Voices of Germany [Der Weg 1948-01]
An original translation of "Deutschland-Stimmen"
Source Documents: German Scan
Note(s):
Title: Voices of Germany [de: Deutschland-Stimmen]
Author(s): The Editor
Issue: Year 2, Issue 1 (January 1948)
Page(s): 29-33
Referenced Documents: None.
Editor’s Note: We are ever thankful for the submissions of European letters, personal accounts, newspaper clippings, poems, and photographs. All contributions are handled with the utmost confidentiality. Yet, we bear no responsibility for the truthfulness of the content or the views they express.
L. E. F. to R.
Three months have slipped by since I received your remarkably kind and generous letter—undated, alas, and bearing a postmark too faint to decipher. You must wonder, and rightly so, at my silence. Yet I hope with all my heart that you do not feel wounded, nor imagine that I, or those so tormented by fate—standing as they do before an abyss, tasked with forging a new life from nothing—fail to cherish your kindness. You can scarcely fathom what Europe looks like now. Even from Switzerland’s distant vantage, it demands immense inner strength to bear the ceaseless tide of grim tidings and to offer aid wherever and however I can. Imagine the weight of it all when, like me, you are entwined in a vast web of kin and friends—more than fifty souls, with new ones ever joining the fold. The heart bleeds when strength falters at its limits. And as it is for me alone, so it is for the great organizations: the burden towers above us all, the suffering too vast to grasp! Often, I have as many as forty letters awaiting reply, each with urgent pleas burning within. In recent months, I’ve journeyed time and again to Bern, Geneva, and Zurich, striving to pluck the little children of my relatives from the inferno that Poland, their homeland, has become. The elderly, who tend these young ones because no one else remains—broken by torment, dead, driven to end their own lives as a final escape, missing, deported, enslaved in labor camps (children too), imprisoned, expelled, starving with hunger’s specter ever before them, shivering, sick without medicine or care, some spiraling into madness and paranoia with no hope of treatment—all this I see again and again among my own kin. They teeter on the brink of physical and mental ruin, for now they are dragged even on Sundays into the filthiest unpaid labor—garbage collection—and not an hour of night spares them from harassment. There exists an International Red Cross, yes, but the convention needed to unlock its aid is absent. Foreign relief groups abound, especially for children, yet they turn away those born bereft of human rights. There is a League for Human Rights, and even a bold new venture—a United Nations Human Rights Commission led by Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt. But it seems that even among civilized democrats today, humanity splits in two: those entitled to rights, and those denied them. Foreign diplomats of democratic nations record these stark truths in writing, yet draw no lessons for their own conduct. A sorrowful shrug is the height of their response.
Where does one begin to help, and above all, where do the means come from? This gnaws at me most. You, so eager to lend a hand, will grasp this anguish. Life endures only through the fiercest strain: gathering worn clothes, packing parcels, dispatching them, supplying medicines where need screams loudest, sending food and funds for survival—yet in a heartbeat, my hands are empty once more. Were it not for the stark reality of inflation in these stricken lands, nothing could be done at all. Astonishingly, in recent months, a mere twenty Swiss francs a month has sufficed to save a family of four from starving outright! Oh, if only I had money—what blessings could flow! Do those who hold wealth truly not see this?
Just now, I read in yesterday’s 3 p.m. edition of the Neue Zürcher Zeitung a report on the Second Preparatory Meeting of the International Refugee Organization (I.R.O.). It states plainly that persons of “German ethnic origin” are strictly barred from its care. “This means the I.R.O. must blind itself to the greatest refugee crisis of our age.” The report goes on: “By the decrees of the Potsdam Conference, a mass of some ten to twelve million destitute souls has been thrust into the Germany overseen by the three Western powers. This was done neither orderly nor humanely, as Potsdam had promised. Though these masses vanish from the I.R.O.’s sight, the presence of ‘German-ethnic’ people—outcast today on the world stage, near invisible as air—still poses a grave international quandary in the shattered, chaotic remnant of Germany, a land already starved of the food and raw materials it needs to survive.” Beyond the brutal truth in these words lie discrepancies still. The number far exceeds ten to twelve million. They dwell not only in the Western zones but in the Russian one too; perhaps those expelled into the Soviet sphere go uncounted. The expulsions began in January 1945—when, then, was the Potsdam Conference? Nor can we say this merely “happened,” neither orderly nor humane, for it unfolds still in equal cruelty today. Official figures claim 550,000 souls in Poland alone face this daily, hourly—children, women, the elderly, the ill, and the last scraps of men in labor camps. To call these masses “destitute” misleads; they are “utterly robbed,” for private accounts reveal they were left only what kept them from nakedness. Once, they were the East’s most honored class. Some of my own relatives have even had their hair shorn away.
