfried was fumbling with the chaff-cutter. I believe the machine was operated by muscle power on a crank. Anyway, I was standing nearby, watching. With my left hand I was clinging to some part of the machine. This part transported my hand between two cog wheels. I must have been very young then, since I don’t remember this incident. Much later, when I was already grown up, my brother told me the reason for my slightly deformed hand. The other accident also took place in the middle of summer, before I was enrolled at school. My father had borrowed a water barrel from my Aunt Klara Wohlgemuth (also my godmother) and Uncle Ernst from Großheidenstein, which had to be returned. It was a big tank of shiny metal, which had a hatch on top. Such a tank was needed to get the water for the cattle to the pastures. Today, farmers use such barrels to drive liquid manure on the fields. Normally, water was taken from the adjacent ditches or canals. If necessary, these ditches were deepened at such water-places for the special reason to always provide enough water during the summer. This year’s summer must have been unusually dry, so this was the second best solution. The water-tank was already lying on the farm-wagon like a zeppelin (airship), and two horses were hitched. This day, my cousin Horst was on a visit and we both wanted to go along. We imagined that we were tank commanders while sitting on the open hatch with our legs dangling into the empty tank space. Though my cousin Horst was my age, he was, contrary to me, strongly built. Nevertheless, I managed to be the first to climb on the wagon and the long barrel and to jump quickly through the hatch. Here, my right leg forcefully hit the double blade edge of the filling trunk. A long wound formed under my right knee and immediately turned dark blue. Strangely enough, hardly any blood was flowing. It hurt very much and got inflamed soon, despite iodine. The blow had not only injured the skin, but also the bone, and the wound was festering for weeks. Healing was slow and the accident left a deep scar. Some words about my cousin Horst. He was the only child of our Aunt Herta and Uncle Hermann Schleiwies. They lived in Berlin. Aunt Herta was a sister of my mother and one year younger than her. In most years, Aunt Herta and Horst spent the summer holidays with the grandparents in Kleinheidenstein. We kids were always looking forward to seeing our cousin because he liked to join in our rough games. Although deep down we considered him a softy as he was a city-boy, and we made fun of him whenever Aunt Herta treated his mosquito bites with some kind of lotion, or if he had been burnt by a stinger-nettle ( urtica dioica ). My parents’ farm was located in Rehwalde (Deerwood) in Kreis Elchniederung (Elk Valley County). Elk Valley County was bordered by the Kurische Haff (Curonian Lagoon or Bay) in the west. Between the bay and the agricultural land, a dense alder swamp forest was stretching. It may have been 8 kilometers (5 miles) wide. From my parents’ farm, about 3 kilometers (2 miles) out, one could see the fringe of the forest as a dark margin. In the north, the county was limited by the river Ruß. Behind it was the Memelland. The Ruß was mainly the extension of the Memel River. The Memel flowed along past Tilsit for some length, and then split into the Ruß and the Gilge. The Memel lost its name, so to speak. The main stream with strong water current was given the name Ruß The Gilge also was a broad river, particularly in fall and at the time of the snow melting. Then the streams of Ruß and Gilge poured their water into the Curonian Bay, while both rivers, especially the Gilge, branched a few times and formed the fertile, low-lying marsh delta. The already mentioned city of Tilsit was situated on the Memel, approximately 40 km northeast of my birth-town. Tilsit was at that time known for its cheese, and the Tilsit Peace. In this peace contract of 1807 between Napoleon I and the Russian czar Alexander (at first), and a few days later between Napoleon and the Prussian king, Friedrich Wilhelm III and Queen Louise, Prussia lost, among others, all provinces left of the Elbe River and was burdened with huge war compensations. To the south, or rather southwest, about 100 km (62 miles) air line was Königsberg, the capital of East Prussia. Elchniederung (Elk Valley County) (not complete, drawing by Erhard Schulz) 1 Tilsit 2 Kuckerneese 3 Karkeln 4 Herdenau 5 Klein Heidenstein 6 Erlenrode 7 Rautersdorf 8 Rauterskirch 9 Nassenfelde 10 Seckenburg 11 Neufelde 12 Heinrichswalde R Rehwalde The name of