Voices of Germany [Der Weg 1948-02]
An original translation of "Deutschland-Stimmen"
Source Documents: German Scan
Note(s): This article appears in “Der Weg”, a German-language magazine founded in Buenos Aires, Argentina in the years immediately following the destruction of the Third Reich. See the links above for more information on the magazine and its contents.
Title: Voices of Germany [de: Deutschland-Stimmen]
Author(s): Editorial Staff, Anonymous Letters
“Der Weg” Issue: Year 2, Issue 2 (February 1948)
Page(s): 105-110
Referenced Documents: None.
Voices of Germany
Excerpts from Letters to E. M., Eldorado.
Easter 1947
Dear Friend!
“Do you recall when we learned in school, ‘Descended into hell, risen again on the third day’?” That phrase once stirred the world, and its echo lingers still. Because of it, all Christian humanity celebrates Easter today—save for the Germans.
For us, after this winter, no resurrection has dawned; we languish yet in a hellish purgatory. To paint the picture of our hunger’s misery is nigh impossible. Your measures for goods differ from ours, but surely the thimble on a young girl’s little finger is as tiny there as here. That thimble has become our gauge, the scant measure of a German’s daily ration of any fat. Add to it three thick slices of bread—mostly cornmeal—some jam, and, each week, a morsel of meat no larger than a gentleman’s watch. That is the sum of what’s allotted. All else—food of any kind—exists only in whispers, trickling through the black market at prices a hundred times their worth! Is it any wonder the world still marvels that our miners strike, even as the coal shortage deepens in this land of coal? That we cannot rejoice at Easter under such shadows needs no further word.
Meanwhile, the victors’ foreign ministers sit in Moscow, bickering over our hide—France demanding yet more coal (though our industries lie idle for want of it), Russia craving reparations from a production that runs only in their dreams (while we Germans can’t so much as buy a match or a plate!). These are the very men who pronounced and carried out death sentences for crimes against humanity! Every soul here knows no true peace can bloom from this. I daresay the daily dispatches from Moscow have long lost our care; many switch off the radio when they drone on.
But who will bring the peace that ninety-nine of every hundred souls on earth yearn for? In democratic lands, the people should reign, and they crave peace! Or is “democracy”—for which millions perished in this war—merely a veil, cloaking the true masters of the world? Can you, for me and millions of Germans wrestling earnestly with this, offer an answer?
We’d welcome with open hearts any word of how life unfolds over there, how the present and future unfold before your eyes. We cannot believe this hell we dwell in will swallow the earth, yet every bid to crown goodness king again has faltered. Still, we hold this certain: such a state cannot endure forever. It cannot stand that here is hell while elsewhere heaven reigns—one must triumph across the earth! Which will it be? Reports from Argentina scarcely grace our papers. It seems to me the leading news agencies deem all tidings from your land trifling. It’s not our place to counsel you, but I venture you’d do well, for your own sake, to end this neglect soon. I hope, when these lines reach you, you’ve at least enjoyed a joyful Easter.
Warmest greetings to you!
H.
Hamm (Westphalia), 1947
Dear Friend!
I write from a German city once known by name to many in Argentina. For decades, shiploads of wire and barbed wire sailed from here to your shores, earning the pesos that bought vast stores of grain, linseed, and meat from over there. How we ache for those imports now! Unless you’ve lived this need, you cannot grasp its depth.
Last year alone, famine claimed hundreds of thousands here, the elderly most of all. I own twelve etchings by the great French artist Callot, titled The Miseries of War, depicting Lorraine’s people after the Thirty Years’ War (1618–1648). Clad in rags, wasted to skeletons, yet through his genius you could see they were not mere wretches but once noble, precious souls. Before the war, they hung on my wall; I’d show them to friends, jesting they were my “ancestral gallery.” That jest is now grim truth—millions in Germany today mirror those forebears of three centuries past! Near three months we’ve endured unbroken, bitter frost. Even the fabled “oldest folk” recall no winter so cruel. We yearn for sun and warmth, yet hope fades with each day’s chill. Hunger isn’t our sole tormentor. Most lack whole homes, dwelling amid ruins, cellars, and leaky shacks. Beneath us lie the world’s richest coal fields, yet for heating German homes, little to none is granted!