H. M. to E. M.
Dear Friend,
I have kept you waiting a whole month for my next report from Germany. It’s not that I’ve been silent for lack of news—quite the opposite. One could fill entire books with tales of the misery here, especially in the Ruhr area. Yet there’s an old saying: A hungry person and a well-fed one cannot speak to each other, for they cannot understand one another. I fear this truth will hold for us too. Newspapers across the world, as far as we hear, have written these past weeks of how politics in Germany has ground to a deadlock. The parliaments of England and America debate it too, their foreign ministers bustling with frantic energy. My oft-repeated belief—that England must live with Germany or go to ruin—seems finally to dawn on some across the Channel. But the foundations of how things are governed and managed here? They remain utterly unchanged.
Take a small example: Wild rabbits, jackdaws, and crows have multiplied beyond measure in recent years. They claw seeds from the earth and devour the tender, newly set plants again and again. German farmers can only stand by, powerless, reduced to wishing these pests a hearty meal. Every plea to grant even a few trustworthy farmers a shotgun—just for a handful of days—is met with a cold, flat refusal. Can someone with a full belly grasp what this does to a starving people? I could reel off such examples without end. Is it any wonder that under these conditions, even the last man loses his nerve, even the most steadfast his hope? Faith in democracy’s blessings is waning once more, while those who suspect that even in a democracy only a few men truly hold power grow ever more numerous. You hear it more often now: In a fascist state, dictators stand bold at the front; in a democratic one, they lurk unseen behind the lines. What can one even say to such people today?
There’s much talk and ink spilled these days over the so-called poor morals of the German people. To a casual onlooker, the scene is indeed appalling. Theft and looting—even with violence—have become routine. Anything not bolted down vanishes. Night after night, livestock slips away from pastures, fields are ransacked, food wagons plundered, coal trains unloaded even as they roll—and so it goes. The police can’t—or in part won’t—lift a finger against this chaos. Yes, it’s a ghastly picture. And yet, it must be said, again and again: Germans are no worse than any other people in the world. Far from it. How many Americans would toil honestly on an empty stomach if a day’s wage wouldn’t buy a single cigarette by nightfall, while a jobless neighbor rakes in enough from black-market dealings in one day to keep his family comfortable for a week? Which American would let his family shiver—or even freeze to death—in bitter cold while a coal wagon sits outside his three-quarters-ruined home? What herd owner anywhere would cart his animals to market for filthy scraps of paper called money, useless for buying so much as a pair of socks, let alone a suit or a shirt? Where on earth would scientists and engineers labor day and night if every fruit of their work were snatched away without a shred of reward? I could stretch this list of examples forever—it’s no use. But the world must hear this, over and over: Even now, more than eighty percent of Germans toil on, day after day, night after night, without hope, nearly without faith, under the most inhuman conditions, for no real pay (our money, a German high court recently ruled, is “public fraud”). They press on until they drop from exhaustion—and if they’re lucky, they’re borne to the graveyard in a coffin; if not, in a paper sack.
Kahla (15)
Thuringia, Fabrikstr. 10, Russian Zone, October 22, 1947.
Editor’s Note: This poem was sent to us by unknown readers from Germany.
