So Weit
So weit mein GOTT bist Du von hier
Im Traum nur sprichst Du leis zu mir..
Sag arme Seel wo ist dein Herz
Warum die Tränen und der Schmerz?
Hast doch dein Leben traulich
In meine Hand gelegt
Dort halt ich dich geborgen
Kind,glaub an mich und morgen
Sieh ich werd mich für immer
In liebe um dich sorgen.
Meine
Erwiderung
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An die Wesely’s
Hallo liebe Freunde,
Es geht um das Video „Glauben Mormonen fast das gleiche wie
die Christen?“ vorgestellt unter YouTube.
Mein Name ist Gerd Skibbe, geboren 1930. Ja, ich lobe euren
guten Willen, Menschen zu informieren, um sie im Glauben an Christus zu
stärken. Hinzufügen möchte ich: Irren ist menschlich.
Ich sage es gleich, diesen Brief stelle ich umgehend als
Blogger unter meinem Namen ins Internet. Ich werde meine, einige Tausende
umfassende Leserschaft, auch von eurer Reaktion berichten, bzw. von eurem
Schweigen, - was ich noch ausschließe.
Alleine mein Essay „Die aussehende Rehabilitation des Arius“
wurde 53 000-mal angeklickt, und ich habe über sechshundert verfasst.
Obenan steht für uns allesamt ein Satz des großen Albert
Schweitzer, als absolute Verbindlichkeit für Christen: „Wahrhaftigkeit ist das
Fundament des geistigen Lebens“
Nun zur Sache, was die „Mormonen“ betrifft, die Mitglieder
der Kirche Jesu Christi der Heiligen der Letzten und ihre Theologie, die ihr -
u.a. im Video: „Glauben Mormonen fast das gleiche wie die Christen?“ –
betrachtet.
Zu dieser Darlegung habe ich einige Fragen.
1.) Euer Sprecher kritisiert gleich zu Beginn, Gott habe zu
Joseph Smith gesagt: „alle Glaubensbekenntnisse (der Christen) seien ihm ein
Gräuel…“ Der Sprecher sagt damit: das ist
inakzeptabel.
Ist diese gravierende Aussage, die aus dem Mund J. Smiths
stammt, tatsächlich inakzeptabel, oder sogar falsch?
Lasst uns umsehen!
Nachdem ich mich, als 15-jähriger, entschloss
„Mormonismus“ gründlich zu untersuchen, fiel ich bald von einem Erstaunen ins
andere. In der Zwischenzeit las ich mehr als achttausend Dissertationen,
Fachartikel, Expertisen und Aussagen, von Nichtmormonen, und selbstverständlich
parallel dazu die Bibel sowie die neuzeitlichen Offenbarungen unentwegt. Ich
verglich was die Forschung vielerorts als Lehrgut der ursprünglichen Kirche
erkannte, mit dem was der sogenannte „Mormonismus“ verbreitet. Dazu habe ich
nicht nur im Internet der Öffentlichkeit unterbreitet, was relevant ist. Bei
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dort im Anhang nachgelesen werden
kann.Heute darf ich resümierend sagen: zu viele Akademiker schreiben
voneinander ab. Zweitens, nur sehr wenige haben eine Tiefenprüfung ihrer
eigenen Dogmen gewagt. Drittens, die breite Mehrheit derer, die informationsbedürftige
unterrichten, haben sowohl von alter Kirchengeschichte, sowie der
Dogmengeschichte ihrer jeweiligen Denomination etwa so viel Ahnung wie eine
Ameise vom Wald.
Theologieprofessor Matthias Kroeger resümiert: „...
was im 4. und 5. Jahrhundert in den großen Konzilien verabschiedet worden ist
als Dogma des christlichen Glaubens, das alles hat sehr seine ungeheuer
menschliche Geschichte. Das ist nicht vom Himmel eingegeben, sondern in höchst
menschlichen Machtkonstellationen, zum Teil gewaltsamen Prügelsituationen auf
Synoden, wo Mönchshorden eingefallen sind und die Konzilsväter verprügelt
haben, wenn sie sich nicht richtig entschieden haben und nicht richtig votiert
haben.“ Adolf von Harnack und die Kritik der kirchlichen Dogmen“
Gesprächsreihe zu Stationen des liberalen Protestantismus, Teil 3
Betrachten wir unter 1.1 das nicänische Bekenntnis
Ihr betont, da ist nur ein Gott. Das ist das Bekenntnis zum
Trinitarismus im Gegensatz zum Tritheismus, dem „Mormonen“ zustimmen.
Schauen wir uns folgenden Satz im Athanasianischen
Bekenntnis (dem Athanasianum) an, das bekanntlich in seinen Hauptelementen dem
Nicänum entspricht:
a) „wir (sind) gezwungen, in christlicher
Wahrheit jede einzelne Person für sich als Gott und als Herrn zu bekennen,“
b) „der katholische Glaube verbietet uns, von drei
Göttern oder Herren zu sprechen.“
Seit wann gilt die „christliche Wahrheit“ weniger als der
„katholische Glaube“?
Die moderne Forschung schlussfolgerte längst
dezidiert: „…der Erzketzer Arius (der bedeutendste
Anti-Trinitarier des Altertums) ist Traditionalist. Er steht fest auf dem
Boden der kirchlichen Lehrtradition." Thomas Hägg, "Kirchen
und Ketzer" 2004 mit Unterstützung des norwegischen Forschungbeirates für
Klassische Philologie und Religionswissenschaft, Uni Bergen –
Sir Isaak Newton, der große Physiker, der griechisch
ebenso las wie den Originaltext der Vulgata, verurteilte den zu Nicäa geborenen
Trinitarismus als Abfall vom Urchristentum. Der tiefgläubige Newton erkannte,
dass die durch das Nicänum erfolgte „wesenhafte, substantielle
Gleichheit (Gleichsetzung) des Sohnes mit dem Vater“ zur Entwicklung
von Unvorstellbarkeiten führte. „Der Abfall vom Glauben sollte
damit beginnen, die Wahrheit über die Beziehung des Sohnes zum Vater zu
verzerren, indem er sie gleichsetzt.“ Untitled Treatise on
Revelation (section 1.4), Yahuda Ms.
Der lutherische Dogmenforscher, Adolf von Harnack,
(1851-1930) stellte, mit Blick auf das Nicänum, dasselbe fest, nachdem er klar
erkannte, dass die Urkirche die Trennung von Gott-Vater und Gott-Sohn
lehrte: „Das war eine „große Neuerung, die Erhebung zweier unbiblischer
Ausdrücke (Vater, Sohn und Heiliger Geist sind „unius substantiae“
G.Sk.) zu Stichworten des Katholischen Glaubens. Sie (- diese
Neuerung) sicherte die Eigenart dieses Glaubens... Im Grunde
war nicht nur Arius abgewiesen, sondern auch Origenes... fortan musste die
Kirche die Last einer ihr f r e m d e n Glaubensformel tragen“. „Lehrbuch
der Dogmengeschichte “
„Mormonen“ akzeptieren Neuerungen an Apostellehren nicht!
Entscheidend sind die Lehren Christi, die das erste und zweite Jahrhundert noch
kannte und die auch durch Kaiser Justinian I. im 6. Jahrhundert verdammt
wurden. Siehe Codex Justinianus I,11,10.
Bewundernswert für mich ist, dass es immer treue Katholiken
gab, die arianisch glaubten. Insbesondere die Ostgoten, bevor Byzanz sie im 6.
Jahrhundert physisch zur Ehre des „Dreieinen“ ausrottete.
Umfragen aus dem Jahre 2024 ergaben, dass 67 Prozent aller
heutigen Katholiken arianisch eingestellt sind. Katholisches
Medienzentrum, 04.04.2025
Offenbar falsch ist die immer noch geltende offizielle
Behauptung: „Arius leugnete die Gottheit Jesus Christus.“ kathPedia
2019
Denn Arius, das wissen wir von Wulfila (311-383), lehrte: „Jesus
ist der „filius unigenitus, Dominus et noster“... wir glauben an Gott den
Vater und an seinen eingeborenen Sohn, unseren Herrn und G o t
t, Werkmeister und Bildner der gesamten Kreatur, der seinesgleichen nicht hat.“ Gert
Haendler „Die Rolle des Papsttums in der Kirchengeschichte bis 1200“
Joh. Adam Moehler (1796-1838), katholischer Theologe
und Kirchenhistoriker, eine repräsentative Persönlichkeit der katholischen
Tübinger Schule, unterstrich, dass: „Der Sohn, nach Justin, weder
bloßer Mensch ist, noch eine unpersönliche Kraft Gottes, sondern der
Zahl nach ein anderer. Er ist Gottes Sohn im eigentlichen Sinne. Er hat zu
Moses aus dem Dornenbusch gesprochen: ‚Ich bin, der ich bin, der Gott
Abrahams, Isaaks und Jakobs.“ Apol. J. C. 65. „Er ist der
Jehova des Alten Testaments, der Allmächtige.“ „Athanasius der Große
und die Kirche in seiner Zeit“ Mainz 1844
Diese Klarheit hat eine Brückenfunktion!
Die EKD gibt neuerdings diesbezüglich zu: „Die
Diskussion um die Trinität begann im vierten Jahrhundert nach Christus. Sie ist
sehr philosophisch geprägt, da die Lehre von der Trinität in der
Bibel nicht explizit vorkommt.“ EKD 2020
Moderne Resultate ergeben eindeutig, dass Konstantin der
Kirche das Unbild des „Dreifaltigen“ unter Strafandrohung aufzwang!
1.2 Das Endergebnis lautet leider: „Das Nicänum kam
gewaltsam in die Welt, es führte zu Hass, Mord und sogar Kriegen!“
1.3 Das oben erwähnte Video macht u.a. die Lehre meiner
Kirche, von der Leiblichkeit unseres Gottes Jesus Christus, lächerlich, weil
wir daran glauben, dass immer noch gilt was der Auferstandene Jesus von
Nazareth zu seinem Bruder Thomas sagte: „… lege die Hände in meine
Seite“ Der Auferstandene kam durch die Wand in der Raum! „Die
Türen waren verschlossen!“… „ein Geist hat nicht Fleisch und Bein,
wie ihr seht, das ich habe…“ Luk 24: 39
Und, steht da nicht geschrieben: „er wird wiederkommen,
wie ihr ihn habt zum Himmel hingehen sehen…“ Apg. 1
„Augustinus schreibt an den spanischen Theologen
Consentio: ‚Du fragst, ob der Leib des Herrn auch jetzt noch Gebeine und Blut
und die übrigen Bestandteile des Körpers besitze? (…) Ich
glaube, dass der Leib des Herrn im Himmel sich so befindet, wie er auf Erden
war, als er zum Himmel auffuhr.’“ Christoph Markschies Alta
Trinita Beata „Die Frage nach der Leiblichkeit des mitthronenden Christus
seiner Zeit“
Nun zu 2.) Ein Gräuel vor Gott und Menschen ist das
vormittelalterliche Bekenntnis Cunctos populos, das erst 1963 mit
Vatikanum II aufgehoben wurde.
Bischof und Kaiserberater Ambrosius von Mailand initiierte
es. Das geht aus dem historischen Kontext hervor. Es verbot sämtliche
Religionen im römischen Imperium, außer der katholischen. Erlaubt war nur die
Verehrung des Dreieinen (Dreifältigen). Ich schrieb viele Artikel zu diesem
Thema mit umfangreichen Quellenangaben die fast alle im Internet zu finden sind.
Mitglieder der Kirche Jesu Christi der Heiligen der Letzten Tage glauben und
verteidigen vehement das Individualrecht jedermanns, das Cunctos populos
vernichtete. Die frühen Mitglieder meiner Kirche wurden von den frömmsten
der frommen Trinitarier protestantischer Richtung brutal über den
amerikanischen Kontinent gejagt, wie wilde Tiere. Insbesondere diejenigen, die
viel von der Gnade reden, waren gnadenlos, und zwar grundlos, auch nach
damaligem Rechtsverständnis.
Ein Gräuel vor Gott sind alle Bekenntnisse, die im Namen
Christi ausgesprochen zu Hass führten oder verleiten!
Besonders dramatisch und in ihrer Auswirkung auf heutige
Bekenntnisse sollten sich die - durch Kaiser Justinian I. mittels Codex
Justinianus I,11,10 und ebenso „Die Griechische Constitution 1.7.4, -
gelöschten Lehren vom vorirdischen Dasein des Menschen, sowie der Gotteslehre
vom Recht jedes Menschen auf Entscheidungsfreiheit, erweisen.
Hier pausiere ich, habe aber zehnfach ausgeführt, um was es
geht. Kurz gesagt: Die Geschichte des sogenannten „Christentums“, wohlgemerkt
die Geschichte des trinitarischen „Christentums“, wurde mit Blut und Tränen
geschrieben.
Nun kurz zu Punkt 3: Es ist peinlich dem erwähnten Sprecher
zuzuhören, wenn er – mit tadelndem Blick auf „Mormonen“ - formuliert: „Christen
haben keinen Grund zu glauben, die Bibel wäre unzureichend…“ Im
Zusammenhang damit bringt er deutlich zum Ausdruck: Mormonen würden die Bibel
geringschätzen. „Mormonen haben die Bibel verändert!“ Wer immer das hört, fällt
augenblicklich sein negatives Urteil. Genau das ist gewollt!
Ich kenne die Kirche Jesu Christi der Heiligen der Letzten
Tage auf 4 Kontinenten in hunderten Gemeinden, die ich als Weltenbummler
besuchte. Immer sah und hörte ich nur das Gegenteil!
Wir haben nie die Bibel angezweifelt!!! Nie vernahm ich
irgendwo auch nur ein einziges Wort unsererseits, das solche Aussage
rechtfertigen würde. Es gibt nur einige Verse in bestimmten Bibeltexten, die
unklar sind. Aber nicht ich rede nun zum Schluss zu
diesem Thema, obwohl ich noch viel zu sagen hätte. Hier kommt Prof. Dr.
Räisänen Helsinki, Finnland zu Wort, ein anerkannter evangelischer Bibelexeget:
Er verfasste den entschieden zu wenig beachteten Artikel der im Februar 1984 in
der "Theologischen Literaturzeitschrift" 109. Jahrgang erschien:
Heikki Räisänen sagt nach einer kurzen Einleitung:
„Das Wort Gottes kann keine Widersprüche enthalten. Wo
Joseph Smith Widersprüche entdeckt, gleicht er sie aus. Viele seiner
Harmonisierungsmaßnahmen sind heute noch aus Werken großkirchlicher
Fundamentalisten bekannt. Der Unterschied ist nur , dass Smith sich nicht mit
einer harmonisierenden Auslegung begnügt, sondern den Bibeltext selbst verbessert.“
Räisänen benutzt tatsächlich den Begriff:
"verbessert". Das ist zunächst verblüffend, denn, die Frage ob
man die Bibel verbessern kann oder nicht, ist eigentlich mit einem klaren Nein
zu beantworten. Hier wäre der Ansatz zu destruktiver Kritik
gegeben, doch das Gegenteil ist der Fall.
Um das zu belegen, greifen wir aus der Fülle der Fallbeispiele, die der
finnische, evangelische Theologe bringt, einige heraus.
Räisänen verweist beispielsweise auf den „theologisch
wichtigen Widerspruch, der zwischen den Angaben des Exodus über den Umgang
Moses (und anderer) mit Gott und der kühnen Behauptung von Joh: 1:18
besteht, niemand habe je Gott gesehen. Während großkirchliche
Auslegung geneigt ist, die alttestamentlichen Aussagen abzuschwächen, geht
Smith, dem die Diskrepanz nicht entgangen ist, den umgekehrten Weg und
korrigiert den johanneischen Text. Joh 1: 19 lautet (in der Inspired Version
von J. Smith) also: „Niemand hat Gott je gesehen, außer demjenigen, der
über den Sohn Zeugnis abgelegt hat.“
... auch das klassische Problem des Gottesnamens, der lt.
Exodus 6: 3 erst dem Mose offenbart wird, während er doch bereits in der
Genesis gebräuchlich ist, löst Joseph Smith... indem er aus dem Satzende eine
rhetorische Frage macht: „and was not my name Jehova known unto them?“...
Einer der schwierigsten Anstöße für konservative
Bibelauslegung ist die unerfüllte Naherwartung. Auch in diesem Fall vertritt
Smith eine Deutung, die heute noch in großkirchlichen Konservativismus gang und
gäbe ist; der Unterschied ist wieder einmal der, dass er den Text selbst
im Sinne der Auslegung ändert. Die Aussage, dieses Geschlecht werde nicht
vergehen, bevor alles geschehen sein wird. Matth: 24: 34 wird verbessert: „This
Generation, in which these things shall be shown forth, shall not pass
away, until all I have told you shall be fulfilled“ dem
entsprechend sagt Jesus (bei Joseph Smith) in Matth: 24: 42 nicht „ihr
seht dies:“ sondern „meine Erwählten... werden sehen."
Der Rat, dass der Ehemann sein soll als hätte er keine
Frau, wird auf die Missionslage durch den Zusatz bezogen: „for ye are called
und chosen to do the Lords work“
Konsequenterweise wird festgehalten, dass Jesus nicht am
Ende der Tage auf Erden erschienen ist, sondern in der Mitte der Zeit“ z.B.
Genesis 6: 60 in der Inspired Version....
Die vielleicht auffälligste Neuerung von allen ist die,
dass Smith die Menschheit vom Uranfang an über die Ankunft des Messias Jesus am
genauesten unterrichtet sein läßt. Die künftige Heilsgeschichte ist ihr von den
frühesten Tagen bekannt... Der mormonische Kommentator Matthews bemerkt dazu:
Da die frühen Patriarchen das Evangelium hatten und seinen Vorschriften
gehorchten, ist es offenbar, dass der Plan der Erlösung konstant ist und durch
die Geschichte der Welt hindurch derselbe gewesen ist. „Dies ist nicht so
offenbar in der King James Version!“ In der Tat nicht!
Bei aller Naivität der Lösung sollte zugestanden werden,
dass Joseph Smith hier seinen Finger auf ein wirkliches Problem, auf einen
heiklen Punkt in der Heilsgeschichte gelegt hat. Wie steht es eigentlich mit
Gottes Plan, wenn mit Christus ein neuer Heilsweg eröffnet worden ist, von dem
die Alten noch nichts wussten? War den früheren Generationen ein echter
Heilsweg offen, etwa in der Form der Buße und der freudigen Annahme des
göttlichen Gesetzes?
Wenn nicht, hat dann Gott nicht die alttestamentlichen
Frommen irregeführt, indem er ihnen ein Gesetz gab, das das Leben verheißt
(z.B. Lev 18: 5) und keinen Hinweis auf seine eigene Vorläufigkeit erhält?
Räisänen verweist dann auf den 1. Clemensbrief indem
auch von dort her Joseph Smiths Linie bestätigt wird: „Clemens
versichert, Gott habe von Ewigkeit her alle Menschen auf dieselbe Weise
gerechtfertigt, und zwar durch den Glauben... er habe von Geschlecht zu
Geschlecht denjenigen Gelegenheit zur Buße gegeben, die sich ihm zuwenden
wollten“
… Mit der Kontinuität der Heilsgeschichte hängt es
ferner zusammen, dass Smith die paulinische Rede vom Gesetz als Ursache der
Sünde oder von seiner sündenvermehrenden Funktion abschwächen muss.... auch
diesmal befindet Joseph Smith sich in guter Gesellschaft....
Bei der Umgestaltung (einiger Passagen bei Paulus) bringt
(Joseph) Smith ein erstaunliches Maß an Scharfsinn auf, mehrfach entsprechen
seine Beobachtungen im Großen denen moderner Exegeten...
Zusammenfassend lässt sich feststellen, dass Joseph Smith
durchgehend echte Probleme erkannt und sich darüber Gedanken gemacht hat... Wie
durch ein Vergrößerungsglas lassen sich (bei Joseph Smith) die Mechanismen
studieren, die in aller apologetischer Schriftauslegung am Werke sind; die
zahlreichen Parallelen zum heutigen Fundamentalismus aber auch zur raffinierten
Apologetik etwa der Kirchenväter sind hochinteressant...“ Räisänen fasst
schließlich zusammen: „Mit diesen Beispielen aus den Werken Joseph Smiths,
sowie aus der neueren Literatur über den Mormonismus hoffe ich hinreichend
angedeutet zu haben, dass eine ernsthafte Beschäftigung mit den Werken des
Mormonismus eine lohnende Aufgabe nicht nur für den Symboliker und den
Religionswissenschaftler ist, sondern auch für den Exegeten und den
Systematiker. Der um Fairness bemühte Forscher kann ihnen den Wert als in ihrer
Zeit und Umgebung als sinnvolle Neuinterpretation der religiösen Tradition gar
nicht so leicht absprechen…“ Ende der Aussagen Räisänens.
Ich schließe mit den Worten: Die Kirche Jesu Christi
der Heiligen der Letzten Tage hat nie gelehrt, dass Elohim, zu dem wir im Namen
Jesu Christi beten, nicht immer Gott war. Elohim hat uns und das Weltall ins
Leben gerufen. Vor ihm war nichts.
Ihr habt natürlich in einem Punkt recht: Es gibt nur einen
„wahren“ Gott, Elohim, zu dem Jesus betete, der ihn gesandt hat um uns durch
sein Sühnopfer zu erlösen und dem er nachgeordnet ist: Jesus der zur Rechten
des Vaters sitzt und der kommen wird um in Wahrheit und Rechtschaffenheit zu
richten. Er, der sagte: Alles was ihr einem meiner Geringsten getan
habt, das habt ihr mir getan…. Er der gesagt hat: „Wer meine Gebote hat, und
hält sie, der ist es, der mich liebt. Genau das sagt das Buch
Mormon
Mit freundlichen Grüßen Gerd Skibbe
Galileo.... veröffentlichte vor einiger Zeit das Video "Auslands-Mission für Gott: Mormonen in Deutschland" | Galileo | ProSieben
“Steps
Trough Two Dictatorships” II
extended version
Gerd Skibbe
2025
Picture: Tempel of The Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Zollikofen, Switzerland. 1957 Erika, our son
Hartmut and I The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Zollikofen,
Switzerland. 1957 Erika, our son Hartmut and I were sealed for time and
Eternity.
In this autobiography, Skibbe describes the dramatic experiences of his eventful life with brutal honesty. Among other works, he wrote the historical novel "Ordenspriester Dr. Jóse Carranza und sein Sohn," Parts 1 and 2, based on numerous documents. He admires people who, throughout their lives in their search for more light, mustered the courage, as Christians and Muslims, to not shy away from the questions of the meaning of their own religiosity. One of Gerd's role models is the famous Persian physician Zakariyyā al-Razis (865-925), who said emphatically and humbly: "Our (conscience) forbids us to harm anyone: May my God guide me to live in truth and nothing but love and truth."
Germany red 1942 - and after the
war 1945
A brat – nothing more
After fathers’ disappearance from
my life, I became increasingly involved in compulsory service, first in the
German Youth then in the Hitler Youth. At 13 and of small stature, it
was my own wish to become a pilot. Because I was too young to join the youth
aviation group, my mother had to sign my application. She refused. I pestered
her until she picked up her pen and gave her consent. Then I learned how to
make model airplanes that could fly.
And so, in July 1943, I put on
the grey-blue uniform that I wore until the day the Soviet army marched into my
hometown.
A time never to be forgotten. On
the night of August 17th to 18th, 1943, the sound of sirens woke us from our
sleep. As usual, nothing happened. Enemy aircrafts were looking for larger
targets. So, I turned around and fell back into dreamland until a huge
explosion woke me. The noises became ever increasingly louder and louder. In a
panic, I gathered up my clothes and rushed into the basement along with all the
other residents of the house at Lange Str. 17. For at any moment the very next
bomb that fell could be the one that would fall on our house. I was certain
that this was my end. It however hit Peenemünde, the place where the Nazis
produced their rockets. The distance as the crow flies was 9 km. But the air of
a windless night can transmit noise unabated over water surfaces. As we found
out later there were 600 Lancaster and Halifax bombers dropping their loads of
phosphorus containers, all in the hope of seriously disrupt Hitler’s rocket
program, which by American and English Allies were perceived as a serious
threat. In retrospect it seemed to me that it was the screams of the French,
British and Russian prisoners of war that we heard through the open cellar
window in the tiny pauses of bombs bursting. Mrs. Müller, our landlady, who
worked as a secretary in Peenemünde, later told us how horrible the sight was
of those hanging in the mesh of the wire fences surrounding them, burned to
death, and covered in phosphorus. Just a few days later, we were evacuated.
With my mouth wide open. I stood on the forecourt of Berlins Alexander Platz
S-Bahn station, which I already knew. Oh, how things had changed for all around
all one could see were soot-blackened ruins. Mother, my brother Helmut, my sister Helga and I were sent to Upper
Silesia. For the following 6 months I
did not attended school nor any religious
meetings. To pass our time we played all sorts of practical jokes, I had become
a feral boy who spent time learning Polish curses. In March 1944 Father on his
convalescent leave came to visit us in Ratibor. He demanded that we return to
Wolgast immediately. He foresaw that the Red Army would soon invade Silesia.
Previously, the German Wehrmacht had decisively lost the Battle of Kursk, in
Russia, with very high losses of men and machinery.
German penetration during the
attack on the Kursk salient and Soviet
counter-offensive in the northern sector. the loss of the Wehrmacht in the
Battle of Kursk accounted for 61–75 percent of the
Wehrmacht's total losses in July–August 1943.
Estimates of 380,000–430,000 casualties in the Battle
of Kursk
Back in Wolgast, now as a full
member of the “Flieger – Hitler Youth”, I completed my first take-off with the
school glider SG 38.
I flew at a height of five or six metres for
about 80 meters.
Little later, the decision was
taken that I would join the students of my class in Groß-Mölln in Eastern
Pomerania. There we were to undergo and receive strict pre-military training.
Stark naked we paraded on the beach, practicing military goose- stepping,
learned war songs, little else. This world was completely devoid of females,
nor did we ever see people on vacation. Yes, and then another memorable day.
I was just 14 years old, when I
received a hefty slap in the face from an SA man who was wearing the large
swastika emblem as an armband over his brown shirt. It was in a large tent
behind the run-down Hotel Böttcher, where we lived until shortly before Christmas.
We assembled there for our daily training sessions; training to internalize the
fact that our lives belonged to our great Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler. Until then, at
least, I was not aware that our great “leader” wanted to send us to the front
as well-prepared reserves and cannon fodder. To have our own opinions was
neither wished nor asked for. The message stood cast is Iron: ” . You need
to learn obedience.” The little Nazi SA man was eager to tell us
that the Jews were to blame for all the misfortunes. The words fell out of his
mouth: “Jews have always been smart. And a particularly clever one
wrote the Bible...” I spoke up, not because I was pious in any way, but
because I knew better. He came to me as I sat in the back of the training tent.
He heard me say, “No, that’s not correct, the Bible was created over
the course of centuries.” Bang! The blow landed, hurt and burned for a
while.
Occasionally I had attended the
“church services” of the Protestant community. To this day I can still remember
certain passages from their sermons and lessons. I learned early on that the
Bible was a book of many accounts by many writers. At least that much was stuck
in my memory. I did not pray back then. At that time neither God nor religion
were part of my life.
The sight of them delighted me for in their black skirts they looked
stunning and adorable. Apart from me, the boys all wore black uniforms. I was
dressed in blue and grey, the uniform of future pilots and someone told me that
I looked like a 16-year-old. Well, I remember the day someone handed me a
letter. I did not open it until I was alone. From a postcard- sized photo, a
lovely girl smiled at me. A radiant beauty. Written in harmonious curves, the
words shone for me: “To Gerd - your eternally loving Inge Zühlsdorf.”
I saw her often, but we never exchanged a single word. I would not have
known what I could or should have said to her. At the beginning of March, we were
released from compulsory school, received our certificates and returned home.
My grades were probably one of the worst with 16 fours and 1 two. All things in
behaviour that I rarely or never liked. Why my classmate Gerhard Schröder
invited me and Richard Schwenk, along with his sister Gerda, to his
confirmation party remained a mystery to me.
After the confirmation we enjoyed slices of cake - something completely
unknown to us - for most of us had no rich farmers as our relatives. A little
later some alcoholic beverages were passed around. Gerda, a beautiful blonde, a
year older than me, came to me that late afternoon. “Gerdi” she
whispered, “Gerhard always wants to drink brotherhood with me, but I would
rather kiss you!”
I didn’t need to be told twice. We enjoyed being harmlessly fond of each
other, so to speak. Whenever I thought about it the fact that Gerhard was being
confirmed was incomprehensible to me.
None of us elementary school graduates believed in God. Even a year or two later, many Germans secretly and wistfully believed in Adolf Hitler's best sides, as the great Fuhrer had finally broken the curse of years of unemployment throughout Germany. After the humiliating defeat of the First World War in 1918 and the subsequent hyperinflation, too many did not recognize the very bad, shameful slogans that Hitler used in an effort to give hope and a future to a discouraged Nation once again.
Smaller factories had to send horse-drawn carts to the banks in order to
transport the money to pay their workers. In 60 German banknote printing
companies, a total of 1,723 printing presses constantly spewed out banknotes
with astronomical numbers. The paper mills units ran day and night. At this
time of heightened conflict, Utah Senator Reed Smoot, who was also an apostle
of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, warned the US Congress
against overreaching. Smoot explained that Germany's citizens could be driven
into the arms of chauvinists by the Allies excessive demands to make their
reparation payments more punctually. This is exactly what would happen. I too
was drawn into the vortex.
In mid-March 1945
While we looked forward to the unimaginable event with excitement, a
legless marine sat in the small waiting room in the middle of a considerable
number of duffle bags and sang Heitschi- bumbeitschi, an old German Lullaby His
beautiful voice was quiet but penetrated my heart.
A rough voice shouted: “Come, let’s go! The train is coming!” We
rushed out into the open. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I still had
the image from one of the German newsreels of elegant, sparkling-clean wounded
platoons. But, as soon as the dark silhouette of the spark-snorting locomotive
loomed over the grey-black Mahlzow hill, I felt a sense of misery. As we heard
the brakes of the train, we ran towards the cattle cars. It wasn’t completely
dark yet, so just light enough to see in horror the damaged planks. Despite the
hissing of the locomotive, we heard the many desperate cries for help. Suddenly
I realized the full extent of the misery of the war. My legs became weak, my limbs
trembled.
Someone shouted in a high voice of indignation, “They shot at the
train!” Confirmation came from another direction, “Yes. Just minutes
ago, just before Zinnowitz.” The thought came to me in a flash - “Russian
Ratta or British Spitfire?” They wanted to show just what they can do. And
this, although the painted sign of the Red Cross must have shone high from at
least some of the roofs. When the sliding door, which was directly in front of
me, was opened by a huge Waffen SS soldier, I was hit with a foul-smelling
stench. The first man who lay in front of me was dead. A second man groped his
way towards me and threw himself around my neck: “Comrade, comrade!” His
head was completely wrapped except for his mouth. The bandage was black. I was
barely able to catch him. A feeling of burning love and impotent anger flowed
through me.
We put him and the others on handcarts and wheelbarrows as quickly and
as carefully as possible to transport them to the makeshift hospital,
“Wolgaster Zellmehlfabrik”. On one of the last nights under German rule, after
we received more seriously injured people, I caught my mother listening to BBC
London. She stood hunched over in front of the brown “people’s receiver”, her
green wool blanket wrapped around her head and radio. Our training officers had
taught us to watch out for traitors. For example, if we heard the
bum-bum-bum-bom of the mortal enemy, the English radio, we must immediately act
and inform the NSDAP (Nazi local group leader) be it father or mother.
When I entered the room, this exact signal fell on my eardrums.
In my anger, I snapped at her harshly.
She came up, hissing just as angrily. Her eyes sparkled imperiously.
She didn’t want to be disturbed. Her soft brunette hair dishevelled, her
pale, now pinched forehead expressed the full force of her personality.
I was sufficiently outraged and ready to report her. “I save lives
and you, you listen and believe in our enemies!” For a second I
thought: “Go! As a good German you must Do your Duty.”
There was a loud roar inside me. It determined me - there must be
punishment! Followed by a quiet, clear voice immediately countered: “No!”
Forever will I count myself lucky that my better-self hesitated.
I was taken aback because I perceived myself as being so contradictory.
Was that the voice of my conscience? In my helplessness and anger at the
realization that this, my war, was lost, I slammed the door shut.
More and more refugees from the East arrived with their wheelbarrows and
handcarts. We drove their mostly small bundles of belongings to the surrounding
villages. One night a tall woman walked beside me for a whole hour without
saying a single word until we arrived in Hohendorf. I really didn’t want to
know what was going on inside her. Maybe her husband had fallen and she was
just looking into an endless black hole. I can still see her scarf wrapped
around her head in a turban-like fashion.
Wolgast filled more and more with intact soldiers from all branches of
the armed forces. Chaos. Everyone avoided the still iron-clad duty of fighting
with a carbine against mercilessly rolling tanks for as long as possible. I had
never seen so many people in uniform. The younger ones begged us to find a girl
for them and we, almost 15 years old, knew very well what it was about.
My order to be deployed to the “Volkssturm” (a levée en masse national militia established by Nazi Germany during the last months of World War II.) came on the morning of April 22nd. The Russians had just broken through the Oder line near Stettin. In my delusion that German victory using the miracle weapon was still possible, I would have set out foolishly and carelessly just a month before. At least that’s what my wishful thinking wanted.
Two or three days before the total collapse of the German front, in the
evening, I went to see my friend Richard. Gerda came towards me. She looked at
me strangely, but I did not take any notice of her. I had far more pressing
matters on my mind which were seething inside me. We still must do something
before the big fall. We ran to Saar Street as I wanted to see whether the
Dabbert Family had followed the Plogs, who, like many others, had already taken
flight towards the west and the safety of the Americans. If so, they would
never come back home again. In which case there would surely be something we
could steal. We could conquer. SA Dabbert - (the SA were the brown-clad Nazis,
while the SS men wore black uniforms) - was already up and away. Just a few
days ago he had trumpeted, “The miracle weapon is coming – the final
victory!” as he stood with his legs apart, in front of us, on top of the
kilometre-long, 5- or 6-meter-wide anti-tank ditch which many thousands of
hands had dug.
The rabbits we were targeting had escaped or previously been cooked in
Dabbert pots. We stood there and were annoyed. Dabbert was probably sitting on
his big butt next to his skinny Emma in a rolling car. He had to defect to the
Americans instead of being caught by the Russians. No “Wehrmacht” officer, no
SS officer, would dare to stop him as long as he wore his service hat.
Suddenly a police officer riding
his bike came towards us. We recognized him by the outline of his shako (Polis
helmet). A weak strip of light fell diagonally in front of him onto the black
earth through the required blackout slit on his bicycle lamp.
Because the two of us were in a really bad mood, we provocatively threw
small stones at him. And yes, we hit him! The big man immediately jumped off
the bike, then jumped over the low fence behind which we were hiding. I ran
down the main path of the New Cemetery. I had to at least get behind the huge
compost heap. At the same time, I heard 'bang'. A bullet whistled past me.
Wolgast Town-hall
Almost an hour later I was sitting on the Wolgast town hall tower with
Richard, whom they had picked up from home because of my betrayal.
As punishment we were assigned to keep tank guard. That late evening
there was only one question that concerned all of us. Where are the advancing
Russian tanks by now? Are they still 3 or 40 kilometres away from us? Or will
they roll through Wolgast streets within the next half hour?
Around eleven o’clock Gerda must have had the idea to run to my mother
to tell her what she knew and suspected. Mother immediately made the short
journey to the police station, which was in the town hall. She was convinced of
my absolute innocence. Who knows what reasons the police officers ultimately
came up with for locking up innocent children. With this conviction, as she
later told me, she entered the smoke-filled booth on the ground floor of the
town hall in a rage.
As a result of this belief, she became upset and attacked the evil
bogeymen with sharp words. “It is outrageous for you to flex your muscles at
this the last minutes of exercising power.” She demanded the
immediate release of her son who – according to her meaning - would never harm
anyone. She knew Mr. Wallis, the superior, personally. He attended Baptist
church and so did his children. She would never have thought that of him.
Such a pious man! The other four or five men were puffing on big cigars.
Given the fact that the Russians would arrest them within a few hours, they
were extremely nervous. They were in a death trap because of the reasonable
assumption that if they escaped too soon, they could be caught and hanged by
the fanatical SS soldiers who were still in the city.
Until the very last-minute desertion was considered a crime worthy of
death. Their fate was sealed. Groaning and blowing, the red- headed Mr. Wallis
put on his shako (helmet) and climbed the narrow stairs to the narrow open
space where we stared unsuspectingly in front of us. We sat there beneath the
middle of the still night sky and marvelled at the silence. Why didn’t we hear
the barrage of enemy guns or the roar of a firth battle? Ah, there we sat
lulled in our illusions.
“Get up, and go home!” Astonished and confused as I
was, I took another look at the shining star reflecting waters of the Peene
stream and the “Spitzenhörn”, where I had enjoyed many happy hours fishing.
The next morning, I remembered that the Conseurs and Schmidt’s had also
fled. They too kept rabbits in small pens near the gasworks. Schmidt’s son had
given me a tip the day before. The little stables, of course, were all empty.
Disgruntled, I made my way home, choosing the shortest route. It led over the
tracks of the main train station to that of the port. There was nothing,
nothing at all to warn me. I had almost reached my destination as a voice loud
and violently shouted: “Stop!”
Accustomed to obeying commands from military or uniformed people, I
froze. A young soldier stood on the narrow platform. He put his hand over his
mouth. Then he repeated sharply, “Stand!”
That day, instinctive obedience saved my life. I found myself in the
middle of a minefield! In my playfulness, I had jumped from one rail plank to
the next, and was about to leap off. “Don’t you see the little mounts of
soil? Mines!
They would have torn you apart!” These mines must have been laid just some hours ago. Looking closer I
could detect their hiding places. I could see where they were.
What might have happened if it had not been for that attentive young
Soldier?
The First Russian
In the morning of April 30th at 8 o’clock, something howled. At the same
time, the old half-timbered house at Lange Street 17 shook. An enemy shell
flew, probably just a few meters away, past the upper windows of our apartment.
Before I could think about it, there was a crash. Two people, who were standing
on the street near the town hall looking out, were blown to pieces.
Around ten o’clock in the morning two soldiers cycled along Wilhelm
Street, where Gerda and Richard lived. An officer in the Navy and a
non-commissioned officer in the “Wehrmacht”. They showed their sub-machine guns
and bragged about having 'mowed down' 50 Red Army soldiers. They looked at
their watches. That had to mean something!
A window opened. In addition to the many white flags that were already
hanging on numerous windows around us, another one was added. Then the corporal
screamed. “This is cowardice. We’re still holding the fort!”
Then they drove away towards the harbor.
Richard pulled me with him. Gerda looked at me strangely again. Her look
stimulated new thoughts in my mind: “What were her eyes saying?”
Did she ask me wordlessly: “You and not the Russians?”
Richard went somewhere through the kitchen door. We stayed. How
beautiful she looked. Gerda now said in a whisper: “If no one wants you,
I’ll take you.”
Fear opened her mouth. We knew from many newspapers reports in the
National Socialist press that the brutal conquerors hunted women like wild
animals. And here they were already at our door steps. For a short time, my
imagination took over then my friend came back, cursing under his breath. A monster suddenly attacked us. A
detonation that only a giant bomb could produce knocked us to the ground.
There must have been enormous damage in the immediate vicinity. My home,
Lange Street 17 was only a hundred meters away.
Mother! My siblings -Helga and Helmut! I immediately needed to be there,
no matter how terrible it might be. Like a madman, I threw myself against the
front door, which wouldn’t open. If I had to dig them out of the rubble, I
wanted to know. Only when Richard and Gerda helped me to overcome the jammed,
outward-opening door did I succeed on flying feet and totally breathless. Our
house stood intact. But the large shop windows of the Reuschel drugstore
opposite us were all shattered.
Thank God. If that was all. Hardly comforted, a high-pitched voice
called out: “They have blown up the Peene Bridge.”
I did not go into our house. I was now driven forward. Wherever I went,
it was the same everywhere, but it was less about the small windows, they were
not destroyed. Somehow, despite all this, the desire to live grew within me.
With this blow, Wolgast had become a lawless zone, although perhaps only for a
few hours. A no-mans-land. No longer were there any police or any other law
enforcement
agencies. After a while of aimlessly wandering around, seeing the shattered glass openings of the grocery stores, the Gauger shop for clothing and footwear on the market square, the invitation grew to go and help yourself. I did not contradict myself. I walked the few steps quickly and unabashedly entered the men’s clothing area on the right. I was not the first one to see the sparse furnishings of the store. As I was about to shamelessly access and steal what seemed desirable to me, I was influenced by a previously experienced feeling that told me again in plain language, “Don’t do it!”
At first this amazed and paralysed me; until I boldly decided to say, “So,
what? Don’t be stupid.” More and more people streamed into the shop,
which by now was wide open.
For a moment I saw the noble face of the owner, Heller, as he sat at the
checkout while my mother paid the amount for my new suit with the
knickerbockers. These I wore, proudly, on Sundays from 1943 onwards. The fine,
slightly drawn nose gave Heller's calm face a rarely encountered natural
elegance. It seemed to me that he was watching me pick up a pair of light
green, everyday trousers. For a few seconds now the people whirling around
seemed like crazy people dancing. Some bickered. Everything was racing, the
thoughts, the blood, the women. My attitude to life wavered. My feelings swayed
back and forth.
Now is now. The future will hold nothing good. Nevertheless, the light
of hope remained persistent in me, while others, in deep pessimism, tied stones
around the necks of their children and themselves to jump into the Peene River.
There were moments that it seemed to me that I too had gone crazy. It was a
constant back and forth. “You must act properly.” And then again, “From
now on, you need to make more of the chances that are to be found in
life.” I left that place of utter confusion with those green pants still in
my hand.
Then, all at once, I did not want them anymore and placed them on the
open hatch of the basement entrance, from whence they soon disappeared.
Inconstant as I was, just minutes later, a cheeky fearlessness came over me.
'Food robbery is allowed! Heck, there must be hidden chocolates or at least
candy at Andersons. I had been deprived of sweets for years, and I love the
sweet stuff.'
During the time before we were sent to Groß Mölln, I used to climb up
the facade of our house to enter the otherwise locked apartment through the
upper window, which was always open, to lighten my mother’s sugar bowl by a few
grams.
So, I ran off just to avoid being the last in line. But, oh dear, at
least twenty women were looking for the same thing; or for margarine, sugar, or
semolina. Of course, with the increasing uncertainty, they needed to take home
something their families needed. In almost reckless fashion I joined the
frantic rout. I still had not learned that a wounded conscience comes with a
diminution of one’s potential. I had just found a hidden margarine shelf above
my head. Someone shouted, “I knew it!” Someone else grabbed it. Women
tore a cardboard bucket out of the hands of the man standing on the ladder. The
bucket broke, coffee beans fell on my head and to the floor. A pregnant woman
started throwing jars through the air, angry because they only contained
beetroot not the desired fruits she was looking for. Wherever the vessels
landed, the ground turned dark.
A hellish spectacle. The shop owner, Mr. Anderson, arrived at the scene.
He was a short 50-year-old man with a large bald head.
“Ladies! Ladies!” he complained, ringing his white
hands. One of the women confronted him. “I am not a lady!” she screamed
as she threw one of the glass jars at his feet. The poor man, his shoes and
feet now covered in juice, gasped. But how could men ever truly understand the
fears of women in this, a time of looming Russian invasion? The army of our
enemy will come and they will be their defenceless victims!
In the confusion I managed to collect 16 pieces of margarine, which I
packed in a box and took home with me. Then I returned to commit another theft,
no longer caring about my conscience. As I turned the corner of our street, I
saw my 9-year-old brother Helmut with a large, round cheese that was almost as
tall as he. He was coming down the gentle slope of the street, rolling his
stolen treasure which resembled a wheel, straight towards me. Not much further
up the street was Mr. Kriwitz' large Grocery store, which consisted of several
floors. There, as everywhere else, the population panicked and shoplifted on a
large scale, assuming, perhaps correctly, that everything would fall into
Russian hands.
It would have taken little effort to take the conquered bounty off a
mere 9-year-old child. However, it is not what happened. The sight of my little
brother, with this giant wheel of cheese, will forever remain etched in my
memory. This blonde-haired little chap just looked at me with a smile. “Wait
a minute” I thought, “Wait! Something is wrong. Something here is not
right!” The awareness that the things we were doing were wrong and the
order to return the cheese seemed to fall within the same breath. “This is theft!