Elk Valley County already gave a hint concerning the features of its landscape. For the most part, it was low-lying meadow and pasture land. Approximately half of my parents’ fields were fenced pastures for cows and horses. Some areas were dug up in autumn and grass was sowed. I remember my father called it Timotheum grass. Maybe it was multiplied at that time or mixed with the grass blends for the first time. It resembled the meadow foxtail (Alopecurus paratensis) , but grew higher and was harder and stronger. Together with the other grass types, it made a thick, green carpet. After the hay harvest in June, the grass regrew and was mowed a second time, called Grummet The field hares, in any case, liked these meadows as hiding places. When the mowing machine went over the grass, it sometimes happened that hares got cut by the blades and were severely wounded. Wounded hares cry heart-wrenchingly; their cries are impossible to forget. The remaining fields were used as agricultural land. My parents grew rye for baking bread, and also barley, oats and beets for the animals. Furthermore, potatoes were grown – in some years with red peels – as pig food. The pig potatoes were steamed daily in a steaming pot as tall as a man. Then they were picked out of the pot as hot as they were, mashed and mixed with bran. The feeding kitchen was so full of steam then that you could hardly see anything. It was at the end of the hog-pen. You could walk through a door into the middle aisle where the pig boxes were situated to both sides. The grunting and bawling of the pigs before the feeding was always maddening. When the troughs were filled, the bawling turned into loud smacking. A large part of the potatoes had to be stored after harvest. Beside the barn, one or two long storage places for potatoes were prepared. The ground was carefully dug up two meters (2.2 yards) broad and two spades deep. Then the potatoes were brought in and piled up as a heap. They were covered with a thick layer of straw, and soil on top. This way, the bulbs were protected from the winter cold and kept fresh until spring, or maybe even until the next crop. Field mice, too, were using such storage places as their winter homes and supply rooms. Erhard Schulz Why my village was called Rehwalde (Deerwood) probably remained a mystery to most residents. There was no forest in this region, and I never saw a deer there. We did see elks there almost every year. When the frost period kicked in and the ice in the alder swamp woods wasn’t yet thick enough, the moose were walking either alone or in small groups through the bordering farmland. They left their dense woods because they broke into the ice all the time, and the sharp edges of the ice cut their legs. That’s why they jumped over ditches and fences and fed on the wicker shrubs and alder bushes growing everywhere along the paths and riverbeds. It was in autumn 1936, when suddenly three elks were standing in our backyard, nibbling at the lower twigs of the apple trees. In the previous nights there had been a hard freeze and the landscape was covered with a thick, white rime. It was early morning and I was still recovering from my dog-bite. My breath had caused the windows in the bedroom to freeze all over and they were covered with glittering ice-flowers. Mom had blown a small viewing hole into the ice crust and thawed the ice away with her finger. She called me out of bed and I could see the huge animals through the bedroom window, only a few meters away. Dad didn’t dare go across the yard to the stables in the morning without his hunting gun. I don’t know how many people lived in our village, or their names. There may have been about ten properties. The farms were amidst their pastures and land and were therefore more or less far from each other. I do remember our nearest neighbors though, who also lived in Rehwalde. To begin with, there was our neighbor, Enstipp. He was a miller and had a big windmill, with which he milled the grain for the other farmers around. We could reach his property in 500 m (547 yards) distance by foot, climbing over the wire- fence behind the pig-stable’s outdoor den, jumping over a shallow ditch, where each spring the hazel shrubs produced blooms which we called ‘ honey kittens, ’ and finally walking along the edge of a field. To make errands in Friederici’s Pub, we also went this way. Watching the miller at work was always very interesting. Enstipps had several kids. I remember Heinz and Edith, who were much older than me, and Arno, who as a latecomer may have been three years younger than