I won’t plead for pity or spin tales of woe, but let me share two figures lately revealed: in sponsorHesse, January 1938 saw 100 tuberculosis cases; January 1947, 1,077! In Berlin, 1946 brought 23,940 live births and 105,548 deaths! Small wonder then that hundreds froze outright in city homes this winter! Could this not have been staved off? Do we truly merit this? Should not the world’s honest hearts salute the courage and resolve with which most Germans face this plight? Millions labor on, though thousands fall daily to hunger and cold. Picture a vast pasture, ringed with barbed wire, packed thrice over with cattle beyond its feed. Would they not break free, even under shepherds’ machine-gun watch? Would they not slay one another for the last scraps? Here, nothing of the kind has flared—no shot fired in hunger’s revolt. Friends in Argentina, do not miss this: the German people show their true face now. The world must know we stood ready in 1945 to rebuild in peace alongside them.
What came instead? They barred our work—at least for ourselves. They take coal we mine, coal we could turn to artificial butter with our own hands! That invention is ours; the factory stands, yet it lies idle. From coal, we could make nitrogen fertilizer, swelling our harvests. Instead, they ship it out, bring nitrogen from the U.S.A., then lament that Germany’s upkeep taxes England’s and America’s payers! We grasp why arms plants are torn down. But why raze factory after factory vital to goods that could lift this dire want? Why can’t our producers and traders deal straight with yours? Must every trade pass first through an American or Englishman, pocketing his share?
I’ve never seen Argentina, but your letters tell of a rich land of free, diligent folk with a bright tomorrow. We’d gladly send goods you lack or need! We’d buy your wheat, oats, corn, or linseed, paying fair with our wares! These portable foods and feeds we’ll always need, even if our fields revive—Germany’s crowded millions cannot thrive without them! I lack the numbers, but I know we were once fine buyers for your farmers, you for our works. We cheered to hear that, wartime, you didn’t idle but began industrializing your rich land, easing reliance on foreign wares. Wise move! Still, for our shared good, we must join hands again—we’ll offer industrial goods you desire, you grain and feeds, maybe more meat ahead. New German discoveries will soon shake this field, opening markets for you.
More on that later. Warm greetings!
Undated Letter
Dear Friend!
“When two quarrel, the third rejoices!” This saying rings true the world over, not just for lone souls but whole peoples. So it was these past years, as most of the globe toiled for war, nations on the sidelines—Sweden, Switzerland, Argentina chief among them—reaped gains.
Yet this stirs no envy in us Germans. Far from it: even in our want, we wish well to all who’ve aided us before and now. Sweden and Switzerland strive nobly to shield our children from starvation’s grip, and every German firm once tied to Argentine partners swears those bonds ever shone with mutual friendship. All rejoiced when our papers lately told how Argentina repaid debts, bought foreign-owned railways and telegraphs, even lent to smaller American states. We Germans know the worth of freedom from foreign sway or coin! We share your joy!
When will your traders and ours resume their dance? As I’ve said, we’d gladly send what serves you well. Have wire aplenty? We’ll offer special wires and products then. We’d not foist unsold stock or scraps on you—such dealings sour, especially if the giver plays benefactor; we’ve learned that bitter lesson—but seek honest trade as of old. How we thrilled to read Argentina expects a grand corn harvest from its fields! Our bread holds up to thirty percent corn now! Our famished children await every corn-made morsel! Later, we’d feed your corn to our pigs again, for we aim to fatten those fine beasts ourselves anew! For beef, though, we may soon be vast buyers—our own output may shrink markedly.
I hinted at a German breakthrough offering new vistas for us both; let me explain. Till now, and surely hence, German cattle serve milk above all. We slaughter only surplus calves or cows that won’t breed or must go for other cause—milk’s our ace! Now, it’s found that a gland in a pregnant cow, weeks before calving, crafts a hormone loosed into her blood. Reaching the udder or mammary roots, it spurs growth and milk’s flow. Germans have purified this hormone! Rather than mating, a single shot beneath the skin brought cows to heat; weeks later, they gave milk as if they’d calved. So too with aging cows, scant of yield yet unwilling to bear—once bound for slaughter, now, if hale, they can milk for years with a yearly dose! Any soul versed in breeding sees the upheaval this promises. German farms can soon breed only top cows, milking the rest for years. Same feed, far more milk and butter—only beef will dwindle! Argentina might plan for this now, for your boundless plains yield beef better and cheaper than ours, plain as day. I’m certain vast prospects for our lands’ exchange lie here.
Days ago, the “Big Four” foreign ministers met in Moscow, debating Germany’s fate. We’re mere pawns there, yet we ponder it ourselves. Who’d marvel if we fear they heed their own woes over ours—or even carve straps from our hide to mend rifts among the “Allies”? England baffles us most. We grant it’s battered from war’s strain, poor beside the U.S.A. We see it strives to salvage what it can, reclaim some past wealth. But why not strive with us? I wrote you lately: two years back, all here would’ve worked gladly, keeping just life’s barest needs from our toil. Now, we sense England won’t or can’t join that path. Disappointment and gall run deep. Yet most know this: Germany lives with England or falls with it! For the starving, waiting calmly is a trial!