“ I snapped. He returned my reaction with an easy-going grin. For him it
was just fun. After all, rolling such a large object required some skill.
However, He obeyed.
A completely different concept developed within me. I concluded that I had
to return everything I had taken, and that is exactly what I did, because I
suddenly knew that even the worst Russians would not let us starve. If on the
other hand we split everything up prematurely, there would surely be
self-inflicted consequences.
Suddenly I knew I wanted to become a better German.
Curious, I left the basement where the women were sitting, afraid of
what was threatening them. A few minutes later, I saw the first Russian soldier
coming from Breite Street. He turned into Lange Street, where I waited in front
of the Besch watchmakers’ shop, almost without a care in the world. The big man
came closer, pointing his gun at me, and I looked into the black barrel of his
army pistol, no more than three meters away. I was amazed because I had a
completely different idea of the enemy and because I felt no fear. For years I
had listened to Nazi propaganda that portrayed the Soviets as inferior people.
I had also seen the half-starved, ragged, miserably staggering creatures, when,
like cattle, they were driven through Wolgast to prison camps further west.
Merciless as I was back then, I didn’t recognize them as my fellow human
beings. However, the thought now occurred to me, “There is a hero in front
of you!” He wore a tall hat made of dark lambskin and a wide black
cloak over his uniform.
He didn’t bat an eyelid. All around were windows, doors and corners from
which a fatal shot could be fired. He walked on lightly, as if he were on air,
showed no hurry and looked neither to the left nor to the right as he
continued. My eyes followed him thoughtfully. Long after he disappeared, I
stopped and asked myself, “Are they really like that?”
I had not learned in my folly of youth and did not realize, that it was
not the uniform, it wasn’t the look, that separated good from evil. In just a
few moments I learned one of the most important lessons of my life.
As strange as it may seem, somehow, I felt drawn to this stranger; if
only for a few seconds. I realized how wrong my attitudes had been throughout
my life.
Only about three quarters of an hour later I saw a German parachutist,
carrying his round steel helmet in his hand, along with a young Russian
officer. I moved a little closer. Before the Gauger business, the possible
future and the question of what would become of Germany after the collapse of
the “Third Reich” of the Adolf Hitler era was discussed. The surprising answer
from the fluent German-speaking Russian journalist was, “We need something
that will unite all nations in order to live in peace and harmony.” There
and then it hit me! “We need something that holds all nations
together.” It seemed to me that I was skipping time. I saw connections. I
also heard that the captured paratrooper did not refuse the implicit
invitation... There must be a new ideology!
That was it...It affected all of us. But then! Only an hour later, hundreds perhaps thousands, of new soldiers of a completely different kind rolled into our city on countless primitive panje wagons.
Hordes of young,
unrestrained, wild men filled the streets. I persuaded old Mr. Gottschalk, also
known as 'Leller', our helper in our small company, to explore the new scene
with me. At first, he was surprised that the Russians didn’t bother him. It
wasn’t long, however, before a very young Red Army soldier, dressed in a thin,
dark green cotton shirt, took his gold watch from the stooped, rheumatic old
man. Two large tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks as he turned and limped
home, supported by his cane.
What he had lost had been his only possession, apart from his bed.
Screaming women stormed past us, soldiers chasing them. A shot rang out and we
stood aside to let the angry mob of robbers and rapists pass us. My confusion
about everything I had seen was such that I reflexively raised my right hand
and shouted “Heil, Hitler” as an older Russian officer approached me.
The man in his green uniform must have noticed my shock. He could have been
angered by such an outburst of previous habits and shot me on the spot, after
all, we were still at war! For me, being almost an adult, I could still be
suspected of being in the service of the “Werewolf”, a group that had continued
to fight under a secret symbol in the territories conquered by Russia since
1944. I, like a fool, had showed my fascist background. Luckily, he just looked at me and
shook his head, raised his index finger in warning like a wise father, smiled
in superior fashion, put the same finger to his forehead, turned around and
continued walking.
Later, other soldiers kicked me with their boots in my ass just because
I looked at them in my admittedly rather bold way. When the shooting between
Germans and Russians flared up again, we fled to our basement. There we sat on
wooden benches in complete darkness for two days and nights, listening to the
artillery fire and explosions. On the German side, the bullets came from the
nearby island of Usedom. The women listened with added fear to every sound that
came from above. Was the front door opened? Would their steps lead to the
basement? Would beasts in human form attack them?
On the 3rd day of our stay in the basement a tall, lady came to join us.
She sat next to me, cried, told the other women in my presence that she had
been raped, how she had fled and was in hiding.
I learned things that were new to me. In her desperation she remembered
Lange Street 17 and Ms. Stolp, our neighbour. She hoped to find protection
there, because the old lady was a member of the Communist Party and a friend of
Rosa Luxemburg.
She felt only Mrs. Stolp could protect her. As fate would have it, the
old communist Stolp had passed away only two days earlier. She had fallen down
the steep stairs that led to her Apartment. Since this 33-year-old woman was
afraid to venture out onto the street again, we sat next to each other in the
cold, dark cellar. I found it pleasant to see that my lap had become a pillow
for her head. Completely exhausted, she cried herself to sleep. Several times
during the night her body convulsed in fear. I gently ran my hand over her head
and cheek to calm her down. On the 5th
or 6th night, the noises from outside didn’t seem as loud anymore, so I decided
to go back upstairs to sleep in my bed.
Old friend 'Leller' did the same. In the distance, a few hundred meters
away, we could still hear the rumble of shells. In no time at all we fell into
a deep sleep.
After the war
On May 8th 1945 the shooting finally stopped. I ventured out onto the
street again. Everywhere I looked I saw drunken Russian soldiers. They had tied
a cow to an old farm wagon on which young, wine-happy, cheering soldiers sat
and rolled through the streets. The rope tied around its neck did not
completely strangle the animal, even though it had fallen. Mercilessly the poor
beast was dragged across the cobblestones, leaving behind her a trail of blood.
My eyes followed the martyred creature and the thoughts that came to mind were,
“This is what it looks like. This is a Symbol of War and Victory.” A striking number of young women
were pregnant. I heard a lot of things as we stood together in a long queue for
bread, in front of one of the bakeries that was still intact.
An old woman asked: “Why in good heaven above could you decide to
have a child in these times?” Often the answer was similar: “Grandma, do
you know what our soldier husbands told us when they came home from leave at
the front? Dearest, you know that I am never coming back. They knew it. I
longed to keep something alive from him!”
They had seen devastated places. Completely disturbed, they had
experienced too much. Their husbands, fathers, and brothers now prisoners, dead
or crippled, in the most inhospitable country on earth. There was no hope, no
better future. However, we also saw Red Army men who stood out from the
frenzied crowd, disciplined, educated like the first Russian I met.
I remember the day when a convoy of installed truck rockets (Stalin
organs) stopped in front of our house. My little brother sat in the middle of
the disciplined soldiers. On his straw-blonde head they had placed a huge, dark
steel helmet.
Laughing, they passed him around like a rag doll and gave him cookies.
What they found amusing was that the little guy had one brown and one blue eye.
These men were extremely civilized as none of them left the vehicle to enter
our home to rob it. Many locals insulted all Russians indiscriminately. That
really wasn't fair. There were soldiers who came to our house and tried to play
our piano and they were almost always friendly. At that point I couldn't
explain why people from the same environment and background behaved either
civilized or poorly.
In July 1945
I worked for the Red Army at the Wolgaster shipyard, which still exists
today. At that time, cell flour was produced there. A small, coal-fired power
plant was also located there. We had to unload wagons filled with briquettes.
It seemed to me that many people who had to work there often hid in the huge
halls. Couples slept between the thousands of sacks of cell meal. We weren't in
any particular hurry with our shovelling either. Every now and then we were
checked by armed Red Army soldiers. That is when we started back to work until
the black dust filled the air. In the evening, before leaving the premises
soldiers checked what used to be our schoolbags. We always took a few
briquettes home with us for we thought that was a fair reward for the time we
had to sacrifice. The young Russians who always smoked “Makhorka” tobacco
thought similarly. Once the inspector counted seven pieces of briquettes and
swore horribly at me. With six fingers raised, he showed me what the limit was.
I am a thief! “Zapzarap nix karascho!” We learned, we understood. After
all, we had to orientate ourselves according to Russian customs. Then, there
were dried sugar beet-pieces that we used to make syrup. I reckoned that about
four kilos of this could be considered a legitimate daily loot. There were
people like the 50-year-old hairdresser, Bikowski, who previously sold tobacco
products at the “Schloßplatz”, in the immediate vicinity of the Peene Bridge,
where once upon a time his small, but beautiful house stood. So sad for the
impact of the explosions of the bridge had levelled his house to the ground. I
still see him smoking when he used to sit on the gate of a coal-wagon. As soon
as the Russian guards came into sight, he would bang his shovel against the
metal wall of the goods-wagons and loudly groan. I do not remember him any
other way. During a lunch break, out of sheer boredom and folly, my friends and
I swam about 150 meters to the other side of the Peene, to the shore of the
island of Usedom. No one was allowed to enter this small piece of land. Only partially protected by barbed wire, a
huge collection of abandoned German weapons was stored there. As it was one of
the last main battle lines of the war, dozens of large wooden boxes with all
kinds of ammunition were just waiting for us. Big warning signs threatening us
with the death penalty didn't impress us. Boys will be boys - and sometimes
they are just stupid! Within minutes we took hold of the rifles and started
shooting in the air. The ammo we found and used was tracer ammo! What a
wonderful display of light in the sky above us!
We painted the most amazing streaks of light in the endless blue sky.
The fact that others would know exactly where we were didn't bother us at
first. If needed, we could always jump
into the river, swim quickly and hide. For my part, I felt like Robinson Crusoe
on his remote, free island - a world that belonged to no one but me. However,
Klein-Zinnowitz was not somewhere out there in the Pacific - it was only half a
kilometre from Wolgast. I ignored, in this moment, the fact that the Russians
were still vindictive and angry at the Germans, that they were going to catch
us and put us against the wall. We had boldly and wantonly dared to break their
laws. Suddenly we heard the typical hum of a low-flying aircraft. Soon we saw a
huge biplane coming towards us. He floated like a colourful beetle no more than
80 meters above our heads while we stared at the big red Soviet star on its
bright blue wings.
We saw the pilot's head yet he could not see us. Seven Rifles were aimed
at this huge target. Our mothers thought that all of us were good boys because
every evening we brought home useful things. To our eternal blessing, none of
us lost our heads, nor dared to pull the trigger. Buena Bergemann suddenly
appeared behind the barbed wire fence and shouted, “What the hell are you
idiots doing?” He too had once been a member of the Hitler Youth. Seven
defeated, otherwise seemingly clever boys, shamefully laid their newfound toys
on the ground. Our saving angel, Buena, stopped us from turning a bad situation
most likely into a deadly one. Looking over the river we noticed that at some
distance, near the big bridge some 800 meters away, a military police boat was
circling. If they would catch us, it would definitely be the end of us. We had
to escape as quickly as possible as too many eyes had seen our game. Too many
ears had heard the firing of our pistols and carbines. After some frenzied
swimming; and thinking ourselves lucky to have escaped a tricky situation, no
one can imagine the shock which took hold of our hearts as we climbed the
ladder, which led up to the pier thinking, “We are out of danger. No!!”
We were confronted by a dozen machine guns, pointed at us! Now, Russian
soldiers surrounded a bunch of shaking, scared teens.
No one can foresee all the consequences of certain actions, even if good
intentions were written on stone tablets, let alone if intentions were evil. We
stood there almost naked. Trembling in
our threadbare black swimming trunks, we looked at the motionless gunmen. Everything in us and around us froze - even
time. Finally! A jeep at high speed, followed by a cloud of dust came towards
us. A huge man in a green uniform sat in the passenger seat, a young, skinny
driver sat next to him. 'The City Commander!' His chest was decorated with many
medals. As soon as the jeep came to a stop, the officer jumped out of his seat.
With a broad chest and heavy steps, his huge head bowed, he strode towards us
like an irritated bull. He had become an avenging angel for everything that the
SS and the German Wehrmacht had done to his people. All eyes were on him. He
was obviously ready to destroy anything that seemed bad to him. He completely
controlled the scene. One word, one wave of his hand and all we would have seen
last would be the flash fire from the “Spagin” machine guns. The giant roared
like a wounded animal. The longer he screamed, the more we hoped that the
weapons aimed at us wouldn't be fired.
Somehow, for a few seconds, I even harboured a faint hope that they
would let us go. Little did we yet know that between life and death lay the
frozen plains of Siberia or Karaganda, just waiting for criminals like us. Many
thoughts were floating around in my head ultimately causing total chaos. I
could not come to any conclusion at all. In the end, all my longing was focused
on one crazy wish: that a miracle would happen. Our work leader, Mr. Kell, a
well-known member of the Communist Party, dared to confront the grim commander,
while the soldiers stood silently with their weapons, still waiting for their
commander's instructions. In sharp tones, three men spoke loudly, swinging
their long arms back and forth as the flow of words was translated. At first,
we didn't understand anything at all. Mr. Kell, with the red ribbon on his arm,
a quiet, kind man, swore his own life to save us. He guaranteed that something
like this would never, ever happen again. Then the unbelievable, the incredible
happened.
The Russian officer, with his grim face and oversized nose, showed us
mercy. Maybe the SS had shot his own sons, maybe they had the same Jewish
appearance as their father. In the end he decided, “Run, you stupid
bandits!”
We ran; we ran in all directions.
I crawled into a small space in the engine room, there I sat paralysed for a
long time. I concluded that I should not mention a single word of all this at
home. The bad news will reach the family when everything is a thing of the
past. What had really happened? Hundreds, no, thousands of individuals who had
committed far less than my friends and I were sent to die in the death traps of
concentration camps like Waldheim or deprived of their health forever. Tens of
thousands suffered in the Gulag prison camps of Irkutsk folks who had committed
little more than nothing. Many of them never returned home. Unfortunately, 2 of
my friends, who did not adhere to the promise given by Mr. Kell, were to
experience such a fate.
Shortly afterwards I started looking for a suitable place to hide my
father's camera from the Russians. They
had ordered that all bicycles, cameras, and radios must be surrendered, as well
as my much-loved piano.
Mother, who spoke fluent Polish, was respected and protected by the
Soviet officers, as was our piano. About eight weeks later, I saw several
hundred pianos in the port area ready to be loaded onto Russian ships. A large
crane must have stacked them on top of each other. About eight on top of each
other, left out in the rain.
There was factory equipment dismantled to be transported east, such as
lathes and parts of sawmills. In some places, railway tracks were dismantled to
be reused in Russia. We learned that some important factory parts that were
almost impossible to replace were missing, that didn't bother the young winners
much at first. Faucets were valuable items, whether they could be used on the
plains of Siberia however very questionable. In the first few weeks between May
and July it was advisable to only leave the house if necessary. I wanted to
harvest strawberries and gooseberries, but the path to our allotment was a kilometre
away. I only dared to do it once. I took a detour and immediately found myself
in a dangerous situation. I was about to walk straight through a ravine when
several farm wagons came towards me. I realized that they were late refugees
who wanted to find space for their families. They were stopped by Red Army
cavalrymen. I found shelter behind a strong elm tree that stood on the site of
a small chapel. The first farm wagon, a hundred meters away from me, had to
stop. A soldier pulled out his pistol and held it to the driver's head. Another
threw himself at one of the screaming women. I quickly retreated, taking with
me two 1-kilogram bags of black powder that I happened to kneel on.
The next day I showed Richard my loot. We carelessly set them on fire
near an old wooden house. We had no idea of the power of the flame. Just a
little more of that magic stuff and the building would have caught fire.
I tried to be harmless again. Goes to show life is for learning.
There hidden in a corner of our attic I discovered a locked box; I
opened it to find a collection of anti-Mormon literature. Books written by Pastor Zimmer and Pastor
Rößle respectively. Father had obviously read these works to decide in regards
to his future. Had he left the literature in our bookshelf, I most probably
would not have been driven by curiosity.
In those days, the summer of 1945, my intensive study of hostile voices,
I thought of things back in the past. I remembered something I had almost
forgotten, and it did not make me uncomfortable anymore: I was only 5 years old, holding a small paper
flag with a swastika printed on it. I was very proud. The brown-clad SA men
with their shiny golden instruments had made me happy. What a joy it had been
to watch the drum major with his ornate cord-embroidered baton! As he spun it
around, then threw it up and caught it again. It seemed that everyone watching
was just as fascinated as I. Still enchanted by everything I had just seen and
heard, the marching Band, the music, I returned home to find my father, sitting
like a statue on his favourite seat with his big Bible. As I stood before him,
he shook his bald head, looked at me and my colourful flag, clearly
dissatisfied he asked me to come closer. He simply took the beautiful flag from
my hand, which left me feeling
sad.
About a year later, I received my one and only beating
from him, because I had previously opened the front door of our landlord, Mr.
Eckdisch, and cheekily told him that he was a “Jewish pig.”
This chubby, happy little man, father of two grown
children, must have run straight to my father and told him, “Your son has
insulted me.” I was summoned by Father. He put me face down on his knee,
took off his felt slipper and hit me! It did not really hurt. Over and over
again the words repeated in perfect harmony with the slaps of the slipper: “Never
forget it, my son. All people are children of God! Do you understand? All
people are children of God!”
I, the good-for-nothing, the very seldom thoughtful
person, sat in silence and only saw black shadows engulfing my future. God? What
about God? Father believed, mother too. But I in conversations with older
students had learned that humans came from the animal kingdom. I found their
arguments plausible. And then: the terrible misery all around in the past and
the war? How could a just God allow it all? I experienced how a military patrol
officer was killed by one of his soldiers. I stood three meters away. A
"muzhik-soldier" who was in a niche in the vestibule of a former
cinema box office, held a two-litter milk jug which must have contained liquor.
The man with the “Military Police” armband wanted to take this vessel from the
already drunk man. Someone stopped him.
Three or four Red Army soldiers who probably wanted to share the contents
hindered him. The very young soldier swung the jug and hit the army policeman
with full force squarely on the skull. Although the victim immediately fell to
the ground. He suffered many further fatal blows. Only now one of the
liquor-addled bandits noticed me. His eyes rotated and I ran for my life.
"My life?" what about
this my life?
Mr. Reese, my piano-Teacher, explained,
years before, to me that light shines from all religions, even Islam. Some are
brighter: “You may later remember that. Mormonism is where it shines
brightest...” He said more on this topic, which seemed foreign to me. He
played the organ for Protestant Christians in St. Peter's Church and for the
Catholics in the small church on the“Lustwall. He favoured attending Baptist services, reading Emanuel
Swedenborg's revelations and those of the first Mormon, Joseph Smith. He loved
Indian philosophy and religions. He had told me that repeatedly, but it bored
me. I had found a picture in father's album. I felt
inticed to look at it again and again.
Summer 1937. Left: Elder Larson, my Father, Wilhelm
Skibbe, Johannes Reese, Mrs. Schmidt, and Elder Holt.
I took it upon myself to study people's faces. Holt and Larson, American
Mormon missionaries, impressed me with their charisma, as did my Piano teacher
Mr. Reese. On the other hand, I saw
certain images that complemented each other. I was only seven years old as I
watched the black SS invading the large house at Wilhelmstrasse 53. I can still
recall the face of one of the man from our neighbourhood..
I can even remember his name. The strong man with the black cap with a silver
skull emblazoned on the front was called P. The looks he gave me, a stunned
little
imp, were cold. SS men, citizens of Wolgast, quickly pushed the four
frightened members of the Eckdisch family onto a waiting truck. Within a few
minutes, the supposed protected status dissolved into complete confusion.
At some point these Polish Jews must have reached Warsaw, because in
October 1944 a postcard arrived from a Polish ghetto. The truth is that I,
Gerd, held this mail in my hands, postmarked in Warsaw, it consisted of only
seven words, “Father dead, mother dead, Lotte dead. Jakob.”
Jakob, our landlord's handsome son, often held me on his lap when I was
very small, as did Lotte, who was around 20 years old. Many times, we wondered
how often the well-intentioned words of a little Mormon, named Wilhelm Skibbe,
came ruefully to this family's mind. Mother spoke of the many times heartfelt
conversations between father and our landlord, Mr. Eckdisch had taken place
throughout the years. Father tried to warn him about the misery of his future
and the upcoming events. Often, he pleaded with him. “See, Mr. Eckdisch,
read it for yourself,” and he quoted Ezekiel 37:21: “And thus says the
Lord God; Behold, I will bring the children of Israel out of the nation’s whither
they have gone, and I will gather them from every side, and I will bring them
into their own land." … “Mr.
Eckdisch, be wise, sell your houses, take the money, return to the land of your
ancestors.”
He would have pointed out other similar verses to Mr. Eckdisch. These
included prophecies from Joseph Smith, who predicted 100 years earlier that
Jews from the far corners of the earth would be gathered to their homeland
Palestine. My father is reported to have said that a Jewish convert named Orson
Hyde, called by Joseph Smith, travelled to Palestine in 1838 to consecrate the
land for the return of the Jews.
All of father's efforts were unsuccessful; Mr Eckdisch would have just
shrugged his shoulders. This little “Mormon” could not convince him to give up
everything he had worked for. His life in Germany was good. Father pointed out
Hitler's program regarding the Jews “No,” our landlord insisted: “We
Jews have survived many things the past has heaped on us. We will survive Mr.
Hitler. I am a Jew of Polish nationality. These days, Germany is a civilized
place!" But there was little room for mercy in the heart of a
supposedly Christian nation. The civilization of that time held only a
paper-thin veneer.
Early in the summer of 1945, I worked as a labourer for the Red Army at
the shipyard of Wolgast, which still exists. In our boredom and folly my
friends and I would swim across the far side of the Peene stream, about 200
metres, to the shores of the island of Usedom.
Immigration would have cost the Eckdisch family only $4,000.
Between 1933 and 1936 the fifth Aliyah (wave of immigration) brought
around 170,000 Jews to Palestine. Biblical prophecies and false hope stood in
sharp contrast to each other.
Guarded only partly by barbed wire, stored there lay a huge assembly of
deserted weapons: large wooden boxes by the dozen all over the place,
containing ammunition of every kind. This was the reason the death penalty was
ordered by the warning signs. No one was to step on this little piece of land.
But boys will be boys -and sometimes boys will just be stupid! Within minutes
we took up some of the rifles and started shooting in the air. Oh, how well we
could handle these weapons, and oh, how well we could aim! But the ammunition
we had found and used just happened to be flares! What a wonderful display of
lights! We painted the most amazing signs against the endless, blue sky. The
fact that others would know exactly where we were did not bother us. I felt like
Robinson Crusoe on his remote, free island - a world that belonged to no one
else but him. However, Klein-Zinnowitz was not in the Pacific - it was only a
stone’s throw away from the old duchy of Wolgast. The fact that the Russians
where still suspicious and angry with the Germans, had not entered our mind.
Who would dare to provoke their laws? Suddenly, we heard the typical hum of a
low-flying aircraft. From the distance we saw a huge biplane make its way
towards us, like a colourful bug. Our adventure became somewhat dangerous.
There it was, no more than 80 metres away with a large, red soviet star painted
on the light blue wings, looking down on us. We could see the head of the
pilot. As we hid under the trees he could not see us. Seven rifles aimed at
this huge target. It was to our advantage that none of us lost our heads enough
to fire a shot.
Whatever saved us from this deadly game? I don’t know! I only know it
was none of us. Our saving angel’s name was Buena Bergmann. He appeared
suddenly. Also a member of the Hitler Youth like us, he had climbed over the
barbed wire, and yelled at us, at the top of his voice: “What the devil, do you
think you’re doing here?” Seven defeated smart guys laid their new-found toys
on the ground.
At that moment we became aware that a military police boat had appeared,
although it was still some way off. It circled near the big bridge,
approximately 800 metres away, but could manoeuvre its way towards us at any
moment. If the military police were to catch us it would surely be the end of
us. We decided to flee back the way we had come, via the water. But it was to
no avail. Too many eyes had witnessed our foolish game. Too many ears had heard
the firing of our flare guns. “Great!” We thought as we climbed the ladder onto
the pier, “We’re out of danger.” But the Russian soldiers were waiting for us
there, pulling us up over the embankment.
No one can really ever predict all the consequences of their actions,
even if their intentions stand written on tablets of stone. There are still
1000 variable outcomes - facts that make our life so unpredictable. Surrounded
by soldiers, we stood there, almost naked, frightened to death, with a number
of machine guns pointed at us. What a pitiful sight we must have been, in our
threadbare, black bathing pants! Everything within us and around us froze -
even time. Driving at top speed followed by a cloud of dust, a Jeep came toward
us. In it there was a huge, rough man in green uniform, “the Commandant"!
his chest decorated with many medals. Next to him was a young spindly driver.
No sooner did the Jeep come to a halt than the colossal officer jumped
from his seat. Wide-framed, with heavy footsteps, and his enormous head bowed
to the earth, he came towards us, as angry as a provoked bull. He had
become an angel of vengeance for all the SS and the German military forces
had done to his nation. All eyes were upon him. He was raw, wild, and ready to
devour all that came in his path. He invoked terror and totally controlled the
scene. One word, one wave of his hand and all we would have seen would have
been lightning fire flying from the “Spagin” machine gun surrounding us.
The giant roared like a wounded beast. But the longer he roared the
more we became aware that the weapons pointed at us had not been fired. Somehow
there grew within me a faint hope that perhaps they would let us live. Little
did we suspect that between life and death lay the frozen plains of Siberia or
Karaganda. Many thoughts spun round and round inside my head creating total
chaos. I came to absolutely no conclusion at all. In the end all my longing
focused on one crazy wish: for a miracle to occur.
Our work supervisor, Mr. Kell, a well-known member of the communist
party, dared to face the raging men, whilst the cool-hearted soldiers, only a
little older than we were, stood silent, with their guns, still expecting to
follow the orders of their Commandant. In sharp tones 3 men spoke loudly,
swinging their long arms backwards and forwards, as the flow of words was
translated. At first we did not understand anything at all. The elderly German,
with the red band fastened round his arm, a quiet friendly person, pledged his
own life to rescue us. He offered his life for us! The unbelievable had
happened. The Russian officer with his grim face and his oversized nose showed
mercy on us. Perhaps the SS had shot his own sons or perhaps they had the same
Jewish look as their father. In the end he decided: “You can go!” We ran off in
all directions. I crawled into a little space in the engine room, where I sat
paralysed for a long time. There was not a single word about all this at home.
The worst news sometime reaches the family when it’s all in the past. What had
really happened? Hundreds, yes, thousands of people who had committed less then
we had, were sent to die in the death traps of the concentration camps such as
Waldheim, or stripped of everything to live out their lives in Irkutsk’s prison
camps (gulag prison camps). Most of them never returned home. Two of my friends
were still to experience such a fate.
Slowly I became aware, or perhaps I just wanted to believe, that this
being called God really existed, and that this God of whom I was so unsure, had
indeed protected me in many wonderful ways. Within me awakened a trust that I
should not act against my convictions.
Shortly thereafter, I began looking for a suitable spot in which to hide
Father’s camera from the Russians.
They had demanded that all bicycles, cameras and radios be delivered to
our local post office. I discovered a locked trunk in our attic, which I forced
open. Among other items I also found anti-Mormon literature. There were 2 books
written by Pastor Zimmer and Pastor Roessle. My father had obviously read these
works to make a decision for his future. Had my father left them in the
bookshelf downstairs I would not have felt the slightest inclination to read
them. But hidden away like this, their secrecy held a powerful magic, begging
to be discovered. I made myself comfortable beneath one of the small windows
and read both of these books. The reports of these two pastors had a strange
but powerful hold on me. They were greater than Karl May. With every page I
turned, my desire grew to explore my father’s strange religion of which I was a
member, realising that I had little knowledge of the teachings. Father had seen
to it that I was baptised at the age of 9. As for myself though, I had never
felt as if I belonged in any church at all. Maybe it was because there were no
meeting houses - there were none of the things I would experience some 20 years
later. My reading awakened a strong desire to get to the bottom of it all. Somehow,
I felt that here was something of great importance to me and my future life.
My feelings were totally different towards the authors of these works.
They expressed their point of view with such strong words. Again and again, I
read certain passages initiating me into the strange new world of Mormonism.
Time and space sank into oblivion behind me. Before my eyes opened a door to
the past: “In the year 1870 not a single church building existed in the far
west state of Utah.” Well, that’s what it said in Pastor Zimmer’s
book Among the Mormons. “To start a mission would challenge the
bravest of preachers. By the year 1858 the USA had placed a Christian governor
in Salt Lake City, but Brigham Young seemed to be the ruling force in whose
presence all would tremble. All, yes, even the slightest criticism in regards
to the teachers or heads of this sect, would deliver the victim into the bloody
hands of these evil men, (Danit’s). Hundreds of the members had,”
according to Zimmer, “been murdered on Brigham Young’s orders.” (p. 45).
Instantly I knew that Zimmer was a liar. Purposely he had denied the truth. I
could feel it, but more than that, he knew it as well. On the one hand he
assumed that the priesthood authority claimed by the Mormons was a most
dangerous instrument within the Church, but on the other hand, Zimmer could not
help praising some of the amazing achievements accomplished by these faithful
people. Zimmer hated Brigham Young (who became the leader following Joseph
Smith, the prophet of the restoration), like no other Mormon. However, at the
same time, Zimmer admired all this man had achieved, and wrote of Brigham
Young’s excellent leadership abilities. Zimmer saw him as a man of far
sightedness and perspicacity regarding economy and government affairs, and
as a planner of irrigation systems, “which brought sufficient fresh water to
the whole state of Utah, turning the desert into a fertile garden state. Salt
Lake City, a holy place for all Mormons, has become the central link for trade
between the East and West Rocky Mountains. Utah’s mineral resources will grant
her the chance of becoming one of the largest cities in the West… One of the
items visitors will notice are the broad, beautiful tree-lined streets, each
one 132 feet wide. Young ordered them, following a vision. “
And then I’m amazed to read Pastor Zimmer's words: "Mormons are
blasphemers, brazen liars, adulterers, a community hatched by the power of
darkness.” 'Among the Mormons in Utah'
published in 1907
I read the 130 pages
twice and immediately recognized where Zimmer was lying and where he was
telling the truth. His verdict was forever etched in my memory: "This
motley doctrine sails everywhere under the flag of Christianity... a union
bound together by hideous oaths is like a basilisk, such as only the power of
darkness could hatch... this is the sect which calls itself the Church of Jesus
Christ of Latter-day Saints." I asked myself: What would people
think reading this? After all, at the beginning of the 20th century, the words
of a pious priest were worth as much as pure gold.
Then I read Rößle's work 'From the World of Mormonism' published
1930. All of this happened while there were still great uncertainties outside.
The reports of these 2 pastors had a strange but powerful effect on me.
With every page I turned, the desire to thoroughly explore my father's
religion and church grew within me, - my father had become a member in 1932 -.
There I sat hunched beneath the dim light of the small attic window, I
began to remember, that before the outbreak of World War II at my father's
request, I was baptized in a safe bend of the Peene River by a very young
Mormon elder in Wolgast. At this time, I did not understand what it was all
about, except that it was something good.
It was my 9th birthday. I did not receive any gifts. But when
I emerged from the water, I felt pure joy that lasted for the whole day.
A few days after, I was astonished to see students my own age circling
around me in the schoolyard, mocking me and scornfully calling me a 'saint'.
I had no idea that I now belonged to The Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints. What an unusual name.
A few decades later I learned that around the year 160, AD there was a certain group of early Christians in the Near East that also called themselves 'The Community of Latter-Day Saints' Father Tertullian was one of the leaders of these early Saints. F. Loofs, Dogmengeschichte, Halle Saale-Verlag 1950
With Pastor Rößle's writings at my disposal, I pondered for a long time,
concluding that pastors should never express frivolous opinions. Secondly, that
untruths from the mouths of clergymen are self-prohibiting.
Rößle, repeatedly would contradict himself and thirdly, the tone
suggested hatred, which hardly allows for objectivity. On one page he claimed:
“Countless Germans are being tainted by Mormon teachings. Common people are
supposed to believe that Joseph Smith gives them heavenly food for their
souls... This godless priesthood of the "Mormon Church" that has
deceived thousands is trampling on the Word of God. That needs to be exposed...” But
then Rößle believes that perhaps Joseph Smith was an honest man after all:
“His character is very controversial. Mormons consider him the greatest
martyr and the greatest man to have lived in our time. His enemies simply call
him a liar. Others say that Joseph Smith himself believed in his fantastic
revelations and that he was an instrument in the hands of God. (Joseph Smith)
developed an amazing ability to plan the future. He also has knowledge of
labour and business matters. His kindness and love towards all people were
always appreciated, especially by the humble and uneducated people who revered
him.”
Rößle concluded: “This nominally small, completely different church will one day achieve global status. This American church is a dangerous, superficial faith with a complete lack of biblical knowledge, backed by the power of Satan. They spread their teachings under the banner of the gospel. Because of its satanic powers, the Mormon sect will become a world power and a great danger to the nations of the earth.” End of quotes.
So, there I sat, overwhelmed and
filled with historical facts and bold, massive claims that were unknown to me
until then, both positive and negative.
Rößle wrote his book sometime
before 1930. At that time there were the first clear signs that the National
Socialists would emerge to destroy the Weimar Republic and plunge the world
into real chaos. The Hitler party made a huge leap upwards at that time, with
an increase of 15 percent in the Reichstag elections.
Rößle knew anyway that a system of soul
enslavement was at work in Russia, with the aim of bringing the whole world
under its brutal sceptre.
I thought back to the
conversation in the shattered Gauger shop, where a German prisoner of war had
been asked by a Soviet intellectual just a few days ago to help rebuild a
better world order using journalistic means.
Words that penetrated deep into
my soul at the time. There was a brief glimmer of light. But after the
literature that was now available to me - just a few days later - and after
reading the newspapers "Tägliche Rundschau" that were available in
display cases in Wolgast and that were written by German-writing authors under
communist management, I was already able to see a little further and more. I
could read between the lines. The anti-American tones were already resonating:
The number 18 of this newspaper,
in June 1945, reproduced a letter of thanks that the Czechoslovakian President
Eduard Benesch addressed to Stalin: Benesch praised the achievements of the
Soviet Union that its people had achieved to bring about victory: "They
have borne all the burdens of this since time immemorial... with a tremendous
upswing the entire Soviet Union set to work to supply the Red Army with
everything it needed!" It was this partisan effort by new authors and
article writers who dared to blur our views, who from then on tried to distract
us from essential facts. I counted them myself, the 500 transport planes that
flew from west to east in the winter of 44-45. I soon learned more from the
first wounded released from American prisoner of war camps: In the summer of
'41 Stalin stared helplessly into the black hole of the impending collapse of
his country and his system. Unexpectedly, his arch-enemy, the USA, promised him
support. The United States of America alone supplied the Soviet Union with 4
million tons of food, as well as 15 million pairs of boots, 400,000 jeeps and
trucks, and 13,000 locomotives and freight cars, until at least mid-1945. 4,000
bombers, 10,000 fighter planes, 7,000 tanks, 130,000 machine guns, 78,000
jeeps, 220,000 Studebaker trucks to carry the multiple rocket launchers (Stalin
organs) and more.”
Mark Harrison: "Soviet Planning in Peace and War 1938–1945". Cambridge 1985
During the days of reading in the
summer of 1945, I tried to form a fundamental opinion. I had not learned to be
familiar with the power of prayer. But there was something inside me that was
pushing for clarity. I was amazed at my sudden urge of getting to know myself. Johannes Reese had taught me that the ancient
Greeks taught: Know who you are. Yes, my father too often mentioned that we are
not just of this world that our spirits are eternal.
I did not ever feel to contradict
it.
Here was Johannes Reese, a highly
educated man, and my father, who was well-versed in the Bible and the book of
Mormon, who had offered me a certain reliable foundation.
Thoughts filling my heart and my
head. I thought back to my piano teacher Johannes Reese, this portly man around
thirty. Occasionally he interrupted the lessons he was giving me before the
bombing of Peenemünde. He gave me books that
described world history, which led me to read indiscriminately between robber
literature and Homer's Odyssey. In fact, as a 13-year-old, I felt sadness and
pity when I read that Niobe, the mother of seven daughters and seven sons, lost
twelve of her beloved children because of her pride. Artemis killed Niobe's
daughters with arrows and Apollo killed Niobe's sons. Then he explained faith
and science. He quoted repeatedly: “I always do my best to have a clear
conscience toward God and men." Acts 24 :16 Only a few weeks ago, as I
returned the sixteen cubes of margarine I had stolen, I remembered: This was a
decision of conscience which made me happy. And that in turn gave rise to new
questions.
And then there was the everyday. The
real life, the ruled by law life. Against his will, my father became a soldier.
Orders had to be carried out, whether they made sense or not.
Between the newspapers and
letters from my father which surrounded me, I
thought of Doblies, my elementary school teacher - the man with the
stick - who disliked me as much as I disliked him. He was a bald 50-year-old,
someone, I heard, who knew everything but hardly passed any of it on to me.
Imparting knowledge is not everyone's cup of tea. Nevertheless I had gained a considerable
amount of knowledge. How did I deal with it? It was not enough to call lies,
lies. Lies led to the Eckdisch family being arrested.
Martin Doblies, the senior
teacher who had been transferred for political reasons, was obviously
dissatisfied with his life and he let us feel it. This led to most of my
classmates disliking him.
He had never been a teacher of
children. His yellow cane was important to him. Who knew that better than me?
Every day he used his yellowish bamboo cane, about one meter twenty long, which
could whistle like a cathedral sparrow at a certain frequency.
The image of the well-known
coachman Lüders immediately came vividly to
mind. His son, who was ten at the time, usually sat next to me. In the middle
of a lesson, the door opened. Father Lüders, with his big face red with anger, came in loudly. He swung his
whip and shouted: "Doblies, you won't hit anyone here
anymore!"
His Peter had to take a beating
from Doblies the day before.
Doblies called for the caretaker,
who of course didn't come. Lüders, a man of 1.80 m
height and very powerfully built, would have shown him how to tame even bundles
of strength. A little later I was there when the haulage contractor Lüders drove alder wood from an
alder grove for my father. Four strong horses fought discordantly as they tried
to pull the loaded wagon through the mud until Lüders became angry.
For a few days, Mr. Doblies
suspended his usual method of educating the unruly and disinterested.
In the middle of the war, when we
were already twelve and thirteen, we read one morning that he had died. It was
not a cheap obituary of three lines but provided with all the trimmings and the
time of his burial Hallelujah! We were still laughing and froze when he opened
the door, as lively as ever. He certainly suspected what we were thinking, that
we had rejoiced too soon. For six years, he was the only one to teach all
subjects, a total bore. Only once during this time did he hand out music
grades, which then remained in all the following years as an expression of not
only my lack of talent, a five! I was supposed to sing. I belted out "May
has come" with all my might in high tunes. He was not comfortable with
that. My boy soprano, with the years turning to tenor, were praised by many singing
teachers just after the war. But, Doblies had his own standards, that of an unromantic
one. During these six long years, I tasted his pedagogical aid at least five
times a week. Only two lashes, though. As a precaution, I always wore woollen
underpants under my knee breeches, even though I hated wool.
He immediately foiled my trick of
putting a thin notebook between them. My brother Helmut, who was also Doblies
subordinate, had once again not done his homework following my example. Doblies
had to take revenge for that the next day: "You're the older one!"
By order of the Soviet military
administration
Early in autumn 1945 we had to
reopen our business to make wooden clogs. There was no one to teach nor
instruct me in any way. It was taken for granted that I would cut the wooden
soles. I placed one of the 5 m long saw
blades on the rubber-padded wheels of our huge band saw and off I went.
Luckily, father had been given leave from his military commander years ago to
make several thousand “wedges.” These planks were now available to me. I drew
the existing templates on the wood and cut out 50 to 60 pieces of wooden soles
per day, hollowed them by hand. and fashioned a heel. Mother was proud of me.
The customers - mostly small farmers - overlooked the fact that they were not
purchasing works of art. Then nearing 16, I had made progress. Business was
booming. Farmers often paid by bartering potatoes and vegetables. This was a
big plus in times of increasing general hunger. It was even good for our
employees and here and there for refugees that had found their way to Wolgast
because on Sundays they took part in our meals. Mrs. Behringer worked as our
housemaid. One day she showed me a photo. Two beautiful girls posed there. “Oh,
I said, the one on the right looks like a movie star.”
“That is my Dorchen!” proudly replied the mother. The
very next day “Dorchen,” the blonde nineteen-year-old beauty, appeared
in my workshop. She stood there beaming with a cheeky smile. Without much
hesitation she let me know what was most important to her: “I have a
storm-free room at the Gauger house. Come and visit me sometime.”
"When?" I asked.
“Tonight, if you want!” As then I did not know what a storm-free room was. The evening was wonderful. I was offered liquor and cigarettes. Despite all my stupidity, I did not touch the alcohol. I tried smoking. Coughed and so on; it was terrible. She lived with her friend in a well-furnished room with double beds. But then, in the presence of her friend, she asked me the question: “Should I take off my clothes?” My soul was about to cheer loudly: “Yes, please,” Followed by words my father had spoken hit me: “Never touch a woman, unless she is legally your own!” He had shared this advice during our walk through the park on his last leave from the front. He was an introverted, intelligent man. His Wehrmacht unit was in Kerch in the Crimea.
That must have been at the end of
1942. He heard the field reports and concluded that the Battle of Stalingrad
had ended disastrously. The harsh Russian winter was approaching. If the 6th
German Army lost, the entire German South-Eastern Front would collapse like a
house of cards. Then Kerch would be overrun. That would also be his end. The
next day's news was positive, but that did not convince him. He began to fast
and pray, as all Christians of honest conviction have always done. He described
this to us when he was already in hospital in Stralsund, near Wolgast, because
of jaundice. "He pleaded: Dear God, I do not want to be in the situation
of shooting people. Please send me an illness that will take me back to
Germany." He firmly believed this.
After father recovered, he was
transferred to Narvik, Norway, where there was no fighting until the end of the
war. And so, I learned that Mother had been healed five years earlier because
of his faith:
In 1937, when she was just 29
years old, she was diagnosed with advanced tuberculosis. She was admitted to
the Greifswald University Hospital. Her X-rays showed seven bean-sized holes in
her left lung. The surgeons decided to shut down the affected lung. Father,
fearing the worst, sent a card to Demmin because our missionaries were
stationed there. In this post, he asked them to come to the clinic to give
Mother a Priesthood blessing.
As Elder Latschkowski entered the
large room - (he came alone because there was a missionary exchange) - where
Mother, among many other women, was lying. She waved to him. He shrugged his
shoulder and walked to her bed, expressing that he had no idea who she was.
Mother quickly clarified the situation: “I had a dream in which I had the
privilege to meet you.” Minutes later father joined them, thanking Brother
Latschkowski for the prompt answer to his request, to which the elder in
surprise replied that he had not heard of such a request. His visit came about
from an undeniable feeling, a clear indication, a heaven-sent inspiration so to
speak, to travel to this city, to this clinic, to find Julianne Skibbe. The
veil of previous uncertainty fell immediately. Three souls knew that great
things were about to happen. Elder Latschkowski gave mother a priesthood blessing.
The following day, the surgeons decided to take an additional X-ray before
surgery. Astonished, almost in disbelief, seven doctors examined the new X-ray
plates again and again. Shaking their heads, exclaiming: “This is a medical
miracle! Where are the holes of the former x-ray?”
No, no confusion. Her name is
written on both plates.
After this event mother plus all
our family were examined for many years. Mother lived after this event a life
of perfect health for over 50 years.
So, it was for me in this time a
miracle to remember my father’s intense warning
about my relationship with girls.
Before this time, I thought it
sort of silly. All at once now I understood the meaning of his warning. I left the room.
Weeks later some boys asked me
how I was doing because Dorchen had infected them with a plague. Thank you, Father, my good father!
I cannot remember if I thanked
God at the time. But yet, my faith grew. It was Rößle's and Zimmer's hateful
writings that moved me to do better.
Doblies again
In the spring of 1946, when the
first buds on the chestnut trees opened, I enrolled in a math and philosophy
course at the adult education centre.
And I attended music evenings and
the Bible reading group organized by my private piano teacher Reese. As far as
my free time was concerned, fishing took second place. One day my classmate
Bikowski came into my workshop with his sister, where I was sharpening the saw
blades. They were the children of the former cigar dealer whose house collapsed
when the Peene Bridge was blown up - probably due to an overdose of dynamite.