me. There may have been more elder children, too. Miller Enstipp contributed a lot to my development and maturity, probably without even noticing it. Miller Enstipp had nice blue chalk, with which he wrote big numbers on the full flour-bags. One day I took a small piece of blue chalk. I may have been five years old. I stole it, so to speak. I must have known the difference between yours and mine by that time however, so I did it secretly. When I was home again with my new possession, I began to paint little blue signs here and there. It was best to do it on the red bricks of the pigpen, which were quite smooth, and on the doors. It is known today as graffiti , except that my pieces of artwork were much smaller and less visible. Nevertheless, my father soon discovered the scribbles and knew immediately where I had gotten the chalk. For punishment, I either got spanked on the behind or beaten on the butt. Both punishments differed a lot in measure and were related to the seri ousness of the crime. It was real bad to get beaten on the butt, because afterwards it was painful to sit. In this case, my father added something else to the punishment. I had to go back to Enstipps right away, give the chalk back to Mr. Enstipp in person, and apologize. Since then, I respected other people’s belongings. Yet this life lesson was occasionally questioned by me during the escape. It didn’t stop me from stealing a few apples and peaches out of the minister’s backyard in the fall of 1945, and from raiding the freight trains at the nearby station for coal in winter. Perhaps in the same year, my parents invited our neighbor, Enstipp, for dinner. We were sitting in the living room around the dining table and the adults were smearing homemade butter on their bread. Then suddenly a “crack!” Miller Enstipp’s knife blade had broken. We didn’t have electric power and hence no fridge. The butter therefore couldn’t have been too hard to cause the break. I thought that he had broken the knife on purpose and that he would be punished, as I would have been in such a case. But no, my mother calmly said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Enstipp. I’m getting you another knife.” How unpredictable people’s reactions can be. A little further away, the farmer Fabian lived. He had a son named Günther and a daughter. We were a few years apart in age, with me in the middle. When I was just a schoolboy, I was allowed to visit them sometimes. They had a big, nice rocking horse. We played Dung Driving on a sheet of paper. This was a game we probably had invented ourselves, because it doesn’t make sense. When we had grown a little older, we played Ship Sinking , which is also a game to be played at the table on paper sheets. We liked it very much and didn’t associate it with war and misery at that time. Toward Hohenberge our neighbors, the Alzuhns lived. They had several children who were already grown. I could see on some old photos that Alzuhn’s daughters – Meta and Wanda – had been in our backyard duing the summertimes for babysitting us kids. In the summer of 1944 I had to pay visits to the farms in Rehwalde with a collection jar for the Winter Aid Fund. The Alzuhns gave me a warm welcome and an elderly lady hugged me and told me that we were related over our father. She probably also explained to me the details of this relationship, but I forgot or didn’t understand it at that time anyway. I recall something else in connection with the Alzuhns. Illegal slaughtering was strictly forbidden during the last years of war. Whoever got caught was facing severe punishment. To ensure that this law would be obeyed, all useful farm animals were officially registered and records were kept of them. The registration even included the geese. Only the chickens and pigeons were exempt. I don’t know whether Dad had been able to hide a few geese or a piglet before the registration. Anyway, our meat supplies were gone and one day we illegally slaughtered a pig. One of Alzuhn’s sons, Alfred or Gerhard, must have had some know-how about slaughtering and happened to be home on vacation at that time. So one of them came over in a soldier’s uniform and killed the pig in the barn. We had to forget about the trichinella control. We couldn’t put anything in cans either because we weren’t able to borrow the rimming machine needed for this. In front of the Alzuhn’s property branched a driveway off the cobbled pavement road, which led to the farm of our neighbor Raszawitz, and two more farms behind. We never used this way on foot, but ran through the fields. Our fields ended