Morgens wenn die Glock' ertönt von dem Kaffee schon entwöhnt, treffen vier sich irgendwo— gibt's was Neues, ja? oho! So beginnt der Tageslauf, eine Nachricht taucht heut auf. In der Firma ist ein Mann, der ein Amerikapaket bekam. Ach, was ist da alles drin dies lebt ja bei uns nur noch im Sinn und wir tun uns selber leid, weil es nur beim Wünschen bleibt. Wenn die Frühstückspause naht kaum Trockenbrot das Herz erlabt, aber glücklich solang man's hat ja was macht den Magen satt. Und wie glücklich wären wir, wenn erbarmt sich unser hier einer von den vielen Menschen uns was „Herzliches“ zu senden. Freundliche Grüße erlauben sich Katharina, Ina-Maria, Michael u. Erich Petzold.
Every morning, when the bell rings, four people gather somewhere, already missing their coffee. They greet each other with a hopeful "Any news today? Oh, yes!" And so their day begins, sparked by a fresh tidbit that floats up. In the company, there’s a man who’s received an American care package. Oh, what could be inside? For us, such wonders linger only in memory, and we pity ourselves because they stay just out of reach, a wistful dream. When the breakfast break rolls around, dry bread barely cheers the heart, but we’re grateful as long as it’s there—after all, what else can fill an empty belly? And how overjoyed we’d be if someone, anyone, took pity on us and sent something heartfelt our way. Kind regards from Katharina, Ina-Maria, Michael, and Erich Petzold.
Dr. M. to C. D.
British Zone, June 28, 1947
... Regrettably, I cannot yet satisfy your broad wishes and inquiries about the situation here. In particular, I’m unable to send you newspapers; the censorship would only take needless offense at that. Nor is it any joy to read the sole local paper. Far too often, those eager to curry favor use it to fling mud at their own people. Two years ago, a great deal of filth was churned up and brought to light. Some has settled back down, but by no means all.
Of what you’ve heard about the concentration camps, a small portion, sadly, holds true. Yet, astonishingly, many politicians from before 1933 have resurfaced—most of them, by the way, looking rather well-fed. Among them are undoubtedly some capable figures. The vast majority of camp inmates, however, were criminals who belonged in such places and, for the most part, were rounded up again soon after their release.
The social question, once so admirably—perhaps even overly—well-regulated here, now leaves much to be desired. This is worsened by the millions expelled from the German East, and, on the other side, by the millions impacted by denazification measures. Add to that the countless bureaucratic hurdles stalling reconstruction. Knowing your interest in church matters, you’ll find it noteworthy that some 85,000 roof tiles have been set aside for the market church, while I, for instance, managed to secure just 1,000 this spring for my own home—which had already suffered its first heavy bomb damage in April 1944. Later, my office was utterly destroyed twice more, along with half my household belongings. Still, the rubble clearance in our city has made remarkable strides.
Otherwise, there’s little good to report. German industry is being dismantled further, ensuring this rival stays off its feet. Our food supply is increasingly squeezed by the looming cutoff of the German East. Trade languishes; only the black market thrives, as the most basic needs of life go unmet. Over it all hangs the fear—or hope—of a currency reform, which may not even materialize since an unprecedented tax burden achieves much the same, though at the cost of tax honesty.
More troubling than such moral qualms about tax fidelity are the threats to our public health, summed up with chilling matter-of-factness in the medical term “normally undernourished.” It’s lamentable that our hardship, as the papers keep noting, coincides with a global food crisis, leaving foreign nations unable to aid us despite their goodwill. Last harvest season, we still held hope—back when the press claimed the world’s granaries were bursting, held back only by a lack of shipping. Yet the same paper mentioned 2,000 surplus ships unable to find buyers; likely, though, they weren’t suited for food transport. So, we keep hoping for the next harvest!
M. A. to R. P.
Münster, July 26, 1947
We are a people who have learned to conquer fear.
„Lerne das Schicksal als Prüfung des Willens erkennen, und siehe, es gibt keine dunklen Gewalten, die das Herz des Gereiften zu schrecken vermögen.“
“Learn to see fate as a trial of will, and behold—no dark powers can daunt the heart of the seasoned.”