He sold me the exact saw blades I
needed. I think his price was OK. And then he started to talk to me:
"We're sixteen now. I'm joining the French Foreign Legion." As far as
I knew, you had to be 17, but he insisted: "Oh, Gerd. That is the
thing. All you do is a little service and then you get to the women!"
When he said that, his sister displayed her feminine features for me. As if I
were an old wise man, I replied: "and then they'll burn you, in faraway
wars!" He just grinned. I waved him off and he called me crazy. I
never saw either of them again.
Some years later I met a writer
in a literary circle who was a member of the French Foreign Legion who had
served in the Algerian War and Vietnam. He recounted the ferocity with which
the locals defended their country. More than once, he had escaped by a whisker.
In a swampy area, he had to completely submerge himself to avoid being
discovered, gasping for breath through a reed.
When Doblies entered the
philosophy lecture hall, my blood ran cold. Doblies again. In stark contrast to
what came out of Reese's mouth, empty words poured out over me, whom he
recognized but continued to pay little attention to. At some point, after Doblies
had read from a sheet of paper and lectured on Plato
and Archimedes, he drew his
conclusions. The ancient Greeks had succeeded with their ideas, but
Christianity had failed. I raised my hand. Doblies slowly stroked his reddish,
bald head and pricked up his ears: Little Skibbe, what nonsense is he trying to
babble about now? I said: "As far as I understand, Christianity cannot
fail because it encourages every person to improve. Christianity radiates light
and goodness. The Christian churches and their leaders have failed. They have
defaced the original ideas." This caused a stir. There were about 40 people
present that evening, all of them baptized, and they all knew that in the last
30 years Christians had fought murderously against each other twice, that
German Christians had been involved in the mass murder of Jews, and that even
clergy had been Nazis at heart.
Doblies was astonished. After my statement, a
newly married couple living in the house of the leather goods merchant Pöpkes
invited me for a chat. It was a cozy attic apartment, which I entered the next
evening. On the small round table stood a vase filled with branches of bursting
chestnut buds. I could only refute the obvious false claims of Zimmer and
Roessle and repeat and confirm the conclusions of Reese and my father, but I
can't remember much more... For the first time in my life, I explained what I
had discovered about religion: Mormonism is very close to the early Christian
religion, that it is not correct to deny my church its Christianity.
In late summer 1946
Photo Bundesarchiv
Reisen 1946 -47 in Deutschland zwischen Juli und Oktober
Friends invited us to attend a
district conference in Schwerin. Mother did not feel too well. Helmut, now 10
years old, offered to come with me. Normally the train journey from Wolgast to
Schwerin took about 5 hours. Nothing however was as uncertain in the first 2
years after the war as a journey on the “Reichsbahn. People from the south came
to exchange carpets or paintings for potatoes from farmers in the northern
regions. Often the trains were hopelessly overloaded. Luckily, we found a seat after
each train change. However, I did not know where in the big city this meeting
was taking place. Maybe no-one had given me the address. Later, the next day, I
saw posters hanging in the city inviting people to the conference. The posters were allowed by the local
authorities because at the time “the Mormons” were still considered a Church
which had been defamed by the Nazis. After arriving 6 hours late we felt, to
say the least, a little lost. On this warm late summer evening hundreds, if not
thousands, of people walked on Lübeck and Wismar Street, enjoying the peace.
Here in Schwerin at least every
second person must have fled the East from the Red Army. It seemed as if there
had never been a war. Everything looked incredibly calm. There were no traces
of war anywhere. Above all, I found it amazing to see so many men. Where did
they all come from? Whom should I contact? There was a hum produced by
innumerable voices, for it seemed to me that not the slightest breeze was
blowing. The sounds of voices spread far and wide. It occurred to me that I could inquire of the
where-abouts of the police headquarters. Someone had to know where this “Conference
“was taking place. In the middle of the crowd, I stopped a Lady who in the
company of several other people walked in the same direction as Helmut and I.
Once she perceived that we were strangers in the city she simply said, “Come
and join us!” No more. Within seconds I overheard that she spoke to
her friends about the Conference. The name of Neumärker was mentioned. That was
the man who had invited me to the conference. The kind lady’s name was Elli
Polzin, it turned out that she was a refugee from Stettin. A Member of the
church. I longed to get to know this
kind group of people better.
I, now 16
The way she invited Helmut and me to share a bed on the floor with her
children was, like her entire being, unforgettable to me. It was this self- evident loyalty to
the ideals of Mormonism that still exuded them half a century
later. Such a smart, self-confident, humorous woman who, two years later, was
lucky enough to see her husband again, who had been deployed as a medic on the
"Eastern Front" and then a long-term prisoner of war in a country
where the victors themselves suffered from hunger. On Sunday my brother and I sat
in the women's meeting because when there was a call for class separation, we
remained seated. It was announced that the priesthood holders would gather in
an adjoining room. I did not yet have the title of priest, the lowest was given
to boys from the age of 12 if they wanted to be worthy and active. I was
fascinated listening to Sister Rovolt (or Ruwolt). the Relief Society
president. It was the strength and noble nature of her mental attitude that she
shared with us: "I used to live in Hamburg, I lost my home, my 2
sons, my husband, but not my faith..." An old gentleman appeared.
He removed us from the women's meeting. We were now sitting with at least 30
men during this meeting. I felt the good atmosphere of this group. But I missed
the wonderful excitement of before. It seems that women question their hearts
more intensely and let it speak. In the writings about Abinadi, we read how he
admonishes the priests in King Noah's court and accuses them of being too
"cerebral": " Ye have not applied your hearts to
understanding, therefore, ye have not been wise...” Mosiah 12:27
Since that experience, I have
increasingly sought friendship with open-minded people of all faiths and
worldviews. I was convinced that we shared basic Christian values even with
pastors like Zimmer and Rößle. There were simply too many misunderstandings. I
wanted to clear these up wherever possible. Ultimately, we all wanted to follow
the spirit of reconciliation among all well-meaning people. Religion was like
music: the whole world in all its diversity and beauty could be described with
twelve semitones. While hardly any melody sounded like another, nobody liked
disharmonies. Of course, everyone has their own God - as Goethe said - but that
does not mean denying that above all there is only one, the only true God, as
Jesus called him: Elohim! Psalm 82: 1
God [Elohim]
stands in the divine assembly; he administers judgment in the midst of the gods
[Elohim]
Years later, initially on the
long journey home from Schwerin to Wolgast, the flat, calm face of Lady Rovolt
appeared before my eyes. This woman had gone through the most bitter trials.
But never lost the spirit that turns mere humans into saints.
Before father returned home, I
learned that my friends Richard and Gerhard Lange had swum or rowed over to the
island of Usedom at night, contrary to their promise to Mr. Kell, our rescuer.
There they helped themselves to carbines and the corresponding ammunition.
Whenever the moon constellation was right, they ventured out to go hunting. At
one such forthcoming venture they needed a third person to act as the security
guard. They asked me to replace the person that would usually go with them. In
case the Russian army patrol showed up, I was to blow this special whistle. I,
however, was afraid and refused. Because of my cowardice they were caught and
immediately sentenced to a ten Ukas. (10 years) Should I blame myself? At times
I felt sad about it all. In 1949, on the founding of the GDR, both were
pardoned by President Wilhelm Pieck. I met Richard again. At that time, I had
just returned from Prenzlau for a short vacation, where, at the age of nearly 19,
I was working on my apprenticeship in a large tree nursery. I was surprised to
find some stranger lying on “my” sofa at home. I could not recognize him. He
pulled back the blanket. There before me lay a skeleton covered in human skin: “Richard!”
I dare not write all which he
reported. Sadists with red armbands starved them and beat them. Another, form
of harassment was to give the boys a clear view of the women and girls who,
like their male fellow sufferers, also suffered from a lack of love. Richard
said: “I didn't know where to go” he stammered,” my family ran off to
Sweden, supposedly on a fishing boat.” Richard did not accuse me of
betraying him. “They came with dogs.” This led to the conclusion that
they would have caught me as well. Succinctly Richard added: “My liver is
destroyed, I am going to the West, no one around here can help me.”
In the fall of 1946, after
Richard and his brother were arrested and sent to the Waldheim camp,
missionaries once more arrived in our area. At the time, after fathers escape
from a prison camp in France., Elder Walter Krause came to visit us. A man
around 35, with strong facial features, a drawn nose, and a pleasant demeanour.
Although Father acknowledged him, he struggled with his depressions which had
deepened with the information he had received during his 18 months in
captivity. He escaped from the hard labours in a French coal mine by taking a
risky escape. War reporting was one of the causes of his condition. In the last
days of the war. The German military radio station reported among other things,
of the fierce fighting for the Wolgast bridgehead. The city was retaken three
times. In dark daydreams he saw his family lying under rubble. The uncertainty
drove him. Since his childhood, he suffered from depressive phases as a
half-orphan at the side of his father, who at the loss of his wife was in a
constant state of being drunk. They both grieved endlessly for the loss of my
father's mother.
As he entered the workshop I was
working at the band saw. He could not believe his eyes. I had turned into an
adult and taken his place. I was happy, but he just waved off wearily. When he
saw mother, Helmut, and my sister Helga all doing well, he collapsed. For
months after his unauthorized return to his family, he did not leave his bed.
Old depressions attacked him for new reasons. Seeing us in good health and in a
rather cheerful mental state was probably too much for him, a man of great
compassion. He fought against himself, this led to obsessive thinking.
It wasn't until the spring of
1949 that my father finally became master of himself for almost two decades. He
earned relatively large amounts of money and bought a house on Wolgaster
Bahnhofstrasse. Mother was happy, for the next 16 years, all then was well with
him. Until he fell into severe depressions once more and committed suicide. He
categorically refused any specialists or medical help. Despite all the wounds
he suffered in Allied bombing raids, Walter Krause came to us, albeit on
crutches. He was one of the survivors of the destruction of the city of Dresden
in February 1945. Only months after this tragedy, he left his family behind in
Cottbus to fulfill a mission for his God on behalf of many disoriented,
desperate people. The mission president at the time, Richard Ranglack,
lamented: “Walter, God and we need you!” Incredible! Walter in so poor a
condition obeyed.
But who supported him
financially? Who helped his family of four locally? I knew that he had a very valuable stamp
collection. I suspect that he resorted to expensive individual pieces, which he
sold to well-known collectors as needed. He also received food from the people
he visited in his widely scattered surroundings. It was not uncommon for him to
walk long distances to reach his destinations, to spare pennies even in the
middle of winter.
Walter Krause 1909 - 2004
Walter was fascinated by the idea
that people had to be well educated to be able to make judgements. A huge
vacuum was now emerging in the East, which unscrupulous propagandists wanted to
fill to profit from it themselves. I repeatedly saw how alleged Marxists
capitalized on their change of heart. Walter was a carpenter by trade. I know
that he made doors and small pieces of furniture for the needy free of charge,
and our workshop was available to him for this purpose. He went along when
permission was granted to fell dead trees in certain forests.
Before, for months Reese had been
holding home meetings in our living quarters, since there were no authorized
teachers from our church in our area. Around 20, sometimes more Souls would
gather. All of them refugees who lived emotionally exhausted after the
collapse. I had given them tracts that previous missionaries left at our home,
which I found among the anti-Mormon literature in our attic. At some point I
invited my friend Hans Schult, who later served as district president of East
Berlin. Walter come in the right time to overtake Reese’s part. Reese often
used my father's mail, which had arrived from Norway in May 1945, without
asking Mother much. He took them from the pile of letters that lay open on
Father's desk. Then he said to the group, “Here is another letter from Wilhelm
Skibbe.” In fact, these letters always included reflections on Bible quotations
that Father connected to the teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints. Father was truly a thinker. He thought theology was great
because it put love first and respected everyone’s freedom of choice. Even
Almighty God would never intervene unless we ask. Although God wants us to be aware of our
weaknesses, He will never humble people. On the contrary.
More and more People of all
different attitudes found their long-lost faith in a loving God. Of course
there were oppositions at times, like in this case recorded in Walter Krause's
diary. (Published in 2005
by Edith Krause, “Walter Krause in his time”): “In April 1947, Gerd was to
fulfill an order for his mother: Gerd I need you to go to the village of
Mahlzow on the island of Usedom to buy some fish. Walter was happy to go with
me; because once again we had the opportunity to reflect on the principles of the
gospel. … Edith Schade came with us. So, the three of us went down to the
Peene, where we boarded a ferry that took us to the island. Upon arrival, we
learned that Soviet Army officers were checking the passports of all
travellers. (Walter immediately suspected something bad) “What is all this?” I
thought to myself... Gerd and Edith came
without IDs. You were asked to go to the right. I had my passport with me,
which was issued in four languages. Mr. Suhrmann (a leader in coal mining in
Saxony after the war) got it for me. I was told to go left. After all, around
30 people had been checked, the people on the right were allowed to move on. So
Gerd and Edith Schade were free, but the others were told that they would
remain under guard. Gerd and Edith discussed the situation and then came to
tell me that they would definitely stay with me. I declined their offer because
I feared for Edith's safety given the number of Russian officers. However, the
two did not change their minds. After some time, a huge military truck arrived.
We were told to climb up and sit on the ground while the Soviet soldiers
guarded us with machine guns... We
didn't like this forced trip across the beautiful island of Usedom. The
42-kilometres-long journey ended in the town of Heringsdorf. The truck stopped
in front of one of the old holiday villas...There the people were divided up
and sent to different rooms in the building. The three of us were separated...
As we waited, darkness fell over the world. One by one we were brought before
the commander, who was also sitting in a darkened room. Edith Schade later told
us that she was afraid because of the darkness because she could only hear the
voice of the interpreter and the man who asked many questions. Somewhere in the
back corner the beds were squeaking. At this point we didn't know that Gerd Skibbe
was the first to be interviewed. He was then released and waited for us.
Eventually I was informed that I had been mistaken for a Nazi leader named
Schwede-Coburg (Nazi "Gauleiter" of the Pomeranian party district)
who they did not want to let escape. The commander told me that a “brother”
(Gerd) and a “sister” (Edith) were waiting for me, who did not show any fear of
him during any of their interrogations - that we all told the same story. We
could go. Before I left the room, the officer shook my hand, opened his uniform
jacket, and told me that he, too, was a believer. He wore a picture of the
Madonna on a chain.” End of Quotes
In the spring of 1947, I, Gerd,
experienced how a military patrol officer was killed by one of his soldiers. I
stood three meters away and wanted to buy a movie ticket. A "muzhik"
who was standing in a niche of the anteroom of the cinema box office was
holding a two-Liter milk jug which must have contained liquor. The man with
the “Military Police” armband wanted to take this vessel from the
already drunk man. Someone stopped him. Three or four Red Army soldiers
who probably wanted to share the drink hindered him. The very young soldier
swung the jug and hit the army policeman with full force squarely on the skull.
Although the victim immediately fell to the ground. He suffered many further
fatal blows. Only now one of the liquor-addled bandits noticed me. His eyes
rotated and I ran for my life.
Gerhard D. – a special
case
1947 Walter Krause received
support from Gerhard D., who came from Saxony and was a very special
missionary, 19 years old and corrupt to the bone.
Walter Krause did not immediately
become aware of Gerhard's hidden ambition and passions otherwise he would have
sent him home without further ado. But fate moved faster than expected. My
mother and I were the first to notice that there was something noticeably wrong
with this young man. I found him smoking in my father's woodshed; a room full
of tinder-dry wood and wood chips. It stood among many old German half-timbered
houses that had lasted for hundreds of years. Gerhard nervously swung his arms
through the air to try and drive away the smell and clouds of tobacco smoke,
but to no avail. Gerhard was supposed to help me cut wood in our small factory
but he cared little. He preferred to sit in the warm living room and when I
entered, he immediately hid a book. This made me suspicious and curious. After
haphazardly opening and reading 2 pages, I asked him, “Why did you
bring Bocaccios Decameron to our house?” He shrugged his shoulders and
replied condescendingly, “I’m old enough for that.” The situation worsened when
Gerhard, reluctantly, agreed to help me transport wood from the forest, 15 km
from Wolgast. We lifted the heavy, two-meter-long logs onto the truck, an old,
slow vehicle that ran on wood gas, because petrol was rarely available.
Exhausted, we climbed onto our load and let the sun and gentle spring air warm
our backs as the truck crawled home. When we reached the small village of
Zemitz, Gerhard decided to provoke. He took off his shirt. To my horror, I saw
the bright colours of the Nazi flag with the swastika on his undershirt. As we
drove through the greenery of the long village lane, he sat there like a
statue. Anyone could have seen him with the red, white, and black NAPOLA
emblem. (NAPOLA means special school for future leaders in Adolf Hitler's Third
Reich, also a workshop to train spies) The coat of arms surrounded his chest
like a ring of fire. I felt like I should jump off the rolling truck. Two years
had already passed since the lost war. Two years of looking at the ruins and
torment of everything left behind by the barbaric Hitler fascism. Even though
most Germans found it difficult to obey all the orders of the Soviet power,
actions like the ones Gerhard demonstrated that day defied all reason. This was
a bold, unforgivable provocation. If someone with a sense of responsibility had
seen us, we both would inevitably end up behind bars. “Have you gone
crazy?” I yelled. He just grinned.
Under this sign, not only did every family in Germany have to endure
great trials, but all of Europe was still suffering. Thousands of cities in
Europe, between Coventry and Stalingrad, had been razed to the ground. I didn't
dare to tell Walter Krause. I did not
want to be a traitor again. A few days after Gerhard D. foolishly revealed his
political affiliations, He was arrested by Red Army officers in Stralsund - 100
kilometres from Wolgast - for sitting in the first-class waiting room at the
station. This was reserved for officers and civilian employees of the Red Army.
However, every now and then the Soviet military police checked the passports of
everyone present. Gerhard, as we later found out, spoke perfect Russian. He loved vodka and, as we then learned, he
had to have acquired a large repertoire of dirty jokes on the Napola
Marienburg, East Prussia, to be able to operate according to orders as an
Eastern agent in Russia. Of course he didn't have a valid passport. At NAPOLA, it was there that
he had been weaned from any kind of religious affiliation. Poor Walter Krause!
After Gerhard's arrest, Walter
was summoned to appear before the commandant in Stralsund. The official
informed him that his life would not be worth much to the Russian authorities
if such an event as described above were to repeat itself. However, Walter had
acquired an excellent reputation in the past few months. The commander might
have known that. Walter Krause looked after orphans from member families and
others in need. As a rule, he did not get involved in political
discussions.
I met Gerhard again in 1968 at a
church meeting in East Berlin. He waved to me. I shrugged. He came to tell me
who he was. He wished to be my friend again. For 20 years he had to go
through various prison camps and Siberia's coal mines. He worked in hot,
water-filled, life-threatening holes. There he had ample opportunity to curse
his fascist educators, who had left him as a dog, first trained and then
rejected. Torn back and forth, I ultimately doubted Gerhard's honesty.
Somewhere, deep within us, there seems to be a mechanism that doesn't allow us
to shake off feelings of distrust. Although sometimes maybe we should. I said a
few empty words. He must have felt pain, deep soul pain, when he saw that I
rejected him. What he desperately needed was a genuine welcome and a hug. My
behaviour back then depresses me to this day. Soon afterwards he died. I could
have done good for him. The thought that they might have turned him into a
Soviet spy never seemed to leave me. For a long time, we had been aware
that we were under constant surveillance, by the “Stasi.” Gerhard had returned
to us. At that time, we “Mormons”,
especially the leaders to whom I belonged, were still considered members of
what, in communist eyes, was a dangerous American sect. We had to be extra
careful.
In 1947 and 1948 I had to deliver the food rations
that the church had sent to us from Utah to support the needy people and
non-members alike. So, I transported the packages throughout Mecklenburg and
Western Pomerania once or twice a week.
Because of my humatarian church passport, the
responsible officials allowed me to travel in special cars reserved for Russian
generals. Their attitude surprised me. Our church had a well-functioning
welfare program since 1936 to help its members and friends. Thousands of tons of
wheat were delivered to the people of Germany. The Russians gave their consent
(signed by the military commander in Karlshorst) that the Red Cross and the
Soviet military administration would operate together with the church. In practice,
this means that at least half of all deliveries were made for the benefit of
secular institutions. Soon after the war, President Ezra T. Benson was the
first to appear on site, against the objections from American authorities who
saw Benson's safety in danger, to see with his own eyes the full extent of the
misery that had come to German and other European cities. By 1949, numerous small containers of wheat
passed through my hands, as well as many other foods like peaches, beans,
tomatoes, soups, clothing, and shoes; all of which had to be transported by
rail. I felt just so blessed for never losing even one of my intrusted cargos.
Complete strangers often saw me struggling with the heavy containers on the
platform and helped me. I have never had to defend these precious gifts from
our members in the United States. I was always aware of the trust placed in me
and was very careful. 1947 I remember seeing a fat,” feral-looking girl like a
vicious guard dog sitting on a large pile of potatoes at the Bahnhof Zoo whilst
traveling through West Berlin in the icy winter were millions of people
suffered from severe hunger. Old and disabled citizens died of hunger. Typhus
was widespread. Looking back, it was a miracle that I almost always found a
seat on the constantly overcrowded trains. Nothing was dangerous,
except the beautiful eyes of girls my own age when they looked at me; but I was
obedient and told myself: “Be good, Gerd, one day you will find
the best and most beautiful young lady and one day marry her.” On my
travels I saw many cities in East Germany. Not all of them looked as
destroyed as Hamburg. Schwerin, Greifswald and Stralsund - places that I often
visited, remained undamaged by the Allied air raids. Berlin. Demmin,
Neubrandenburg, Dresden, and numerous other places of residence lay in black rubble. It was depressing to see the
general hopelessness of many older women while at the same time there was the
loud dancing music of others.
Immediately after the collapse of the so-called 3rd Reich, it became
known that millions of Jews were herded into concentration camps and then
burned simply because they were Jews. It affected them all, children and
mothers, simple and schooled people. Suddenly the horror was great. Only a few
people were aware of the extent of this crimes. It happens secretly, hidden. In
my mind I saw the skull symbol of SS man P., which he wore as a cockade on his
service cap. He had captured the
Eckdisch family - So I thought back to this harmless family and in this context
asked myself: “Why did the Europeans, especially the Germans, persecute the
Jews? How could major crimes of this magnitude ever occur?” Walter Krause
pointed out that the catholic Church had been threatening Jews since the fourth
century, bishops like Ambrose of Milan and Cyril of Alexandria, treated them
viciously for no reason. The Jews rejected to be “Christians” for
understandable reasons. Martin Luther hated them because they also rejected his
version of the faith. I was amazed: The first thing I found in the Bible when I
was 17 years old was that the multiple prophecies expressed both promises and
warnings: “If you obey the voice of the Lord your God and all his
commandments that I have given you: And it shall come to pass, if thou shalt
hearken diligently unto the voice of the Lord thy God,
to observe and to do all his commandments which I command thee
this day, that the Lord thy God will set thee on high above all
nations of the earth:” From the perspective of 21st century observers, it is
clear that the number of Nobel Prize winners of Jewish origin, relative to all
others, is a 100 to 1 as a percentage of the total world population. No one can
deny it. The Israelites are a special people. However, the warnings from the
same Torah chapter were equally extreme: “But it shall come to pass, if thou
wilt not hearken unto the voice of the Lord thy God, to observe
to do all his commandments and his statutes which I command thee this day; that
all these curses shall come upon thee, and overtake thee: Cursed shalt thou be in
the city, and cursed shalt thou be in the field. Cursed shall
be thy basket and thy store. Cursed shall be the fruit of thy
body, and the fruit of thy land, the increase of thy kine, and the flocks of
thy sheep. Cursed shalt thou be when thou
comest in, and cursed shalt thou be when thou goest out.
The Lord shall send upon thee cursing, vexation, and rebuke, in all
that thou settest thine hand unto for to do, until thou be destroyed,
and until thou perish quickly; because of the wickedness of thy doings,
whereby thou hast forsaken me.” Verse 15-20
I found more answers in the works of the Protestant pastor and
university professor Hartwig Weber. “Anti-Semitism is a product of pagan
times that was officially and in principle brought to full flower by
Christians... After Constantine the Great's Edict of Toleration, anti-Semitism
was able to develop and became universal and permanent. The Christian Church
made it an important part of its teachings. Gregory of Nyssa, in 370, called
the Jews "the enemies of mercy, defenders of the devil, haters of good…
In 1215, at the 4th Lateran Council, they demanded that all Jews and Arabs
should wear an identification tag. As a result, Jews were required to wear
yellow or red hats and a yellow ring on their coat. Jewish women had to wear a
ribbon on their bonnet. The history of Christianity since the days of
Constantine has been a history of the fusion of power and war…” „Jugendlexikon” S. 330
No scene is forgotten, nothing,
if we find interest in each other.
In 1948 there were several events
that could not have been more opposite
Since
May 1945, the Soviets had to reluctantly allow the Allies to station troops in
Berlin, due to alliance agreements with the victorious powers of USA, Great
Britain and France. This did not fit the concept of potential world conquerors.
After 1946, the communists made numerous attempts to
incorporate West Berlin into the Eastern Bloc. From 1947 onwards, the Western
“occupiers” were repeatedly asked to pack their bags and leave. The communists
organized protest marches. Banners were mainly carried in East Germany, written
on it: “Ami go home!” Democracy and dictatorship were irreconcilably
opposed.
There were other posters in the
East that clearly showed what was going on. The communist leader, Lenin, taught
and demanded the expulsion of capitalists, the clergy and everyone else who did
not want to become communists. That scared a lot of people. Lenin's successor,
Joseph Stalin, continued this fearsome course. He was determined to force all
people to say and confess, that only he had the right to rule and reign. That
only he knows what truth is or must be.
Communist leaders in East Berlin were
determined to establish their dictatorship in West Berlin as well. However, the
Allies ensured security. That was the reason why the communists tried to drive
out the Americans, British and French.
In 1948 the time had come. The
communists had thought of a trick. All of us in
the East saw through the underlying motives. But the leaders of the Western
world Churchill and Roosevelt, in their triumphant sense of victory,
overlooked at the end of 1944, the fact that Stalin's true intention was to
subjugate the entire world to communism. They rejoiced that World War II was
finally over. Now comes the long-awaited, lasting peace for all. Even at the
Yalta Conference of February 4-11, 1945, it would not have been too late to
curb Russia's expansionist ambitions. Roosevelt himself was already tired of
life, but his advisers should have realized that the Soviets would brazenly
secure the biggest piece of the pie for themselves. This tormented us, in 1948,
as hard facts repeatedly reminded us of the reality of our fears. Facts that
had been planned in the Kremlin dominated. The unsatisfiable greed of the
Kremlin rulers led to half of Berlin falling to the Russians.
Divided Germany between 1945 and
1989
Divided Berlin between 1945 and
1989
On the night of June 24, 1948,
Soviet troops closed all access routes to West Berlin, i.e. this affected the
land and waterways. This made it impossible
to feed the 2.2 million people, plus the
Allied troops living within the
communistic section of Berlin. At
that time there were 12,000 Western military personnel in the three western
sectors. Compared to them were 200,000 Soviet soldiers who were ready and
waiting for orders from their kremlin Leader. With the idea to over-run West
Berlin, for this reason there were another 180,000 Russian army personnel on
East German soil with 7,500 tanks and 800 bombers, including fighter
planes. These Soviet soldiers were
trained daily. They learned that Russia was invincible and peace-loving, but
that the Americans were warmongers and their hands had to be tied; otherwise,
they would set the whole world on fire.
The Russians did not plan for a
hot war, just a cold one.
The Eastern hardliners around
Ulbricht thought the idea of starving West Berlin was a brilliant idea –thus forcing
the “Yanks “to “get out “letting them know that they were unwelcome on German
soil. The United States government re-acted furiously, decisively and
appropriately wise. Give in? No! Force? No! The Kremlin's calculations were
transparent. If 2.2 million people called for bread, which West Berlin no
longer had on offer because the necessary supply of flour from West Germany was
no longer available, then the GDR must step in and close the supply gap.
Meanwhile, West Berlin's electricity supply had been cut. Nothing came of this Eastern stroke of
genius.
General L. D. Clay, military
governor of the US occupied zone, immediately suggested setting up an airlift.
The residents of berlin did not
think it was possible to endure for long. Who would have thought? Supplying a
metropolis of millions by air was possible.
But it worked because the will was there: freedom must be bought and defended. Goods such as food, fuel and other needs were flown in. The mood towards the occupying powers in East as well as in West Berlin were still devided. After all, the Western Allies played a significant role in the devastation of numerous cities in Germany and especially Berlin.
It was Gail Halvorsen, a member
of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,
Who was supposed to make a
decisive contribution to improving the situation by implementing a good idea.
In addition to the essential goods he transported, in 1948 he now “bombed” the
city with sweets. He was called “Candy
Bomber”. Chocolates hung on small folding umbrellas.
Often “little things” will make all
the difference.
The Soviet Union decided to give
up the blockade on May 12, 1949.
Monument in the old airport for Colonel Gail Halvorsen
at Berlin Tempelhof Airport
By now, the hostility between
East and West was final. We felt the power-political events changing our
immediate surroundings. All this affected us greatly. The will to be free is a
strong emotion in each human soul.
The Kremlin's expansion policy
inevitably led to hostilities in the Far East. A report in the” Spiegel” (issue
9/1948) stated that Russia had no interest in continuing its friendship with
Western Allies.
This, had long been clear; at
that time, the West had already disarmed, while the East was brutally rearming.
Not to forget that without massive support from the USA, the Soviet Union would
most likely have lost the war against Hitler's Germany.
The
insightful Spiegel report 8–1948 tells us what spirit the Asian communists
harboured: “Russian-occupied North Korea was declared a “people’s republic.”
With its own constitution, a 200,000-strong army and the hammer and sickle as
the national emblem.” (This was the forceful political baptism of an
illegitimate child. It means the people there had to be absolutely silent about
this step in direction dictatorship). “This was a warning from the Russians
to the UN. In Moscow, before the Allies had agreed to allow a common
government for Russian-occupied North Korea and the American southern
territory, a UN commission, that was supposed to hold free elections, was
banned from entering the Russian zone. The newly minted People's Army of North
Korea paraded through the new coastal capital of Gensan. Over a hundred Russian
officers in the official gallery saluted. Two American liaison officers also
came. They soon regretted it. An excited crowd tore their uniforms off and beat
them. The Russians continued to salute unmoved. The US commander in chief in
Korea, General John Hodge, protested to his Russian colleague."
The propaganda machine ran
continuously throughout the East. They never tired of discrediting everything
Western and elevating into fantasy heaven everything that was close to the
Kremlin. Day after day, year after year, the reports appeared in black or just
white. When a fashion show took place in red Prague it was a sign of joy of
life, but when Queen Elizabeth drove out
in a golden carriage in London it was pure decadence.
Everything that happened in the
East was good, and everything that occurred in the West was bad.
It often seemed to us as if all
it took was a single misunderstanding and black and white would collide in all
their severity.
In the East, grain was still
harvested as in the Middle Ages; while in the West, combine harvesters were
part of everyday life. Constantly we lived in uncertainty. On the one hand, we
would not be surprised if West Berlin was attacked, but then, on the other
hand, it was clear that this would not actually happen. Russia's wounds caused
by the war had not healed. Since Hiroshima, both sides hoped that their
respective enemies would not resort to the last resort. The idea of a nuclear
contaminated world frightened even the toughest power idiots. In purely
numerical terms, it seemed like child's play to drive the Allies out of the
former German capital with the ready divisions under the Soviet flag.
A penitent Tannhäuser, sought
forgiveness for his love affairs. I cried for weeks! No, I hadn't yet given
myself to the Venusberg like Tannhäuser, but the temptation was there. And who
knows? The verdict had already been made- you are too soft; it would be better
for you to die soon.
Unexpectedly, a teacher from my
church predicted bad things for me. She knew I was torn whenever a village
belle offered me her love, even my father, still battling depression, must have
noticed something. Occasionally he rose from his bed for a day and took a
temporary part in life. He put it in these words: “Whatever do women see in
a little guy like you?”
He was right. I was only 1.65
tall. However, always lively, and positive.
There was a Lady, with remarkable
language skills, who liked to speculate about the future of others, including
my friends. She told me: “It would be best for you to died early…”
I should not have taken that seriously; or at least considered that she was
caring little about my eternal future.
I should have laughed, but the
opposite was the case.
Good Friday 1949
A few days later, for a small
fee, I'm sitting in the front row of the Rostock Opera, listening to Richard
Wagner's "Tannhäuser." As I do, I reflect badly on the competent
lady's grim prophecy: "You amount to nothing!" She wasn't the first
to say that.
These words, and now Richard
Wagner's actors as well, touched my soul deeply as they sang powerfully.
"High above all the world stands God, his grace is no mockery!"
I could not bear to hear it over and over
again: "It is best for you to die young." You will not win the battles
of your life. You are too soft for the harshness of the conflicts that will
come your way. Your soul lacks the energy. Wagner's vow did nothing to comfort
me:
But my determination grew: You
can do it!
Sunday was a hot afternoon. At 2
p.m. we opened the door to the small, but nice meeting room. I had no idea that
this would be one of the best church meetings of my life. We held our meeting
on the first floor. Directly below us young people were having a party with
very loud music. There were six or
eight of us singing, “We thank Thee, O God, for a prophet.” Elder
Krause, sole speaker for the next thirty minutes, began to preach and I heard
his first words but for me they were also his last ones. I fell into a deep
sleep. It was wonderful. I am sure I will tell you the very same story in the
next life. For unseen higher powers blessed me with a peaceful happiness, it
was precisely in this half hour that I could feel the wonderful power of the
Holy Spirit. It was as if gentle waves were lovingly caressing my entire body
over and over again. Resting my head on the table I perceived unspeakable
beauty even though I was fast asleep, in spite of the worldly roar coming from below, with the
pounding of many feet on hard parquet and the booming of a drum kit. Despite
all these contrary circumstances, I received a firm witness that Joseph Smith
was Christ's spokesman for these, our days.
Exactly 50 years later, I
reported on this experience in my address to the members in Prenzlau. After the
meeting, Edith Krause and Luise Eckert came to me and said, “Yes, we can
remember that day and the wonderful perception of the Holy Spirit that we could
clearly feel. It was a special time for us too."
I was studying and praying over a
booklet called, “The Leadership of Joseph Smith” by Prof. John Henry Evans,
which served as a guide for adult Sunday school classes in 1936. It solidified
my belief that Joseph was divinely appointed and inspired.
Again, and over again, he taught,
“That every person has free agency that no one, not even God, is allowed to
encroach upon, for it is an eternal law."
Often, in different ways and
words, Joseph Smith would admonish his followers.
Only the web of wrong decisions,
because of our innate selfishness, can affect the happiness that is destined
for everyone. Joseph further taught that in order to attain undimmed happiness,
we must keep Christ's commandments. He himself recognized this as he translated
the Book of Mormon. Within the first 100 pages of this work, we are directly or
indirectly asked to act according to the commandments almost 200 times.
I found Joseph Smith's ideas
about city planning very compelling: future cities should have no more than
20,000 residents. If there is growth, a new settlement should be founded. Today
we can see the wisdom of it. The
increasing urbanization of society is alienating people from each other. Small garden cities mean that everyone knows
everyone. Such structures counteract
emerging crime. His plan was to give all families 2,000 square meters of land
as a “perpetual” inheritance to build their house there and use the rest for
self-sufficiency.
Of course, back then I could not
have imagined that the “dacha policy” in the Soviet Union - following the same
principles - would increasingly prove to be a Savior in times of need. Official
statistics soon showed that the 600 square meters per family granted by the
Russian state produced half of the vast country's vegetables and fruits.
This is as incredible as it is
true.
Whenever it seemed unbearable to endure
the communist pressure any longer, and when I heard the screams of the
locomotives rushing past me, urging me to shed all my obligations and flee to
the golden West, I thought back to episodes in the history of my church: For
decades, "Christians" persecuted my people simply because they were
different and acted differently: October 1838, Brigham was present when the
militia commander, Missouri’s General John B. Clark, said, “You Mormons are
the best and most orderly people in this state and have done more to improve it
in three years than we have in fifteen. You have showed us how to improve, how
to raise fruit and wheat, how to make gardens, orchards and so on. But we have to say to you, you should
disperse and become as we are… you will never see your Prophet again. Brigham
interpreted it that the Saints must renounce their religion or leave the
state.” Arrington, Brigham
Young
The comments expressed by Joseph
Smith were admired and inspired. Violators of the law should not be locked in
cells but put in educational institutions to gain better insights and
knowledge. Natural resources should belong to everyone, not to individuals.
Above all, everyone must value the dignity of others. We cannot serve God
without being of service to our neighbour. It wasn't just me who liked that.
In 1948 the big “Freud-Echo” meeting took place in West Berlin in the
“Waldbühne” (Forest stage). Approximately 5,000 Church members and their
friends gathered. Parts of the speech by the President of the East German
Mission remain with me to this day, as I am now in my 95th year. “Pursue
family prayer,” said Walter Stover. “It binds your hearts
together more than anything else in the world.” At least that
is how I summarized his speech.
In 2006 I was strangely reminded
of this large gathering, whilst standing in a circle after one of the Church's
fall conference meetings in Salt Lake City, with about ten or more people. The
majority knew who I was. We shared our memories. Ingrid, my wife, was standing
next to me. One of the sisters, of slim build, looked at me intently. I
shrugged my shoulders helplessly. During the following break in the
conversation, she said: “But Gerd, you know who I am! I am
Hildchen from Berlin. You slept with me.” Oops.
There was silence of those
present and their eyes spoke volumes.
They didn't know me like that.
It took a few slow seconds,
sleeping, in Berlin? Then the scales fell from my eyes. “That was
in 1948 during the Freud Echo!” She nodded happily and the others
still looked embarrassed. “Back then, there were around 200 of us who
had found accommodation for the night in your parents huge hayloft.” West
Berlin was largely still in ruins at that time. Where else, if not in such
places, would we have found space to look after so many young adults? Up there
she could have been - I still don’t know – right next to me. The
sigh of relief from the people surrounding us ended in laughter.
I had imagined something
completely different under the title, “tree nursery”. I felt like a slave and
wanted to close this chapter of my life as quickly as possible. However, it
would take another two and a half years before I was able to complete my training
with a grade of “very good”. We lived in the city's old army buildings
until mid-July 1949. After which these huge buildings were claimed by the newly
formed People's Army; 3 months before the Soviet Zone became the GDR.
Many boys my age were tempted to
lead a carefree life in the new German- Soviet friendly army. No matter where
they were previously employed, no one earned more than 250 marks a month;
although the advertisers offered them 800. Those, already shy about work,
submitted to the brainwashing that came with it. It was clear to even the
simplest people that communism, which was forcing itself on them, was aimed at
the subjugation everyone. Exactly the same that Pastor Rößle accused the
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints doing in his work. Did not he
verbally say: “The goal of the Mormons is to
convert everyone to enslave all of humanity. The entire system is designed to
achieve this goal.”
Was it not he who also wrote these memorable sentences:
“This nominally small, completely
different church will one day achieve global status. This American church is a
dangerous, superficial faith with a complete lack of Biblical knowledge, backed
by the power of Satan. They spread their teachings under the banner of the
gospel. Because of their satanic powers, the Mormon sect will become a world
power and a great danger to the nations of the earth. It is undisputed that
this so-called “Mormonism” aims to subjugate all of
humanity.”
In reality however, the teachings
of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are based on inalienable
human rights. This goes hand in hand with Isaiah’s prediction “…a Son is given to us, and the
government is on his shoulder; … his reign (brings) peace (without) end … his kingdom… (based on) justice and
righteousness from now on and forever.” Isaiah 9
Again, it is Isaiah who
emphasizes, “Peace is the fruit of righteousness” Isa. 32:17
It was undeniable. The Kremlin
rulers of Red Russia, despise the concepts of justice, agency, and love, in
favour of a coercive peace that leaves them to act undisturbed.
The red flag should fly over all
centres worldwide.
Everyone knew how members of the
Kremlin opposition, across Russia, had to work themselves to death because they
were arbitrarily labelled as incorrigible criminals. Everyone, including the
boys, who transferred to the new military (namely the "People's
Police"), knew very well what was at stake.
Even dishonest money doesn't
stink.
There were times when our church
meetings in Prenzlau also took place in the Alsen Barracks, where until July
1949 the Jehovah's Witnesses gathered on the floor directly above us.
Occasionally I would attend their meetings just to find out what other people
believed. We had a friendly chat with each other. They were all good, harmless
people. Maybe they were a little stubborn about something that seemed strange
to me. A few months later the government declared Jehovah's Witnesses
outlawed.
However, the reasons given for
this ban were nothing but blatant lies. The communists accused the members of
this community of being Western spies. That was outrageous. Jehovah's Witnesses
abhor interfering in power politics.
Shortly before this happened, the
communist government gave the “witnesses” the opportunity to justify
or embarrass themselves. A staged farce followed in which the leading men of
Jehovah's Witnesses were allowed to hold a large meeting. They were allowed to
structure the meeting however they wanted. I was there when they sang wonderful
Jerusalem songs. There, that afternoon, I heard the faithful,
steadfast “Jehovah’s Witnesses” boldly proclaim, “In a few more
years, Jesus will begin his reign on earth.” About 600 people gathered - at
least 500 out of sheer curiosity - versus perhaps 50 of the devout Witnesses.
Of course, to the inexperienced,
curious, predominantly atheistically oriented crowd present, every sentence
that the speakers uttered seemed strange and confused. Then there was a war of
words. A communist explained: “I was in a concentration camp for
12 years. I know, some of you too. We Marxists had to suffer added harassment,
all because you stubborn Jehovah's Witnesses refused to take off your caps
whenever meeting an SS man. We were ashamed, but we exercised discipline as not
to provoke an increase in the anger of our mortal enemies.”
The arguments went back and forth
for half an hour. As they had already calculated, the atheists won brownie
points, while their counterparts did not. It was a propaganda show that gave me
a little more understanding of both sides. Again, many of these brave men of
this faith, were imprisoned and mistreated in German-Russian concentration
camps. Many of them to their death - according to later reports -.
In the spring 1950
I worked hard at the tree nursery
and longed for the end of my service. There were at least 18 more stressful
months ahead of me.
Back then, in the last days of
June, I met an old classmate, Dieter Kavelmann, on the Uckerpromenade. He
proudly wore the blue uniform of the People's Police. (Barracked police) A
lovely young lady nestled herself on his arm. Above us came the hiss and roar
of a modern, jet-powered Soviet fighter plane. It was to become one of the
signs of the new social order. I looked at Dieter's braided silver shoulder
braids. Despite being only 21 years old, he had already been promoted. This
attire corresponded to the rank of lieutenant colonel. However, he seemed older
and far more mature than me. He seemed to look right through me and made a
comment about the straitjacket I was wearing.
Yes, I was nothing more than a
poor apprentice. He, on the other hand, was someone important. I hated my job
even more than my own weaknesses. Dieter realized that it was only because of
my moral principles that I did not have the will to break the contract with my
nursery boss. He laughed at me. He did not just look happy, he was happy. “Come
to us!” he enticed: “you have pre-military training, like me.
We are looking for people like you. Come and join us!” For a while it
sounded like music to my ears. “Yes!” he smiled: “You
have a clear head for ideology. I know you!” He painted a
fabulous picture with bright colours. “Poor Gerd, you only earn
50 marks a month. Instead, if you come to us, you will immediately receive
almost ten times as much. Leave your boss who only takes advantage of
you.”
During this conversation he again
looked proudly at the slim blonde at his side. “After 6 weeks
you will have everything a man can ask for. You can talk and you look good.
Girls love people like you.” The lady next to him smiled. I felt my
face turn red with shame and envy. As we parted only one question went through
my head: “If you, Gerd, throw out the teaching of your faith, who will
be in charge?” Who will be your God? Can lies kill the truth?
The only thing that can save us
from errors and complications is the determined will to search for the truth.
In the background, the dark
figure of Josef Vissarionovich Stalin appeared clearly before my eyes - the
cold expression of his face, a face that could be seen on many a street corner
and on many official buildings. Strangely, apparently more and more people
loved this man who, like Hitler, had destroyed the lives of millions of people.
He was a mass murderer. This fact was apparently suppressed using
propaganda tricks.
I will not allow people in the
service of Stalin, paint red colours on my conscious. The will of an evil man
who wants to subjugate the world will not compel me. I knew I was not born to be like my friend
Dieter. I had gained insights that he had never sought and that he considered
to be illusions at best.