Warmest greetings!
H.
April 24, 1947
My dear Friend!
By the time this report reaches you, the Moscow Conference will have drawn to its final close, and the world will know that most Germans were right from the start in expecting nothing—absolutely nothing—to come of it for our tormented people. In our view, the conference was never truly about Austria or Germany but rather about carving out spheres of influence for the "Allies." This bitter confirmation of our fears does nothing to lighten our burden; the misery of hunger persists, intensifying in recent days to a degree I hesitate to detail, lest it seem I write only to stir pity.
Sitting here amid this wretchedness, striving to assess the present and future with clear-eyed realism, two truths stand out sharply. First, it is too little noticed that the Allies do not merely oversee a German government—they rule us as dictators. And dictators alone bear the weight of their decrees! On this, there can be no doubt. Second, the German people can no longer lift themselves from this misery through their own labor, however grueling or selfless, unless the Military Government’s policies shift at their core! We cannot produce even the barest essentials for life—mere survival—while they persist in dismantling and hauling away the factories vital to that purpose, even those untainted by ties to armament. It is a death knell for the nation when they strip us of our coal, leaving factories that could still hum silent for lack of fuel. I suspect you can scarcely imagine such a state of affairs. It defies not just economic sense but reason itself.
And now, the cruelest twist: even where work could be done—where neither factories nor coal are needed—it cannot be, for hunger has so ravaged the working people that they lack the strength for meaningful toil. You cannot ask a man to clear rubble or wield a craft on a daily ration of two slices of corn bread and nothing more—no potatoes, no other nourishment. Thus, it is an endless spiral: week by week, the disaster deepens, while those in command talk, and talk, and—talk!
Last Sunday, elections took place in the British-occupied zone. The most telling result was not the swell of radical votes but the meager turnout. Through this, the people declared that without food, all politics is hollow. Will those meant to hear this message take it to heart? I venture to doubt it.
Yet, astonishingly, there is little fury or hatred toward the Military Government—almost miraculously so. Perhaps hunger has so drained the people that they can no longer summon such fierce passions. More likely, though, most still cling to the hope that the world will see and mend the mistakes of recent years. Naturally, we all long for the freedom of our prisoners and for ourselves here in Germany. But if it rests with us, this liberation will be won through peaceful means.
How do we picture that? A small tale, to prove we’ve not wholly lost our humor: An Englishman, touring a village church, spots a little silver mouse before the Virgin Mary’s image. The interpreter explains that years ago, a great mouse plague swept the countryside. The farmers, helpless on their own, had a jeweler craft this silver mouse and offered it to the Holy Mother, who then freed them from the scourge. When asked if he believes it, the interpreter quips: "No, or I’d have long since commissioned a silver Englishman!"
With heartfelt greetings!
March 23, 1947
Dear Friend!
As I write to you again from Germany today, I must begin with the deep sorrow that has seized countless hearts here in the past week. Millions of mothers and wives have waited years for their sons and husbands, millions of children for their fathers. By our count, at least three million prisoners of war linger in Russia, 630,000 in France, and 435,000 in England! And this, nearly two years after the guns fell silent! I trust you can picture how, through every hardship—hunger and cold—these millions have clung to the hope of seeing their loved ones again. Indeed, one might say this hope alone has kept them upright. Now, the Russians claim only 890,000 German prisoners remain in their hands. The rest, they say, are gone! France plans to release 20,000 a month, England 17,000. At this pace, years will pass before the last come home.
If they come at all! For France and England offer our men a "choice": wait endlessly or "freely" stay abroad as laborers, mostly farmhands. Is this truly a choice? I’d thought "voluntary coercion" was a device of Stalin and Hitler. Have they seized this, too, like all else, to exploit for the victors’ gain? Worse still, the French proclaim that mass emigration from Germany “must be arranged in the interest of France’s security! And, of course, only the young and fit are deemed suitable. This, at a time when millions of refugees from eastern Germany—mostly women, children, and the elderly—have poured into the western zones!
What does the ordinary German say? "The last healthy slave is sold off, while the rest savor the full freedom to perish in democratic Germany." I hope you, in your truly free land, can grasp why we see all this as a crime against humanity—and why we marvel that we, the victims, do not, by and large, preach hatred toward those who do this to us. Perhaps it’s because much of the populace is so weakened by hunger they merely exist, while the precious few who still work and strive know too well that such methods cannot heal the world’s spiritual and material wounds.