on that side shortly before the neighbor’s yard. In between, there was a deep ditch with a lot of water, and behind it was a green sand-hill, from which Raszawitz sometimes took some sand. Legend of the sketched location of the property of Max Schulz, Rehwalde R Raszawitz Farm A Alzuhn Farm S Schulz Farm W Wohlgemuth Farm Krug Friederici’s Pub K Kröhnert Farm E Miller Enstipp F Fabian Farm Raszawitz, too, had several children, all sons I think. I probably never met them. They were probably all soldiers at war. The parents were already quite old in my opinion. They had a subscription for the journal Hilf mit (Join to Help). It was nice of them to collect these volumes for us so that we could take bundles of them home. During the winter months I read them in the light of the Petromax-lamp. For this lamp to burn, spirit was used, which flowed as a gas into a glow stocking and made the stocking light up. It created a nice light with a low hissing sound. When this alcohol lamp was moved or rocked, the glow stocking unfortunately fell apart and turned into ashes, so that it had to be replaced. While Siegfried and I were schoolboys, we sometimes needed a haircut. Then we went to the Barbutz (hair dresser). This word referred to someone who was able to cut hair. Maybe the term Barbutz had evolved out of a sluggish use of the word Barbier (barber). Anyway, the barber lived not far behind Raszawitz on the Prudim, a side creek of the Gilge. He couldn’t speak. Only gruesome sounds came out of his throat. People said that he had drunk too much whiskey which had damaged his vocal cords. I don’t know whether this was really true. Anyway, the barber had a turning stool where you had to sit down, and was adjusted by him to the right height. Then he put a metal bowl on the delinquent’s head. This way he could find the right line up to which the hair had to be shaved off. This happened with a rather blunt hand device, one of those which was also used for sheering sheep. Since his hands were trembling while holding the tool, it often hurt. No wonder that I always dreaded having to go to the barber. In the ‘30s, my parents went on a trip with Siegfried and me by KDF-steamboat (the abbreviation refers to “Kraft durch Freude” and means “strength through joy”) to Rossitten on the Kurische Nehrung (Curonian Spit, peninsula). I dimly remember this trip. I must have been very young then. However, I do have a vivid image of the world-famous bird watching center. At the entrance to the ornithological museum was a stork sculpture. Maybe made of wood, it was painted to look real. I ran to the bird right away, hugged it and wanted to take it home while my parents were laughing. The model bird was attached, though. The museum itself was full of showcases, with a lot of glass all around. The showcases contained many stuffed birds. What I particularly remembered as a child was that along with each bird was presented their typical nest and matching eggs. Nests and eggs were all different. Most nests were very skillfully built and much better than the nests we made for the Easter bunny in the small fir trees in our backyard. A few years later, Siegfried and I went once again, this time alone, by Kraft-durch- Freude (strength through joy) boat to the Curonian Spit. The steamboat started in Karkeln and took us to Nidden. This time the cruise over the Curonian Bay must have been a little rough. When standing at the railing, breakfast, including the good cow’s milk, fell out of my brother Siegfried’s mouth. Since this event I considered myself seaworthy, because I hadn’t become seasick. In Nidden there was a huge dune of bright yellow sand. The sand dune was relatively steep and had a narrow ridge. On the seaside, the dune slightly sloped down toward the Ostsee (Baltic Sea). We crawled up the dune barefoot several times and rolled, rather than ran down, with cheers. It was great fun and left big trails in the light sand. From the top of the dune we could overlook the narrow strip of land. To both sides of the peninsula we saw only water. I didn’t fully appreciate nature’s beauty at that time. On the shore of the bay, where the black boats of the fishermen and their huts stood, hung many rows of fishing nets to dry in the salty air. Since Siegfried was very hungry, we bought two flounders from a fisherman, fresh from the smoking room. When winter was approaching, sometimes homeless or uprooted people appeared. In our slang they were called vagabonds. They were seeking shelter and food on the farms during the cold season. They compensated for it by doing easy