Though, shortly after the
conversation with Dieter I gave in, “just a little”, to the spirit of the
times. I persuaded the entire gardening class of 30-students to join the Free
German Youth (FDJ). We did this to express that we did not oppose the positive
goals of the new world order. The FDJ was still a non-communist organization
that practised criticism and self-criticism. I had previously been invited to
attend a meeting of around 25 participants. I liked how the group secretary set
a compelling example. His speech sounded sincere. He freely admitted that he
had to try harder to become a better person.
This aspect corresponded with the
ideals of my Church.
He criticized the practices of
the emerging bureaucratism in the GDR. How too many people lived with
briefcases and too few in work clothes.
What he omitted to mention was the fact that in large parts of East
Germany no longer were industrial work places.
Agricultural activities dominated
most everyone, and the majority of people shunned the extremely difficult work
at a farm. There simply was not enough technology.
Ploughing in East Germany was
carried out almost exclusively with horses.
Monogerm sugar beet seeds, which later made the laborious process of
separating the plants unnecessary, were still a pipe dream. There were no
combine harvesters in the GDR. But there were more and more police officers
walking around the streets.
Then the War in Korean broke out
In the summer of 1950, huge
banners hung from the windows of our former meeting rooms in Prenzlau, Alsen
Str. 1. These red fabric banners were 20 meters long. With the following inscription: "Greetings
to our brothers in Korea who are fighting against the US imperialists."
This was intended to point out that the aggression came from South Korea and
the USA. On the other hand, the
peace-loving North Koreans had become victims seeking help. Should the
"people's police, “around 500 men, from our cities, be transported to
North Korea? That of course was not impossible. There, once again, the naked
fact, that people like my friend Dieter could be dragged into the fire and be
burned.
Intuitively, I knew this was
another ruthless move by the Stalinists, in this case with the help of their
North Korean comrades, for domination of our globe.
I was elected spokesman for the
600 trainees at the Prenzlau district technical school and gave several
speeches to convince them to make their voices heard. I had to be careful
because I wanted them to think independently and confidently. I liked the idea
of friendship between people, which was currently being praised in all GDR
media, even if it was mostly misused as a tool for their propaganda.
Having had spiritual experiences
in the gospel, I limped along on both sides, because communism also brought
some good. The general feeling of
solidarity arose inevitably. Higher education was made available to all, but
with concessions. Every university student had to declare his loyalty to the
state.
A Catholic priest told me that he
could study theology in the GDR. But
only after he confessed that Marxism was true.
In the Prenzlau cinema they
showed us FDJ officials’ footage that had supposedly been captured by the enemy
and was supposed to prove that the damn Americans had started the Korean
War. I was amazed. I immediately shook
my head. Who would really believe that the alleged aggressor, South Korea, had
been repulsed by 60 km along the entire front line on the first day of the war,
June 25, 1950? That simply can never be the truth!
My enthusiasm for the ideals of
the “Free German Youth” suffered from these misrepresentations.
But the weeks passed and Korea
was far away from us. We had our own problems.
If you're not constantly
attentive, you get used to everything.
On Sundays, a local police
officer occasionally came to our meetings as an observer. Max Zander led our
small community of about 30 members, half of whom were young people. Brother
Fiebig, a former farm worker, and I served as his counsellors. Although Fiebig's
speeches were simple, they made everyone aware of the strength of his
conviction and his will to serve the Church, which made him even greater
inside. Everyone liked the 65-year-old single man, who now lived in a more than
modest retirement home.
We were moved by Mother Eckert's
testimonies. One of her descriptions remained vivid in my memory. She, but not
her husband, joined the church in the early 1930s, at a time when there were 6 million
fathers in Germany who had been languishing unemployed for years. At that time,
they received under 7 marks per week in welfare support from a state that was
suffering from Versailles reparations payments of 2 billion gold marks
annually.
Husband Eckert, slim in build,
earned his money as a blacksmith. He was asked by our missionaries whether his
wife could pay partial tithes. She
herself had no income. Blacksmith Eckert, good-natured, agreed, “But, only
on the condition that I will always have enough to eat.” The day came when
Mother Eckert stood perplexed in her kitchen. All the money had been used up.
Sufficient supplies, apart from a few kilograms of potatoes, salt, and sugar,
were not available. With the best will in the world, she did not know what she
could serve her husband. In desperation, she prayed: “Heavenly Father, the
missionaries of your church made a promise to my husband: That he will never be
hungry!”
An hour later there was a hefty
knock at the front door. A neighbour was
carrying a bucket. As he removed the cloth. She saw perch, every fish weighing
at least one pound. The pail filled to the brim: “Today they were biting
like crazy!” Mother Eckert swallowed. He had caught them on the nearby
Uckersee. His wife still had perch from the day before. It occurred to me
that Eckert’s are big fish lovers.
The police officer which had been
sent to observe our Sunday meetings, came to me after one of my speeches. I had
meditated on the great gospel principle of eternal progress. The man probably
liked some of the passages: “There is no need for me to come back.”
That meant that the “Mormons,” in his opinion were not
enemies of the state.
A year later, in August 1951, I
took part in the 3rd World Festival in Berlin. In truth, I was curious and
hungry for life.
The invitation to this major
event was very friendly. All idealists, peace and freedom-loving students;
young people from all over the world should come together in Berlin getting to
understand and know one another better.
All should showcase their talents
and beliefs. Up to that point I had no idea that it would be the world's
largest sex party ever. We travelled in boxcars. They had been furnished with
straw and primitive wooden benches.
We arrived in Berlin, had a long
walk ahead of us. Our marching column kept stopping, and I soon pulled out of
it. There, sitting in the middle of the grey sidewalk, was a thirty-plus old
man, in an FDJ blue shirt. I knew him. He was none other than the Baptist
preacher from Prenzlau!
Given the oppressive humidity of
the weather, he had probably gotten sick from walking too much. Pale, he sat on
the grey pavement and groaned. Young people walked around him without taking
more than a passing glance at him. I stopped and spoke to him. We looked at each other in
surprise. “What are you doing here,” I thought, “You do not belong
here. Have you defected to the atheists? If you only knew what kind of picture
you make.” Perhaps he was thinking the same about me. “A Mormon with the Communists?”
“I just want to study and see,
then I decide!”
I justified myself. The fact, that the “red” world attracted me more
than ever before. I had registered with my Aunt Berta, who lived near
Alexanderplatz, not far from where I ran in to the preacher. The next day I saw how the crowd
of young people had increased. The blue shirts were like a splash of colour in
this completely grey city, where the black ruins still dominated. All cinemas
in East Berlin, all cultural sites were at our service, free of charge. The
same thing happened with the food.
The atmosphere of thousands was
unforgettable, especially when Sviatoslav Richter, one of the Kremlin's
emissaries, played Tchaikovsky's first piano concerto for us at the
"Friedrichstadt Palace". I was excited to see his hands flying over
the keyboard, as I was sitting close enough to watch him.
I didn't want the abundance of
great harmonies to end. It almost took me to heaven. I felt how truly divine
music gripped even the least ungodly.
This was proven by the number of
hands and their rhythmic clapping afterwards, which I joined most
enthusiastically. Everyone in their blue shirts had jumped up, as had the
foreign guests. That sustained cheer was real. Together we wandered from one
free concert (performed by world-famous artists) to the next. It was a sublime
feeling to connected with people which at the time all harboured good
intentions. The hours flew by. A Czech brass band played outdoors on Mont
Klamott - the mountains created from the rubble of former residential
buildings. Under the still blue sky their golden instruments shone this late
afternoon; while on the grass next to me lay hundreds of people. I noticed the
delicate, hand of a young girl next to me. Without thinking about what I was
doing, I placed my hand over hers. A minute or two passed before I saw her face
then she smiled at me. I don’t think she was older then eighteen.
We listened, wordless and
motionless, to homely Bohemian folk tunes. Oh, dear after we got up, I started
to talk a lot of nonsense. The night had fallen on Berlin as we began our two
hours walk back home. We circled large parts of Alexanderplatz. We didn't walk
hand in hand, but casually side by side. I don't remember what we talked about,
but as the evening went on, we saw many girls and boys clinging to each other
in alcoves and other places, without any kind of inhibition, letting their lust
run wild. At some point we stopped in front of my aunt's house at Mehner
Strasse 9. It was the only thing within two or three hundred meters that was
still standing intact. The burning smell of long-ago nights of horror still
hung between the heavy brick fragments. I remember the fascinating report of
the two old Sisters that, whenever the air raid sirens started to howl, the two
crawled under their large table and started to pray. “Dear kind God, would
you please keep us safe?” Could this be the reason that their half of the
building survived the war? Or was it just another happy coincidence?
A clear starry sky arched above.
“Do you have your own
room?” This question was the result of my contradictory behaviour. Only I
could be so naive. She said, “Don’t worry, I have a health pass.”
I damned myself!
“I'm a Mormon!” I blurted out, a little pained.
For a second I regretted my status. However, this tiny period revealed how
susceptible I was to temptation. I spoke again.
She did not understand anything:
"I grew up as an orphan among boys who never asked me." With
great bitterness in my heart, I turned around. Her world did not know people
like me as I just left her standing there. She must have considered me an
idiot. With the first few steps I felt as if a stone was trying to push me into
the ground. I felt her pain, her
legitimate question: "Am I not good enough for you?” Yes, you are a
beauty, but not for me. Surly she will have cursed me. I slept restless all
night. The next morning, on the way to church, FDJ guards pulled me from the
S-Bahn at Potsdamer Platz station. This happened to be the last stop in East
Berlin.
I wanted to be honest, although I was not wearing the blue shirt, I was
still wearing my FDJ badge on my lapel. The leading communists knew what
attraction the rich West had over the poverty-stricken people from the East.
They tried to prevent their follow citizens to travel to West Berlin, where
they could still buy chocolates by exchanging their currency.
I had to walk a long way to cross
the sector boundary, then boarded the train beyond the Border checks some kms
later. After a long train ride, I finally reached my desired destination, the
brand-new church-building in Dahlem, located near the mission office on
Hirschsprung Allee. I had known this noble house since 1946. Sad and torn
inside, I sat in the chapel among perhaps 150 members. I had taken a seat near
the front, where two women who had come as investigators were sitting next to
me. Shortly before the meeting was to start, they turned to ask me to tell them
about Joseph Smith. My face, which had brightened for two or three minutes,
returned to the grief of the previous evening. An American missionary, about my
age, gave me a friendly most encouraging nod. It was good for me. I looked into
his eyes again. Yes, he meant me.
It was the most beautiful,
uplifting smile I had ever seen on the face of a fellow male, directed at me.
Self-reproach had still been written on my face.
I could never deceive.
In Sunday school they discussed a
passage from the Sermon on the Mount. To be honest, I was much more interested
in myself. I longed to know if there was a truth that would finally free me
from my difficult situation. I remembered the war, the days I stood in the
living room of our neighbour, Ms. Stolpe. A painting of Christ hung above the
old-fashioned iron bed of her thirty-year-old son Fritz. The searching gaze of
Christ that her husband, the artist presented was, it seemed to me, filled with
compassion for our weaknesses and poorly passed trials. I thought about situations in which we, as
unsettled souls, allowed ourselves to carelessly jump into foolish actions,
instead of getting out of the way in good time. But HE knows about our good and
not-so-good wishes and desires - especially those that would harm our soul. The
soul never forgets anything. I know that is the reason why we should act as HE
lovingly advises us.
In this, Mrs. Stolp's very poorly
furnished room, there was a multi-coloured painting that showed - from the
painter’s perspective of 15 meters, - a naked girl standing on a small rock.
The sea wind blew into her face, her beautiful hair flowed,as she stretched. I
was probably only 13 years old at the time and yet the sight of her magically
attracted me. The old lady explained, “It is a symbol of freedom!”
It was not my intention to
eavesdrop, but rather to watch and listen closely as two missionaries explained
Joseph Smith's First Vision to these investigators. I was fascinated by their
conversation, even though I had long been familiar with its content. Yes, it's
true. Joseph knew what people longed for and needed to believe. Something that
people like me found beautiful: God Almighty and his Messiah care for our
happiness, which does not simply fall into our laps, but needs to be earned and
treasured.
What mattered was not so much
what these young men said, but the wonderful simple way they explained the
principles that but few will except to begin with. There was not the slightest
hint of fanaticism or hypocrisy. In a vivid way, the missionaries painted the
scene of Joseph kneeling, the power of the Destroyer falling upon him - and
then in a heavenly vision, two Personages of Light standing above him in the
air.
One of them called Joseph by
name, pointing to the person next to him and said, “This is my beloved Son, hear him.” Was this not the great event that
the ancient saints had longed for.? After the death of Christ and his apostles,
Christ's teachings were changed to suit the whims of man. For thousands of
years People have been misled. No longer will People be fooled that joy can be
attained by religious rituals, happiness is found by the application of daily
good will, following the teachings of our Saviour. Christ promised that he
would return. This is what the Bible reports. Joseph Smith must have been
astonished!
It seemed to me that the two
listeners had been pleasantly touched. But now if they went to their pastor, -
which is to be expected, - he will have reacted in the same way as other of his
colleagues in thousands of cases before.
“For God's sake:
The Mormons are a dangerous cult. They are not Christians; they are
soul catchers. Mormons are dangerous because they believe this and that
completely differently than we do. This church rejects the doctrine of the
Triune God as proclaimed at Nicaea in 325.” “Religion Dispatches“of May 27th,
2011
In many discussions I have
searched for, I have not come across a clergyman who could even come close to
explaining what the Trinity is. Bernd Oberdorfer, Augsburg, expert in
systematic theology, addresses the unresolved problem openly: “Embarrassment
is the most harmless thing that befalls many Christians (including quite a few
theologians) when the subject of the doctrine of the Trinity comes up. Must
anyone, who believes in Jesus Christ, also adopt Goethe’s paradoxical “witch’s
basics” that God is one and three at the same time?” „Zeitzeichen “, evangel.
Kommentare, Aug. 2004
At that time, in 1951, the
Evangelical Church of Germany had not yet admitted that the doctrine of the
triune God did not appear in the Bible. They only came to this admission 70
years later: “The discussion about the Trinity began in the 4th
century AD. It is very philosophical since the doctrine of the Trinity does not
appear explicitly in the Bible.” EKD 2020
“The Bible does not develop a
doctrine of the Trinity. There is no chapter in Holy Scripture that would deal
with this seemingly important topic…” Aleksandar Vuksanović
“Development of the Doctrine of the Trinity in the First Three Centuries,” St.
Gallen Study Day 2016.
In 325, the bishops of Nicaea
were deliberately tricked by a megalomaniacal emperor, into accepting a fantasy
creature as their god, which ultimately led to religious wars and the burning
of heretics. Everyone had to submit to Constantine's demands and wishes or go
into exile.
To be honest, the new God
proclaimed at Nicaea in 325 did more harm than good to humanity.
In the name of the “Triune” the
tolerant, peacemaking people of the Arian Christians of Italy were literally
exterminated in the 6th century. This shame has neither been forgotten nor
expired.
Greifswald
A month later, after completing
my training, I registered at the teacher training institute along with hundreds
of other applicants. It was called a “vocational training institute.” I wanted
to become a teacher in adult education and wanted to expand my knowledge in
important subject areas so that I could then convey my findings to as many
searchers as possible. Like me, people should ask the question of the meaning
of life and God more thoughtfully. I
have long known that many people were superficial about this matter.
The months before Christmas
passed so quickly, as if they were just days. Even though I spent much more
time learning dialectical materialism-Leninism than psychology and biology, I
felt good. I finally had more time to acquire knowledge instead of having to
struggle with spades and rakes in the fields, in the rain or snow, in the wind
and on rock-hard ground. Here at the institute, I never had to bend a
finger. I enjoyed immersing myself in my
studies, where my love of politics and history made it easy for me. On weekdays
I was a student of Marxism, but on Sundays, an active Mormon. At first, I had
no problems with it.
In the field of biology,
Morganism-Weismannism has been strongly condemned. Only the teachings of
Michurin and Lysenko must be seen as scientifically correct.
But Thomas Hunt Morgan received
the Nobel Prize in Physiology in 1933.
Lysenko brazenly and dishonestly
claimed: “that the properties of cultivated plants and other organisms are
not determined by genes, but only by environmental conditions.” I'm
not saying that I saw through the fraud back then but I was mistrustful. With
his theses in the Soviet Union between 1953 and 1960, Lysenko caused severe
crop failures, for example in Kazakhstan. Loved and encouraged by Stalin, he
believed that three months of summer would be enough to harvest corn.
He taught that plants adapt very
quickly to local conditions. But that's exactly what didn't happen, not even in
the 4th generation. Corn has deep roots, and even before the corn roots reached
the zero-temperature range, they withered.
In Kazakhstan, however, the
ground only thaws to a depth of 40 cm. The blame for severe local hunger was
placed on the farmers, who were only allowed to act according to the party's
instructions. It should be proven
indirectly that social existence determines social consciousness. The whole
thing was designed to confirm other theses of 'scientific atheism' and thus “'
communism.'
Around 1938 there was a small
note in our church’s “Stern” article. Stalin commissioned two desert experts
from Utah to assess Kazakhstan as a grain-producing country. After surveying
the area, they recommended creating thousands of strips of forest before the
first sowing; but first the steppe wind had to be broken.
They were right.
In the fall of 1951, our church
meetings in Greifswald took place in a separate room in a local pub. Six of us
came together. Sometimes there were seven or eight members present, including
an economics student. It didn't bother me that the place was small, full of
smoking and beer smells. Since many new fellow students moved to the city, the
university in Greifswald offered them every room, no matter how small, as
accommodation. As a result, the local authorities refused us permission to set
up our own meeting place, so our services were held in this bar which was
closed to the public on Sundays. Next to the bar was the club and sleeping room
for the students with whom I spent the first semester at the institute.
Since there was only a makeshift
sliding door between their room and ours, they could hear every word spoken
during our meetings. So, they found out that I, their fellow student, was a
“Mormon preacher.” One Sunday, Brother
Arnold Riemer gave a talk. He was a painter by profession and now a new
convert. He was the only active male adult besides me. As he began to speak, we
were soon listening intently. First, he described a situation recorded in the
Book of Mormon.
“Missionary Ammon fought
powerfully against marauding bandits, fending them off effectively and, due to
his unusual strength, was considered a kind of superman or an incarnation of
the “Great Spirit.” When Ammon stood before King Lamoni - who also
appeared superstitious - he simply said: “I am a (normal) person; ...who
was created in the beginning in the image of God. His Holy Spirit has called me
to teach this people, that they may know what is righteous and
true.” Alma
18:34. That was it. In
connection with any kind of religion and politics, it can only be about
learning to be fair and truthful in dealing with yourself and others. That was
the original message, an urgent demand, from the time of the apostles.
Arnold spoke perfectly about the
principles of justice.
Like an artist, he played a
beautiful melody on the strings of his own soul. The more thoughtfully I
listened, the more I wanted to agree with Ammon, a man who vehemently defended
the principles of virtue. It was one of those lectures where the speaker and
audience forget the place and time. This untrained speaker had created an
invisible connection between us and a higher world.
Pure inspiration made us forget
the smell of the pub. Our previous political world of propaganda lies was
nothing but a hellish reality. Their goal was to consolidate the power of
a few in favour of ruthless dictators. The devastating errors in judgment made
by Pastors Zimmer and Rößle came to mind again.
Later, in December 1951, Karl
Kleinschmidt, the famous Protestant cathedral preacher from Schwerin, a
supposedly great thinker and member of the atheist party SED, gave a speech to
us students and teachers. I made myself comfortable on the balcony of the ugly
old building, Stralsunder Street 1, and had a perfect view of Pastor
Kleinschmidt. He gave an extremely controversial speech. Just as I had
occasionally tried to mix fire and water, so did he.
With great energy, Karl
Kleinschmidt gave the impression that he was drawing new insights from certain
sources. However, we could clearly hear how it was rumbling in his head. He
told a story about one of his pastoral visits to an 80-year-old man who frankly
admitted, “Oh dear, you must know, Pastor, you came to the wrong place.
I left the Protestant church more than 20 years ago. I am a communist!”
“Well then,” he replied, “in
this case, I came to visit a like-minded comrade. Congratulations! You are not
wrong; you are the right man. I am also a Communist.”
It seemed to me that I wasn't the
only one who disliked the way this representative of the atheist state and the
Protestant church behaved. (Kleinschmidt was a management member of
the atheist German Cultural Association)
That was a balancing act.
I looked into myself: “Gerd,
aren't you trying that too?”
Someone from the 300 people
present asked him whether, as a modern pastor, he agreed with small children
being baptized against their will in order to become members of a specially
designed church. Then I thought, “This is where he’s going
to stumble!” But to my surprise, there was no trace of surprise on his
broad face. He didn't hesitate for a second, even though everyone would have
recognized the legitimacy of the accusation. The 50-year-old clergyman boldly
turned to the questioner: “Comrade,” he said, “if you
get married and have children, don’t they automatically become citizens of your
state? Is this a violation of free will?”
His bold and cheeky opening
statement was accepted with much applause, probably because of its cleverness.
The majority in this room had to know that Pastor Kleinschmidt was fabricating
the truth. But, the pressure of the moment was reduced to zero. After Pastor
Kleinschmidt's lecture, I knew what I had to do. I will withhold my applause
for the next lesson if it turns out to be just as lopsided.
Shortly afterwards, lecturer
Kirchberg led a discussion about Maxim Gorky's novel,'The Mother' He
concluded with the words, “Out of a sense of responsibility and
love for the GDR, we are obliged to prevent provocations. We must resist
when class enemies oppose each other. If someone turns out to be an
enemy of the GDR, they must be handed over to the state authorities!” In
plain language, this meant reporting everyone in the opposition, even if it was
your father or mother.
Didn't I already know that from
the Nazi era?
That day, I sat in the front row
among the 100 listeners. Everyone except me clicked their cheap shoes or
clapped. The elegant 30-year-old Kirchberg stared at me. He immediately asked
me the question, “Are you contradicting me?”, first only with his
eyes, then acoustically. With his uncompromising ideology and his 1.80m tall
stature, he not only towered over me physically. In particular, all the women
on campus viewed him as one of the superior intellectuals. Some girls adored him.
In general, he didn't seem to be the type to use the whip against his fellow
human beings.
So far, he's been using his
natural charm to attract attention. His raised eyebrows meant I had to justify
my refusal not to applaud him.
After Pastor Kleinschmidt's
speech, it wasn't difficult for me to take a clear stand, "I think it's
unjust to threaten someone with punishment just because of opposing
views."
Since I didn't want to make a
scene, I spoke more quietly than usual. Kirchberg replied, "That's a
fundamental question!" We bear responsibility for our young republic. We
already have enough enemies! This is what is at stake!”
Now it burned inside me. I
wouldn't back down: "A scoundrel is a scoundrel, whether he's brown or
red!"
He was old enough. He had to know
that it was Nazi style to put otherwise innocent people behind bars, who were
simply defying the dishonest spirit of the times. He was also a
contemporary witness.
Kirchberg obviously seemed
slightly unsettled now because of the degree of justification of my dangerous
response.
Now, there was no way out for
either side.
Of course we were being watched.
My classmates had not left the
lecture hall yet. Word must have gotten around that I was a 'Mormon' - a
member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.
But there was a second person,
Richard Wunderlich, who never attended our meeting and who, until then, was
earning good money in a Saxon uranium mine.
At dinner we were sitting at the
table together when a joke was told that wasn't exactly socially acceptable. I
left my seat, Richard stayed there and laughed with the others. He said, “I'm
not a prissy Mormon like him!” Kirchberg had to avoid appearing in the
wrong light. Namely, that I was engaging him in a discussion that might make
him uncomfortable. So, he said loudly and deliberately rudely, “The
proletariat will ask us: “Who whom?” I understood very well the
background of this stupid question. It was the foolish question of power that
all communists loyal to Moscow asked those who thought pro-democracy.
By then (December 1951) I had
spoken privately with numerous people. There wasn't anyone who was completely
positive about the current communist regime. But the elections that were held
showed exactly the dishonest opposite.
Who in the world did not know
that in Russia (the USSR) almost 100 percent of the population supposedly loved
Stalinism. But that fear of reprisals from the state police (GPU, or NKVD)
dominated the agenda there. Kirchberg ended the conversation in a subdued
voice, “Surely you are smart enough to know that there is no way
back to the past.” He looked at me seriously, “You are dangerous
for society. You have too many friends here.” I nodded secretly.
Everyone in our institute, like me, had their own doubts. This all happened
just three days before the Christmas holidays.
Together we travelled in the same
direction to our families.
We continued the discussion on
the train.
Both knew that a decision had to
be made within a short time. Either I crawl to cross, (to eat humble pie) or I
will leave the Institute.
Did Kirchberg ever think about
the possibility of escaping to the free Western world? Did he never have
disagreements with his comrades? Escape was easy - you got on the train, got
off in Berlin and walked several meters. It was this simple before the Wall was
built (in August 1961)
When I told Mr. Kirchberg my
decision after the short vacation, he was shocked. I could tell from his face
that he wasn't expecting this, but rather my change of opinion. Annoyed, he
insisted on a thorough reconsideration of our beliefs. He had admitted that I
was neither evil, nor stupid, nor cowardly.
At that time, he was still
convinced that his ideology should win over every honest citizen. It couldn't
be that a little pious person had stronger arguments! Besides, he said, You are a born teacher!”
Literally: “I will not accept
your resignation until we have examined the matter further.” Did he
think he could turn me around? Did he
really think he was capable of eliminating what he called “religious nonsense”?
I accepted his offer for further discussions – and that also surprised him.
Kirchberg and the director, Mr.
Roderich Schmidt, and I then met for five evenings in the Stalin Room, in the
premises of the Greifswald Institute, Marktplatz 1. Every now and then Stanke,
the party secretary, came along. Other lecturers didn't like the idea of me
leaving the institute for reasons they didn't understand either. However, I
felt that they were of good will. They tried to convince me of the devastating
role Christianity played throughout human history. They couldn't score points
with that; I knew that better than they did. For me, religion was both a matter
of the heart and of reason.
The first evening we went cross
country. I felt the intensity of my interlocutors' rejection when it came to
religion. It was a radical rejection of all church practices, art
sermons, forced baptisms, the Crusades and more. I immediately expressed that I
completely agreed with them and that this was exactly why I was
a “Mormon.” It was not easy to make it clear to these new supporters
of the “dictatorship of the proletariat” that the history of the
Christian religion was derailed as soon as dictators dared to take over the
leadership of the young church. It was clearer to me than to those around me
that dictatorship and the Gospel of Christ are mutually exclusive.
Dictators are always mortal
enemies of everyone's individual rights, no matter what else they represent. On
the other hand, Christ guarantees us the right to freedom of choice. He is our
saviour who wants to free us from all constraints. His words are famous: “The
truth will set you free.” John 8:32
Christ clearly admitted that if
we don't want it, His hands are tied. Matt.
23:37
At that time, I gave examples
that were convincing. Today I could say it even more precisely. A typical
dictator against free faith was Bishop Damasus of Rome, who, in 366 AD, decided
to become Pope. He asked the question of power but his counterpart, Bishop
Ursinus, stood in his way. Like Damasus, Ursinus believed in Christ. However,
he was not a Trinitarian. For Ursinus, Elohim – the father – was a different
person than his son. Trinitarians are not permitted to believe this.
.
Damasus, obsessed with the idea
of Trinitarianism, hired a group of thugs to destroy the followers of Ursinus.
He succeeded in both. Amazingly, the Roman Church today counts him among the
legitimate followers of Christ. Among the evillest characters in history is
another bishop of the Church: Ambrose of Milan.
He was a warmonger: “The
emperor, armed with the sword of faith, should march towards victory... The war
against the Goths and the victory over them were prophesied by Ezekiel. The
Goths are Gog, of whom the prophet (Ezekiel) writes that he will be destroyed
with God's help... (the Goths because they believe that Jesus Christ is a
person other than the Father) are 'heretics' are the ' Anti-Christ'.” So,
Ambrose wanted to: “win the emperor for his ecclesiastical political goals
and declare war on his opponents (of the Nicene Empire).” Gunther Gottlieb “Ambrosius von
Mailand und Kaiser Gratian
Ambrose brutally
exercised his power as an imperial
advisor. He banned all religion within the borders of the vast Roman
Empire. Only the “church” approved by Damasus of Rome had the right to exist.
Ambrose had Greek temples demolished. He declared that there must be no
friendship with Jews. In my discussion with the Lecturers I refrained from
saying, “Lenin was the spiritual comrade of these two church
leaders.” No one could deny that Lenin called for the Red Terror.
Another of many such historical events took place in Wolgast, my hometown, around Bishop Otto of Bamberg. Many historians praise him as a model of gentleness. In 1128, with the “might” of the military, he erased the Temple of Herovit. In an open space in front of the town hall stands a cast-iron fountain on the outer edges are 8 or 10 images commemorating the city's most important historical events. One of them shows how in the 4th century so-called “Christianity” was introduced to the citizens of Wolgast by force. Until 1128, the citizens of this ancient duchy believed in Herovit.Now they had to deny him, contrary to their beliefs. That could only breed hypocrisy. On the left you can see a soldier with a huge sword, next to him a monk-priest. He is to baptize these Gentiles in a makeshift tent. Naked they stand in a huge wooden tub filled up totheir knees with water. They had no choice.
Photo: my archive, Wolgast
Bishop Otto of Bamberg blessed
them, but it was only about securing the political interests of the Dukes
Wratislaw and Bogislaw, mere rape of people’s beliefs for the sake of the
dominance of dictators. The will of dictators was imposed on the people of
Wolgast, just as it had been done in Russia back in the year 1000 AD.
As for me I’m blessed to be free
in making my own decisions.
These men at Greifswald did not
despise me. On the contrary. Only Stalin, whose bust dominated the room, stared
grimly at me. The main point that my counterparts brought up were the
references that we come from the animal kingdom. That there is no place for a
creator like the Bible describes. To be truthful this was a point of the
conversation in which I, at the time, found little to say. The crucial point is
the different definition of the term “human”. The general idea
means the visible, the mortal being. Mormon and early Christian understanding,
on the other hand, means the invisible: “Man is spirit.” Doctrine
and Covenants 93: 33.
He is not the product of
evolution. Therefore, Darwinism is only half of the equation. The Book of
Mormon does differentiate, even if only indirectly, between people living since
and civilisations before Adam. 2 Nephi 9:21 and Mormon 3:20
“I heard that there was a
Christian splinter group in Italy, the Bagnolesen. Claiming that their
doctrine of creation came from the times of the apostles which
taught: “After God created the universe, he left the control of things to
nature.” Henry Charles Lea “History
of the Inquisition in the Middle Ages Vol. I p. 109
Since I was seventeen, I knew
that the Bible had two accounts of the creation, the Elohistic Gen 1:1-2:3 and
the Yahwist Gen 2:4-3:24 Architect Elohim created all things spiritually
beforehand, while Christ (Yahweh, or Jehovah) worked as the builder. Mormons
literally believe that we are the image children of eternal gods. That's what
Goethe suggests. Roderich Schmidt immediately asked, a little upset: "Where
is that written?" Walter Krause
often quoted long passages from memory in private conversations, about Goethe’s
"Faust“:
“Two souls alas! are dwelling in
my breast;
And each is fain to leave its
brother.
The one, fast clinging, to the
world adheres
With clutching organs, in love's
sturdy lust;
The other strongly lifts itself
from dust
To yonder high, ancestral
spheres."
This knowledge resides deep
within us, but hidden. "We are the builders of palaces through
knowledge.” Bees and other insects build instinctively what we do consciously.
Who gave them this ability?” My
interlocutors tried now more eagerly to get me on their side. "We may have been
participants in the act of creation.
“It is generally believed that
coincidences gave rise to life. I think it's more logical to believe that there
was a plan behind all of this." The answers I gave were
astonishing for them.
The core of the “Mormons” doctrine of salvation can, best be expressed
in a few words. We are eternal “intelligences” free to make decisions who have
fallen into the flesh at our own request.
About the act of the creation, it
is written: “The gods watched over the things they commanded until they
obeyed.” Pearl of Great Price
Abraham 4:18
To me it follows that evolution
was a tool of God. Back then, I did not yet have the knowledge that Origen
(185-254) taught the very core of our doctrines, especially about of our
premortal life. He was the top theologian at the Christian Academy in Alexandria. His teachings are still incorrectly referred
to as “Origenism” by major church theologians and thus reduced to a minimum of
credibility. After all, Origen along with Hippolytus of Rome, taught and
described the theology that was uniformly rejected by the church: “Heaven is
the home of every person's soul.”
All people that belong to the Family of Adam are Gods in embryo. Handwörterbuch für Theologie und Religionswissenschaft 3.
Völlig neu bearbeitete Auflage Vierter Band Kop-O
In 1948 I felt it deep within my
soul that lasting happiness cannot thrive under the conditions of bondage. What
I didn't say, however, was that our prophet Joseph taught that it was Satan who
"rebelled against God and sought to destroy the free agency of man which
God our father had given us." We have the right to freedom of action and
expression. This is the foundation upon which The Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints is built.
As back in 1945, I read Zimmer’s
and Roessle’s report of how they virtually swore, “That the goal of the
Mormons is to convert everyone in order to enslave all of humanity,” I
knew they were lying. I'm not sure whether back then, in Greifswald I added:
"Your state is built according to the 'dictates of one person,”
It is not the working class which has the say, but one single, solitary person
and he sits in the Kremlin. That would have been too provocative. The
realization that the Korean War, which was still ongoing, was proof enough to
say: the goal of the communist dictatorship is an atheistic world domination. I
hinted at this, because they asked me, “You knew that Marxism-Leninism is
the basis Idea around here, why then did you come here?” I
replied, “There are still several similarities. All members of my
church believe in progress, like you. That the earth's treasures must never be
exploited for the benefit of capitalists. They belong to the people. We are
fundamentally against exploitation. We are for a world government that
rules out future wars and, finally, we are convinced that education can solve
crises.”
For one whole week for two hours
nightly we spent disputing with each other. Finally, I was asked to render one
last statement before they voluntarily released me. More than anything I wanted
them to know that my church emphasizes the fact that human rights are sacred,
that our understanding rejects any religion or ideology that allows the use of
violence (except in times of war for self-defence). My religion is, perhaps,
best described in the words of Friedrich Schiller's description: "All
people become brothers where His (God's) gentle wings abide!"
New beginning
On January 17, 1952, a new door
opened for me, I arrived in the village of Cammin. I wanted to help my friend,
master fisherman Kurt Meyer, who had leased around 180 hectares of lake area
from the state. Where else should I go? The church wanted us to help
build Zion locally. I ruled out fleeing to the West. Kurt, who, like his
wife Helga, were loyal members - agreed to hand over a thousand square meters
of land to me to enable the start of a small tree nursery. In return I would
help him free of charge. I was to find a place to sleep in the converted attic
of the small Meyer house, which was picturesquely located close by a large
lake. But the next problem was already waiting for me. In the immediate
vicinity...there lived a very friendly female.
All the following weeks we
harvested "reeds for roofing" on the frozen lakes.
I pushed a cutting device in
front of me, shaving off the stems.
In the early morning, with
the first rays of the sun, a thick white frost glittered on the tips of the
slender reeds. As we went about our work under a clear blue sky, the ice flakes
fell on my face, but I was happy. As a reward for my work, I received free
accommodation and a hearty meal.
That's how I became part of the
Meyer family.
Just a few weeks later, I
received mail from my friends at the institute. They wrote: “Director
Roderich Schmidt, the “super communist,” had been arrested. He had
embezzled scholarship money in order to win over one of his students, who was
the mistress of the party’s secretary.” A month later the news came
that the teacher training centre, of the vocational education institute, had
been closed.
Towards the end of February, the
sun did its best to melt the ice on our small lakes. Especially near the shore,
there were still more than 400 bundles of reeds on Lake Teschendorf. Kurt had
to keep an appointment at the dentist, and he wanted to visit sick friends
afterwards. He asked me to save the bundles of reeds. Busy with this task, the
ice kept breaking and I ended up knee-deep in the icy water. Although it wasn't
life-threatening, it was very uncomfortable. I was grateful for the protection
my rubber boots provided. My efforts however were slow. At 5 p.m. it started to
get dark, a lot of bundles still lying on the ice. I had almost 100 meters to
go to the road from which further transport of the reed bundles was
possible. Determined to save all the bundles, I continued to work
in the darkness until I finished my job. Then decided not to return home
crossing the lake, although the onset of frost had hardened the ice again. I
came to the conclusion that I should take the much longer route around the lake.
I started my 3km walk back home in a good mood. Above me, the stars painted a
picture of beauty, reminding me of where I had come from and where I wanted to
return. It didn't matter to me that I walked along partially soaked to the
bone. The movement warmed me. The thought that in my heart and in my head, I
was free, always made me happy. As I entered the front door, Helga, the lady of
the house, looked at me in great astonishment. She could not hide her
tears. just stuttering the words: “Gerd! I thought you had drowned.”
I found out later, our
neighbour was also afraid for my life that evening. She would have waited
behind the curtains.
The night frost returned. Kurt
and I were able to harvest the remaining reeds on other lakes. As soon as the
ground thawed, I dug more than a hundred square meters a day with my spade. In
March I travelled to the city to purchase the supplies I needed to begin my
little adventure. I previously had 1,500 rose wildlings, 1,000 Mahaleb
(rootstocks for Sour cherries) and 1,000 apple wildlings of type 9 sent to me
from a nearby tree nursery.
On one of my return trips from
burg stargate, as I opened the compartment in the train, sitting there was my
friendly neighbour. I could feel that she was unhappy. As we left the train and
before I bid her a good night she quietly said: “You are a darling!”
Returning from my trip I entered
the small waiting room at the train station, which served as the local pub, as
well as a social meeting place for the men of the village. This should have
serious consequences. I remember little of their conversations as they did not
interest me. In addition, the singing was most discordant. Soon after, I
learned that the mayor of our village, Herbert Schindler, had been
arrested. A man in his thirties, widely respected for his character.
A week had passed, Schindler had
still not returned. “Gerd, the mayor has not returned,” Helga
murmured, “the local farmers suspect you.” Since I was not
aware of any wrongdoing, I forgot our conversation in the kitchen and turned my
attention to the day’s work. At the end of the week of general fear about
Herbert Schindler, I was walking through the park behind the old castle on the
way home from the village cinema. Out of the darkness, three black silhouettes
appeared, walking towards me. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I
recognized Neumann and Schulz, the third one remained a stranger. All of them
hefty men. “It was you! wasn’t it!” flooding me with their accusations: "Traitor!
We will drown you." The waters of the Camminer Lake were just ten
meters away.
There was only one thing I could
do. I had to trust their sense of justice. I had to calm down these drunken
men. As for the allegations against me regarding other men's wives and the
mayor's arrest, I really had no idea, except that I had received a piece of
cake from one of the village women and thanked her for it.
Because I stayed calm instead of
freaking out, the men temporarily calmed down.
“Well,” rumbled Neumann in a
mocking tone, “we shall find out! All because of that song we sang the
other night, you needed the money, didn’t you? The Stasi rewarded you with 60
marks – Judas’ wages.”
The ghostly shadows drew closer
and I found myself, like a fly, in the spider's web. United in an oath, they
thrust their fists under my nose. It was true that I was as poor as a church
mouse. Was I under suspicion because I never went to their local bar? Neumann,
the strongest of the three, seemed dangerous to me. He had made several
attempts to win Helga, Kurt Meyer's wife. She would always reject him and Kurt
had related this to me some time later.
I was aware that Neumann held no
kind feelings for me. In the evenings he would come to the Lake to fill water
barrels, which he transported on a sleigh in winter and summer to water his
cattle. That night in the darkness he made me feel his superiority by
stretching ostentatiously and looking down at me. He made me feel like I was
nothing but a villain. Suddenly they turned their backs on me and walked away.
Herbert Schindler, Cammin’s
Mayor, finally returned as if nothing had happened.
He seemed relaxed, as always but
I felt the need to speak to him. His small office was in the completely
neglected castle. He offered me a chair.
He had endured police
interrogations for several days. With unsteady hands he lit a cigarette
and then began to speak freely. First, he exonerated me: “I know who
reported me to the Stasi. It wasn't you. I've already told certain
people." He admitted, that as mayor and the most important man in his
village, it was stupid on his part to sing an old German war song, which was
forbidden, in a public place: "…flying against England, dropping bombs
on England. Bombs over the land of angels.” He had been drunk. However,
his song was and remained a veneration of fascism and a praise for the war. The
punishment for such a crime was 5 years in prison under the communist “Law
for the Protection of Peace.” When I briefly poked my head into the
waiting room of the small train station on that momentous evening for him,
there was a possibility that I could have consciously overheard him. But I
couldn't remember that. Then he looked me straight in the face and said what I
already knew, “The men in this village don’t like you and Kurt!” He
said in a cryptic way, “With that religion, you are making yourself
outsiders.”
It was clear to me why the
inquisitors released Herbert scot-free. If he had sung “Bombs on
Moscow,” he would have disappeared behind bars for years. It would not
have been too good for me either. But England and America were representatives
of predatory capitalism and therefore mortal enemies of communism.
Satisfied, I went about my work.
Late on the evening of April 5th, I went to bed exhausted. On Lake Gramelow I
had lifted gill nets from the day before and caught several large pike, as well
as impressive perch, from which I received a third of the price of the sale.
Just around the corner, were somewhat trying days of my life. Our neighbour, a
woman disappointed in life, the mother of two very young sons came to my room:
“He's gone!” she whispered. She was wearing an open dressing gown as
if she was too warm.
Her husband, a small,
unsuccessful farmer, kept leaving her for days at a time. "He's not a
creep, but he's rude to me like I'm his maid. He makes the craziest
claims." She would be responsible for his failure. The pigs would get
erysipelas and die, and his sugar beets would be the smallest. Instead of
household money, he would have to buy artificial fertilizer. Then he was
somewhere far away again. She wanted to be loved... I pulled her towards me!
Then, before I could think, I was
overshadowed by an unprecedented blackness.
The darkest night is nothing
compared to it. This shock was real. I have never had an experience like
it before nor since. I knew immediately that without this experience I would
have committed grave injustice. One thing is certain, it's always about the
consequences... The soul doesn't forget anything. Everything we do goes with
us. As my father said, “What do women see in a little guy like you?”
For five months I tried to stay
sane.
Then nature spoke up in a
powerful way. I fought against my ideals, like most young men my age do.
One day in September, Neumann,
one of the three men who had threatened me, asked me if I would be interested
in earning a few marks by harrowing his field. It was a task I had never
undertaken before. I thought the challenge might be fun; I agreed. Maybe he
thought he was doing me a favour to make up for his earlier behaviour, to
perhaps win me over. He had come to the lake where I was busy hanging the
fishing nets over long poles to dry. He gave me instructions as to which of his
horses was the best, but I knew nothing about horses. How would I tell the
difference between a dark brown horse and a nearly black horse? Everyone in the
village knew that an old gypsy had persuaded him to buy the stallion that I
chose. It was a handsome beast, standing next to three others. It was not
the horse I was supposed to harness.
I was happy with myself and my work and at 3 p.m. I still had half
a hectare to work on. However, the thoughts in my mind were
spinning more passionately than ever before. Tomorrow Elise would celebrate her
birthday and her husband is said to have travelled to Berlin. It was
the rough hormon “love-lust,” as Doctor
Faustus called it after Goethe’s tragedy. I
wanted to have a secret marriage - even if it was short-lived.
Unabashed I thought of every
little detail. Pushing aside any concerns. I had made up my mind. This
time, for the first time in my life, I will intentionally commit evil.
With these thoughts in
mind, I followed the powerful stallion as he effortlessly pulled the almost
4-meter-wide harrow across the ploughed field. Just as I was finalizing my
decision, the reins, which were far too long, fell out of my hands. I had held
them too short and not tight enough. As I scooped down to pick them up,
the nervous horse freaked out and the hoof of his hind leg landed on my face. I
had no Idea that my cheekbone was broken. I flew through the air. It was
amazing that I didn't lose consciousness, but instead found myself on my hands
and knees on the soft brown earth with blood dripping from my mouth and nose.
The thought immediately came to me: “Fracture of the base of the skull.” The second thought: “That serves you right.” Dear God, years ago I had asked
that if I ever intended to do a grave wrong, please stop me, if necessary, the
hard way. Of course, I didn't realize the extent of the damage. All I felt was
a dull pressure, but the full impact of it seemed far away. And my
thoughts remained crystal clear.