Truth, in the long run, remains the wisest course. Anyone peering critically into the world’s workings from a German vantage today can only smile, certain that
„eine höhere Ehre bedeutet in dieser Zeit Straßenfeger in Deutschland gewesen zu sein als König in einem anderen Lande“
“it’s a greater honor to have been a street sweeper in Germany at this time than a king in another land.”
The only error most of us made was thinking too small. Perhaps the day isn’t far off when we’ll thank fate for sparing us a petty triumph. A people who’ve inherited so vast a spiritual legacy as the Germans know that a “German victory” must take a different shape. With all that remains to us, I beseech you: don’t seek foes where none exist. And I urge you: don’t be swayed by daily political noise—simply observe.
Now, as the haze slowly lifts, one wonders: who truly shared a blanket with whom? Germany today holds a barometer of unerring precision. After the stunning and crushing unmasking from April to July 1945, the frenzied cheers rang too shrill—eerily akin to a final gasp before the plunge. But once the first decisive moves were played from summer to fall of 1945, and a non-German name rose from obscurity beyond our borders—forgotten since 1936—I’ve since preferred to sit beneath my plum tree, chop wood, or twiddle my thumbs and wait. Where wheat is sown, potatoes won’t sprout, but good things demand time. Fear not—just summon patience aplenty. A true peace among nations, rooted in justice, is worth any price. What must Europe look like through your eyes? I’d love to write you about it all, but we’re forbidden our own opinions, let alone to voice them—for, as you know, we live in a democracy today (where the intelligentsia stays mute, the wartime generations stand resigned, most of the people care little, and the youth reject it all outright). Once more, every trap of the heart is set.
A prisoner of war and an English farmer come to understand each other and the impact of hate propaganda.
Editor’s Note: When a British farmer set out to teach a German prisoner of war the virtues of English civilization, he found, to his utter amazement, that the German outshone him in every way—yes, every single way. The following letter appeared in The Peoples Post (33 Maiden Lane, London WC 2). An editorial note confesses it comes from a well-known West Country farmer who, in this land of liberty, asks that his name and address stay undisclosed. And so, a ray of light pierces the enigma of what the common Briton knows and thinks about the war and the Germans. He writes, in essence:
“Not everyone gets the chance to enact the press and radio’s prescribed methods of bringing fine English civilization to the Germans (reeducate), so my experience with a German prisoner of war might hold some interest. I couldn’t find a worker for my farm. They suggested I take a POW. I weighed it back and forth, and with no other option, I thought I’d give it a go. A man was sent to me. With a cheerful ‘Good morning, Sir,’ the prisoner stood there, ready for work. He spoke fluent English—while I’d been wrestling in my head to learn some German—and my respect was instant. Fritz (not his real name) knew his trade. He told me, in clear English, that he too was a small farmer back home and worked afternoons in a factory to make ends meet. We’d fixed up a room in the stable for him, but my wife said right off she’d gladly give a man like that a room in the house. He became part of our family. I figured, now’s the time to show this ‘chap’ our way of life, to acquaint him with the splendors of British living. But how to begin? That was my riddle.
Yet how stunned I was to find he knew it all a bit better than I did: milking, mowing, reaping, pitching, stacking. Truly, my two other hands and I couldn’t stop marveling—he outdid us in everything and worked with greater skill. Could I still teach him anything? I wondered.
One evening, I asked if he played chess. Here, I thought, was my chance to teach him something. But he beat me every time—three games, swift as you please.
Come Sunday, I mentioned church. He joined gladly, and on the walk back, I spoke of Christianity. He matched me at least in something Germans are said to lack entirely. Chatting with my wife at church, he remarked that his wife was likely doing just what she was, and their two children were much like his own, playing in nearly the same way as his did at home.
We’re not meant to discuss politics with prisoners, but for a farmer, politics is life’s core. One evening, we got to it. Our friend’s knowledge (and he was our friend now) was like an open book. It felt good to hear the other side for once. He lauded Hitler on many counts but didn’t spare criticism where it was due.