jobs. They manufactured wicker baskets, chopped wood, or made long plaits from rye-straw, which were nailed around all the stable doors and windows from the inside to insulate against the chilly wind in winter. When it turned warmer outside, they moved on. My parents were boarding such a poor man one late autumn. He seemed to be very old to me because he had long, gray hair and a yellowgray beard. One morning he didn’t show up for breakfast. He was sup posed to fill the feeder in the horse stable with chaff. The chaffed oat-straw was in a Kabuff (cabin) in the barn. From there it was carried in a backbasket across the yard to the horse stable. My father went to look for him. The door to the barn cabin was open. The empty back-basket was in the Kaff (corner). The man was lying beside it. He was dead. This meant a lot of inconvenience. My father picked up the doctor from Rauterskirch by horse and wagon and had to take him back afterwards. The children were kept away from this tragic event as we weren’t supposed to see the deceased man. Nevertheless, I found the right moment to sneak into the barn unnoticed. So, for the very first time, I saw a dead man. The next day a car drove into our yard. I asked where the dead man was going now, and my father replied, “He is going to Königsberg. While still alive, he sold his body to research. In schools, skeletons of real people or animals are needed, and that’s how he is being used now.” It was a clear sunny day in March 1939, which already conveyed a foreboding of spring. A roaring sound that was increasing made me run into the yard. There, a flock of military planes in wedge formation with 3x3 aircrafts, was buzzing over our farm. The planes were flying rather low towards the Memelland. Were they already the forerunners of an impending catastrophe? At that time, we kids perceived this sight as a big spectacle. We couldn’t imagine war; we didn’t know it. A few days later we heard about the reason for the flight show. It was said, “The Memelland has come home to the Reich (German Empire).” Since then it belonged to the province of East Prussia again, from which it had been separated after World War I by the Treaty of Versailles in 1920. Spring came as always. The snow on the fields got dark spots. Within a few days they turned bigger and made big puddles on the pastures in some places. When we children were lucky, frost returned once more and made the water surfaces freeze to smooth ice. No snow slowed down our run when we were gliding over these fresh, glittering ice plains. We couldn’t drown there, even though the ice on these new surfaces was quite thin and often crackled suspiciously. We called it crackle ice If you fell in, you got nothing but wet feet because of the shallow depth, and maybe a cold. Where the sun had already licked away the snow, the first spring blossoms emerged. As a child I always took great pleasure in the small, goldyellow, shiny flowers. We called them Schneeglanz (snowshine). Today I believe that botanically it was Lesser Celandine ( ranunculus ficaria ). Ranunculus ficaria , http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ranunculus_ficaria,_from_Rize_DSC06931.JPG This work has been released into the public domain by its author, Karduelis at the Turkish Wikipedia project. This applies worldwide. Snow was still lying in the ditches then, or behind the garden hedges, where the east wind had pushed up the snow a few meters high in winter. The Schacktarp (ice drift) made the ice on the river Memel burst, and the melting water filled the Ruß and Gilge rivers and their branching brooks with an immense quantity of water. Even the smallest ditches could then turn into insurmountable obstacles for us children. The term Schacktarp may only be known to the residents of Elk Valley County and Memelland and should therefore be explained. It was the overpowering scene of the beginning of ice floating on the Memel. It was triggered by the thaw weather in the area where the Memel originated, more than 700 kilometers (430 miles) away. It had its source in what today is White Russia. In Russian language, the Memel is called Njémen The melting water made the ice break in the upper part of the river and pushed even more ice forward along with the flowing water. In the Memel , it had then piled up to big ice barriers. The following flood wave from the thawing water pushed further under the ice, lifted it up and let the ice barriers burst with a loud thundering noise. They drifted in big and small flakes down the Memel, as well as its side arms into the Curonian Bay.