I hoped to be spared from a lot
of pain. What surprised me most, however, was the realization that such a
great, powerful God had not ignored the wishes of a small, frail human being.
A boy who was herding geese
nearby saw the accident and he suddenly stood in front of me with his mouth
open. To my surprise, I got up and asked him to take hold of the horse’s head
and lead it to Mr. Schulz's stable. For the moment I needed to find help for
myself. Even without many words, the boy would have known what to do. I began
to march, bravely at first.
After walking about 200 meters I
knew I still had almost 800 to go before I get home. On the way I met the old
servant of a former large farmer. I called him by his first name and took off
the handkerchief that I was holding to the right side of my head and asked
him, “What does that look like?”
He sank to the ground like a
fallen tree. I had no idea that my
right eye was hanging out of its socket, big and red like a ripe tomato. So, my
injuries were a frightening sight. Why else would such a healthy man just faint.
Seconds later, as he regained consciousness, he didn't say a single
word. He just turned and ran away. As I entered the house, Helga took one look
at me and, confused, repeated the same sentence several times: “For God's sake! lie down!”
She rushed to the nearest
telephone and called the hospital where Erika, a member of our Church worked as
a senior nurse.
When Helga came back completely
out of breath, she tried her best to comfort me. I didn't really need her
sympathy. The anaesthesia continued. While she was washing me and stroking my
head she said, “I had a dream last night. Oh, oh! But it won't be
fatal. It will not be fatal!” I didn't answer her. Half an hour passed and we received the
news that Erika and the ambulance had arrived in the neighbouring village of
Godenswege, where the old Cobblestone Road ended. Erika announced, “The road
to Cammin is impassable. The driver is afraid that we may get stuck. Please
find a horse and cart to transport you to the ambulance.” Soon they put me on a cart covered with a layer of loose straw and
transported me over the hills and bumps of the dirt road. Above me the autumn
wind played in the huge crowns of the elm trees. I seemed to have an expanded
awareness of everything around me. I longed for medical help and protection and
feared that at any moment hell could become a reality. To my relief the
ambulance stood in readiness with Nurse Erika, who had not stopped trying to
convince the driver to take the risk of finding us.
Erika sat next to me, silent and
pale as it seemed to me, holding my hand, felt my pulse, gave me an injection.
I had known her for years. She was a tall, beautiful Mormon Lady who converted
to the Church in her own search for the truth - I had always liked her. The
only hang up, I was at least 10 centimetres shorter than her. When we arrived
at the hospital, they put me on a stretcher that felt cool. Several doctors
stood around me shaking their heads. “There is nothing we can do!” Others
were surprised at the calmness and peace that seemed to engulf me.
Dear God, I knew where I came
from. I had accepted the beating as punishment, and in a way, it made me happy.
If I had rebelled, I would have slipped from shock to shock. For three nights I
slept deeply, in the gentle arms of “Morpheus”. Then, on the fourth day, I felt
like a pendulum was hitting a giant bell in the place where I knew my head ought
to be.
I thought this would render me
crazy, - wishing, and pleading for more opium injections. Their answer
resounded: "No!" The pain robbed me of any further thought.
Around midnight I was visited by
the renowned surgeon, Dr. Kloesel. I tried hard to control myself and stopped
begging. In a monotone voice he talked with the night nurse. I couldn't help
but listen before I fell into a deep sleep. The following morning, I woke up,
almost pain-free.
In the evening Erika came to
visit and I asked her: "How do I look?" She spoke quietly: "Your
eye is almost back in its socket." She was still worried and came
every evening following her shift, spending an hour with me. The old military
doctor, Doctor Buhts, told her that in 8 years of military service in two world
wars he had never seen anything like this. “How can an eye become twice as
large due to internal bleeding? You would think that in that condition it
would burst.” Now I understood the old tractor
driver, I had looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I had to laugh -what he
must have seen looked like something out of a horror movie.
As she sat next to me every
evening, I reflected on the year of 1948, and the strange feelings that took
hold of my soul back then. After a conference we had been invited to go on a
sea trip from Warnemünde. Erika stood near me that day, on the railing of the
steamer, looking at the turbulent waters of the Baltic Sea. We probably felt
the same way. What a shame!
On the following New Year's Eve,
the people of Wolgast wanted to celebrate with some other LDS young people in
Neubrandenburg. My friend Ulrich Chust and I walked to Neubrandenburg because
we didn't have enough money.
Of course, this modest meeting
could not be compared with the large dance and games festival in the large
Mormon Hall in Cottbus, which I visited in 1946 for the same reason. Those
members had prepared this event with a lot of commitment, ideas and character. But the small party in 1948/49 also had its
charm. Next day, in the late afternoon, the 4 girls from Neubrandenburg
accompanied us to the train, which was supposed to take us back to Wolgast
along the 150 km long railway line. However, the cross-country hike we took was
only half as long. Erika was wearing a beige and brown coat and I felt
comfortable around her. That's how it was. Back then, we had to buy train
tickets before we were allowed on the platform.
There was a conductor standing in
a wooden box. He punched our 20-pfennig tickets. We had fun, laughed and smiled
at each other. Wordlessly, we knew then that we meant more to each other than
we would ever express.
Now, 4 years later, I looked at
her lovingly, even though the Cammin farmer's wife was still in my head. I
seemed to see certain mutually exclusive images at the same time. If Erika had
known what was still going on in my head throughout the night, she would not
have spoiled me with her visits.
Well, that was me. My intentions
were to completely ruin a marriage. Whilst on the other hand, I knew that I
always liked Erika. However, I had never seriously considered marrying her.
Nevertheless, her face with its special expressions radiated the light of a
pure soul.
I just admired her and remained
silent. Strange as it seemed, in the weeks after I returned to Cammin, there
was a feeling that Erika would be the mother of my children, despite our
difference in stature. There were times when I thought I had known her for
ages. Whenever I thought about the New Year's Eve party, these images came
back. Four months later I took courage, wrote to her and asked if she would
marry a man like me.
Of course I put it quite
formally, as was usual for an educated German at the time. Her “yes” came promptly.
When this became known, she
received warnings from various quarters: "Don't marry this guy - he's a
charmer," "He's a messed-up existence," "Just look at his
past."
Erika refused to believe these
people.
But what, next?
Although I had saved over 800
marks by collecting insurance policies, I had lost half of this amount due to
the loss of a large bill where the amount could not be collected and thus, I
was liable for it to the insurance company. So, I lost 500 marks. With the rest
I had to buy a suit so that I could be dressed appropriately at the registry
office.
The big question was: Where
would, were could we live? Definitely not in Cammin. But there was a shortage
of housing in Neubrandenburg. In the last few days of the war the Red Army
soldiers had burned down large parts of the city. During the war, 25,000 people
lived there now, due to the influx of 20,000 refugees who had lost everything
in the East. People had to dwell in the most crammed conditions.
New buildings were not being
built, only when someone had enough money to build a house on their own. Only
craftsmen such as plumbers or roofers could raise sums of around 40,000 marks.
Nevertheless, we set July 3, 1953
as our wedding day. Shortly before, Erika was examined because of her current
state of health. The doctors' devastating verdict was endocarditis lenta! Is it the inflammation of the inner lining of
the heart that was still incurable at the time? However, this diagnosis was
questioned by other doctors.
Their advice was the same, that
she should not get married. For if she became pregnant, it would be her certain
death.
She gave me back her promise. We
were sitting in one of the small meeting rooms of our church as Erika told me
this sad news.
I however would not accept any of
it, I wanted to believe that marriage would be good for her. In those days
newlyweds generally had to live separately sometimes for many years. However,
there was a lady who recognized Erika's situation, an old communist who loved
Erika. She had sufficient influence in the city council and from one day to the
next, secured for us two small rooms, twice ten square meters in size with
kitchen and living room. My father, gifted us with a re-covered couch. He also
promised us 2,000 marks for the three and a half years of service on his
behalf.
Two days before the wedding we
were able to furnish the small apartment comfortably.
What luck. The tailor had promised to ready my
custom-made suit by July 3rd. Well, it never happened. I could only obtain it a
day later and thus I had to go to the registry office in robber's civilian
clothes. The registrar officer looked at me with obvious suspicion because, of
what I looked like. I stood there resembling no more than a forlorn tramp,
visibly more immature than the bride. I'm pretty sure she thought this marriage
would not last a month. Nevertheless, she bravely fulfilled her duty.
Erika, on the other hand, was
beautifully dressed. Afterwards Walter Krause blessed us. He, too, most likely
secretly had his doubts. On Erika's mother's living room table were vases with
almost one hundred pink cut roses of the “Comtess Vandal” variety. I had these 1500 wildlings and now the whole
field was in full bloom with hundreds of oculates of different apple varieties
growing next to the splendour of the blooming roses. All would be ready for
sale by the fall. The rooms we were allowed to move into used to be servants’
quarters in the attic. Four high-ranking state officials lived in the roomy
Apartments below while other prominent people lived in our immediate
neighbourhood. Then several neighbouring houses were considered a “household
community.” According to communist ideals, it had to be that way. Everyone had
to believe or to learn that Marxism-Leninism is true. To consolidate this
ideology in our minds, house meetings were held regularly. Behind closed doors,
opposing members referred to as “red light irradiation.”
Due to these circumstances, my
next step into near ruin came immediately after the wedding, provoked by
“Red”-oriented officials.
Day X – 17. of June 1953
Due to the workers' uprising in
Berlin, which had just been suppressed with the help of Soviet tanks, an
extraordinary house community meeting was called.
Exactly four weeks had passed
since armed violence destroyed the will of the workers. Hundreds of thousands
of citizens no longer wanted to dance the way the party leaders had ordered
them to do. We were told that there was an urgent need for training. Erika,
suspecting no good, because she knew I wore my heart on my sleeve - begged me
to keep my mouth shut at the meeting she wanted to skip. We knew that local
celebrities would gloss over the current politically critical situation. The
workers went on strike not only in Berlin, but throughout the GDR. According to
government decisions people were to labour more for less wages. In theory, the
workers' demands should have been the benchmark for the communist government's
actions. However, everything was upside down, especially logic. According to
the textbook, a workers' uprising in the workers' and peasants' state was
unthinkable. The blame for the unimaginable had to be placed on the “class enemy.” It was important to the top
communists to regain control over the masses, in the spirit of Josef
Stalin. This supposedly benevolent
father of all earthlings had just died. Everyone who lived between the Bering
Strait and the Elbe should be in deep mourning, even if this tyrant's evil
deeds were obvious to all. The leader of this meeting (which was attended by 20
people) was Mr. Wolf, previously a colonel under Field Marshal Paulus,
commander of the German 6th Army in Stalingrad (Wolf converted to anti-fascism
during his captivity). He was smart enough to translate this change of attitude
into money and rank. Now he led one of the bloc parties, the NDPD,
(National-Democratic-Party- Germany) which sought to steer former Hitler
friends to the left by pretending to be “other” than communist. Everything was
supposed to look democratic - even if the opposite was the case -. This party wanted to be national democratic
in its orientations, but it was part of the communist world, which supported it
wholeheartedly. Wolf's sphere of influence covered a tenth of the entire GDR state.
He was surrounded by a sizeable staff of like-minded people. In the morning his
chauffeur drove him up in an immaculate BMW. This group included Dr. Edith
Ackermann, around 35 years old, unmarried, who was smart enough to replace her
predecessor as district doctor because of his frequent drunkenness. Next to her
sat the county doctor, Mrs. Dr. Handel. Then Mr. District Chairman Tesch, a - I
believe - rather good, but also opportunistically minded man. The mayor of a
nearby village, the young W. Eichler, next to him his wife, county pioneer
leader, while others sat patiently. It was about clearing the name of highly
criminal politicians who thought and acted brutally and wanted to save their
power for every price.
Mr. Guter and his wife also came.
He was a strong personality. They also lived in a luxury apartment. After all
he served as county secretary of the SED, the party that consisted of former
social democrats and old communists whom no one was allowed to contradict. This
party merger was most cleverly prepared “marriage” of convinced democrats and
super-convinced anti-democrats. None the less It was a forced marriage.
Best to say: It was a “eternal”
pact between a very small fox and a healthy dove.
This evil prank only succeeded in
the East, under the august eyes and leadership of the Soviets. The common name
Socialist Unity Party of Germany was intended to suggest that there had been a
negotiated compromise between both party programs. That was not the case. Such a state of connection would never have
occurred if it had not been for the cunning and trickery from the Kremlin. The
lie came from the house of the highest German dictator, Ulbricht. The
victorious communists did in no case allow their wolfish fangs to be pulled
out. Now the beast had bitten once again. To just let it happen would be a
crime.
Contrary to the facts, Mr. Wolf shamelessly portrayed the triggering of the workers' uprising as the red rulers wanted; the cause of the uprising was not their fault at all, but the result of American policy. This man, who taught us, showed what kind of spirit he was. For him it was self-evident that truth is always relative anyway; which meant that every fact must allow the truth to be turned into its opposite.
Everyone in the room knew that
blaming Radio in the American Sector (RIAS) was a blatant lie.
Ulbricht demanded the impossible - more work for less money. The “norms” were increased arbitrarily. This
initially outraged the construction workers in East Berlin, who had only just
begun rebuilding the destroyed city.
The real evil lay in the
disproportionality of the bloated state apparatus with its enormous number of
weapons carriers of all categories.
I happened to live in the same
area as the political celebrities there and was the only person without
authority. I could have exploded in the first minute because of the false
accusations. They lied to each other. Ex-Colonel Wolf drew a diagram on a school
blackboard. It was supposed to show how bad the CIA and RIAS were.
Erika's request to be silent
stuck with me for a long time. But then my patience broke. Summoning tanks from
Soviet waiting shelters to intimidate unarmed people was a scandal. I protested, had to say it: “You would speak
differently if this state restricted your privileges!” Shakespeare's Hamlet
stirred inside me: “... This above all: to thine own self be true, and it
must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”
While my statement in the given
situation was honest and appropriately necessary, it was at the same time
highly dangerous. All eyes were by now facing in my direction. Everyone was
torn. Some of the people present would surely been on my side and would speak
to my advantage.
Erika would have covered her face
and run away. I knew I wasn't "ridden by the devil" and added,
"With one exception, none of you really believes what has been said here.”
I could not go back on my word
without hurting myself. I could not undo it. Ex-Colonel Wolf frowned at
me. Still – I was the only worker present.
He instinctively tried to save
the situation. After all, I had insulted the elite of the "best
party" in the world. (Dr. Handel and Dr. Ackermann were not party members,
but supported its principles.) County party secretary Guter and his young wife,
the district administrator and his wife and others just shook their heads.
Secretly, even the most stubborn person had to realize that my accusation was
justified. They also knew that I had just been married.
He requested that I should name
one person who I considered to be loyal to the GDR, who could believe that 1
and 5 equals 1.
I wasn't stupid enough to react
to that. I was asked to apologize. I refused.
Then Mr. Wolf said, “Well,
you’re still very young!” That was good will.
I should consider that. It was a
step toward building a walkable bridge. He looked at me as if to say, “Be
careful! Think of your wife and her happiness!”
I saw Erika before me, her hands
covering her face. It was clear to me; my objections would result in some sort
of punishment. I accepted that out of insight. I was supposed to organize a
fundraiser for the “National Front.” It seemed fair and at the same time
unreasonable.
There within my ear, a still but
urgent voice "Gerd, Erika is waiting for you!” Not wanting to
appear stubborn. I would have preferred a collection for the Red Cross.
Not a word of all this to Erika. I did not wish to upset her. She needed to
believe that I had been true to her advice.
Whilst collecting money on the
following two evenings, I was arrested. I had asked a police officer for a
donation. “Show me your authorisation for what you are doing!”
I didn't have one, just a
collection paper.
He led me away to the
headquarters of the “People’s Police”. There, I referred to the order given to
me by the wife of the SED party secretary.
The police chief laughed.
“You’re in deep trouble young man
- You’re lying!”
“Why don’t you Call Mrs. Guter!”
At first, they hesitated. Calling
the wife of the highest-ranking official was risky. I sat nearby; her voice was
loud enough that I heard snippets of the brief conversation. “Let the
man go!”
Again, not a word to darling
Erika
For her sake, I swore to myself
that I would control myself and to stay out of all political matters.
It however took only a few weeks
before I found myself in trouble again.
Erika took my hands, looked at me
and confessed: “I'm pregnant." Gripped by instant fear I stammered
– “My fault.” The doctors at the
hospital where she worked had warned her - giving birth to a child would be too
much. Her heart would not endure it.
Her pregnancy would have to
undergo an immediate abortion. With naive persuasion, I encouraged her to
follow the doctors' advice. Resolutely
she shook her head and calmly added, “I’m having our child!”
Spring and Erika's time to give
birth was approaching. At my request Otto Krakow, our branch president, gave
her a special blessing. Everything would go well.
Many hours the doctors who had
warned her about this event worked to save her life. I sat in the hallway of
the hospital, couldn't take it anymore and ran around outside, in the end went
to the cinema. Seconds after sitting down, I ran back again. Outside the
delivery room, I put my head in my hands and prayed and pleaded, “Please,
Father, she has received a priesthood blessing. Please let it come true.”
Eleven o'clock at night I no longer heard any screams soon afterwards. Dr.
Klösel came, put his hand on my shoulder. "We injected her with Evipan.
She is better now. You have a healthy boy!” With a sigh he added:
“Congratulations!” Relieved, in tears of joy, almost speechless, I thanked
him. She had with medical help crossed the narrow bridge which led her back to
life.
The following day I admired my
son. What a wonderful sound “My son.”
Overjoyed with feelings of
gratitude I admired this delicate and beautiful infant. Erika had chosen the
name Hartmut for him.
She was not discharged home after
giving birth. As soon as I was able in the afternoon after my gardening work, I
would go to see her where she lay next to other new mothers, sometimes even
with Hartmut. Next to the window was a large apple tree in full bloom. She had
a great view of this symbol of happiness.
Sometimes later she told me that
in her mind she was holding my hands - that it was my love and my prayers that
helped her walk through a deep, dark chasm. Together we praised our God for her
recovery, for his mercy and love and for our son, Hartmut.
Months earlier, around Christmas
1953, I was called in as an orchard expert. I was asked to estimate the value
of a huge, neglected garden. The place was Tollenseheim. 12 km from our
apartment. The question arose as to whether I would take over the nearly
12-hectare site for a fixed fee. I only
had my two hands, a head that was too small for this task, and a hand saw. But
I wanted to at least try. We negotiated a monthly salary of 300 marks. So far,
I had only earned 200. Erika praised me. I was able to sell 500 rose bushes and
600 apple trees. That was money for more furniture if somehow, we were lucky to
secure a bigger apartment. We enjoyed being parents. Did our best to support
the small Branch of the Church in Neubrandenburg; Neither I, nor my brethren,
missed any of the three weekly meetings. I liked the proximity to Bruno
Rohloff, then 65, to Max Pielmann, an intelligent convert, to Otto Krakow and
the others. They all had an eventful and sometimes unhappy life as prisoners of
war.
Otto's knees were damaged - a grenade splinter had almost torn off his
leg - but his will remained optimistic. Bruno's story was almost unbelievable
and yet not unusual. Similar things happened to countless people whose parents
and friends drank from the poisonous fountain of certain clergy. A trained
bookseller, Bruno out of deep inner conviction joined our church in 1929 after
reading and critically examining the Book of Mormon from the first to the last
sentence. Immediately after turning to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day
Saints, serious protests arose. The clichés coming from various church “truth
tellers” emerged, again malicious. When, Brunos mother, Anna Zabel-Rohloff
found out about his conversion she ran to her pastor Wohlgemut in Pasewalk in
great excitement: "What should I do, my son has joined the
Mormons?" She tried her best and wrote him
a letter, “Dear Bruno, as we have just learned (at the end of July
1929) you now belong to the Mormon Club, more than that, you're even thinking
of being baptized by them, and even more, you want the same for your two
children. What should I think of this? Have you lost your mind? We can in no
way understand your behaviour. What devil has overpowered your senses to make
you join a devilish society? Is the Lutheran truth not enough for you? Are you
saying you have no knowledge? The good Lord gave you a normal mind. From
all of this I can only conclude that you behaved like a hypocrite here in
Pasewalk. You expect help from God and serve the devil. But make no mistake,
God will not be mocked. You should know that it is written. 'He who does not
provide for his own family is worse than a heathen.' Do you have any concerns
about your children? Do you want to rob your children of the grace that has
already been given to them through holy baptism? More than that, do you want to
bring a curse on yourself and your family and my grandchildren? ...Remember
whoso ever received the Holy Spirit and sins against it can no longer be
saved...Remember the heartache you cause us. What will Pastor Wohlgemut
say. Will he not stand as a witness against you on the last day? ...
leave this sect!” (Bruno’s mother died five months later January 16,
1930) ... Your parents and Arnold” according to 1960 Walter Rohloff,
“Diary” or “Under the wing of the Almighty” on Amazon
My conclusion back then was: that
all Trinitarian-oriented churches and communities use their full power to give
unjustified judgements against the “Mormons”. At the time I was reading a
biography by Tolstoy. In it, the famous Russian count and writer repeatedly
considers the teachings and customs of the Russian Orthodox Church to be
superstition. Tolstoi said: “The teaching of the Church is a theoretically
contradictory and harmful lie. Almost
everything is a collection of gross superstition and magic.” Denis Scheck
And on top of that, Tolstoy
denied the existence of the “triune” God.
This was the reason that in 1901 “his” church excommunicated him.
Even Sir Isaac Newton and other
famous people could never accept the existence of a Trinitarian God. Newton
(1643-1727) used the term “apostasy” to describe the process of changing the
original image of God. Newton, who read both Greek and the original text of the
Vulgate, condemned the Trinitarianism proclaimed at Nicäa: “The apostasy
began by distorting the truth about the Son's relationship to the Father by
equating them.” The
Newton Project entitled Treatise on Revelation. “. 1 Yahuda Ms. 1.4, National Library
of Israel, Jerusalem
The majority of the members at
home and the bishops present at the time of the Council of Nicaea rejected
belief in a triune God. But “Emperor Constantine used threats and announced
reprisals. Each bishop present at Nicaea was interviewed individually. He is
presented with the confession (Nicene Creed) and at the same time given the
choice of either signing or going into exile..." Rudolf Leeb „Konstantin und Christus“ – die
Verchristlichung der imperialen Repräsentation, Walter de Gruyter, 1992, S.
154
In this context, I have often
wondered why the “Trinitarians” did not shy away from propagating
Trinitarianism as a general belief after the death of Emperor Constantine.
The Nicene Creed is not Biblical
in its statement about the nature of the Godhead. Theologians know this.
And the crimes committed in the
name of the “Triune God” are among the worst in history. It is and remains a
hair-raising fundamental contradiction.
According to the “Athanasianum”
to say: a) “we (are) forced to confess every single person as God and as Lord
in Christian truth”,
and b) “The Catholic faith
forbids us to speak of three gods or lords.” It remains an absurdity for anyone
who values the truth more than anything else in the world.
We could have led happy lives if
it were not for the Cold War, which was clearly fomented by Moscow. At times
pressures increased in intensity day by day.
We felt the constant threat to
peace. Our GDR news cursed the evil Americans, while the Western news, which we
received on Erika's little radio, said the opposite. Moscow rumbled while
Washington remained calm. The goal of Soviet policy to raise the red flag over
the White House no longer seemed illusory.
Uneasy and depressed, I was
not up to my new task. More than 600 tall, ancient apple and pear trees had to
be felled or radically trimmed. The treetops were two and a half meters high
and six meters wide. There were no bees in the area. The expected fruit
harvests would be poor. Pest control could be more costly than the yield. Each
apple would have to be picked with a pole. The once attractive greenhouse
lay in ruins. On the other hand, there was no chance of getting a better job.
The entire area of the
Tollenseheim orchard, which stretched over 600 meters in length and 200 meters
in width, also included the later school for agricultural engineering as well
as barren, fallow land. Tollenseheim itself was originally designed as a super
hotel. Both parts were closely connected.
There I met Mr. Maque, the former
communist county secretary of Neustrelitz. He now served as director of the
political school for cadres of agricultural cooperatives (LPG). He was not my
boss, but controlled my actions and inactions. He belonged to the group of only
a couple of people who, I could assume, loved the GDR system without
reservation as it protected and rewarded them well. Maque proved to be a coldly calculating
egoist. On first sight, not just the feminine kind liked him. His well-cut face
was impressive. Quite a few fell for his
advertisements as anyone who did not know him closely saw him as a strong
personality.
Occasionally, I unintentionally
listened to his lectures, when during my breakfast break, he loudly revealed
his crude views to his listeners. He emphatically emphasized that the working
class of the West is heading towards impoverishment, whilst in the East the
opposite was the case.
For the expansion of future
school buildings, he was granted enormous state funding. Ultimately, this
institution was intended to serve the indoctrination of Marxism-Leninism. At
the end of 1954 he had a huge financial surplus that he should have used for
elementary preparatory work (measuring and planning).
What did he do with it? The
following year a large load of sports and rowing boats arrived on
'Tollenseheim' and to me it seemed that there must have been a mistake.
Caretaker Paul pushed me aside. The driver just nodded. No, the papers clearly
stated: 'delivery to the district LPG school, Tollenseheim, near
Neubrandenburg.' We scratched our heads and shrugged. Paul Schmidt and I were
people who could hardly be more different. He, 5'8”, extroverted and
athletically built; I, slim like an Indian hunger artist. I loved to meditate;
Paul was a lively practical person. I loved my little son; he loved his dog.
But together we shared the amazement over the "Wellenbinder", a
speedboat, on the big truck. Herbert Maque, about fifty years old, walked quickly
and springily on his long, thin legs. From the moment he approached the large
long-distance transporter, the dashing SED comrade, Maque, temporarily no
longer had eyes for the young course participants strolling past.
His senses were focused primarily
on the speedster, which was equipped with a front cabin. He ran around the
truck like a weasel, jumped onto the Trailor and warned the other men who had
been called to help, “Be careful, be careful. Just be careful with
the motorboat.” In fact, Maque personally took care of the expensive luxury
boat. As soon as it found space in his proof shelter, he turned to his
favourite tasks - or what he considered vital - something he never tried to
hide at all. Namely the young ladies in the lecture room.
The canoes, including an
expensive 4-person canoe, were simply stacked under one of the old apple trees,
the way one would store raw lumber. No one who would have listened for even a
minute to his fiery speech condemning exploiters of all categories would have
believed that Comrade Maque allowed himself such illegality. He took what wasn't his. He indirectly
confirmed that the reasoning of the unprincipled would regularly submit to
passion.
Two kilometres from Tollenseheim
I meet three crying 20-year-old girls on the federal highway F 96. I asked them
why all these tears? I suspected something was wrong, their responses, “We
rejected his wishes!”
Director Maque sent them back to
their co-operative offices with a written, incredible explanation. He didn't
mind distorting facts as he was considered a respected person; and that because
of his party badge.
He didn't have to convince Paul
and me that he needed the speedboat to run errands in Neubrandenburg. He was
always faster with the “Framo” delivery truck, which was at his disposal. Even
if Maque had been able to drive the special boat to the door of a grocery
store, the watercraft's gasoline consumption per kilometre of travel would be
at least double, if not 3 times, as high. Clearly it was his pleasure vehicle.
As an authorized defender of a state system that wanted to be more “social”
than the "capitalists " just towards its citizens, he acted
treacherously.
How long will he get away with
it?
The eight or ten paddle boats and
the four-person gig remained outside for days. The apple trees towering over it offered no protection from expected
storms. The high treetops also offered no protection from flying arrows and red
and white measuring sticks. Technicians had put them in the garage and perhaps
long since forgotten about them. On one of the working days between Christmas
and New Year's Eve, without hesitation, I weighed one of the spear-like poles
and daringly threw it out of the open garage, where between crumbled briquettes
the “Framo” delivery truck was parked. My staff flew high above the boats,
perhaps more than twenty meters. Paul, with his tight muscles, a former SS
soldier, although against his will and very self-confident, was convinced that
he would throw twice as far. But, oh dear, poorly packed and even more poorly
thrown, with a crash, the steel rod tip drilled itself into the millimetre-thin
hull of the mahogany-made boat. The cost? Well, about as much money as Paul and
I earned together in six months. The heavy measuring rod was still vibrating as
startled, we ran, to put an end to the horrific bursting and breaking of the
thin boat's hull.
The first thing we looked at was
the window of the old main building, which looked like a villa. What luck so
far there was no sight of Herbert Maque, nor his business manager, Inge.
Fortunately, no one was around to
hear it. Paul, bold as ever, didn't change his expression on his already calm,
large face. “Quickly!” he said and I helped him. In the back
of my mind was a fear that Paul would blame me, of course, we didn't want a
scandal. Brothers in crime, clever enough, we carried that irreparable sports
boat, with measured steps, to the nearby former chicken house. This dwelling
was a large barrack made of rotten boards. Smart thinking, we set all the
paddle boats in front of it. If things went well, it would not come out until
the big new building was built and that could take another two, if not three
years. Would we be wrong? But first there was the thought that we whole
heartedly felt and shared, “After us the flood.”
On the other hand, an old German
proverb says. “No sin ever is so finely spun, to be beyond the light of
sun.”
A jetty had to be built for Mr.
Maque's cabin boat.
Resolute Caretaker Paul got to
work. Contrary to the basic rule, he refrained from tensioning lines to
indicate were the piles needed to be driven. His work looked fine accordingly.
More like a heap of junk created by chance than the work of human brain and
hand. The absurdity stood there crooked and even dangerously wobbly. A shame!
As I walked down the runway that Paul had cobbled together, I felt sick. My
duty, as an employee colleague, was to tell him that he might be a good husband
and certainly a great dog lover, but he didn't know anything about building a
jetty. Then he must have tried to nail the unequal boards onto the connectors,
also without string. While I was trying to put my critical comments into
perspective (as people say today when they try to bend the truth for the sake
of politeness), one of the students from the institute appeared. A tall, skinny
man with his attire, the gaze on his face and gestures, he looked like a cult
preacher from the last century. He seemed like someone who had just bitten a
bullet. Nobody would have mistaken him for a master farmer. The man took his
long steps very carefully. As he judged the deformed 'jetty', his long face
became even longer. He literally threw his hands over his head and stood there
thoughtfully. He had never seen such a large pile of manure. “Tear it down”
This man was a brigadier! He could already command. “Tear it down?”
cried a furious Paul. “Disgraceful!” replied the tall, thin man and made
another snide remark. Paul pulled me aside towards the poles that were lying
disorganized in the grass. “Watch me,” he whispered, "I'll throw
that guy into the water!" By now Paul probably realized that he
had not achieved a masterful peace. He just did not know what to do with his
anger. I knew him. This twitching of his eyelids revealed the extent of
his recklessness combined with anger and excitement. Slyly he asked the farm
brigadier if he had any good advice for him. Unsuspectingly, his high forehead
furrowed, the somewhat quirky stranger replied in agreement. At the seaward end
of the jetty, the first pole needed to be rammed into the soft ground of the
lake. He, in Paul's place, would 'clear away' everything completely and then
put a strong pole there, thirty meters away, and from it stretch a strong rope
to the land and then...... The person who seemed so loud-mouthed to both of us
animatedly raised his arms with hand movements. Even I found his commanding
tone irritating. Paul gave me a meaningful nod and asked the man if he was
confident enough to go out to the water with him to give him advice on site.
After all, it all comes down to the corner post and you could just push it into
the soft ground of the lake. Meanwhile, Paul had chosen the strongest of the
piles lying around. He stood it up. It was almost a mast, bone dry and
therefore not too heavy. Apparently talking shop, Paul let me in on the details
of his plan. As if he were already holding his worst critic by the scruff of
the neck, Stegebauer Paul shook the pole like one shakes a plum tree in autumn.
We nodded.
We thought that when we reached
the 2-meter-deep water, we would be able to force the pole almost a meter deep
into the soft ground. Paul cocked his flat face and squeezed his left eye
shut. In slang old German dialect, he
said "I step hard on-board side and so do you." I had
long since agreed to the joke and laughed. This picture! “Well,” I
thought, “a bath never hurt anyone!” Of
course, it was clear to both of us that the surface water of Lake
Tollense despite days of sunshine could hardly have warmed up at the
beginning of April. The lake was too deep for that. As soon as you put your
hand down it's throat, the water bit hard. Splashing through the water and mud
with our rubber boots, we carried a second log to the small rowing boat and
pushed it as carefully as we could between the shoes and legs of our
comfortably smoking guest. As soon as we pushed away from land, the boat rocked
in the waves. But that wasn't dangerous, even though the northeast wind was
picking up. The rocking of the boat was just what we needed. We experienced and
vain boatsmen grinned at each other. As we arrived on site, we took the first
post, put its pointed nose down into the moving water aligned it somewhat and
contacted our advisor. “What do you think, is this ok?”
“Yes, that’s right.” confirmed
our bold adviser.
The lower end of our pole had
already penetrated thirty centimetres into the soft clay-like ground due to its
own weight. We tensed our muscles with determination. Paul jumped,
reached up and reached up too far. He wanted to make full use of the weight of
his ninety kilograms. At the same time, we jumped onto the narrow board of the
green-red painted rowing boat. There was no way out. Now the tall, provocative
guy and his pipe tipped overboard. In any case, this was the colourful illusion
that I had also internalized.
Why me? I lost my
balance, I screamed, “Oh and yuck!” Nothing more. I was already
rowing violently with my arms and whipping the ice water, gasping for breath.
It bit me on the butt and in the neck, which I stretched like a swan as high as
possible. Just moments ago, I was
enjoying the twinkling of those sky-blue eyes of my brother in crime and the
hope of another person taking a refreshing bath.
All of a sudden, my fluttering
hands reached into the cool spring air. My primal instincts drove me on.
Fast, fast! On land, on land!
Onto the dry! With a single
glance, while I was still swimming, I saw Paul still clinging to that pole.
Unintentionally, he had pushed the boat with his feet. While I felt like a
block of ice from the chest down, just beneath my consciousness, however, my
teeth chattered like Spanish castanets. As I felt land under my feet, I
immediately turned around again. There! Still, like a disturbed baby monkey,
with enormously shortened arms and legs, elite soldier Paul clung desperately
to the strong, now so unreliable pole. The splashing waves were already wetting
the seat of his pants. Paul hung crooked on the stake that slowly, slowly
leaned.
I was fascinated. Maybe two
more seconds. The pole couldn't keep him afloat any longer and then he gave a
strange scream. Violently, like a swan taking off, beating the water with his
wings, was his last attempt. Followed by complete immersion. He croaked in a
bloodcurdling manner, “Heavens...and cloudburst!” He was
breathless.
A few more hasty movements and he
too had reached the strip of reeds. The trembling guardsman stood up with wild
strength. Instead of being grateful that his heart was still beating, he
screamed obscenities the further he got to safety. The innocent master
builder for whom this bath was intended only now took the pipe out of his
mouth. He made an unctuous gesture before giving us instructions. I barely
heard it anymore and ran as fast as I could. He later said, “You always have
to try to stand securely or hold on tightly to the boat. Like this.”
He clamped the pipe stem between his red lips and demonstrated how he would
have behaved.
The sunbathing lawn
In the days of March 1956, I
thought it would be good to burn the grass on the so-called 1,000 square meter
lawn. Without considering that fire outdoors, if it finds dry food, can also
spread laterally and thus, albeit slowly, against the direction of the wind. I
set fire to the grassy area at least two hundred yards from the chicken coop
barracks where the demolished Gig boat, and others canoes lay carefully stacked
one on top of the other. However, sucked in by the wildfire, more wind came up
in no time. The fire spread in two directions with the main fire flying towards
the hidden boats.
Then the flames leapt into the
five magnificent Omorika spruces. They were standing right in front of the shed
that was so important to me. Angry with myself, I tore down the
clematis vines that were burning like tinder. I discovered, shocked to
the core, that the flames were already licking the thin boards of the flat
house. I kept throwing myself into the crackling fire in my blue dungarees,
until I ran out of air as I wallowed in the flames. Driven by evil ideas, I
heard the ghosts laughing.
As quickly as it had come, the
terrible fire collapsed. There was still tar beading off the cardboard roof,
but it no longer caught fire. My head sank onto my chest and I breathed deeply.
Herbert Maque saw the black
meadow and the partially scorched Omorika half an hour after the last burst of
the dangerous fire. He walked around the chicken coop, carefully placing his
long legs and holding his prominent head like a scenting fox. Trying to cover
up the worst traces, I worked diligently on the site, dug a hole to bury the
few half-burned vines and thought worriedly, now he's showing you, his teeth.
But when Maque got closer, he just looked at me meaningfully for a while, as if
to say, “Now we're even! Like me, you just did something stupid, without any
consequences.”
I had seen him with a lady
in a certain position the week before when I burst into his office. This
happened because I thought he had called me in. Maybe we really would have been
even. But there was still that precious destroyed boat that he hadn't
discovered yet, and couldn't have if I wouldn't have made any further mistakes.
Sometimes relying only on my feelings, I would, on occasion, openly talk about
my non-state-conforming views quite carelessly with people I didn't know. I had
seen too much in the first months after the war. Various ex-Baltic Germans and
other eyewitnesses, especially East Prussian refugees, had also told me
horrific stories, all of which proved that quite a few Red Army officers
allowed their soldiers to be rapacious.
I had gathered more and more
details about events in Russia proving something similar.
How brutal the communist
omnipotence dealt with opposition members. All of these reports were in good
hands with me. They confirmed my rejection and attitude that this new social
order must not prevail. I will oppose their ideology wherever I can. That's why
I was sometimes careless. Every now and then we heard that there were people
who betrayed our trust. What should I have answered if the men of the GDR State
Security Service had ever asked me the question, “Why are you spreading
anti-Soviet stories?”
Irene
Principal Maque often invited guest lecturers to this house. Among them was a friendly, twenty-five-year-old, strawberry-blond lady who was giving lectures on philosophy. Her name was Irene K., she looked good, was a little stout and had a completely open nature. She liked to laugh, but there was something about her that men don't necessarily like. She could look defiantly cheeky. A short time later, Maque hired her as a permanent teacher.
On the last day of April 1956, a
good 300 meters from the Tollenseheim house, I was using a spade to dig up a
field that was to be planted with tomato plants. I saw the philosophy lecturer unexpectedly
coming towards me. Even if I had never liked her, the reasonable assumption
that she had put on her grey, well-fitting suit for me was not without effect,
because all the teachers and students were on short vacation.
There was only her and me. All around there were huge pear trees that rarely if ever bore fruit.
The area was located directly on the peaceful sparkling lake. As she came down
the path between the newly greening apple trees smiling, she said, “I have
to see what our gardener has been up to all day long.” Her bright voice
vibrated.
“Is he going to get
anything done at all?” I laughed back. She looked at me kindly, as if to say, “One day
before May 1st, in the afternoon, there is no need to overdo it.”
She invited me for a cup of coffee. She would like to talk about the biblical
letters of Paul and I was fascinated that she knew them! Yes, we had talked
about it once and I said that the two-thousand-year-old letters still contained
many messages that were interesting to us. She wanted to know which
ones I thought she should know about. “Well, the ones that teach that we
must do and put into practice what we are convinced is right. “Surprised
she asked, “Is that what you are reading from his verses?” I had
to explain, “The core of Paul’s statements is not at all what Protestants
get from them, but rather the other way around - that man will reap what
he sows.”
Her response was, “That
doesn’t sound unreasonable!” Of course, she was completely indifferent
to what I meant by a critical view of the teachings of both major churches. The
sun warmed us as we chatted. In one of her next lectures, the topic of faith
and knowledge would come up. “It’s over for today, let’s sit
comfortably upstairs and talk about it.” I didn't want to say no as
she had been very polite.
In her room I was immediately
surrounded by a mixture of the scent of cloves and the smell of 'Great
Freedom'. Of course nothing came of the discussion about Paul,
Luther, the Peasants' War and the Protestant doctrine of justification. Too bad!
because I condemned the views of those idiotic Protestants who believed that
God would fix everything if they only clung to his name and their vague faith
in him!
In any case, with such
"pious" self-deception, the world cannot become a better place to
live! But that's exactly what it's about, and will always be about, as long as
we haven't regressed to animal-likeness. I was determined to tell the "wise"
lady that the world has a self-destructive character because it lacks love; the
love that proves its authenticity through a certain selflessness. I was not
willing to be ensnared, not at the expense of my wife's happiness. Maybe hearts
can be replaced, but loyalty cannot.
Drinking coffee didn't work
either, because I drank soda water. She sat on the sofa with her legs crossed.
I sat stock still at her
table, playing with the fringes of her crocheted tables cloth, half
embarrassed, half confused. She spoke about Homer's nymph Calypso and in a
mockingly enticing tone, about men like Odysseus, Calypso's suitor. In any
case, she's not a 'beautifully stupid' Penelope who sits at home and waits all
the time, just knitting stockings for her husband while he charms around with
somebody’s else’s wife. She nodded as I looked at her and she said, “My
husband is sitting around with a woman somewhere in Rostock playing the
comforter!”
I thought I will not sit in her
room for a moment longer; I would rather cycle back to my little family. Gerd,
you are not a man that falls over!
It is better to be inconsistent
than treacherous. Finally, I directed the conversation to my views on
communism. It is easy to demand that others behave correctly. The lecturer
smiled, but only out of politeness. She values people who can think.
My attack on the Marxist
do-gooders, who wanted to change and improve everything except themselves, was
not exactly hidden. Herbert Maque and this woman would do everything to prove
to me how good protecting the GDR and its socialism were. At the same time,
neither of them showed the slightest interest in protecting their spouse or
mine. If I were to touch even briefly what is forbidden, I would have to give
up my right to reject communism. “The whole philosophy is of no use
if we just interpret it the way that suits us at any given time!”
Although my words were not very precise, I think she understood what I meant.
Ms. Irene looked like someone looking over the rim of their glasses.
She agreed with me, at least
partially, although her voice was cracking. As I stood up and proceeded to
walked away, her eyes flashed with anger.
Days later whilst sitting
at the large window wall, I was looking at the beautiful lake lying in the
valley before me with my gaze following its curved bays. The
beautiful water bordered by huge beech trees and its large hills attracted me
more than ever before. Its surrounding mixed forest slopes framed a painting,
as if painted by Claude Monet's hand.
A stately, and remarkably
well-dressed man entered the spacious veranda. An accountant, as I had already
guessed, he told me his name and, after a few brief questions, sat down next to
me at the lunch table. Without ever having met each other before, we quickly
came to trust each other.
I should have remembered that just 3 meters away, above us, there was a
loudspeaker with a built-in microphone. Maque wanted to know what his students
were saying in private. Caretaker Paul had told me of it just a week before. In
Maque's absence he had shown me the large metal control cabinet and explained
how it worked. However, I knew that the master of the school and his very
young, blonde manager, Inge, were in the cabin boat on their way to the town of
Neubrandenburg, 10 kilometres away.
It was this feeling of inner
harmony that has never left me over the years, the sense of how far and to whom
I was allowed to open, instinctively knowing when to remain silent. It did not
take long before we took aim at philosophy lecturer Irene's exaggerated party
loyalty. He was a theatre critic and I, dreamed of one day being able to write
plays for the 'theatre'. We returned briefly to the Lady Irene's views. I
revealed that she likes friendly men. He smiled. He knew her. She belongs to
the new type of woman. He laughed again, but his laugh sounded harsh. After a
while of silence, we switched back to the original topic - about the XX
Congress of the CPSU and the deposition of Stalin. We exchanged our amazingly
complementary knowledge and opinions. We condemned the deployment of tanks
against unarmed people and the fact that anti-communist demonstrations in
Poland were also violently ended. The person I was talking to knew what I had
never heard before, and I knew about events that fit into his picture book, as
if he had been looking for them for a long time. Yet, we could hardly do
anything to make this socialism a reality. It never occurred to me that Irene,
the philosophy teacher, might be listening in.
The brutality of a system that
gave us no choice tormented us. Too many people whose names and faces we knew
well had decided to turn towards communism, even though they thought and felt
as critically as we did. On the other hand, we were aware that history must
never be repeated as chaotically as it was during Hitler's Third Reich. In
itself, an experiment, like socialism, was justified but not as an adventure
without considering losses. The foundation that Lenin had laid in the Soviet
Union seemed unbearable to both of us. More than that, quite a few communist
officials acted like 'elite Christians' of the 4th century. These pious types
had dared to impose the stamp of a mercilessly dictatorial 'Christianity' on
the entire civilized world. They laid the basis for the later Inquisition. The
statesmen, of what is now the East, acted according to this pattern. One day
historians would reveal how many millions of human lives were destroyed between
1917 and 1937 because of this type of revolution in Russia alone. Both of us
were born in 1930, we had many years of experience with the constant drumbeats
of propaganda aimed at us by Hitler and then by Stalinism. Like so many others,
we too were annoyed by the unsympathetic slogans that were intended to arouse
in us an undifferentiated hatred of 'capitalism'; especially against the USA
and the lifestyle of their people.