I’ve learned we were sorely misled by our propaganda in England. I began with this prisoner because I knew no other way, but this man has remade me. His guidance has lifted me, mind and body. Let anyone who wants to reeducate the Germans try it, as I did—I’m certain they’d still have something to learn from them. I know now, without doubt, that we didn’t fight this war for the freedom of small nations like Poland or any of the reasons we were fed. No—the German people found a way to stand on their own, free of international finance, and for that, they had to be crushed. Yet here we are, amid the ashes of that ruin.”
Cologne-Song, 1947
Editor’s Note: The following poem was sent to us by a reader from Cologne.
Mer han kein Bett un keine Schrank, Noch nit emol en Döppebank, Uns fehlt der Desch, un och de Stöhl, Dat es e wunderbar Geföhl. Mer han kei Botz, kei Hemb om Liew, Doch Formulare ha' mer stief. Mer han kei Fleisch un winnig Brut, Doch ligge söns mer gar kei Nut. Wat nötz uns all die Kühmerei, Vun selvs kütt niemols jet dobei. Han mer vill Leid, vill Sorg un Bing, Alaaf uns Kölle he am Rhing Bei uns eß alles rack futtü, Mer han kei Wanze mih un Flüh. Mer han kei Wasser, Gas un Strom, Mer süht von Sölz beß op de Dom. Wann da am Bahnhoff küß eruus, Do wonne mer em ehschte Huus. Vom Wallraffsplatz do sieht der Henn Bei uns glich en de Köch erenn. Wat nötz uns all die Kühmerei, Von selvs kütt niemols jet dobei. Han mer vill Leid, vill Sorg un Bing, Alaaf uns Kölle he am Rhing! Mer wunne schön em Keller all, Grad we en Koh em Ferkesstall, Mer han kei Finster un kei Döör, Mer wunne luftig, meint et Klär. Doch weed bei uns gekoch, gestoch, Bloß Deck un Wäng, die fähle noch. Wär doh ne Teppich schön un nett, Dann wär de Wunnung ehsch komplett. Eß och kaputt et ganze Huus Mer wunne drenn, mer halden uus. Han mer vill Leid, vill Sorg un Bing, Alaaf uns Kölle he am Rhing! Alaaf uns Kölle! Dreimal huh! Do häß gemaht uns immer fruh! Wann och vun dir hück nix mer steiht, Bliew doch dat Kölsche Hätz, de Freud! Uns Kinder sollen sagen dann, Dat inne mer erhalden hann Dä Kölsche Wetz, dä Faste leer, Wor och dat Lewwe hatt un schwer, Un wat uns Aeldere han gedon, Dat darf un kann nit ungergon! Han mer vill Leid, vill Sorg un Bing, Alaaf uns Kölle he am Rhing!
We’ve got no bed, no wardrobe, not even a washstand. No table, no chairs either—and somehow, it feels wonderful. Our bodies go without trousers or shirts, but we’re swimming in paperwork. Meat’s nowhere to be found, bread’s a rare guest, yet we’re not exactly wanting. What’s the use of all this worrying? Nothing comes from fretting alone. Sure, we’ve got plenty of sorrow, worry, and fear—but hurrah for our Cologne on the Rhine! Everything’s smashed to bits—no more bedbugs or fleas to bother us. Water, gas, electricity? Gone. From the rubble, the Dom still stands tall. Step off the train, and we’re in the first house you see. Peek from Wallrafplatz, and you’ll spot our kitchen wide open. What’s the use of all this worrying? Nothing comes from fretting alone. Sorrow, worry, fear—we’ve got loads. Still, hurrah for our Cologne on the Rhine! We’re tucked cozy in the cellar, living like a cow in a pigsty. No windows, no doors, but it’s airy, Klär says with a grin. We cook and stitch down here, just shy of a ceiling and walls. A nice carpet would tie it all together. The whole house is a wreck, but we stay, we endure. Sorrow, worry, fear pile up—yet hurrah for our Cologne on the Rhine! Three cheers for our Cologne! You’ve always lifted our spirits! Even if nothing’s left standing today, the Cologne heart beats strong, the joy holds fast. Our kids will tell tales of how we kept the wit, the carnival alive, through the hard, rough days. What our elders built can’t be undone, won’t be undone. We carry sorrow, worry, and fear—but hurrah for our Cologne on the Rhine!