Until now, rightly or wrongly, Germany was branded the enemy of peace. Today, no nation on earth is a more ardent friend of peace than Germany. Let the French Foreign Minister take note! The world knows that last year, much of our industry stood idle for want of coal, and thousands died of cold for the same reason. Yet what does Monsieur Bidault demand in Moscow? That Germany retain only 23% of its 1946 coal yield, the rest to be exported—chiefly to France! If such demands sow hatred, is Germany to blame?
For a week, the thaw has begun. Though we cannot yet tend the fields, hope flickers anew, even as hunger grips us tighter than ever. Less bread, no meat, no potatoes—that’s the ration for the week ahead. Those with full stomachs must blush before the starving. Yet with the first rays of sun, work has resumed in every trade. Were I not German, I’d still admire this people for it. I know the world does not love us—I can even see why—but even our foes should honor us!
Take the German students at our universities, for instance: dwelling in bunkers and makeshift shelters, hungry and shivering, they pore over books with a fervor never seen, racing to reclaim lost years. From what professors say of the first exams, their feats are striking. It’s clear even now that German scholarship will yet offer much to the world. I write this to urge young Argentinians to consider studying here for a few semesters soon. They’d surely gain richly for themselves and their homeland. It’s not yet possible, but German universities will gladly help resolve matters of housing and food before long. I’ve no doubt your youth would get on splendidly with ours.
For now, I close with heartfelt greetings!
From T. E. to O. E.
Arnsberg, September 6, 1947
Dear Aunt Elisa, dear Uncle Erich!
At last, I’ve returned home from the bleak reaches of the Urals, freed from Russian captivity due to severe malnutrition, avitaminosis, and their toll—I spent over three months in the camp infirmary last winter. So far, the Russians have released only a fraction of their prisoners, and only those too sick to work. What was done to us in those years of captivity can only be called a crime against a whole people.
On rations too scant even for idleness, we were driven to backbreaking labor. You should see the shadows stumbling back from Russian camps! The work in the copper mines bore no likeness to German mining—it was plunder, stripped of the simplest safeguards. How many comrades lost their lives or were broken there? Many died because their starved bodies couldn’t heal from injuries, conquer grave illness, or endure the winter’s piercing cold. They lie buried somewhere in Russian earth, while we were often sustained only by thoughts of home and the aching hope of reunion with those we love. We weren’t even allowed to mark Christmas!
The sanitary conditions beggared belief. For months, we wore the same clothes day and night, unable to wash them properly for lack of soap, let alone cleanse ourselves regularly. So you can imagine the boundless joy of reaching home. Often, it felt more like a radiant dream than reality, though we found Germany changed. The land is split into zones. Parts of our soil have been ceded to other nations; the people from those regions—vital to Germany’s self-reliance—were crammed into areas already starved for housing.
Most cities are rubble. A family of four typically claims just two rooms. Since the war’s end, ration coupons for shoes, clothes, or household goods are barely issued—not even for us, returning in tatters from Russia, all worldly goods lost to the bombs. At best, in desperate cases, the church may offer aid from foreign gifts. Food here outstrips the Russian camps but remains meager, especially after this year’s ruinous drought shriveled vegetable and potato crops. Last week, per person, we got (for seven days!) 2,000 grams of bread, 2,000 grams of potatoes, 250 grams of staples, 100 grams of meat, no fat, and no skim milk for weeks.
How immense, then, was our delight when your dear package arrived at Str. E. You should have seen the glowing faces! I’m staying with Aunt Alce now and so shared in the treats, for which I thank you with all my heart. I live in a quaint little attic room, scarred some by the bombing, but with Aunt Lix and Ekkehard’s help, I’ve made it homey. From the window, I gaze far across the Ruhr Valley. So I feel at ease here already.
Only my studies gnaw at me. The engineering schools are mostly bombed out. The semesters teem with those returning from war, swelling numbers beyond bearing. New terms reportedly can’t start, partly for lack of classrooms, partly for want of denazified teachers. So, after much effort and many trips on packed trains, I still don’t know if I can resume this fall or spring. They say, generally: "You’ve little chance before 1950." But these hurdles won’t break me. Challenges are there to be met! Still, it grieves me that, the further we drift from war’s end, the greater—not lesser—the need grows. Were textbooks not so scarce, I could easily study on my own. But even that road is steep now.
I’ll stay here in the British zone, as study in the East is too fraught and conditions there too shaky. I regret it, for I’d have loved to be with Grandpa Schilbach and share thoughts with him.
For now, take my warmest greetings,
from your Peter.