Hatred sown will grow as a plant
of destruction!
We felt strongly that the main
communists were primarily concerned with the destruction of democracy. This was
what seemed to us like the precursor to slavery. The only means of survival for
our pro-democratic views was to try to encourage each other's rejection.
Hundreds of thousands in this country, perhaps even millions, dared the same.
And yet it was merely a puffing out of the cheeks against this huge easterly
storm. In that midday hour I rather carelessly described Lenin's decree on
the Land (Field) as a blatant lie. Lenin never wanted anything other than the
nationalization of land. The desperate, poor muzhiks(farmers) to whom the
decree was addressed had to believe that if they sided with Lenin, they would
get a piece of land of their own. The Russian people, exhausted by the
murderous war and plagued by homesickness, hunger, lice and death, heard that
Lenin wanted to end the war immediately. Yes, that his first decree was the
same as their own most urgent wish: “Peace to all! Peace!" Driven
by unmentionable hopes, they believed Lenin to be their Savior.
As long as one obeyed his orders
and advice the promise sounded good. With one single utterance of his lips or,
with a single swing of the hips, all followers would go straight from hell to
paradise. We both believed that Lenin deliberately had written in such an
ambiguous and seductive manner. Showing his true face just three years later in
his letter: “Death to the Kulaks,” which everyone could read in the
complete edition of Lenin. He indiscriminately threatened Russia's middle-class
peasants to the point of annihilation; albeit out of justified anger at
partial, real criminals who were driving grain prices to unattainable heights.
There were millions of unjustified death sentences! Every envious man armed
with a pistol who thought he had a score to settle with a peasant followed
Lenin's policy of taking whatever he wanted. In the name of the party and the
truth, people were left unprotected for reasons of striving for legitimate
power.
Farmers had their seeds stolen;
soldiers had to follow unreasonable orders, Nuns were arrested, everyone who
had not been affected kept their heads down, while class warfare ran riot. God
have mercy on any one murmuring against the government!
I had kept the
newspaper from January 22, 1956. I carried the head-line with me. I immediately
showed my interlocutor two passages that caught my eye. On an inside page of
the newspaper of the Central Committee of the SED “Neues Deutschland” it was
reported how the Frankfurt senior magistral councilor Dr. Julius Hahn, member
of the West German working committee of the National Front, was arrested at a conference: “We are sitting,
we have just heard the main speech... suddenly at lunchtime, at the whistle, 20
uniformed police officers rush into the hall, cordon it off, and harshly demand
IDs from those present ….”
The Communist (SED)
newspaper “Neues Deutschland” complained about the extent of the violence: the
use of whistles and the demand to show ID cards. This would be unjustifiable
brutality.
What, based on this
example, should we call what happened in East Germany in 1953 when tanks
crushed a workers' strike? Also, like what the Bolsheviks did?
The pity shown here,
in the Eastern press, was for Dr. Hahn, the communist sympathizer. Berthold Brecht, the great East German
theatre man, was quoted in this context. I put my finger on this very Brecht
quote that was presented in the SED newspaper. “Violence is being done to
your brother and you close your eyes! The victim screams loudly and you remain
silent? The violent man goes around choosing his victim, and you say he spares
us because we show no displeasure. What kind of city is this, what kind of people
are you? When an injustice occurs in a city, there must be a riot…” “The
Good Man of Sichuan”
But who felt pity for
the non-criminal kulaks of Lenin's time? And what happened in the so-called
workers' and farmers' paradise? He and I
were in turmoil increasingly, for years.
We experienced
first-hand that by the end of 1945, all land owners who farmed more than 100 hectares
had lost everything: house, farm, and livestock.
We spoke in a very sharp tone about a case of absolutely unjustified suppression of riots in the SU. There was the uprising of the Kronstadt sailors in 1921, known only to a few but reliably reported. Only three and a half years after the establishment of Soviet power, the sailors of the battleships “Sevastopol” and “Petropavlovsk” complained that the workers in the Kronstadt state-owned enterprises of the Soviet Union were treated “like convicts in Tsarist times.”
On Lenin's orders, War Commissar Trotsky had the insurgents shot. Fellow human beings had simply shown compassion, exactly what Bertolt Brecht wanted when he demanded: “If injustice happens in a city, there must be an uprising!” But the very party that Bert Brecht also served, mercilessly crushed the uprising.
How did that fit
together?
Accountant Günter was
able to describe to me very clearly how the Red Army units advanced across the
ice of the Gulf of Finland and how the artillerymen of the frozen battleships
defended themselves in vain against the assault of their brothers in arms often
dressed in white. I agreed with him. If that were true, then Lenin would have
had to be put in chains for this heinous act alone! Just as I said that, my
eyes fell on the device - the microphone - above our heads. The food stuck in
my throat in shock. I had defiled the icon of communism. Being as stupid as me
had to be punished.
A minute later I
heard Irene K. descending the stairs.
The typical clatter of her high heels sounded threatening. I saw those
flashing eyes as she approached us and knew.
She will now prove to
be a real avenging angel. But we had spoken quietly. “The sensitivity of a new
generation microphone is considerable.” This sentence from a technician came to
mind. In the name of the dictatorship of
the proletariat, we were at the mercy of the lecturer, if she wanted. I will
stand up to her!
So, said the other
part of me, 'you will keep your big beak closed, you are a family man and
husband.'
“But”, I defied rather helplessly, “the
only dictatorship my conscience will ever tolerate is that of my own reason
over passion.”
“You owe me an
account for that!” I heard them say in advance and my inner eyes immediately
saw men from the Stasi. For daring to offend her personally, for our taking the
liberty of insultingly criticizing their party and the great thinker Lenin. She
now knew that we viewed Ulbricht's system as soul-sapping. For their part,
there was, of course, no doubt about the rightness of the path, which included
coercion as a political tool. She was more than a servant of the system and we,
its losers. Inwardly, I constantly
defended myself against a possible accusation. Coercion, no matter who uses it,
turns the best thing in the world into its opposite.
Don't you know that?
Humiliated women should be able to understand our feelings. Lecturer Irene
walked past us. She gave me only one, albeit very strange, look.
Nothing happened, not
yet. But uncertainty can be worse than certainty. That's what they ruled with.
Something dangerous was brewing against me. It was in the air.
A few days later, at
the of May, I learned that my conversation partner, the accountant Günter, had
probably been arrested or, and that couldn't be ruled out, he had fled to the
West. In any case, he disappeared without a trace. Of course that were two
different things! To be in the West or to be in prison. Arrested! Herbert Maque
and others had already made it clear to me several times - anyone who agitates
against the GDR speaks the language of the enemies of peace. A few days after I
found out about Günter's disappearance, the philosophy teacher hissed at me in
the washroom: "Not like that!"
What did she mean by
that vague, unfinished sentence? I got my bike out of the basement and wanted
to ride home. Then I saw Braun, one of the newly hired teachers, standing next
to Irene K. He released his arm, which he had wrapped around her shoulder. Braun
then came towards me. He was small, even a little smaller than me. His
expression, however, was that of a giant. He made seemingly meaningful
gestures. I looked at his bald head and his smooth features so as not to have
to look into his provocatively searching, bright eyes.
Inside my head sentences of
self-critic accusations were formed. It would not really surprise me if he
said: “we’ll have to put you behind bars" Braun seemed to know what I was thinking:
“... according your subversive activities.” In a state of panic, feeling their
eyes on my back, I rode away on my bike. This accusation had been mentioned in
a tone of total calmness. He might as well have said, “Tomorrow afternoon we
shall have a cup of tea together.”
Was he referring to the burning
of the meadow? Had they discovered the
destroyed gig?
Was accountant Günter a spy?
You, Gerd, will pay for the
unpardonable sin of your insults, against Lenin.
In the name of the revolution Lenin was allowed to do anything, even if
all the non-Reds would explode because of it. Where planning takes place, chips
fall.
Oh, how it hammered inside me:
“No one defiles sanctuaries with impunity. You messed up their business.
They will punish you, Fool, it serves you right.” Sweating I pedalled back
home, prison bars, like unwelcome phantoms playing before my eyes. Otto Krakow,
my branch president, and fatherly friend, reassured me. "Subversive? What
does that mean? Tollenseheim is still unscathed standing. Don't be
afraid! Do not let yourself be fooled!”
Otto can easily talk and laugh because he is in a completely different situation.
The weekend passed. On Monday morning I checked whether Braun might have
discovered the gig. No. Almost nothing happened except my emotions went
crazy. Was I upset for nothing? That
week Caretaker Paul unexpectedly left Tollenseheim. I decided to do the same.
On Saturday, the 2nd of June 1956, I read in the paper, that was
laying on the veranda of the LPG school, that the cooperative of fishermen
“Tollense”, was looking for two seasonal workers,
It sounded like a voice from
heaven. Hesitate? No not me, not for even a single minute.
Deep wrinkles on his serious
face, Herbert Maque, with surprising reserve, dismissed me from my duties.
He was not my boss. I would have
to submit the notice of termination to the local agricultural company Groß
Nemerow (ÖLB)…
As a temporary fisheries worker
Erika, my wife, put her hands
over her head: "Oh no, no Gerd that's the lowest you can
go!"
"So what? This is my chance,
where else should I go? In an office where I fall asleep studying
dead numbers?" I was looking forward to meeting all of the men but, on
seeing me, Accountant Adolf Voß raised his eyebrows and looking at me uttered, "You
don't belong here. These men are rough fellows." I laughed. “Rough
fellows usually have a good heart.”
“Well, yes,” he sighed, “for six weeks!”
“Have ever you stood in a small
boat on a windy day?” was the first question Chairman Bartel, a survivor of World War II and
a former prisoner of war in Russia, asked, “Yes, with Kurt Meyer, Cammin,
but earlier on the Peene, in Wolgast!”
“For six weeks!” he repeated. It started with a night shift –
It could well have been the last of my life. The fishing boats, just
rotten planks of wood.
Görß, third from the right,
fearless and honest was superior to everyone in every respect.
Right away I question-5 tons of
fish in one day? Then everything here, including the little green shed, would
not look so primitive. I was assigned the stern section in the right boat.
Barely a kilometre out onto the deep black Tollensesee, the first lightning
strike flashed. The water began to be more violent. The side walls of the
towing barges lying next to each other, offered little safety as the waves
increased. There I stood somewhat wet on the excited lake. I took the special
constructed wooden shovel in front of me and emptied my boat of the incoming
water. Shaken by the approaching storm with both boats rhythmically bumping
against each other while more and more water was leaping over the edge of the
boat.
Everything needed to be done via
muscle power. We rowed towards each other again, anchored in the reeds and
pulled the net back into the workboats using the winches. All in the hope of
finding many large fish in the huge nets and disappointed to glean only a few
kilograms of low-quality fish. After four nights of hard work, I felt
exhausted. I wasn't used sleeping during the day. I couldn't go to dreamland.
On the fifth night, which gave us a good catch, I fell on the cover made of
sawdust around 3 a.m. It had been my responsibility to remove the sawdust from
the ice blocks, which were collected from the lake in the winter from the
protective coat, in order, to cool the fish lying in wooden boxes. I have no
idea how long I lay unconscious on the soft protective layer on that warm
summer night. Despite the negative experiences, I liked the work as daily It
presented new expectations and challenges.
After a long period of
unsuccessful fishing, we were surprised. Directly behind the rubble of the
former torpedo testing facility we managed to catch a huge school of large
perch.
Four tons of excellent fish
filled the compartments of the pot-bellied cutter. From then on things were
looking up. Day after day we caught tons of quality fish to deliver to the
large sorting bench. Many of them all the way to Berlin. And, as life
goes, Mikusch, a young father, who in July 1956 treacherously left his family
to escape to the West, told the officers: “I am a political refugee.” His
demise became my good fortune as I was allowed to stay and take his
place. A few weeks later, and according to my request, I joined the
cooperative as a fully fetched member: “You see!” I said to myself,
“only the things you give up are truly ever lost”
It took a while for my fellow
work mates to accepted the fact that I would not drink any kind of alcoholic
beverages with them. Respected that I would not work on Sundays, that I would
attend my local church with Erika and Hartmut. They found it strange that I
would always carry a book with me. Thought it hilarious when Gerd arrived with
his small portable typewriter.
Whenever we were plagued by bad
weather, the six of us huddled together in the driver's cabin, the hellish
noise of the big diesel engine with its huge flywheels, while one or the other
would patiently rest my little Typewriter on their knees. The festive
newspaper, fun poetry I wrote helped them to laugh at themselves, I sketched
them for fun. They felt that I liked them. Each of them had their sunny
side. Kurt, who almost flattened me on my first night, was lying under the
large shabby table of the fishing hut after a night of drinking, surrounded by
five of his fellow fishermen. They had consumed unfinished 'Rumpot'”. It often
caused me great concern. Ah, yes, Kurt in trouble again lying drunk in the
middle of the net floor. One of the men kicked him roughly with his boot. I
said: “How is the man supposed to get up when you kick him in the butt!”
By now Gerd’s sense of humour was also accepted.
Kurt's second wife, mother of his
two daughters, came, asking me to help her, crying on my shoulder she sobbed, “In
his anger he hit me, breaking my arm.” He could not cope with the many
defeats he suffered during the war and the first post-war years. Not earning
enough to successfully pay alimony lawsuits from the West, he had to accept
deductions from his wages. He lived miserably. He hated himself because of his
alcoholism thus ending up in the hospital. He had given up on dear life.
Doctors ran out of Ideas of just what to do with him. I had invited Kurts’s
wife, Barbel, to visit at our church meeting. She begged that I should visit
him in hospital. For the first time in my life, I took a man's hand in mine and
held it for a long time. The next morning, Bärbel, his wife, came to me: “Kurt slept through the night, the
fever is down. He is doing better.”
It is normal. Everyone needs a
little recognition. I tried to give it to him.
Fritz Biedersteadt was a
completely different guy. When he drank and returned home late, he was
simply banned from entering the bedroom.
To sleep off his intoxication he
had to settle in a cold uncomfortable adjoining attic room., He laughed at
that, both mocking and confident at the same time. At the age of fourteen, he
had the opportunity to be trained as a butler in the noble household of
Baroness von Stein in Berlin. This lady of the world, whom he had faithfully
served for many years, never used a mean word. However, there were female
servants in the house who did not show each other kindness. He learned
selected courtesies and good behaviour on the one hand, the complete opposite
on the other.
He could express himself
elegantly, except when alcohol took away his self-control. For a whole year,
day or night, we stood together at the iron hand winch and cranked the tow net
up to the bank against water and ground resistance. He painted his past in
many, but never exaggerated, colours. Fritz was a talented storyteller and mood
setter. He gave me a look back to the 1920s, which led me to ask whether there
ever was a time among the children on earth where people were able to live out
their little joys undisturbed, at least for a while? Master and fishing tenant
Ernst Peters Senior hired him as a labourer in 1922 after Baroness von Stein
felt forced to change her lifestyle. Old Peters was at the end of his good life
on New Year's Day 1929. The rope with which he wanted to hang himself was
already attached to a beam of his magnificent home situated on the Oberbach in
Neubrandenburg. In desperation he had invested his last pennies in a
bottle of schnapps.
Then his workers caught 20 tons
of first-class bream in one foul swoop with their huge fishing nets, which were
pulled from hole to hole under the ice. Fish that Berlins wholesalers had been
calling for in vain for weeks. Jewish women folk were crazy about it. This
catch was a miracle, a stroke of luck for more than one reason, tens of
thousands of gold marks fell into the perpetually drunken man's lap. With his
left hand he placed the balance of his house payment on the table of the city
treasurer, paid all of his other debts. It however was not a blessing for
him nor his family. The devil alcohol kept him under control.
Time flew by.
I wanted to take responsibility and fight against the spiritual slavery
as best I could. There were many reasons
to rebel instead of remaining silent. Even though this was still dangerous.
More and more citizens realised that the way of life imposed on them by the
state was becoming an unbearable burden. They packed their bags and fled to
freedom.
Years ago, when I was
distributing hail insurance certificates for commission near Cammin, I met a
young farming couple. They owned 60 hectares of land and meadows. The slim
mother carried a one-year-old child in her arms and held the older one by the
hand. She looked at me with a look I will never forget. He stood next to her in
leather boots, a man straight out of a picture book. He looked at me just as
seriously. They have been cultivating the same plot of land for 200 years.
Entrepreneurs like him were a thorn in the side of the state. Feeling the
increasing pressure of losing everything, which daily became more of a reality,
he decided to act: “We’re going to the West!”
Just saying this openly was risky
venture in the land of 'actually existing socialism.' He knew that I would not
betray him. It was the sum of the many small, cleverly, or clumsily applied
harassments, that drove him away. Which
was carried out by people who believed their hour had come. He was determined
that his children should not be taught by teachers who falsify German and
European history. The SED press
constantly claimed that if ownership changed in their favour, more justice
would be done. It was not the growing needs that should determine the further
course of development, but rather the party programs of Suslov, Stalin, and
Ulbricht. But in every marriage, the partner would rightly rebel if they were
treated unfairly, always having to dance to the beat of the drums. And here in the state, the red signals and
commands flew extremely quickly. The
farmers were repeatedly told what they had to do and what not to do. “As a
farmer I know what I have to do!”
That was the content of our
conversation, before these lovely people became refugees.
Hermann Göck, chairman of the SED
district party control commission, old communist, admirer of Ernst Thälmann,
whom he knew personally, was an honorary member and advisor to our
co-operative. I had known him since the summer of 1956, shortly after I became
a member. There were regular training sessions that were held in our miserable
wooden barrack. The extremely good-natured district fish master, Jochim, a
former East Prussian, held them, and Göck came along occasionally, he wanted us
to join his party as a unit. However, no one was interested.
August 1957
Months later, Otto Görß had
proven to be somewhat of a technical genius. He had built the first functioning
underwater cutting machine. No mechanical engineering company in the GDR had
ever achieved a better result.
Unbelievable, but true. He solved
the problem by having the two cutting units work simultaneously, one
horizontally and the other vertically, working at a depth of 2 meters.
There was an urgent need for a
machine like that. He dreamed to get out of misery. He always compared West
German prosperity with the poverty of the East. Otto rarely minced words.
There, 14 of us cooperative
members sat next to each other in this 4 by 4 meter small “cultural room” and
listened to the eulogies of Eduard Jochim and Hermann Göck on the advantages of
GDR socialism. Göck, 1.80 meters tall, slim and with a pleasant appearance, was
still raving when Otto Görß, father of six children, interrupted him: “As a
soldier, I saw large parts of the Soviet Union during the war, including
the straw-covered 'huts' of the collective farmers in opposition, to the
ostentatious state cultural palaces.
More important to me is to live in a comfortable home.” With a slightly pained expression, he pushed
his thumb on an invisible table. In the
hope of being able to feed his family more easily and develop new fishing
ideas, Otto became an inland fisherman. Low fish prices prevented him from
becoming wealthier. The tough communist style of price setting caused more than
just stomach problems.
Of all people, Gock, the old communist, looked at me as if I should
support him against Otto's arguments. Apparently Göck was convinced that the
new generation could not help but enthusiastically follow his ideas, which he
saw as the light of a new era. I commented politely, I think, but I couldn't
stop myself. All these contradictions lived in me, here a few big Soviet
soldiers and there the huge mass of primitives. Here is a small group of
idealists who want to bring about a better world through their own sacrifices,
men like Mr. Kell, who saved us stupid brats from being transported to Siberia.
But there the overwhelming number
of careerists who wanted nothing more than to gain personal advantages. People
who wanted to "get money the easy way".
Many refused the idea that North
Korea was devastating South Korea with the aim of taking over the entire
peninsula.
They now were victims of the
communistic propaganda.
It was wise to keep one’s mouth shut.
Even more, nobody could deny that
Stalin's directives for agricultural pursuits were causing repetitive
starvation. And this in a country that was predestined to produce huge
surpluses of wheat. In my mind I can still
see the red banners on the Friedlander Gate on which, just a few weeks ago,
written in capital letters: 'Stalin's spirit lives!'
But how happy millions upon
millions were to hear one year later that this tyrant, who spent part of his
life compiling death lists, was now himself among the dead.
Clearly, always employed with
these reflections, now at our political orientated training’s meeting, I quoted
the party press from the previous day: “A lot of things have to change from
the ground up! said Khrushchev himself.”
Hermann Göcks eyes rolled in
shock when I - the nothing - added: “I also kept the newspaper
reports of the 'Neues Deutschland' from March 4, 1956. Walter Ulbricht,
there distanced himself from the personality cult surrounding Stalin -
Khrushchev's revelations." Göck interrupted me, rather
bitterly: “What revelations?” His otherwise clear voice sounded rusty.
Did he really think we were blind? I was compelled to reply: “Josef Stalin
represented the wrong theses to the detriment of the entire Soviet society;
with the development of socialism, the class struggle within the Soviet Union
intensified. That led to murder and manslaughter. This is the text in your press."
Göck cleared his throat; he
looked at me intently, surprised that someone like me would appear, daring to
put rocks in his way. Everyone else was
silent. But Otto Görß's eyes lit up. He liked that. Karl Neumann, a man of
athletic build; and Gräf, the brigadier, disliked all current political events
anyway. Intellectually they were still living in the last century, they had
made that clear to me more than once.
Göck was wrong. His thinking was
Utopian.
After that, I remained silent,
but my thoughts continued.
Early, in my church life, I
learned that untruths never help build a solid foundation. The “popular
elections” invented by loyal communists were even a blatant lie. Woe to anyone
who did not obediently fold the piece of paper given to them and put it unseen
in the slot of an urn. In any case, on this paper - called a ballot - were the
names of people of whom hardly anyone knew and who agreed to accept mandates
that could rarely reflect their faith. The top priority of these elected
officials, if asked at all, was to enforce the will of the Communist Politburo
members. There were rare exceptions to this rule. For example, when it was
simply an ethical, i.e. non-political, problem that concerned the members of
the People's Chamber, such as the question of whether abortions are generally
permitted.
Yes, there were voting booths.
However, anyone entering one of them was automatically classed as “enemy” - an
enemy of the ruling government. Courageous individuals would place a dangerous
stamp of disapproval on themselves
I looked at Göck's gaunt face and
saw how angry he was. “Not like that!” he spoke. But that didn't change
the fact that the SED party press confirmed a lot of things which I had
criticized, internally or cautiously, in the spring of the previous year. Large
parts of Khrushchev's secret speech lasting several hours to top officials in
his party have now been revealed piece by piece. A sentence Göck had formulated
at the end of this training session stayed with me for a long time: “Either
you are on the left or on the right, whoever gets caught between the two
fronts will be crushed.” At least, that was honest.
Daring steps
I was looking for a way, or rather a detour, to get involved politically
in a pro-democratic way. Maybe If I wrote a theatre play that reflects both
harmless yet clearly that it's a shame to punish people because of their beliefs,
instead of their criminal behaviour. It had to be clear that only the
implementation of malice is punishable.
I had to take a long detour to
effectively denounce the party's arbitrary actions. A piece that could be
performed. By this time, approximately 1.5 million East German citizens had
fled, like the former arch-communist, Wolfgang Leonhard, who had fled from the
painful pressure that 'the party' was allowed to exert. No one left home or
farm without thinking it.
No one is happy being propelled
forward with a baseball bat, even if a paradise awaits them. That was my basic
idea.
I would have to find a similar
event back in history. I could no longer accept it in silence. I knew I could
write, because in the second year of my marriage I won first prize in a
competition that the then mission president of Berlin - I think it was
President Claus - had organized at his own expense. 100 Westmark’s! That was
equivalent to almost two months' salary in our currency. I wrote in iambics the
story of the Indian peace king Asoka, who, after a bloody battle, swore never
to wage war again.
Now I was looking for another
historical event that would impressively reject any kind of coercion in matters
of faith or personal convictions.
The Spanish Inquisition had
already been described too often and ineffectively, but not the centuries-long
harassment of Spain's Moors, who were forcibly baptized by Christians, and
trusted to be loyal citizens.
I read everything available in
regards to these historic events. In the year of 711, summoned to the country
by feuding Visigoth princes, the Berber Tarik crossed the Strait of Gibraltar
with a few thousand fighters. After 7 years, much of the Iberian Peninsula was
at their feet. In 730 they arrived in
front of the Pyrenees. It was the
Franconian caretaker, Karl Martell, who stopped their victorious run in the
Battle of Tours and Poitiers in 732. Undisputed is the fact that Arab art and
science had a positive effect on all of Europe. During the Reconquista, step by
step the Moors were pushed back, leaving behind not only magnificent buildings,
but also amazing knowledge in regards to mathematics, philosophy and medicine.
What impressed me was the fact that they were tolerant towards those who saw
them as their mortal enemies. When the Christian cavalry armies recaptured
Toledo in 1085, Bishop Bernard of Toledo with his complete congregation went to
meet them carrying the cross. The legend
“Islam or the Sword” turned out to be essentially Christian propaganda.
My intention was to give great
Arabs, such as the Persian physician Zakariyyā al-Razis (865-925), the
word that should be written in the appeal letter of every politician and
teacher: “Our profession forbids us to harm
anyone: May God guide me to live in truth and nothing but love." He said this at a time when
Grand Duke Vladimir of Kiev was bringing Ukrainians and Russians at gunpoint to
their knees. Everyone had to accept his authority, everyone had to be “Christian,” for political reasons. In
keeping with his arrogant nature, he threatened them with the penalty of death
if they disobeyed his orders: "You must be baptized." This
is how the Christian Orthodox faith became Russia’s state religion.”
To this day rulers of the
Kremlin adopted this spirit. I wanted to highlight the contrast of the original
tolerant Hellenism and the forced Christian beliefs. Could I, would I succeed?
A poor Tollense fisherman dared
to attack a giant monster armed with dangerous teeth?
My intention was to give great
Arab leaders, such as the Persian physician Zakariyyā al-Razis (865-925), and
others a well-deserved place in history. ( (((Later I realized that the words
of al-Razis, which should be included in the appeal letter of every politician
and teacher: “Our profession forbids us to harm anyone. May God guide me to live in truth
and nothing but love.” He said this at a time when Grand Duke Vladimir of
Kiev was using force to bring Ukrainians and Russians to their knees. Everyone
had to accept his authority. Everyone had to be baptized, according to the
Grand Duke's political intentions.
In keeping with his arrogant
nature, he threatened the death penalty if they did not follow his orders: “So
the Christian Orthodox faith became the state religion of Russia.”)))))))) is a
repeat
Al-Razis taught that the human
soul can only achieve perfection in an environment of freedom.
(Duke Vladmir came 25 years after
Abd er-Rahman III.)
Wikipedia Commons: Abd er-Rahman III
There is the basis - every
support of a dictatorship in some form paves the way for decay.
Against this background, I
presented my draft drama “Philipp and his Maurisken” at the Friedrich Wolf
Theatre in Neustrelitz. A week later, the dramaturges invited me to an
interview: “You have written some very beautiful verses, but you have no
idea about theatre. The piece is unplayable. Here, study Harald Hauser's
'Heavenly Garden,' especially the stage directions.” They showed me what
was happening around the stage from the point of view of professional theatre
people'.
I realized that my intentions
were too great in relation to my ability and rejected my draft.
I was not aware that those
responsible for the theatre had recommended me to Horst Blume, head of the
'Young Authors' group, that had just been established. Thus, to my Suprise I
received an invitation to a work conference.
What I experienced there put me
off again. Above all, Ulbricht's socialism had to be highly praised even if the
obvious evil ran rampant.
As they became aware of my inner
convictions, it did not take long to boot me out the door. Those in charge did
not want any discussions. They suspected what I was trying to express: “You
can write, but what’s the point of your infatuation with ancient rulers and
philosophical idealism?”
The famous Alfred Wellm, who meant well for me asked: “Why do you not
write about on how to overcome your faith. That would be very interesting!”
Of course, I constantly examined my beliefs. The circumstances and my nature
continually drove me to question every sentence of my basic beliefs.
Now more then ever I needed to be sure I needed to know more thoroughly.
I can still see the messy diesel
shed of our fishery. A few days after my expulsion from the Young Authors'
Guild, I stood looking heavenward: “Dear, great God. I need to know for
certain whether the church I belong to is the Church of Jesus Christ!”
In doing so, I assumed that all
my positive experiences were a product of my desires. What I had experienced
thus far was not enough to survive the tough battle for justice and truth that
was to come. I promised to do missionary work, support full-time missionaries
for a few years with half of my year-end payout. I promised that if I received
a strong answer, I would act accordingly.
But nothing happened - at first!
1957 presented us not only with a
cold summer, but also pitiful catches. This worried the accounting department
because we had no reserves. In addition, the men consoled themselves with
liquor. I became again aware that my future as a fisherman was at stake. During
this miserable situation my father, Wilhelm, gave my family a special vacation
to Switzerland. He mentioned that I had earned it during the years of his
illness. A year earlier, with joy we had learned that our Church had dedicated
a Temple in Switzerland. We could only admire the beautiful building in
pictures. Now we should see it with our own eyes. We would take a vacation and Erika was
thrilled.
First visit to the Temple
We travelled to Darmstadt via
Frankfurt am Main. We stayed there for a stopover. We had to go to the
residents' registration office to acquire citizenship of the Federal Republic
of Germany. The customs officers would not have let us enter the Swiss Federal
Republic with our GDR passport. The Stasi also knew that, but they couldn't do
anything about it. The border gates were still open giving us the opportunity
to escape. To my surprise, everything went smoothly. I suspect some formalities
were clarified in advance. Within half an hour we had acquired a second German
citizenship. During those 30 minutes of waiting, whilst looking around in these
offices, posters of wanted murderers were posted everywhere, mainly looking for
18 serious known criminals. I thought, good heavens, what a world. What else
will the future hold for us?
As we gathered at my church's
Darmstadt community Center, the caretaker there gave me a letter from Walter
Rohloff, who by now lived in Utah. He was Erika's childhood friend, as they
grew up in the same house, "Dear Gerd, dear Erika, the delivery of this
letter will put you in a better situation. When you come from the Temple, stay
in Darmstadt. I will prepare everything so that you can emigrate a year
later." The idea of being a US citizen seemed extremely tempting, but
Erika objected: "I won't abandon my mother!"
I thought back to the summer of
1952. At that time President David O. McKay visited Berlin. We East German
members heard his words: “Stay in the communities in which you live. I
promise that you will not lose your children to these atheist ideologues."
Looking back, we must admit of how right President McKay was!
We travelled south, knowing full
well that we would remain in the GDR.
In the middle of the night, we arrived in Zollikofen.
Later
And then once again, back
to our GDR reality, such a miserable, poor existence compared to the Swiss
standard of living.
Once again, out to our beloved,
still stingy Tollensesee.
One morning at the entrance to
the upper Oberbach stream, where all boats had to move very slowly, we met
Herbert Maque, my arch-enemy. He came within two meters of us with 'his'
speedster. As I stood on the deck of the thundering cutter, he looked at me
fiercely with wide eyes and said in a voice so loud that every one of my
colleagues should hear: “Now you have the devil on board!”
As it turned out, they had not
understood the meaning of this accusation. Happily, they waved at him, as if he
had greeted them in a friendly manner.
But I knew! Now he had discovered the broken four-seater and only I was
considered for this crime. But he was wrong.
Fritz and comrades
As early as the end of October
1957, accountant Voß remarked succinctly: “Men, unless a miracle happens, we
will be insolvent by Christmas!”
The attempts to catch fish with
large trawl nets on the small country lakes and the Lieps following this
warning were invariably unsuccessful.
Things happened quickly. We stumbled and trailed behind the tractors of neighbouring
co-ops as they towed our barges over pathless terrains, often late into the
evening, to reach the nearest lake.
All the hard work we put in was
not rewarded. Exhausted, I slept restless. Who knows where the fish are hiding?
They existed of that I was certain. But where? Chairman Bartel grimaced and
complained to those who groaned loudly, “Man, people, if you only stare at
the momentary advantage, you should not be surprised at poor harvests. Years ago,
I wanted to buy more eel and pike fry and put them in the water.” But he
would only have preached that to deaf ears. "I was always afraid
that it could lead to bankruptcy."
Only the Camminer lakes, which had
become ours, because the state had deprived Kurt Meyer of the possibility of
further management, should by now be generous. Poor Kurt his lose became our
luck. We fished and received almost 6,000 marks for the quality fish caught
there: zander, pike and tench. However, this was not enough to pay wages and
cover costs. And now the end of the year was just around the corner and with it
the danger that the lakes would only be accessible again if the ice layer was
thicker than 5 centimetres. We could then sink the large net into a
corresponding hole and pull it out again with lines at a certain distance. This kind of fishing, under the ice, is
usually successful only with a snow-cover over the ice, for then the fish are
nearly blind.
On this dull December afternoon,
a loud storm was blowing from the northwest driving the first snowflakes over
us. The year was over.
The cooperative was bankrupt.
A training session was scheduled for that day anyway, as we obviously
had to adapt to the line drawn by the SED party. The two district fish masters,
Jochim and Stöckelt, will tell us in sharp words what to do next.
As we sat there patiently, I
looked out the window and saw Fritz Biederstadt arrive.
The stocky, now fifty-year-old
Fritz Biederstaedt, braced himself against the wind. The storm tore
intermittently at his gray, flat cap.
His jacket pockets revealed that
he was carrying two bottles of alcohol. The men in the core team always band
together. All the pennies were enough for that. I could imagine how the women
would scold them afterwards.
Fortunately, the essentials for
survival could be purchased relatively cheaply. Then, even after a meagre
catch, we fishermen often brought home bass and other fish from which our
experienced women could prepare wonderful meals. Many things were still only available upon
presentation of the monthly food stamps, the portions of which, per person,
were 1380 g of meat (46 g per day), 815 g of fat and 1.5 pounds of sugar per
month. If you wanted more, you had to buy it expensively in the special shops. My
fellow fishermen had grumbled for months and I just listened in silence. So
much work for so little pay.
In their opinion, the SED state
was the main cause of their poverty. They didn't receive enough money for many
valuable fish.
The state was our dealer.
In fact, the GDR's financial
experts - on behalf of the Politburo of the SED government - tried to keep the
price level for wages, rents and food at the 1937 level. That couldn't work.
My colleagues defended themselves
when accused of not doing enough, saying that this was not how they had
imagined life in inland fishing would be more than ten years after the war. In
the long months of December, January to March they lived - and now it also
affected me - on advances that we had to pay off again in the short spring and
summer. This devil's hole was big and the hope of finally getting out were
small. The farmers' bank was reluctant to give loans for wages. “Why don't
you invest?” Why not this, why not that?” That's what the bankers said
again and again. Fritz Biederstaedt, in his capacity as second chairman of the
cooperative, preferred to go to the tax advisor, Hermann Köppen, who also
excelled as a moneylender. Köppen accepted higher interest rates, but did not
complain. The bank's sermon was: "Comrade Biederstaedt, first think
about how you want to make the repayment instalments on time, including the
three percent interest."
With money lender, Köppen, it was
much more cultured, “Cheers, Mr. Biederstaedt, for the good co-operation!”
This person knew what was appropriate.
He always got the best from the
liquor cabinet. “All the best, Mr. Deputy Chairman! They will do it. Six
percent is not a hurdle for them.”
This time, however, he had to ask
Mr. Hermann Köppen in December.
Stupid weather!
The 6 percent interest rate was
no obstacle, but the damned North-Northwest had chased the fish to unreachable
depths. Only 5 percent of the Lake Tollense area could be fished with the
existing resources. What should a fisherman, like Biederstaedt, do under such
circumstances, other than wait and shorten this waiting time as pleasantly as
possible? Back there in the wooden barracks his fellow fishermen were eagerly
waiting for him and what he was carrying with him.
As Fritz rounded the final corner
of his path, he stopped as if he had suffered a small stroke. “Düwel uk!”
(“Devil too!”)
He had forgotten that.
The real reason for his
premonition was clear; he would be declared the main culprit for his constant
incitement to alcohol consumption. The district council's almost brand-new F 8
car revealed what awaited him! He, the second boss, should have been there on
time for the agreed meeting and then listened reverently! They will ask him
where he came from so late. Was there anything more important than a political
lesson?
Yes, they had him imprisoned in
1946 after he went wild boar hunting in the Liepser Wilderness, with a revolver
thrown away by a World War II soldier, until one of his own betrayed him. No
one else knew that he had hidden the gun in a soup pot in his kitchen. Fritz
had just cleaned the forbidden thing when the Soviet police stormed in.
However, the communist leader of
the GDR, Wilhelm Pieck, pardoned him, as did my two friends.
Fritz bravely entered the
neglected anteroom to the training and culture room.
The two-party members would now
act twice as hard against him and it would all be a question of social
consciousness. Now the old chatter starts again, “When do you finally want
to do more for your future. You must buy more fish seedlings! If you don't put
anything in, nothing comes out! Extensive carp farming is now the order of the
day.”
Smiling but angry inside, he will
show them his big, green-yellow teeth and make a joke out of it, “Absolutely
my opinion!” In reality, however, he wants to tell them and impress upon
them what he really thought: “Gentlemen, how much money have we thrown out
the window into the lake over the years, namely the expensive fish
seedlings, and for what?”
Of course, he was a fan of proper
fish stocking measures but 5,000 marks for the whitefish were also a senseless
waste of money.
It's lucky that these two
comrades paid the bill for their crazy idea at the district council's expense.
He thought of the supposedly 5m small fry that they had thrown into an ice hole
near the coast, contrary to all regulations, because the ice had become so
brittle. According to the textbook, they should have been released into the
wild over deep water.
“So small!” he said to me one late night as
we rolled up the cable to pull in our large network. The tiny things consisted
only of eyes. How would they find their food down there in the dark? Should
this be an additional rational measure?
The two fish masters, Jochim and
Stöckelt, who came here, swore years ago that it was high time to stock the
Tollensesee with whitefish seedlings. This lake offers all the parameters that
lead to successful vendace (whitefish) management.
With foresight, he had hidden the
bottles somewhere before entering.
Ernst Stöckelt, who was only
about thirty years old, interrupted his official speech and his bent head
jerked. Biederstaedt nodded at him. Determined, he sucked in his impressive
belly and pushed through the narrow gap between the grey wall of the room, the
four backrests of chairs plus those of the accountant, Bartels, and the two
district fish masters. All that effort of squishing through because he wanted
to take his regular seat next to Otto Görß, sitting on the opposite side.
He could have sat on the
doorstep, next to me.
I, Gerd, foresaw that the two
district champions would now be faced with the declaration that we had to
reduce the number of catchers.
That could only mean I would fall
through the net like a small fish. Ernst Stöckelt composed himself and
scratched his head then asked the Tollense fishermen what they thought needed
to be done to solve their problem. No one can receive more wages than they are
entitled to. That is just how the economy works. You can only scoop out what's
in a pot. "Together you caught a hundred tons! That's simply not
enough. That's only a third of what is possible based on the lake's water
area!” Fritz Biederstaedt closed his eyes.
There it was again, that old
annoying topic, the worthlessness of the GDR mark.
Stöckelt should let it rest.
Couldn't he see the fishermen's faces twitching? Otto Görß raised his head, “And
what about all the barracks people? And all the briefcase carriers? Why
do they get paid exorbitant amounts of money for doing little more than
nothing? And why does this state give its officials large ladles for
their soup and teaspoons for their workers?” This monstrous, but legitimate
accusation, vibrated like a drum.
Otto had never been a coward, or
at least never particularly cautious when someone forced him to express his
opinion on politics. Otto always said what he thought. That meant: “I don’t
like you communists, neither your power nor your economic policy.”
It upset him when the newspapers barely reported the things that interested
him. As he was a father of 5 children, they did not care to lock him up. Otto's
white cheekbones shone through his thin skin.
Was it his fault that he could
only buy essentials with his 300 marks per month? Before the war, his father
earned 180 marks and as a child he was occasionally given a piece of chocolate.
He was not able to afford such treats to his children. “This state is
incompetent!” Chief Master Eduard Jochim, the gentle man, shifted
restlessly in his chair. No one was allowed to attack the workers' and
peasants' state in his presence as a state official!
Otto pointed to the fingers of
his right hand. He once again stated the reasons for the price increase. After
all, there are too many shameless political careerists in this state.
An oversized police force is the
hallmark of a fascist state. Ouch, hearing that hurt those who came here to
teach. Eduard nervously stroked his bald head. One thing was certain: a single
word directed against the GDR state could cost even a father of 6 children 5
years in prison. That is the law. But Otto Görß no longer cared about the law.
Not this time! He sneered and his face twitched.
My God, he certainly wasn't the
only one who was angry. While large parts of the city were still in ruins,
Neubrandenburg's Center at first a large building was where the huge police
headquarters was erected.
A large residential building or
retirement home would have been more important. In his native, wide Mecklenburg
Platt (dialect) he let everything come to light.
Stöckelt looked at him more
sternly.
Otto should have recognised that
kind of look better - it's just a warning.
Fritz Biederstaedt cleared his
throat. Stöckelt did not let him speak.
In a shaky, albeit muffled voice, he summarized: “First you have to do your
duty, then we will continue the conversation!” So far so good, but he
wasn’t quite finished with his prepared speech: “The team is too big! Five,
at least four need to be fired from their jobs.” There it was! The thing I
was afraid of. The shock of this announcement silenced us.
I, the ruined existence, will be
the first to fly out
Stöckelt, Jochim's adjutant, said he expected a report by next Friday,
and so they drove away.
Bartel explained that the meeting
was not closed, “The board is withdrawing for discussion! The
three of them, Bartel, Görß and Biederstaedt, disappeared into the 'office,' a
hut three by three meters in size. I walked out and looked at the calmly
flowing stream: “Oberbach, goodbye forever, that is it!”
What now? For me, the fishing
adventure was like a legal game. I loved it. That's why, alongside my failed
career aspirations, working in the fishing industry was the best thing for me. To
enjoy every morning this green-blue landscape, every day started with a new
hope for a good catch, and the goodwill of my comrades.
During this long break of
discussions among the fisheries foremen, many things went through my mind. I
was, and am, in favour, of people working together in co-operatives. Especially
in a co-operative - not a state-owned company - where the profits had to be
paid entirely to the state budget. Instead, a large catch, or consistently
better catches, could bring real prosperity to everyone involved.
Then I saw them coming out of the
office.
I could tell by their faces that
the dice had been rolled, that final decisions had been made.
Biederstaedt and Görß approached
me. Looking at me Görß simply said:” You stay! Unanimous decision.” Of all people, it hit the four
non-drinkers - Neumann, Milster, Sablotny and Müller. These four had spent
almost their entire lives as catchers between the open sky and moving water.
Gone – that was the abrupt, final
end! Suddenly, forever they were put ashore. That's how they looked when they
received the verdict, like unfortunate seabirds who could swim better than
walk. The question, that just minutes ago weighed so heavy on me, had fallen on
these four over fifty-year-old husbands and fathers.
Even if I had voluntarily given
up the opportunity, only one would have been saved. Which of the remaining team
would be fifth in line? That for the moment still lay open. Suddenly, from one
day to the next, four brave, loyal men lost their dream job. Kurt Reiniger, the
refugee from the West, like me was allowed to stay.
I was asked to manage the fishing
grounds at Cammin.
Cammin? Not daring to oppose
their decision I buried my feelings; anything but Cammin!!
Not Cammin!
All these events were hidden from
Erika as I tried to keep all my promises. Coming to the decision that somehow,
I must do more. She hugged me. Erika believed in me.
Wild September
Under Graf’s direction things proceeded well and I was allowed to
continue fishing at the beautiful lake Tollense. Gräf fell ill and Biederstaedt
set up gill nets on the “Barschberg”, which left us without a leader. We did
our best, but the results remained mediocre. September 1958 surprised us with a
strong south-westerly wind. It blew and blew making the waves feel three meters
high as the area in which the lake was located had a gorge-like character.
Unfortunately, none of the
rotting boats would withstand the onslaught of these waves. Historically,
September had always been the best month for trawling.
What now?
Several days of total inactivity
passed as we could not risk navigating through the surf zone. Restlessness
increased and my brain would not shut down.
“Gerd, you toss and
turn instead of sleeping. What is wrong?"
“Nothing, my dear, do
not worry!”
Truth! that night I made two life
changing decisions.
1) Against the wishes of the chairman, I would like to visit the
institute for fishing in Hubertushöhe
2) I will ask for 4 volunteers to
navigate through the seemingly relentless surf to transport the big network to
the calm waters situated at the southwest end of the lake.
It seemed to me, that under the
circumstances, we needed to deviate from the usual. Nothing adverse would
happen to the boats if we connected them in a certain way behind each other.
After yet another restless night
spent watching the tall poplar trees as they gracefully bowed to the demands of
the storm, I approached Hermann Witte.
Bartel stood at the bulwark
observing Witte and me board the workboats. He, with his hands on his hips,
puffing his cigarillo as usual. briefly said: “I forbid you to go. The whole
idea is crazy. That I had no Idea of what I was doing.”
Three men standing around Hermann
Witte nodded at me. Master Hermann Witte, who was my superior, supported my
concerns as soon as I confided them to him. Somehow, he had placed his trust in
my adventure. "We won't let the work boats navigate side by
side! The impact of the waves on these fragile vessels would be too
great. We will have to take the entire load with us, connecting the dinghies
and work barges behind us, each with a 5-meter length of rope between them.”
We loaded the fishing boats with
the big yarn. It was an enclosing network of two wings, each 300 m long and a
network height of 13 meters
If we let these boats swing in
the highest wave, we will safely pull them through. Like a statue, old Bartel
stood watching our determination and clenched his fists. He knew I was the
driving force. “Let me bring it to your attention" he bellowed: "that
you are going out against my will. If the whole thing goes wrong. When
everything goes down, it's your fault, you are liable!” Kurt Reiniger took
over the helm manning the steering wheel of the lead boat. He, like me, saw no
other chance of earning some money.
As we exited the Oberbach and
entered the meter high waves we were hard hit. Kurt Reiniger stood undisturbed.
His wrinkled face remained calm. As an anti-aircraft soldier, he had
experienced worse. There were five hopeful men in the dark cutter cabin who
knew that even the strongest blows could not force more than one or two buckets
of water through the fist-sized hole in the lead boat's bow.
After a few minutes of very
quiet, slow driving and constantly looking behind us, we realized that
everything was going according to plan. Of course, 300 meters behind the breakers
you could either see the last boat on the crest of the wave or nothing at all.
After about half an hour it
seemed like the worst was behind us. We had overcome the power of the waves.
As we finished our 2 hours ride
to the other end of the lake, we noticed how the cottonwood trees were fending
off the last of the wind, as if the elemental forces had capitulated. Our
network went to work as usual. The lower lines, equipped with small round
stones, pulled the net into the depths of the lake while the plastic floats
held it up. In a strange way, we were surrounded by a serene peace.
Each boat wound down two hundred
meters of wire rope. Both sides - three
hundred meters apart - anchored their boats in the reed belt and started the
small engines. So, the wings were brought to the shore, then you rowed to the
middle to close the circle.
What surprised us was that
normally the entire lake moved violently during the storm and then the net is
carried along with the current. It even happened at times that the steel cables
of the winches broke. As strange as it seemed, there was no movement at all.
To our amazement, when we pulled
the net back into the boats, large fish appeared on the sides. Soon there were
more and more of them. We still couldn't hope for a big catch. But as we
certainly hoped, we had caught 5 tons of first-class fish: pike, large perch,
tench, as well as first-class roach, which was still in great demand in Berlin
at the time. The three large holds of the lead boat were filled to the brim.
Securing the work boats on site,
with the knowledge that the direction of the wind would not change quickly, we
prepared for our return journey. I was aware that despite all the fishing
success, of the consequences I had been threatened with should this venture
fail.
It was already dusk as we drove
home, driven by the storm, this time without danger. Kurts skilful manoeuvring
saw us safely through the surf zone. In the darkness we recognised the stocky
outline of Wilhelm, our chairman, standing on the landing jetty; recognizable
by the glow of his inevitable cigarillo. He must have gone through terrible
fears as there were no other means of production that could replace our
network. As the seven-meter-long boat turned in the upper reaches and docked at
the rotten jetty, the banging diesel engine still running, he loudly growled: “Where
are the work barges?”
I calmed him down.
He cautiously jumped on board and
ripped open the first chamber cover. Shocked or delighted, his cigarillo fell
out of his mouth and then he opened the second and third covers. Eyelids moving
as if he did not believe what he saw before him, he stammered, “Five tons!”
Wordless. He wasn't allowed to praise anyone.
He drove away, visibly confused,
and relieved at the same time. The storm continued for another two weeks. We
caught another twenty-five tons of the best fish in the shelter of the giant
poplars near the shores of Nonnenhof. The accountant and other colleagues
patted me on the back.
From then on no one, except
Hermann Witte, ridiculed me for my religion. That at least was over.
Good fortune smiled on us, the
tide had finally turned, we caught more and better fish than before.
On a quiet October day, we were
in the right place at the right time. We caught huge schools of large bream.
The lake lay motionless, reflecting the sky like a mirror. As soon as we
retracted the first few meters of the net, we saw a carpet of bubbles moving
forward. The lead fish, which always swim in herds, gave themselves away and we
were able to scare them back. The Saxon smokehouses made delicacies from these
rare, valued “pliets”. Anyone who has ever
tried them, swore by them, provided the golden-brown pieces of fish were
well-seasoned and no older than two days. The taste and nutritional value of
this type of fish were high. Even in the golden west we could have sold them
for silver. Too bad for us poor GDR fishermen, making phone calls to the
class enemy was unthinkable, forbidden by this crazy state. It would have
been one of numerous ways to encourage foreign exchange. For the first time
catchers achieved a considerable annual profit of 24,000 marks. This resulted
in a cash payment of 2,400 marks for each person in addition to the usual
monthly wage. What this means can only be understood by those who know that
industry specialists throughout the GDR only earned an average of 440 marks per
month since January 1956.
Now earning 500 marks per month,
some of us began to believe in ourselves and in a future under difficult
circumstances.
And the 'drinking' stopped.
We were able to purchase new
synthetic netballs from which we could make new, larger fish traps. I
gratefully absorbed the lessons and ideas of others and built larger fish traps
that allowed us to continually double the usual total annual catch over 20 long
years. Hermann Göck stroked my back after sometimes shoving his fist under my
nose because I did not bow to his communistic party ideals which he thought to
be the best in the world.
In 1959, we moved into a larger
apartment, we were able to buy new clothes and better furniture. Göck
repeatedly awarded me the 'activist medal', which always came with money. Stasi
people who came to our still miserable wooden-barracks, seeking special requests
for fish, treated me in a remarkably friendly manner. Stasi Lieutenant Kindler
and others suddenly recognised that I was not such a bad fellow after all. Even
though I openly rejected their 'dictatorship of the proletariat' By now they
looked upon my rejections as minor flaws, forgivable mistakes. They knew that I, with some success as a
district missionary, along with my fishing friend Kurt Meyer in Cammin, was
serving my church.
In 4 years, we had baptized 4
people.
The government surveillance
agents knew that I had never acted for my own benefit and that I had not had
any affairs. They told me that later. In fact, the government had done a lot,
but – in its own opinion – not enough to perfectly control its citizens.
They needed more observers for
their efforts.
Woe to those who are caught in
adultery or other private or political mistakes, as they then turned them into
'unofficial informants.' There was no way out.
They had to behave as traitors to
their own family members. Otherwise, they were told, “If you are not willing
to cooperate with us, we will show your spouse special photos to show that you
are a caught liar, an adulterer.”
In a roundabout way I found out
that the Stasi was astonished to find approximately 1,000 active, adult “Mormons”. Wherever we were living and
working, they knew we disliked to be cheated and neither did we care to cheat
the State. Over time even the assumption that we were in the employ of the CIA
faded into silence. All we wanted to be was Christ-disciples, striving to keep
His commandments. As before, only theologians of the main churches
refused to give us the honorary title of “Christians” and this mainly because of
arrogance and stupidity.
With great interest, I have
always studied and analysed their important publications. Their judgement was
bold, unjustified, and self-contradictory. Often, I was left to wonder, can’t
they see the mischief they caused throughout the past centuries? Loud and
inappropriate were their trumpeting’s, “Mormons are not Christians…They
refuse to worship the Triune God.”
“God is one and three at the same
time!?” What thoughtful
believer could accept such folly? In Hubertushöhe, near Frankfurt Oder, I had
the opportunity to speak with an old Jesuit priest. He was very friendly,
looking after the thirty nuns who lived there in the 'Poor School Sisters'
monastery.
He tried his best to explain how
we should think about God while with a stick he drew signs in the sand that had
absolutely no meaning.
As time slipped by, it became
increasingly clear that Catholics and Protestants taught little of eternal
truths. In many cases even the opposite, denying the God given gift of free
agency. (1959 Rome still had not distanced herself from the error of the Second
Council of the Vatican). And the Protestants claimed: “Humans have no free will.
“Online dogmatics of the Protestant faith.
More generally, the gospel of
Jesus Christ makes it clear that receiving money for preaching the Word of God
is against Christian principles. Already at the beginning of the 3rd century,
Hippolytus of Rome criticized the community of Theodosios in Rome because of: “...
the payment of a monthly salary to their Bishop. That was just another
novelty.” Jungklaus, full text of: “The Community of Hippolytus
In the early church it was always
about having happy families, being honest, humble, and kind to everyone. Our
religious opponents were often amazed at how misinformed they were about the
teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. This fact became
crystal clear in the many conversations I had with them.
A pastor from Neubrandenburg, by
the name of F. Martins from St. John, who had invited me for a conversation
declared after two hours, “There will be no more meetings.” When
he retired from that position a few years later, he confessed, that he realized
that he simply cannot refute the teachings of “Mormonism”
In October 1960
I attended a Catholic service in
Neubrandenburg, which was mainly attended by older women. Pastor Timmerbeil,
who some young men said was a sadist, led the prayer session. It was this
priest who banned me from reading the Bible years ago after a short
conversation.
The Ave Maria with its additions
was repeated continuously. How much it reminded me of medieval statistics on 'good
works' that were carefully kept back then. “In some monasteries, the 'Our
Father' consisting of just a few words, was prayed around the clock: ... the
brotherhood of 11,000 virgins had prayed 7 million Hail Marys in reserve, as
well as 200,000 rosaries and 200,000 Te Deum Laudanum and 3,500 entire
psalters" Gustav
Freytag 'Deutsche Bilder ' 2
No matter how well-intentioned
they were in doing so, this spiritual exercise didn't make the world a better
place. However, here's the point, if religion does not ennoble people, then
listening to religion is just another waste of time.
Jochen Appel
He was an employee of the
district homicide squad, and came net fishing with me as often as he could, as
a hobby fisherman. It would have been better for him if he had never met me.
Because of me, our relationship
ended with his suicide. After we had built trust in each other, Jochen told me
about his work and I, in turn, explained why I ended up working as a fisherman.
One day, completely against my usual habits, I shared a political joke, wrapped
in a question. Unfortunately, a few weeks later he spread this dangerous 'joke'
in the most inappropriate place. As a trainee officer at the police academy in
Gera, he should have kept his mouth shut. The mocking joke I had told him was, “What
is the difference between Walter Ulbricht and a rocket?” Answer: “There
is no difference! Both are remote controlled via Moscow!” Whilst
helping farmers thin out sugar beet seedlings in an LPG field, forty trainee
police officers hat listened to it. They all laughed and most of them did not
attach any importance to the matter. After all, there were worse innuendos, but
one of his classmates reported him. Jochen was ordered to give an answer to the
officer on duty. The man sharply rebuked him. “Comrade Appel, we expect a
future officer of the People’s Police to have a clear commitment to the
workers’ and peasants’ government! You dared to insult the
highest leader of the party. This is no joke, but a crime. Who told you
such nonsense?” My friend's attempts to make excuses failed.
"Who speaks such horrendous
accusations?" Jochen answered: "I heard it in a pub. I do not know his
name."
His eyes filled with fear as they
accused him of lying. He would have to give them my name to satisfy the
inquisitors.
Jochen, foresaw the consequences
should he reveal my name. For a few minutes he wavered for his professional
future was at stake. However, my future and the future of my family was also at
stake. Five years in prison would have awaited me. Would Erika have survived
that?
He, on one hand, would have been
rewarded for betraying a friend with the promotion that worthy spies of the
state always received.
I, on the other hand, was
unsuspecting in a sense of false security. When just a few days later Jochen
told me what had happened, it seemed my heart would stop. However, he reassured
me in broad “Mecklenburger” slang: “I could never betray you. For I have had
a dream! I saw you on the lake, sitting
in the boat reading the Bible.” Confessing that he simply could not hand me
over to communist justice.
Mercilessly they interrogated
him, threatened and dismissed him from school. He was branded. What thoughts
and feelings my friend, who decided not to betray me, would he have gone home
with? How bitter he must have felt, foreseeing that for him this stupid story
was far from over.
The big, every day, dangerous
lies - and a big truth
Even I have occasionally wondered
whether Communism might gradually gain the upper hand because of its tactics.
Khrushchev, a great and ruthless leader, acted shrewdly but not honestly.
At first, he supported it when
Stalin made fundamental mistakes. For
example, when the great dictator forced the collectivization of agriculture in
1929, which led to famine disasters with millions of deaths. Then, when the Kremlin
boss could no longer defend himself, Khrushchev called Stalin “a great
criminal.” Stalin, not he, was responsible for the famine in Russia and
Ukraine.
It was the evil of the system
that we were supposed to approve, but could not. Again and again, the factual
truths were turned inside out and upside down.
The Eastern press proclaimed: “We
are peacemakers!” On the other hand, it agitated against the 'Wests' desire
for freedom.
East Germany – the GDR –
desperately wanted to take West Berlin. This however was not possible by
peaceful means. A 'peace state' like the GDR was of course not allowed to take
military action unless West Berlin threatened the peace. This was the point: we,
the communists, must rescue the peace!
Hundreds, sometimes thousands, of
GDR citizens fled via West Berlin to the 'Golden West' every day. Engineers, doctors, scientists, successful
farmers, and craftsmen left everything behind. This hurt the GDR economy. If
this continued, German communism would bleed dry.
Eastern propaganda was now in
full swing.
On June 2, 1959, Dr. Lothar Bolz in 'New Germany'
stated, “West Berlin must no longer be a powder keg.” Of
course, every GDR citizen could read between these lines what it was about-encoded
Bolz said: “We communists, – (Bolz was a communist
in disguise) – we have to save the situation before we all
go to hell. Let Soviet tanks roll over the 'warmongers' drive
them to hell where they belong.” The following day the same newspaper
reported: “The KPD (communistic Party Germany) demands a renunciation of
violence!” Again, we read what was actually meant: “Get out of
the way when our tanks roll into the streets. They will run over you.
Don’ t defend yourself. We want to save you from the end of the
world! We are the peacemakers.”
On June 4th this allegation was written in the same
press: “West Berlin spy Center of inestimable value (for the capitalists G.Sk.), but it
cannot be defended militarily.” This wanted to express: 'Spy canter’s'
respectively what Eastern Socialists consider as to be, “must be dissolved by
force.”
A few sentences later a warning follows. In West
Berlin, the bad guys are planning the next war: “Franz Joseph
Strauß has civilian vehicles recorded for day "X “(At that time,
Franz Josef Strauss was the vocal defense minister of the Federal Republic of
Germany. He recognized the bad intentions of the communists and attacked them.
This meant that he faced the GDR government as an enemy.) All normal citizens
on the east side of the 'Iron Curtain' understood it very well. West Berlin was
perceived by the leading members of the militarily high equipped Eastern bloc -
under the leadership of the Kremlin - as a thorn in their flesh. They really
wanted to get rid of this tormentor.
We understood it. West Berlin was perceived by the
leading members of the militarily to be highly armed, believing that the
Eastern Bloc was a thorn in their side. They really wanted to get rid of
this 'tormentor'.
At the same time, the leader of the Eastern
world, Khrushchev, boasted about his 20-megaton hydrogen bomb. When asked who
he intended it for, he answered unabashedly: “America.” There were people who stood proud saying 'We are
the winners of history.” And, as if nothing had mattered, “Neues
Deutschland” wrote on June 14, 1959: It was important
to 'tame German militarism.' They
always kept using names like the 'peace struggle' in
excitement. The following day, the stupid red editors, in the same paper demanded: “Bonn (the
then capital of West Germany) should stop nuclear armament.” Then,
two days later: “Outrage over Adenauer's war course. “
But it was the other way around, and everybody was aware of it, except the people wearing red glasses.
In the spring of 1960 was this short, very conclusive
revealing conversation with the old communist Ernst Kay; he, being part of the
security apparatus at the Neubrandenburg tank repair plant. Because of his
status, he was part of the governing body. He had insider knowledge and common
sense. One of his tasks was to accompany us fishermen when we wanted to lay our
nets in the 'restricted area'. That
morning, I took the SED sheet ND out to the lake. Written in red: “Nikita
Sergeyevich Khrushchev: For a world without weapons!”
What a great headline! That should and had to be
impressive.
I held out the huge sheet of paper to the skinny
old-looking Ernst Kay. From his tired, wrinkled face he took a quick, oblique
look at his party press and said, impressively cool, but with a tremendous
matter-of-fact way that accompanies certain truths: “Hei lücht!” (He’s
lying!)
Boom! It was like an exploding grenade.
He calmly added that none of the Kremlin heads,
including their advisors, neither Lenin nor Trotsky, neither Stalin nor
Tukhachevsky, let alone Malenko, had ever relied on military armaments as
brutally as the current ruler of the Soviet Union, Nikita Sergeyevich
Khrushchev.
Every word,
that the almost sixty-year-old Ernst Kay uttered so calmly in his hoarse, but
not unsympathetic voice, penetrated deeply into my consciousness. Then with a
movement of his hand he brushed everything away, including any further
questions I may have wanted to ask. Ending the conversation with the succinct
remark that he no longer cared about women nor the military.
“Cheers!”
He drank something that looked like water. He looked
sadly at the rest of the contents and put the small bottle back into a pocket
of his wide jacket, from where he had retrieved it. He pointed out, with an
urbanely clever look, the final conclusion of his eventful working-class life
that for him the taking of his Soul medicine was still the most important
thing.
Involuntarily I nodded I liked him considering his
note among a thousand accumulated illusions: “Hei lücht!” (He's lying!)
Relenting my political and literary ambitions I
concentrated on tasks I had set for myself in the Church. One day whilst
returning home from work, on my bike, I met Mr. Wilke again. My friend Kurt
Meyer and I had received an invitation from him for a conversation. He worked
as a catechist for the Protestant church. We met on the agreed day and it was
clear to us that he had prepared and studied the topic so we knew he wouldn't
say anything out of the blue. Once we were seated, the friendly man, about thirty
years old, leaned back in his chair, looked at the ceiling, closed his eyes and
said, "I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have to destroy your faith
today."
Kurt looked at me and rolled his eyes, I raised my
forehead. And then came the sentence: “It is unchristian for Mormons to
worship their Prophet Joseph Smith!”
I'm not sure we were polite enough not to laugh out
loud. What should we do?
Now, on the third encounter with Mr. Wilke, I got off
the bike, greeted him and asked if he had read the Book of Mormon that we had
given him. I don't remember what he said next, but I'll never forget that I
told him: “Like Peter, we all need to ask God for an answer.” I
quoted the Gospel of Matthew: 16,
verses 13-17
"When Jesus came to the region of Caesarea Philippi, he
asked his disciples, “Who do people say the Son of Man is?”
They replied, “Some say John the Baptist; others
say Elijah; and still others, Jeremiah or one of the prophets.”
“But what about you?” he asked. “Who
do you say I am?”
Simon Peter answered, “You are the Messiah, the Son of
the living God.”
Jesus replied, “Blessed are you, Simon son of
Jonah, for this was not revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by my
Father in heaven.”
I also pointed out that, like Peter, we can
learn significant truths through the power of God's Spirit.
Having just said that, pure joy and light poured over
me. It was the certainty that I would be heard. I said goodbye, but did not
bother to get back on my bike and while in deep thought said, "My God,
I know you hear me." It felt powerful and uplifting in the best sense
of the word as it resonated. I walked the half mile to my home slowly. By the
time I got there, it was all over me and within me. The first question I asked
before was, “Lord, was Nephi a historical figure?”
With great power it came back wordless, positive. In
those ten minutes I named every name recorded in the Book of Mormon. Each name
was confirmed in the same manner. There was the certainty I had sought almost 3
years earlier. As I entered our apartment, I threw myself into the armchair and
said to Erika, “Now I know for sure!”
But it came at a price, first I had to prove that I
would fulfil the commitment I had made. Since then, it has often occurred to me
that when Nephi asked God his most important questions, he didn't just say a
few words, he climbed a high mountain. This meant that he was not closer to God
physically, but inwardly. 1 Nephi 17:7
Despite all our knowledge, we must endure the
hardships of everyday life
In the spring of 1961, we saw how hundreds of thousands of small farmers - often refugees who had lost their livelihoods in Western Pomerania and East Prussia - became owners of an average of 10 hectares of arable land, meadows and forests through expropriation in 1946.
Ulbricht (1893-1973 played a leading role in the
creation of the Weimar-era Communist Party of Germany and later in the early
development and establishment of the German Democratic Republic
This new farmer would now lose
everything again. This terrible action took place on the orders of Walter
Ulbricht.
The campaign was entitled 'Socialist Spring'.
Every effort was made to 'convince' the owners and ultimately force
them to give up their property. Loudspeakers were set up outside the homes of
those who stubbornly refused. Those affected were exposed to loud noises for
hours until they surrendered. They should now work together
as co-operative members.
Many showed their property papers - in vain. They referred to the GDR head of state, Walter
Ulbricht, who had promised in the fall of 1945 that “no power in the
world could take the new territory away from them.” Nothing
helped. The 'party' had now decided differently. Of course, there
were great advantages to tending the fields and livestock together, but before
that they had enjoyed being their own masters. Now they had been demoted. From
then on, they had to follow orders. In does days many fled to the West.
Quite a few of his orders were barbaric. On
August 13, 1961, the party built the Berlin 'Wall' overnight;
initially only out of barbed wire, then step by step out of concrete. For the
communists there was a danger that another million or more people, some of whom
had been well trained at great expense, would flee.
In July there were already 30,000 who had fled
and on August 12, 1961, 3,200 more people fled in a single day.
Grandparents who wanted to visit their children on the
next street found themselves helpless from one day to the next.
Personally, I felt like a prison door was closing
behind me forever. I was outraged. About a month later, my District President,
Walter Krause, reassured me, President David O. McKay had said, “There will
be no war.”
I said to myself: “I will believe his words.”
We often need comfort. We still had to take things as they were. Day
after day we carried out the same work. Now we were hoping for a miracle,
for great fishing success. That would be
like a ray of sunshine in the darkness.
November came
Wilhelm Bartel and I were appointed to the District
Council. There we were presented with a paper. It was a “Call for a plan for
fulfillment and over-fulfillment”. The “Competition
for socialist co-operatives” plan was
explained: If we fulfilled the State criteria then we must pay taxes. However,
if we over-fulfilled then there would be no taxes to pay and we could keep the
money gained. “That doesn't exist!”. stated Wilhelm Bartel and, in
shock, lit a new cigarillo from the burned-out one. Most of the time he only
stopped smoking for ten minutes. Not this time.
We rode our bikes back down to the fishing barracks.
While we were cycling, he convincingly explained to me that unfortunately it
wouldn't affect us anyway. At best, we could fulfil and exceed the financial
plan and also the consumer fish plan, but in the area of fine fish we remained,
as usual, far short of the target.
Too bad.
When ever again would there be an opportunity like that,
we were just offered? Tax exemption for profits? Never! Biederstaedt also
confirmed the impossibility. Ten of the planned 28 tons of fine fish were
missing. The shortfall was compensated for, albeit financially, by increased
landings of other fish species. There are no more catching miracles in
November. At least not on this scale. That is certain. He also shrugged his
shoulders regretfully and shook his head. Illusions were no longer fulfilled at
his age. The wind even turned against us. During the first eight days of
November, it blew heavily from the east-southeast. The deep current it creates
would at most drive the large perch into migratory net areas. But the
Tollensesee did not produce 10-ton perch, even in the best fishing years. That
made sense to me, even though I had only been there for 5 years.
Of the elongated Tollensesee, only up to 15% of the
total lake area could be fished. The resources currently available to us forced
us to make this limitation. In these retreat areas the best fish always remain
undisturbed. Bartel still tried to encourage us to do what we could. The Lieps
have long since given their quantities of fine fish. “But we haven’t
fished the Krickower and Neveriner See yet.” Together, the two
bodies of water could give us two tons of fine fish.
But where could a third, fourth, eighth ton of this
class be caught?
Everyone shrugged their shoulders in resignation. Neverin!
The train network and the barges were first quickly transported to Neverin, where - as predicted - a ton of zander was caught on the 12-hectare small body of water with a known high productivity rate. Then we went to Krickow. Fantastic mind and number games ran through our heads. But upon closer inspection, only negative numbers came out: in the end, even in the best-case scenario, we will be missing more than 6 tons.
Eagerly, accompanied by the onslaught of the strong
east wind, we laid out the yarn in Lake Krickow. As soon as we started moving
the trawl, the net on the right side sank. Until now it was kept on the lake
surface by plastic floats. It got stuck on an obstacle. The men pulling this
wing moved as quickly as they could to the part of the net wall that
disappeared first. There had to be an obstacle in the depths. They moaned and
groaned for an hour. Little by little a strange structure emerged, finally a whole,
complete carriage. The network must have been better positioned for 15 years.
The large crack caused by the sunken carriage was quickly patched, but all
efforts were ultimately in vain, because there were only a few kilos of fine
fish there. We smelled the frosty air. Due to the weather, the end of the
season was imminent. Bartel straightened his crooked face. He had said it all
before. But he was not the only one who has finally come to terms with the fact
that beautiful dreams remain what they are – dreams.
After an hour, after everything was loaded, Witte and
I were defiant. We encouraged each other. We wanted to try again to use the big
yarn on the Tollensesee. Some called us crazy. After all, it's no use.
Experience has shown that 8 tons of pikes or large perches were no longer
caught at the end of November, especially not in an easterly wind, but only the
inferior roach. We argued. It was already getting dark, but finally, with the
support of others who helped me against all reason, we loaded the stuff and
stubbornly hoped for a miracle. Defiantly night fell, we would create the
necessary conditions for further catches.
The 13th day of November ’61 began sadly. Only
because it was their duty to fish did the scoffers go out on the lake with us.
My hope still burned brightly. Of course, sometimes there is nothing left to
hope for and you still run. We laid out the large network 400 meters from land,
halfway between Neubrandenburg and Buchort. Each two hundred meters parallel to
the bank strip. Despite all our efforts, we only caught four whitefish, - a
type of trout, - within five hours
Lat. Coregonus alba
That wasn't even a single kilogram of fish. Some were
happy, the rest of us pulled down the corners of our mouths. The smart ones
were right. Disappointment is more likely than fulfilment.
One could argue viciously: the lake has already
been 'overfished.' The clock hands advanced to the second hour of the
afternoon. Winter air was blowing noticeably again. The wind was now blowing
from the northwest. But as suddenly as it appeared, it went back again, as it
often does in the afternoon. Even Biederstaedt had little desire to make
another move. They discouraged each other and I gave up too. We thought about
the leisure time ahead of us. So, we drove home, leaving the disappointment
behind us. The engine hummed. Kurt Reiniger put the lever in gear. The cutter's
tail water swirled foaming while Kurt avoided the dangerous stones below the
Belvedere cliff. He headed towards Augustabad. This small circumstance had big
consequences.
Because there, 500 meters from land, something
happened. There, again! That couldn't have been a deception.
Nearly unnoticeable how a tinsel thread flashes,
only briefly illuminated by the faint moonlight 100 meters away in the
darkness. Again! This time 2 or 3 of these tiny silver linings that only appear
for a fraction of a second, but now are already 60 or 70 meters away from us.
They pulled me up from my lethargy. Biederstädt noticed it too. He placed his
hand over his strong eyebrows. We're working now as a couple. As if electrified
and in high tension, we turned our full attention to the suddenly completely
smooth water skin. Fritz Reiniger, Kurt's brother, thrust his right hand
forward. 'Little Maränen' he shouted. Now 4 or 5silver sparks appeared at
once and then multiplied.
Everyone now saw the picture unfolding incredibly
quickly. More and more fish jumped out of the lake surface. Whitefish
everywhere!
Only the cutter driver Kurt Reiniger had no
idea. He sat in the cabin and only had the stubby tower of St. Mary's Church in
view. Pure high spirits drove these winter spawners, who were in the mood
for marriage. At great speed they rushed just above the cut water level. Silent
for us, as long as the Cutter engine was running. From my work boat I hit the
roof of the driver's cabin, our new tugboat, with considerable force and the
flat side of my oar. Suddenly jerked out of his dreams, driver Kurt Reiniger
turned around. He angrily pushed open the small back window. His brow furrowed
with an expression of uncontrolled rage. His blacksmith's face, always tanned,
seemed to radiate hatred. He snapped at me and I snapped back, “Are you
blind?” All around now, thousands of pieces of silver were splashing
out ever more courageously, ever higher, ever further. Fritz Reiniger, Kurt's
brother, instructed him to turn around immediately.
Kurt would never have dared to contradict his older
brother out loud. But obviously still angry, Kurt pulled away. I correctly
assumed that he was cursing excessively to himself in the engine compartment
and yet he obeyed. He turned the steering wheel sharply and the boats
immediately lurched menacingly outwards. In such a situation, even boats with
higher sides have capsized. We were still 400 or 500 meters away from the
confluence with the Oberbach. The lake was deep enough then. Kurt was able to
drive in a semicircle at full throttle. We got into this mess
unnecessarily. Only millimetres were missing and the foaming water would have
hit the workboats not just lightly, but massively. Wherever this happened,
there were already deaths caused by the nets that were then automatically
pulled over the capsized people. Still on the verge of tipping over, the scene
jumping fishes repeated itself right next to us.
The precious fish jumped out of the waves we caused
and showed now themselves in all the splendour of their group flight. That was
uniquely beguiling and exciting. When we arrived at the Belvedere - (former)
torpedo test station line, we cast the net for the second time. The sun was
already turning the horizon reddish to red, then violet to a wonderful variety
of colours. We each rolled about four hundred meters of wire rope from the drum
winch. Then in the shallow area of the lake we stuck our stakes into the sandy
lake bottom, cranked up the small diesel engines of the machine winches and
waited rather uncertainly to see when the net, would finally appear. Because of
the water resistance that opposes the net bulges considerably during the
winding phase. Sometimes it is only 6 meters high.
Reduced by almost half of the theoretical height, as
long as the fleet line did not touch the surface of the lake, the fish could
escape at any time by simply swimming over the net. Following their instinct,
even fish that are in the mood to spawn still have a chance to save their
lives. That's why we looked forward to the network's appearance with calmness
rather than with great expectations. Too often we had seen big schools of fish
splashing around in what appeared to be a safely circled area, but still managing
to escape. This unpredictability of the fish, which were always only partially
circled, made the work so exciting. Despite enormous efforts on our part, it
remained a gamble, and so we gradually got used to not exaggerating our
hopes.
Then the next wonderful event happened. As if moved by
magic, the net suddenly flew into the air over a good third of its total
length, i.e. over a length of about 200 meters, half a meter high, it seemed to
me. A silver rim without equal. That was a sensation. Once again, my mouth
opened in amazement. I - and my colleagues had never experienced anything
comparable. Against the law of gravity, the net, which weighs several tons,
cannot rise from the water into the air, not even a single millimetre. And yet it
was like that. The men from the boat next door shouted jubilantly, “We
got her.” What had really happened? There was only one explanation;
all the energy that was released at the same time, by tens of thousands of
fish's aroused instincts to ensure their survival, was lost in the common rush
against the net wall. The ones in front rushed into the mesh with their pointed
heads, the next ones pushed against those who were still swimming excitedly but
were already caught, and the last ones, the majority of them, did the rest. So,
one wave of fish pushed the other in front of them in panic and in this way
caused the sensationally visible result of this mass rush.
Immediately behind the already bare beech tree crowns
and the silhouette of the temple-like Belvedere built in the classical style,
the sun was already retreating and turning the part of the lake behind the draw
net bag from violet to blue-grey, heralding severe frost. A thousand terns and
seagulls fluttered above the calf bag, almost 300 meters away. The flocks of
birds billowed like swirling, white clouds that rapidly changed their contours.
Again, and again the robbers swooped down from the grey-white-speckled heights
and more or less successfully tugged at the fish stuck in the mesh of the net
with their silver bodies. There was this wild screeching all around. In the meantime,
we drove our pitch-black work boats together in the middle of the shallow water
area to finally prepare for the work of hauling in the yarn. The lake area,
framed by white Ekazell fleets, was still and clear as glass in front of us,
when suddenly, without the influence of the wind, a considerable wave moved
towards us. Oceanic masses of vendace! Nobody could stop it. Any gill net that
we might have used as a barrier would have been torn down by them within
seconds.
With the loss of a few hundred bodies, the mass could
have freed itself. That must have been 5 or 6 tons. They swam for their
freedom. We saw the countless fish in the low water below us, bodies and more
bodies racing forward. We marvelled with anticipation at the sight of these
incredibly large, shimmering blue swarms. Later, this image often stood before
my eyes and at some point, the thought occurred to me: No totalitarian
government in the world could maintain its border fences if those who wanted to
escape would use their forces at the same time.
When daylight finally began to fade, we were able to
come full circle. From the moment the closely spaced fishing boats began
retrieving, the escape options for the other fish swimming in the area are
significantly limited. The two net walls now looked like a silver nubby
carpet
As the yarn filled with fish was gradually loaded, the
two boats sank deeper and deeper. The bows of our boats rose like deer antlers,
while the stern parts almost coincided with the now, fortunately, completely
calm water surface. We were barely able to move, otherwise we would sink. Lots
of the remaining vendace tried to find space in the big bag and get through.
They were still swimming, but like the ones stuck in the nets, they were
eventually caught. Otherwise, we would not have been able to control the masses
of fish. That night we were able to pull more than 8 tons of whitefish out of
the wide giant bag.
“Almost 9 tons!” I cheered, I think out loud. Luckily the
temperatures fell below freezing. We felt rewarded and gifted. Biederstaedt
laughed and crossed his stiff hands and arms again and again powerful over his
chest. “Like in the good old days! “, he cheered. His flat face
beamed. There was now no longer any doubt that the 10-ton limit had
been exceeded.
For me two things came to mind, the Bible passage when
the Resurrected One encouraged the disciples disappointed with their catch on
the Sea of Galilee,
And he said unto them: “Cast the net on the
right side of the ship, and ye shall find. They cast therefore, and now they
were not able to draw it for the multitude of fishes.” John 21
This was also a metaphor: “Go, you
fishers of men, and catch with the gospel net as many as you can carry.”
I looked at Fritz Biederstaedt: “We were both
wrong: the party we both dislike actually did something good for us by ensuring
that 5 million newly hatched vendace were introduced into our lake in 1953.”
And on top of that, they paid the bill.
I had to acknowledge that. This was the second
or third time that I specifically praised the action of a communist.
The only strange thing was that for years we had only
caught a few silverfish every now and then during our fishing season and had
noticed nothing else. Suddenly the lake seemed to be full of trout of this
species. Secrets of the deep. They had gathered within our reach. Fortunately,
the vendace came towards us at the last minute from the vastness of the 17
square kilometre area, which extends over the average water column of 26
meters. They had shown that they existed in abundance, and I realized how little
we knew about what was happening beneath the water's surface.
In the following years the positive trend continued
and I was able to acquire several professional qualifications.
Tempting offer
Prillwitz is located
on the picturesque south bank of the Lieps. This body of water is one of the
many blue and green-coloured iridescent peacocks in the Mecklenburg
landscape. Dieter Helm, chairman of the PGH (a state-controlled
cooperative) 'Heinrich Hertz' played his golden trombone at the
fishermen’s company party. His little chapel sounded wonderful. But now, well
after three in former Mecklenburg-Strelitz Dukes – build 1888
the morning, on this
June day in 1964, even the most beautiful sounds could no longer attract a dancer
to the ballroom floor. I walked slowly and thoughtfully down to the passenger
boat dock. There lay the 'Fritz Reuter', the white and blue passenger
ship, in the haze of the dawning day, waiting for us. I turned my gaze to the
red building where our little company party had taken place and where I had
recited the verses of my humorously mocking newspaper. It shimmered through the
trunks and canopy of the few enormous plane trees. I took a seat in the
boat.
Then I saw both Göcks arrive. She was exhausted too, as you could
see, but both were in a good mood. As always, Hermann leaned forward a little.
She, stocky and very femininely chubby. As they entered, they came closer and
smiled warmly. They sat down at the next table. After a few minutes of
relaxation, Hermann looked over, “Sit with us!” I accepted the
invitation. I liked both of them because of the warmth they always showed me.
The sun that was just rising turned the sky red in the northeast and was reflected
on the horizon to the left above the place where the sunken Wendendorfer
Bacherswall once stood. "How is your wife?" Not only did it
sound pleasant to me, it was real. It was reminiscent of the first meeting when
Erika and our then 2-year-old son, Hartmut, sat down at a banquet table next to
Göcks on Fischerinsel in the shade of the tall, rustling poplars. Fritz
Biederstaedt had arranged them so wonderfully. The long table, which consisted
of simple folding tables and partly covered with white tablecloths, was
artfully decorated and prepared. The freshly smoked fish had smelled wonderful.
The number of delicacies was a tempting sight. The glasses sparkled in the
glitter of the sun's rays reflecting off the nearby lake. We saw thirty plates
and cups each, illuminated no less.
Each person received a whole, gold-smoked eel. “That is
incredible,” Helene Göck exclaimed with emotion when we were kindly
asked to enjoy it.
That afternoon, Erika had worn her beautiful blue suit, Hartmut wore a
red and white blouse. Helene Göck nodded when I mentioned it. She also looked
back on this day and the harmony of the celebrations with great joy.
Helene had asked how Erika is doing:
"Thanks for asking! She has recovered from her last heart
attack. Things are looking up again." Hermann said, "Greetings
to her!" Then he continued, "We were watching you." His
eyes flashed as he said, "You behaved correctly."
What he probably meant was that I hadn't used the company party as an
opportunity to flirt with pretty ladies. I thought my part.
Meanwhile, the others walked down the only 100-meter short path from the
castle to the pier. Hermann Witte was puffing on a cigar. He wore a brown tie
with his light suit and had the face of a healthy VEB director; In any case, he
had become noticeably rounder. As he walked, stretching his legs outward and
slowly and pleasurably; blowing smoke from his Cuban cigar into the air. He
signalled that his happiness was complete.
There were now more than 10,000 marks in his account. He owned a new
motorboat and had built a bungalow on a beautiful bank. There was no longer any
talk of Woldegker times when fish boxes made up three quarters of his living
room furniture.
After all, in the ice winter of 1963, he had the idea of using simple
stable lanterns, that he placed at the ice holes, to attract the tumbling fish
gasping for oxygen to catch them in the many sinks he had specially
constructed. Otherwise, they would have died.
In a single night he had managed to outwit almost 30 hundredweight of
high-quality tench. Instantly the tench froze into stone. That didn't kill
them, not all of them anyway. Twenty-four hours later, some of the fish still
in wooden boxes in the sorting room began to wriggle again. They gradually
thawed.
Hermann Witte always worked hard as soon as he saw that it would be
worth it. His sense of duty would not have allowed laziness.
That morning after a night of partying, the thought must have gone to
his head that he had now become 'someone'.
The passenger ship's engine began to purr reassuringly. The boat set off
and slowly picked up speed in a curve. “How about, Gerd Skibbe, if you
take over the chairmanship of the Fishing?” Although this offer
from Hermann Göck didn't really surprise me, it did flatter me. He was a member
of the district leadership of the SED. More precisely Göck was the chairman of
the district party control commission and would have had the power to appoint
me over the next few months to replace Wilhelm Bartels, who was already in poor
health.
Wilhelm had survived his Soviet Russian captivity, which began with the
disaster of the Stalingrad capitulation, with little or no trouble. But his
constant smoking ruined him. Even as a prisoner, he confessed that he had
exchanged his bread for Makhorka (tobacco).
We now reached the Alter Graben, the 600-meter-long canal between
Tollensesee and Lieps.
What both Göcks actually needed to know, was that I could not accept
their unspoken conditions.
I looked out through the window, saw the birch trees that lined the bank
of the narrow water connection, that had just been dredged up again, and
thought, “Now you're thirty-four. This is a good time to make even more use
of your opportunities. Hermann Göck could bring you forward.” I
would be getting closer to my goal of getting a place at the Fisheries
Engineering School in Hubertushöhe.
In addition, things were clearly making progress in the GDR. Anyone who
could afford it drove a car, at least a P50 - a small plastic car. It was now three years since the border was
closed and the longer I endured being locked up, the more I got used to this
constant pain, which became less as time passed by.
Compared to the people in West Germany we were like little beggars, but
at least no one was hungry, the clothes were expensive but good and now there
was even a kind of cardboard car.
After I saved myself from consciously mourning the loss of freedom again
and again, I was able to live with the circumstances quite well. After all, my
wife and my two sons represented the greatest possible happiness for me.
The Göcks looked at me patiently. It was clear to them that I was
tempted to accept her offer: “You can do more than just catch
fish. Come join us at the communistic party! Just throw your concerns
overboard.”
So far, I had pretty much followed Polonius' good advice: “Be
true to yourself. And it must follow day like night. You can't be false
against anyone. “
For twenty long years of propaganda, I had opposed atheism for my own
reasons. How could I become a member of a party that was godless?
Hardly anything else concerned me more than the questions associated
with it. My conclusion was always the same, that my fellow human beings did not
become atheists through effort, in my experience it was the other way around.
According to King Benjamin in the Book of Mormon, atheism is a natural
phenomenon. It arises from our nature and it corresponds to this nature that,
like water, we seek the path of least resistance. But cultural ideas, such as
the belief in a loving, planning God, must defend themselves against the
destructive instinct of human nature.
Worse! In my understanding, general atheism was and is, precisely
because it is natural, the gateway to opportunism and inner chaos. Many
comrades were opportunists, even if they vehemently denied it. If I judged them
by what they told me in private, most of them did not really believe their
party's directives and slogans.
They only subordinated themselves to it for tactical reasons of seeking
advantage. Socialism was the same thing for them and me. Namely an artificially
created, blackmailed reality. Like overly strict, domineering fathers, the
protagonists of this system did not accept any other opinion than theirs. There
is no one who likes that.
According to the red textbook, Communism wants to conquer every country
on earth in order to never give it up again.
Aligned with this goal, its chief builders, Lenin, Stalin and
Khrushchev, cheekily balanced on the brink of the downfall of the still free
humanity. The Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962 proved this. It must never be
forgotten that at that time we were all on the verge of complete
extinction. First, the Cubans shot down a US reconnaissance aircraft. I
heard the news early the next morning, I believe. I woke Erika up and voiced my
concerns. The Americans won't put up with that! And that's how it was.
A little later we were surprised by the information that Soviet missiles
were threatening the USA stationed in Cuba. A look at the atlas was enough. It
was just a stone's throw from Santa Clara to Miami. Instead of the previously
seemingly harmless island state of Cuba, it suddenly appears to be an
unsinkable Red Army aircraft carrier right off Florida, loaded with deadly
weapons.
We listened intently
to every comment we could hear from both East and West.
This was more than a war of words. In fact, President John Fitzgerald
Kennedy told the Pentagon, “The Soviet ships bound for Cuba must immediately
be stopped in the Bahama region.” He insisted on the immediate
withdrawal of all Soviet missiles from Cuba, otherwise..... Otherwise? What?
Anyone who wasn't shaking in their boots didn't know anything
about world politics.
We suspected that the US military demanded that their President
immediately occupy Cuba. However, the Russians would have stopped this with all
the means at their disposal.
Hour after hour it placed everyone under immense pressure. There may be
people who are not afraid of an early death themselves, but those who were
attached to life, like us, followed every nuance of the highly political
intrigue that was carried out, step by step, between Moscow and Washington,
with the utmost use of power.
A mistake here, or a mistake there, and unleashed nuclear power will
burn the whole world.
Since Hiroshima it has been clear that whoever has weapons of mass
destruction is prepared to eventually use them.
Would Khrushchev give in? Or would he order his Atlantic fleet to
keep the Bahama route open by force?
One stubborn decision will be followed by another. In West Berlin - the
Allied troops were still surrounded by 200 000 Russian soldiers. Separated from
each other by a few hundred meters of masonry, and as the crow flies, another
180 000 highly equipped Soviet soldiers. Always ready to implement Moscow's
orders.
13 days and nights, the uncertainty tugged at us.
Quite a few GDR officers became nervous, many could not hide it.
In the end Khrushchev's military
strategists most likely calculated that they would not be able to win the
emerging conflict.
The Kremlin leader consequently gave in. I thought about that as I
sat in the corner of the blue-upholstered bench, a board that shiny new
passenger ship on that beautiful summer morning.
As we drove towards the rising sun. The Tollense see surrounded us once
more. The passenger ship picked up speed. The lake water roared more powerful. As
we left the Fritz Reuter Mrs. Göck quietly said: “Take your time, Gerd.
Think about it.”
When we docked at the jetty in front of the bathhouse and wanted to
disembark, Hermann Göck benevolently took my shoulder with his right hand. "Stay
calm. Tell me when you're ready!” He thought I had an outdated way of
thinking. He believed that religious faith was to me like a curse to an old
galley convict, a rusty chain, so to speak
He didn't even begin to understand what he wanted from me with this
offer. His idea was that even supposed findings - i.e. those that do not
correspond to reality - could have convincing functions. That amazed me. He
couldn't see how much freedom of thought meant to me. Progress through
dictatorship! But where has coercion and indoctrination ever brought any
good?
AS I walked home that early morning, I would pass at least 12
Propaganda-plaques, all filled with SED slogans that always had a negative
effect on me. Working on the principle that constant dripping water
wears the hardest stone.
As I came across the next annoying message, written by a naive
communist, on the bulletin board of the last boat harbor. No need to read it as
it had long since
been printed on my mind and already knew the text by heart.
The following SED slogan, 10 square meters in size, on the house of
the 'Society for Sport and Technology' came into my view.
It was a call to make peace more defensive and powerful with
weapons.
The third slogan looked back at me on Lessingstrasse: “We are
the winners of history!”
Just a few steps later, two more slogans would catch my attention. On
the front of the EOS (Extended High School) were the sentences: “Eternal,
unbreakable friendship with the Soviet Union” and the claim
that the "Bonn Ultras" (the west-German Government) were on the path
of war.”
My walk home, along the military district headquarters building, there
hung the next banners.
Two more posters were there in the cinema area for a few weeks, where
the words glowed in red letters: “The SED is the highest
socio-political organization of the working class, the leading force of a
socialist society.”
"The party gives direction and meaning to this struggle.”
These sentences surrounded us every day.
Nobody could escape their influence. Just like humidity, the Communistic
Party atmosphere was omnipresent. The question of power would always stand in
number one place: “Who to whom?”
My family: around 1964, in the courtyard of the
Neubrandenburg community centre.
Hartmut was Bishop of
Berwick-Ward, Packenham-stake, Melbourne in the hands of his mother. In 2024,
Matthias will now serve as an advisor in the presidency of the Freiberg Temple.
Erika died in November 2001 I married
Ingrid in 2004. We live near Hartmut and the family of his grandson Daniel
Skibbe, who served his mission in Brisbane.
Father's death -
Honolka
In January 1965, I had already served in many Church organizations. At
that time, we only had 300 registered members, scattered across the country and
lived in 6 small branches. I was called to serve as Mecklenburg District
President.
My father, who was the Branch President in Wolgast, during a period of
his depressions he took his own life in November probably the long-term effects
of his childhood trauma and the result of unbearable imprisonment, as a
prisoner of war in France, working for 18 months in a coalmine.
The psychiatrists could have
helped him with medication. He rejected this categorically. Nobody knew as
clearly as I did that it was only an apparent contradiction - a fixed idea
combined with forced over thinking - that broke him. But I only realized that after the terrible accident happened. I
struggled with God and with myself. It shouldn't have come to this. If only I
had gone to Wolgast more often to visit him. If only I had taken longer
vacations. If only I had spoken to him more; because I understood the beginning
of his depressing thoughts. My companionship and understanding would
temporarily pull him out of the circle of his unfounded self-accusations and
fears. It was obviously good for him to go for a walk with me and talk about
life, instead of sitting and lying in his room brooding. My misjudgement that
he no longer needed me contributed to this avoidable end. Burdened with these
thoughts,
I attended night school to prepare for a technical course. It was
exhausting not to let my mind wander. In front of me, in a class at the adult
education centre in the fall of 1965, sat a young, tall sergeant. He came from
a Methodist family. No one else was aware of it! What annoyed me was that the
tall, smart, handsome young man would duck his head whenever the conversation
about the justification of belief in God was mentioned. One day in our
preparatory class I decided to start a discussion at the first appropriate
opportunity. Faster than I thought, the spark turned into a fire. Our physics
teacher immediately responded to my provocative question about whether it was a
crime to raise our children religiously.
Of course that is a crime!” replied
Captain Honolka, who, like his neighbour at the bench, Lieutenant Colonel
Leumann, took their seats two rows in front of me in all the splendour of their
uniforms. He looked around and shook his head.
He said: “We live in a progressive state whose supreme doctrine is
scientific atheism. Please stop chattering. Otherwise, we must show you
the direction with our fist.” With this answer, which was obviously shared
by everyone present, they had already entangled themselves. Other veterans of
the National People's Army, sitting in their officers' uniforms, also expressed
strong opposition to my views. However, when I reminded them that Walter
Ulbricht - the highest East German communist - had called for a dispute of
opinion. Since they were probably not
upset about the fact that the lessons and thus the class work due were delayed
- a two-hour argument broke out. Tough on the matter but friendly in tone. My
original concern was to find out whether I could trust my own logic, whether it
would not only withstand criticism but also give me a small victory in the
resulting exchange of opinions. At the same time, I wanted to reassure the
Methodist that his faith, or, at least his approach to faith, was okay. As expected,
I found my toughest opponent in Honolka. He aimed more accurately than most of
my opponents. I initially defended only the correctness of Christ's moral
teachings. The Catholic Church rarely if ever adhered to the ideals of love and
the Christian duty to respect the dignity of others, highly praised by its
pastors.
“That's true,” I replied, and
added: “In fact, the Vatican's first concern was to preserve the very power
that Jesus renounced.” I campaigned with all my might for acceptance. I
spoke forcefully about the generally prevailing carelessness with which the
most “progressive” people disregarded tried-and-tested principles, such as
truthfulness, self-control and goodness, as if they were nothing. This was my
somewhat hidden counter to the brutal agricultural policies of the party whose
teachings were considered absolutely true.
Then we came to the topic of Creator God. The martial Honolka insisted
that Darwin's theory of evolution no longer allowed any scope for belief in
God. Any defence of religious positions of this kind has no chance. I had
previously read the book “Phylogeny of the Lower Tetrapods” by the Catholic
evolutionary researcher Baron von Hüne, who found evidence that evolution was
controlled. My brother Helmut, who was otherwise inactive in the church, kindly
pointed this out to me. I had not yet dared
to quote verses from the Book of Mormon
like 2 Nephi 9:21 and Mormon 3:20, which certainly allow the conclusion
that there were pre-Adamic people (who do not belong to the family of Adam’s
descendants). Knowing these connections helped me to reject the physics teacher
and Homolka’s main arguments.
I said: “Just the day before yesterday, “Neues Deutschland” (the
communist party newspaper) raised the question of whether we are alone in space.
There would be signals from the depths of the universe suggesting that other
intelligences exist.”
The captain turned to me: “So what?”
I smiled: “Who wants to prove that we are not their offshoots? Of
course that's pure speculation, I don't want to deny that at all. But the
opposite is also just speculation.” I expanded on this: “The Soviet
Union has been sending small (space shuttles) into space since Gagarin in 1961.
Is it absurd to believe that people could one day settle on Mars? Then we are a
kind of God, especially since there is a possibility that we can conjure life
out of the test tube!” Honolka was impressed, especially when I started
talking about the Watson-Crick spiral, that its discoverers, Watson, and Crick,
received the Nobel Prize in 1962 for their work. It was now clear that the
Soviet star's theories about Lysenko's biology were wrong. I talked about the
consequences. It is unlikely that blind nature alone could determine the
genetic makeup that the equivalent of ten book volumes of one thousand pages
each would to be written, a blueprint for producing a human embryo. Professor
Lasse nodded. He already knew more about the fact that it is amino acids that
write the script. He admitted that it is certainly questionable whether nature
can create a lexicon, even if it takes billions of years. Little by little we
found more common ground.
Then I said, “My church teaches that many planets are inhabited,
even in the most distant galaxies.” I was able to prove that it was part of
our established religion. "Pearl of Great Price"
“We believe that there is a plan underlying all existence, and its goal
is eternal progression.” In this detour I managed
to draw their attention to the fact that atheism was just a fad about a hundred
years old. This is evident in the ease with which it is believed. It takes no
effort to live with the attitude that there is no God. But everyone knows that
moving forward and upward requires effort and strength.
My 30 classmates all agreed with the last sentence. We grew closer and
closer to each other as they saw that together we believed it was right to
strive for good and to expect that such effort would lead us to a higher level
of freedom. I was able to put forward further positive arguments that made them
think. This rapid alternation of contradictions and agreements made the two
hours seem like minutes.
Physics teacher Lasse finally summarized: “Comrades, I did not
believe that such a convincing religion would exist. I can't say anything
against it. Or do you have a different opinion?” There was no
contradiction!
I walked home thoughtfully that late November evening.
Did I claim too much?
Reassuringly the words from the prologue to the Gospel of John came to
my mind: “In the beginning was the Word (Jesus, the Lawgiver by Word), and
the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with
God. All things were made by Him, and without him was not anything made that was made.” John 1.1-3.
The stars glittered.
I raised my head, thought about my father's unfortunate end, and
suddenly felt a feeling of great gratitude, although deep down I was still
deeply sad. I felt something sublime and comforting. I was given the safe
feeling that I would see him again. I had always been connected to him. I loved
the teachings he had given me because they made me free and rich. He might have
shaken his head at my arguments, but I felt wonderful peace.
Of all people, the ex-Catholic Honolka, who, by the way, cut a good
figure with his tight-fitting clothes, sat down next to me for a chat after the
certificates were handed out, when we celebrated in a nearby restaurant; he
with a glass of beer in his hand and I with my “soda”. Captain Honolka slapped
my knee with the palm of his hand and laughed.
“What you said was crazy. Easy to claim that God is the father of evolution! No-one has ever told me that
before. I could live with these Ideas." His young, heavy
furrowed face remains in my memory forever.
In the years and even decades that followed, former students from my
class repeatedly approached me. One day as I was looking for a taxi.
The driver saw me, rolled down the window and said: “Hello, Mr
Skibbe!”
I replied. “Yes, I’m Gerd.” I couldn't recognize him.
“No,” he shook his head. "Mr. Skibbe, many
years ago now, I have never forgotten that evening... less because of the
words, but there was something... atmospheric, I don't know how to describe
it..."
Above all, the feelings that made such a lasting impression on us: “There
was something special!”
Fritz
Just a few weeks later, Fritz Biederstaedt, twenty-five years older than
me and an archenemy of the communists, unexpectedly told me that he would now
join the communist SED. He still had a lot planned for the coming twenty years
of his life. Radiantly optimistic, he claimed that he could still enjoy his
life. He combined and confused the fantastic with its opposite. It just bubbled
out of him. He assured me wholeheartedly that his inner attitude had not
changed. He still hates communism; that is, he despises the SED because of
their lies, and he doesn't like all the political nonsense. That evening he
would let party secretary, Helene Göck, hug him.
He acted on his firm decision to consciously do the wrong thing.
The following morning, while we were harvesting cane with small sickles
at the edges of the peat holes, he constantly complained about Chief Dictator
Ulbricht, whom he simply could not stand.
I told him: “Fritz, if you feel like that about him, then you can’t
join his party!”
“Yes,” he objected, in Eastern German slang: “If
you want to become somebody you have to crawl to the bosses (eat humble pie).”
This was a kinked curve, which he described as a circle. I asked myself
and him what he, the 60-year-old, would like to become. What more could he be
than a man who stuck to his honor and the truth? Fritz, at that moment, gripped
his sharp tool tighter. His leather boots splashed in the black swamp as he
moved closer to me. His brown eyes sparkled. It was an expression as if he
wanted to mow down anything that might hinder his advancement. I will never
forget how we faced each other in the middle of these walls of our own creation
made of tens of thousands of cane stalks and impossible ideas. Only the blue
sky was our witness.
Then, with the most charming smile in the world: “You’re not that
stupid as to not understand me!” Those
big eyes looked at me peacefully again. They conveyed that strange mixture of
knowledge of bitter life experience, ridicule and still boyish attitudes that
had always been his own. Neither of us
saw the angel of death, who was already lurking behind him. We didn't suspect
anything. 146 days of life still lay ahead of him. But the bold man, who had
over-confidently suppressed his own insight, still hoped to achieve something
that, in his opinion, would seemingly remain unattainable without party
membership.
Prague Spring 1968
During our time as students, all hearts felt for the Czechs, when
Alexander Dubcek made the borders to Austria more permeable. Enthusiastically
we followed the democratization process in Czechoslovakia. The country's
eminent writers and civil rights activists, with the connivance of the Dubček
government, had spread a manifesto for the establishment of a body that
advocated respect for human rights in the Czech Republic. Years later these
demands became known as Charter 77. In
February 1968, we followed the development towards the realization of more
civil rights on our doorstep, with undivided approval and amazement.
Incredibly, Dubček had lifted the press censorship for many people in the GDR.
Their voices for more freedom suddenly became louder and louder. Hope arose
that we too would be allowed to travel to the West. Was this a new acceptable
model of socialism, unfolding before us? Was this a new day dawning after the
endless dark night? Would we also be allowed to say what we meant and wanted
with impunity again? Those who had already given up hope raised their heads
again. In contrast, the outraged Kremlin rulers were faced with the question:
“What to do?”
The only conceivable answer from a Russian perspective was - intervene
with force! Of course, quite a few loyal, thoughtful insiders shrank from the
resulting questions and consequences. After the tank war against the Germans in
1953 and against Hungary in 1956, just twelve years later, can one dare to do
it again? Can we once again send an army against peaceful people in the middle
of Europe, in view of the eyes of the
world’s public? What will the already critical comrades in the West (the
Euro-communists) say about it?
To this day we do not know how few communists wanted military
intervention. I believe that only the top “labour leaders” in the capitals
Moscow, Berlin and Sofia were pro-Moscow extremists. However, their military
forces would obey them, just as the Jesuits obey their general, even if their
white is undeniably black. This unconditional obedience – had been taught to
their officers and men through endless training courses and with good salaries.
Never ask questions blindly obey party orders. Late on the night of August 21,
1968, soldiers from Poland, Bulgaria and the Soviet Union invaded the
modernized country of the Czech. Republic
They were told: “It’s about world peace. Capitalism wants to assert
itself again in the East. We will not tolerate that.” Around half a
million soldiers were needed to bring the unarmed demonstrators to their knees.
Yes, oncemore Russian tanks rolled again.
Before and after our trip to Moscow
Towards the end of my technical school training, I came up with the idea
of raising vendace broods, just as we were raising pike fry in long plastic
vessels. It should be possible to at least double their length and weight with
a low death rate. This also worked for trout. The food for these tiny creatures
has to be microscopic otherwise, at least 90 percent of these creatures would
starve to death. In last year’s study, we Neubrandenburg’s inland fishermen,
looked at this project most critically. If we managed to feed the tiny vendace
with self-caught zooplankton in the plastic aquariums, just as we had used to
breed pike, and protect as many as possible from early starvation? Because,
genetically, they all have the same chances of survival. In 1971 I tried the
experiment. We placed 300,000 freshly hatched vendace in 6 channels with a
water volume of around 600 litres each.
Fortunately, the Neubrandenburg tap water met the necessary
requirements; especially since we ran it over a small cascade of boards in
order to enrich it with oxygen. The large plankton nets made of miller's gauze,
which were quickly and easily made, caught large numbers of small crabs
(hoppers). However, I missed a crucial point, namely that the proportion of the
small crustacean precursors of interest to us - the nauplii - which are still
in the first stages of moulting, were too small. Therefore, despite large
amounts of food, there was a mass die-off of vendace. Every morning there were more dead fish lying
on the bottom of our four-meter-long channels. The biologist Dr. Manfred Taege,
known as Männe, an admirer of the legendary Che Guevara (deep-sea diver and
personal friend of Fidel Castro's brother, book author and employee of the
Berlin-Friedrichshagen Institute for Inland Fisheries) found out that we had to
catch smaller live food and sift it from then on. However, before we could
achieve the successes that I had dared to talk about in my state examination
paper, I came within a hair's breadth of being dismissed from the cooperative.
We had planned a 5-day trip to Moscow with our wives. (In the past, huge sums
of money were invested in alcoholic drinks. Now the money from the cultural
fund flowed in other directions.) Certain circumstances or coincidences caused
unexpected events. With excessive expectations on his part, Hermann Göck took
on the role of tour guide. Especially since he was an honorary member of the
PwF “Tollense”, it made sense to grant him the pleasure of being our lord and
master for a few days. The straightforward old communist thought the time had
come to finally eliminate the remaining reservations we had against his beloved
workers' and farmers' state. He hoped and believed that we would see Moscow
through his eyes and then wish to join his party. On the morning of our
departure, Hermann Göck stood on the steps of the “House of Culture and
Education” and warned us to appear as worthy representatives of the GDR. We
arrived at Sheremetyevo Airport late that evening. To get to our hotel in
Ostankino we had to take a bus across Moscow. Of course, we often wondered how
people lived in the Soviet Union. We actually believed that we would see a
piece of the socialist future in Moscow. They will have prepared Moscow as a
showpiece, a model for future planning. What happened to the people of Moscow,
could happen to us later in fully realized communism. As if in a special film, during the late bus
ride we were given a glimpse into a large number of apartments, as almost all
of them were without curtains. We saw the tiny rooms, lit by very simple lamps,
and the poor furnishings of the rooms. The whole atmosphere into which I
immersed myself seemed oppressive. A table, a cupboard, one like the other,
four chairs, a television. These miserable holes in the mass quarters should be
the pinnacle of achievement? What did we expect? Of all things one could
imagine, not that! I couldn't put it into suitable words. But on the other hand, I always knew it, the
masses take a back seat.
The leading communists are indifferent to the individual. Although I was
aware of the enormity of such accusations, here once again I found them
confirmed. Hermann Witte, who was sitting next to me, kept nudging me.
“Look at that! Look at that!”
The way he was elbowing me in the side and the rhythm in which he elbowed me
said, “Is that what you mean?”
Despite
many negative reports that I received over time, I did not expect this poverty
in its entirety. Compared to the formal language of the temple-like house
giants that I knew from illustrated books; the individual living culture was
pitiful. Was what I saw the fruit of two generations of struggle, labour and
tears? Of course, there had been a war in between. On the other hand, how did
the “capitalists” manage to make the ruined cities of West Germany an
achievement of the twentieth century?
The following day we visited the Red Square and during the two free
hours, two couples plus Erika and I went to the nearby Church of Sergius of
Radonesch, after which we took a taxi to the Epiphany Cathedral. We were most
impressed by the low ceiling of the main room painted in brown. Alfred Voß, our
accountant, and his wife, who were active Protestant Christians, marvelled at
the Art expressed through paintings of the year 1922. We knew it. There had
been a civil war and hunger around this church at that time. It was the story of the Samaritan woman at
the well. Twelve individual images showed and told what happened. The painter
devotedly tells us how Jesus addressed a woman who had had 5 husbands and who
was now living, unmarried, with the sixth, which Jesus knew.
Her astonishment: “How can you, a Jew, ask a Samaritan woman for
water,” she asked. This well-known story forged in beautiful expressions.
This was timeless realism that told us how deeply religious the artist was. We
were very impressed by both the simplicity and the expressiveness of the faces
of Christ, the Samaritan woman and others. I was filled with awe.
Suddenly loud, unpleasant voices. Three or four elderly nuns dressed in
black insulted us. I didn't understand anything, but Alfred Voß did. He had
learned certain curses during his years of captivity in Russia. I asked him, to which he answered: “They
think we are curious mockers. We should disappear.” Outside mothers
had lined up with their babies wrapped in blankets, partly protected by a
wooden fence. They had brought their little ones, who were supposed to be at
least 40 days old, to be baptized. Baptism is a flexible term. It comes from
the Greek “baptízo” to immerse. The tiny earthly citizen is completely immersed
three times by a priest in a baptismal tub. We saw but few cars that were
privately owned. However, there were numerous taxis. For a few kopecks you
could be taken from place to place. Remarkable was that one kilometre (verst)
of driving distance was displayed every two hundred meters. It was still cheap
though. On the second day of our visit, Hermann Göck received the embarrassing
information that we had to leave on Wednesday instead of Friday. Moscow was
hosting an international medical congress and was thus plagued with a lack of
hotel beds and catering capacity. On the morning of the early departure day, I
was sitting next to a Dutchman engaged in conversation. As I said goodbye to
him. He paused to ask me a question.
I answered truthfully, “We have nothing to want. We were just
told that we had to go home early.”
The man replied: “There is no such thing! You have a contract! A
contract, no matter what happens, is not a contract here.”
“What should we do?"
At that most inopportune moment, when a colleague who wasn't
particularly well-disposed towards me, walked past us, the Dutchman said:
“Then you'll just have to go on strike! Nobody is allowed to steal two
days of vacation from you.” The Individual in
question had good ears and had already accused me of insulting him. I could
feel it; my eyes followed him. My new
fellow fisherman, P., immediately went to Hermann Göck. His wife was sitting at
Göck's table. He hurried. My impression was that they were talking quite
intensely. about me. This is how Hermann Göck found out, that I had spoken to a
Western foreigner about a strike in the GDR. I saw them crouching next to each
other and repeatedly staring at me with narrowed eyes. I could even understand
Hermann Göck's anger. He had come with such high hopes and now he saw his hopes
fading. He loved this country, these people and the system. Truth, I did not
disrespect the country nor the people. On the contrary. I just didn't like how
people in this country were treated, how little the communist leadership
allowed them to live. Every rouble that their leaders spent on their military
came at the expense of the prosperity of the ordinary citizens of this vast
country.
What was life like in the hinterland? How did they live in the villages
of Siberia? Hermann Göck had hoped that we would be enthusiastic about Moscow,
only to feel ridiculed. I sensed that Hermann could hardly suppress his anger
due to excessive disappointments. For the time being he bottled up his rage. As
consolation we were afforded the chance to visit Lenin's mausoleum. And to
reflect a little on Russia’s history
A clique of merciless high-handed landowners, tsarists and priests
exercised absolute supremacy and boldly challenged justice. The Trinity could
hardly be more unholy. For far too long, the border of inhumanity has run right
through the middle of Tsarist Russia. This couldn't go on forever. Major
changes were imperative. But not in the way you imagined - Lenin! Until then, I
felt a certain degree of respect for this giant of world politics. In one fell
swoop it was all over. I would have liked to see Stalin's embalmed corpse. But
a few years after Khrushchev's secret speech in 1956, the dead man, who had
been declared a criminal, was buried at the Kremlin wall. There we saw the
grave site and the many fresh flowers, which, his admirers renewed daily. Just
seeing the bust of Stalin did nothing for me. As I stopped right in front of
it, I felt neither disgust nor cold. Just indifference. Since we were staying in the hotel in
Ostankino, where the bitter sour grapes that we had bought because they looked
ripe might still be lying in our room, we were allowed to go up to the
restaurant of the TV tower of the same name.
We admired the engineering achievement. The dome rotates around its axis
once an hour and offers a breathtaking view of the huge city and the sprawling
greenery. On the bus ride to the airport, Helene Göck asked me what I thought
about all this. Should I really tell her what made Lenin seem so unlikable to
me? He simply cultivated a different version of will restriction. But people
are, without exception, in need of freedom and love. But I didn't express my
thoughts to Helene Göck, so as not to hurt her feelings. Hermann Witte, on the
other hand, gave vent to his displeasure on the return journey. He scolded and
mocked the fact that they had taken the liberty of breaking the contract and
deporting us, no matter what, chasing us away like vermin. Witte complained
uninhibitedly that in a global metropolis there was no beer, at least not for
his money, and that there was nothing cheap to buy for Rubles except bread and
salt and portable
Hermann 1919-1987?
radios. Shoes and, oh these prices, the furniture. A thousand tables in
a huge store, but one like the other. A hundred living room cupboards, all the
same, as identical as the party that governed and directed the people. Hermann
Witte was one of those people who, once they start to blaspheme, just don’t
seem to be able to stop. Like a stupid schoolboy, he irritated his teacher with
his sharp talk. Especially on the journey from Berlin back to Neubrandenburg,
you could hear his piercing voice croaking and booming in the express train
car:
“If that’s all communism is, then you can go without me next time. Let me ashore!” He deemed it appropriate; he didn't
mince his words.
Later, I was verbally attacked by a Stasi officer, who had ventured with
us onto the lake. A man who didn't know me personally. He shouldn't have done
that. For the first time in my life, I heard Hermann speak standard German: “You
don’t attack Skibbe! He’s superior to you!” Soon after we had returned back
home, we crossed each other’s paths.
Helene and Hermann Göck remained silent and were ashamed of Witte's
ridicule. After we had returned back
home, before saying goodbye to each other, Hermann Göck announced his visit to
our fishing barracks for the coming Monday evening. He wants to talk to all the
men.
This is Hermann. my long-time colleague, born in 1915. He was a
front-line soldier in the East, who refused to blow up a building when ordered
to do so after he was able to penetrate into the sleeping quarters of Russian
soldiers as a member of the shock troops. He heard them snoring, unable to tear
apart those around him who had done him no harm. More than once, he shared the
last piece of bread with me when we got stuck at night after an accident. He worked in the right-hand boat for almost
thirty years, while I worked in the left one for that long. Hermann had lived
for three years as an apprentice in the Mormon household of the Paul Meyer
family, Kurts’s father at Cammin, and knew almost everything about our
religion. Given his nature, this knowledge became a never-ending source of
humour of his somewhat rough manner. Sometimes it was embarrassing, sometimes
his recklessness pushed him to the limit of decency. It was a matter of course
for him to set all kinds of curiosities into the world. Wherever and whenever
he felt like mocking me, he did so in an inimitable manner. He was rarely or
never concerned with objectivity, always just with the slapstick, with others'
laughter, which he joined in with cunning flashing eyes and a broad grin. He
himself was incapable of laughing out loud and was very compassionate,
comradely and completely honest; however, rigorous in words.
Monday came, in the morning I wished that it would be evening and
everything would be over. The men sat in trepidation. Everyone felt the rising
of a storm. Göck came, greeted everyone, even smiled a little. The pale, long
face with the Thälmann wrinkle really didn't bode well. Reinhard Lüdtke, the
new chairman, opened the meeting.
Discomfort was evident in him as well. The 30-year-old chairman sat
there, blonde and self-composed, helpless like us. Sixten men all present - he foresaw
that sparks would soon be flying. There was nothing to be avoided. He soon gave
the floor to the guest, Hermann Gock, who did not want to be a guest, but
always be treated as an equal member. At
first, only grumbles cautiously from the depths of his excited soul. The old
chairman Bartel, a member of the party for years, bowed his head. He too had to
learn his lessons from the honorary fisherman Göck. He now asked Hermann Witte
whether he himself hadn't been embarrassed to complain and complain about the
Soviet Union in such a childish manner. Even on the train, in front of
strangers who would have thought he had been treated miserably in Moscow. Such
big lies! Unheard of! Didn't he receive excellent care? Hermann Witte sat
hunched over, guiltily and silent. With his strong head stretched forward, his
strikingly large water-blue eyes, he took the reprimands without protest. He
turned red. Of course, he realized long ago that he overdid it.
“No Bäär, no Bäär!” (No beer, no beer),
Göck tried in Witte's inimitable tone. “Man, no beer! You don’t drink every
day, Beer!” Consternation spread and even affected the innocent. Our tour
guide and honorary member didn't let up: “There are still a lot of weeds and
all sorts of reactionary stuff in some people's heads! ... You, Hermann Witte,
have…” There was a lot of talk about a lack of honor and not the slightest
sense of tact and decency.
“I would have thought more of you!” Was it clear to Hermann Witte that the scolding was only of secondary
importance to him? I knew Hermann Göck meant me. His white face took on colour.
He certainly considered the fact that I spoke openly anti-GDR, to a West German
or a Dutchman, to be both proven and the height of conceivable malice. I was
the main spoiler of this trip, which was unsuccessful in many respects. I
couldn't wait any longer. Whatever he wanted to say, he should address it
directly to me. As soon as I asked him to bluntly say what was really bothering
him, it burst out of him with elemental force. The volcanic cone flew away with
a crash. He screamed uncontrollably, spit fire and lava for minutes.
“Insult to the Soviet people. Do you have no idea what these people have suffered? You want to call a strike? We will throw you out of
the co-operative.... boycott agitation...travel ban forever."
His love for the people, the country and above all for his party drove him into
this error, but also his unconditional devotion to the great idea that I dared
to question. I, the earthworm, had allowed myself to defile his sanctuary. It
was all one thing for him. For many years he had tried to win my support. Hermann's
bitterness tasted like bile to me. He could not and would not tolerate that I
did not value his socialist community. For him, there could not be anything
better than that. There it was again, what I hated, this assumption that anyone
who didn't love their party and the Soviet Union was an enemy of the people. He
expressed his anger in new, stronger words. He accused me of other crimes.
Everything in a tone of unbridled indignation. That I had no respect for Soviet
women, had also been whispered to him. Clearly! One day after my early return
from Moscow, I had simply described to a man from my neighbourhood how, during
our trip to the Gorki Lenin Monument, I had seen 8 women pulling a huge railway
track past a barrier. They bravely held the iron pliers and walked step by step
over the gravel. I could feel how these porters could absolutely rely on each
other, namely how calmly they worked. To the right and left of the heavy load
carriers were two men, each armed with a bugle, calmly watching as the women
struggled. Meanwhile, the two gentlemen of creation happily blew cigarette
smoke into the blue air. This matter-of-factness on both sides shocked me quite
a bit. Now I heard from Hermann Göck that I was an enemy of the great idea of
equal rights for women. It would be an anathema to me to see that the men
ensured safety on rail transport. “It is just like you!” he complained.
I also have no right to worry about the prices of simple shoes. “Botten!”
he said scornfully. I would have called them 'boots' instead of shoes. That was
true!
The day I got home I was open enough to describe to one of my
neighbours, my impressions. He held a very responsible position in the
Neubrandenburg district council. He accepted that I criticized both the women's
hard work and the huge prices paid for such crude "boots". He should
have reprimanded me honestly or remained silent. This opportunistic H.H. must
have contacted Hermann Göck to rat me out. S.H. wasn't honest. That I had to
know. As a communistic state
functionary, he was not allowed to receive any Western packages, not even
indirectly. Since he wanted to receive them, albeit illegally, they went to the
addresses of his relatives across the country. There he would go to collect
them. (This fact was known by my children. For years his children had bragged
about it and thus brought to my attention, "Yes, we get our “Sarotti”
and brasilein coffee! Dad bragged of ways he fetches them from our
grandma!")
With my little descriptions I simply asked this H.H., who was outwardly
so smooth and behaved as if he was the most loyal communist of all, if he had
eaten wisdom by the spoonful. A concrete question: whether he didn't sometimes
feel pity for the people who toiled for little money in the Soviet Union, paid
for the Red Reich's enormous armaments program. So that a handful of men in the
Kremlin could exercise power to threaten innocent people.
I recognized other small parts of the conversation that I had only
mentioned to S.S. Hermann Göck repeated
it in his ongoing barrage of insults, saying that I was a stubborn big ass who
didn't want to understand that the gigantic Soviet armament efforts weren't
hurting the people and that no one should feel sorry for them because of it.
"Yes indeed! But anyone who is hostile to socialism will never be able to understand this..." I wanted to interrupt
him, but couldn't get a word in sidewise. I knew I couldn't tolerate anything
that even hinted injustice. He talked and talked. He had to make me understand
once and for all what I obviously didn't want to understand: "Millions
lost their lives in the liberation struggle against fascism and you,
you..." Many words continued to rain down on me and others. "...
endless sacrifices... scorched earth..." It boomed as if through a
loudspeaker and everyone else sat there petrified. Hermann Göck declared that I
was unworthy of remaining as a co-operative member.
That was the moment when things became dangerous for me. For two or
three effective seconds, his demand stood like an exclamation point in the
small 'cultural room', with the same dusty radio from the early days of the
co-operative. I was gripped by a tremendous mix of emotions of anger and
courage, of fear and pride. Ten decibels louder than him, I made my
counter-statement: “I am extremely disappointed if what we have seen is the
entire result of sixty years of communism. That's what I want to tell you, Hermann
Göck, even if you want to put it differently. I am saddened by all these
countless families destroyed by arbitrary intervention; it hurts me to see that
in times of war and peace millions upon millions gave their lives for almost
nothing in the way of improvements and now they still have to - have to - have
to build tanks and cannons for world peace. I also know about the good things
about socialism. But they don't cover up the shortcomings and the wounds. I
can’t envy the people there.” Because I spoke unnaturally loudly and a lot,
my choice of words wasn't exactly the best or finest. In reality, just because
I was trying to overcome my concerns, I screamed that I was late to speak. He
started to reply. It was outrageous that I didn't feel remorseful. But now I
didn't let him have a chance. Determined to stand my ground, I was tempted to
claim, “I know your vile informants!” He paused. I told him both names. “This
S.S. and your P. neither had the courage to go into court with me face to face!
That's where they pushed you forward! This is cowardice in front of the enemy.”
I loudly repeated the two names and exactly what he could only have heard from
one and what he could only have heard from the other. I would have much rather
crawled into a mouse hole than defend myself like that. But I remained firm
that I would not deviate an inch from what I had said. My colleagues looked at
me with concern. Reinhardt Lüdtke shifted back and forth on the hard chair. He
couldn't think of anything to influence the direction of the still
unpredictable argument. Reiner's eyes rolled as if he wanted me to shut up
immediately. My defiance would only make things worse. But I had no choice.
All I could do was defend myself with the help of the truth. My facts
had not failed to have an effect on my highly agitated old enemy. They made
themselves heard and given space. He was obviously impressed that I still stood
by what I had said: “Socialism has better sides than the ones I criticized.”
Now I could sit down calmly and explain what my intimate enemy hadn't
really understood, but had passed on to him anyway with bad intentions:
"Hermann Göck, it wasn't me who spoke about a strike, it was the
Dutchman." This man said to me: “You've paid for five or seven
days, don't put up with that." Hermann pricked up his ears. “It’s a
difference like night and day!” “But you didn’t have to tell the strange man
that,” Göck replied. “That's not the point!” I replied: “I'm just
as sad as you!” I had just said goodbye to the Dutchman who was sitting
next to me at the table. Göck now looked at me with wide eyes, just like I did
at him. Surprisingly, his final response, which I had feared, was not
forthcoming. He repeated the name S.S. affectedly and with conspicuous
astonishment. He turned around, in a normal volume: “I will ask S.S. my questions why he got weak in
front of you.” Hermann scratched his ear: “I’ll take care of that!”
No one could miss how Göck had changed. … As heated as the debate began, it
ended abruptly. Suddenly nothing was heard of his wish for me to be excluded
from the co-operative.
It wasn't until a few weeks later that I saw Hermann Göck again with his
long legs he walked slowly in my direction.
I did not avoid him, but walked towards him. He came from the hospital
on Külzstrasse.
“Lenchen is in a coma!” he told me
and held out his right hand to me. The inner shock was written all over his
face. His wife had always been nothing but friendly to me. I knew how dependent
they both were on each other. He stood among the leaves and drooping branches
of an already autumn-coloured birch tree, his white hair carefully parted. A
broken man. The realization must have hit him unexpectedly and hard that we all
have limits. We talked like old friends who had long since forgotten their
argument. I think he was also pleased that we didn't hold any grudges against
each other, but could live with the fact that different people had
fundamentally different ways of thinking.
1973 - and the trip to Hungary in 1974
In Europe, the
Church held its 3rd Area General Conference in Munich. Only a few members from
the GDR were allowed to take part.
We, 5 men of
working age, Henry Burkhardt the Mission President, Gottlieb Richter, his
Second Counsellor and 3 District Presidents, Lothar Ebisch, Walter Schiele and
me. We were delighted to hear President Harold B.Lee and the Tabernacle Choir!
It was great.
It reminded me
of that big conference in Berlin in 1937 with Heber J. Grant. There had been a
cheering fanfare from the box next to our stand. Below on the podium sat the
missionaries. I remember them because some of them were crying. As an 8-year-old,
I couldn't understand then why tears had to be shed at a happy event.
I would have
been a hair's breadth away from being there in Munich. Ten hours before leaving
on the last possible train, I didn't know whether the government would give the
green light. Shortly before midnight I rowed from the black lake to the nearest
telephone in a restaurant. There, just in time I found out that I was allowed.
Unforgettable forever, we were moved by Gordon B. Hinkley's speech: “The
head that wears the crown does not rest comfortably.”
We were
checked on the return journey. The East German customs officer found my little
songbook, opened it and read the title “Give me more holiness”. Her eyes
rolled. She blinked at me in a slightly mocking way. I shrugged and smiled at
her pleasant face: “Well, we'll try!”
She asked: “And
with what were the six of you having so much fun just before I came in?”
“Oh, just a political joke.”
Lothar Ebisch,
who ran a paper factory in Saxony, had told it...she didn't need to know any of
the details. Should we have replied that we were happy to get back in the cage?
In the days of the summer of 1974
When we went
on our company trip to the land of the Magyars - near Budapest - I remembered
the sad past of this country.
The tragic
fate of the then Prime Minister, Imre Nagy, and the images of his capital,
Budapest, being overrun by Russian tanks in 1956, still moved me, even though
the great tragedy had occurred almost twenty years ago. For me, these distant
events were among the worst things the communists had ever done. Even though
these events were a long time ago, it seemed that to many people they had
already been forgotten.
At some point,
on that hot late summer’s day in 1974, we tourists arrived at the Budapest's
Square of Nations; after a sweaty night in the hotel. There, our interpreter -
a spirited, charming and strikingly well-dressed woman in her fifties - gave us
a short lecture in German about the twelve German-Austro-Hungarian emperors and
rulers whose statues had been erected there. To be honest, she had rattled off
the lecture, probably assuming that we wouldn't be interested anyway. I asked a
question because I was interested in Emperor Matthias, as he had set the
political course differently, which unfortunately led to 30 Years of War. All
this misery could have been avoided. The lady who had introduced herself as
“Dolly” snapped at me angrily: “Next time, please be more attentive! I
answered your question long ago!” Spinning on the heels of her fancy shoes,
she dashed toward our sky-blue bus. I was faster. Her facial expressions warned
me not to speak to her. You could see what she was thinking. It was beneath her
dignity to lecture simple fishermen instead of university professors or
artists. It was not the non-existent smell that was
supposed to be
inherent in our profession, but rather her idea of it that perhaps found her
so unpleasant. Did she seriously think
that her rigorous rudeness might put me off?
“But the 13th national hero is missing! Nagy!” She paused, frightened. Her breath hitched. She raised her
eyelids. I secretly smiled and said
again: "Notsch!" - Imre Nagy!”
Imre Nagy!
That was the then head of government of Hungary. The Russians eventually hanged
him because he gave his country more freedom.
Despite all the rules, “Notsch” was a “soft” communist. The men around
Khrushchev knew very well that they had to use extremely harsh measures to hold
together the system that the people living there hated.
She groaned, “For
God’s sake!” Her expression changed completely. She grabbed my sleeve,
looked around and looked at me with fear and at the same time with a beautiful
light in her gray eyes. Luckily there was no one around who could have heard
it. The last authentic words spoken on tape by the great Imre Nagy were:
“I’m not asking for mercy!”
“The editorial (redaction) team!” she whispered. They referred to editorial staff as people from the
Hungarian State Security Service or those who worked for it. If only one of the
“editors” had heard that! I would have been arrested immediately. As
soon as I got on the bus and sat down next to Erika, she came to us.
“May I inquire about your wife’s health?” Are you sitting comfortably? Can I do something for you?” She would never have dreamed of
treating a simple fisherman and his fisherwoman so courteously previously. But
to meet a German like-minded person so unexpectedly; now that everything had
long been history, at a time when even Hungarians born later were forbidden to
think back; that overwhelmed her. A
little GDR citizen comes along and declares his sympathy for their great and
reviled hero. Erika laughed quietly and
contentedly.
I hope I
didn't make a face, “Thank you very much, everything is OK.” I replied,
acting much more modest than I really was, and nodded at her. Inwardly I
cheered. Well, we were on the same wavelength.
In the days
that followed, Dolly went out of her way to do us good.
I took part in
the farewell evening program alone and only for an hour because Erika was
feeling unwell in the oppressive heat. When our interpreter noticed that I was
leaving, she flagged down a flower girl, bought a bouquet of roses faster than
I could understand and gave it to me with best wishes for a speedy recovery for
my beloved wife.
No, we had not
forgotten Imre Nagy, nor Alexander Dubcek; neither the suppression of the
Budapest uprising; nor the Prague uprising; none of the things that those in
power would like to forget. For me, in the distant background, stood the evil
little man who made "kingdoms tremble, and who never opened the house of
his captives," as described in the Book of Isaiah and the Book of
Mormon. He stood behind this model and
destiny that he intended for all nations. In any case, he existed, this black
omnipotence that always accompanied and haunted us right into our dreams.
There were
other terrible plans in the Moscow military's drawers to defeat the enemy on
its own territory.
As it turned
out, after the fall of communism, the Russians often deployed tank drivers on
the transit truck routes through Western Europe so that they could get an idea
of the future operational area in passing.
In 1974
Wolfgang Sittig, Gunnar Tews and Jürgen came to us. The first as an apprentice,
the second as a qualified engineer for fishing technology/deep sea fishing, the
third as an assistant who was training to become a master. Gunnar, 24, and
Jürgen, 30, brought great enthusiasm. It would be a lot of fun for them to be
able to experiment with the 30 square kilometres of water in the future. But
everything was to turn out completely different.
Gunnar had
been infected with hepatitis B-contaminated blood during an earlier surgery.
Jürgen, on the other hand, carried another germ with him, which of course we
didn't recognize. Jürgen, just under thirty, taller than six feet, with a face
like a senator, impressive, seemed to have a solid character from the start. We
soon found that he was determined in pursuing his goals and the tasks set
before him. We used him as a fishing guide for the many smaller lakes
surrounding Lake Tollense. We had no idea that he could be cruel and that he
was arrogant. He very quickly came into conflict with the older colleagues who
reported to him. He particularly didn't like Horst Gruß, who had become a
member of the co-operative shortly before me. At the age of 45, he wanted to
buy his own house. Horst was a practical man with ingenuity through and
through. He could have been a Sinti. Horst and Jürgen were both similar in
their way of working. They were very skilled with a needle and knife and were
quicker than any other men who made non-complicated fishing gear. One day
Jürgen ordered Horst to a certain place on Lake Kastorfer, which, due to its
geometry, offered a particularly large shoreline. We were managing this body of
water for the first time. The District Council had transferred the
approximately 80 hectares of water to us.
“This is where you install the box trap,” Jürgen instructed the expert, who was twenty years his senior. Horst
did what he was told. Jürgen worked at about 300 meters. Watching the big guys
handle the trap holding poles, some of which were 8 and 10 meters long, was a
pleasure.
It took an
hour and a half on average for the fast ones, if they wanted to. Both wanted to
prove it to each other. As soon as his gear was in place, Jürgen came rowing
elegantly, with crisscross grips on the oars. He heaved the small green plastic
boat forward with his long arms. When he saw the young man arrive, Gruß already
suspected that he would be criticized. Jürgen grimaced. He shook his head
disapprovingly.
“The fish trap is crooked!” Gruß calmly
took the cigar he had just lit out of his mouth and blew out the smoke very
slowly. This insolence tore his soul from its moorings. He was beside himself.
He could have shouted. His fish trap was in excellent condition and exactly in
the place assigned to it.
No fish would get past it. Jürgen commanded: “Everything is wrong
again. Reconstruction!”
“The whole thing again?” asked Gruß incredulously. His confused brown eyes looked closely to see
how much mockery there was in them. They had already clashed days before. They
used the handheld electrode and portable generator to catch eels. Back then, Jürgen had already presumed to
blame him unjustly. “He's not fast enough.” You have to push the rod
with the anode faster towards the eels escaping from the voltage field in order
to paralyse them. At least half of the fish always escaped from the Electro-circuit
anyway; namely those that had not already fled from the approaching noises with
which they were familiar. Now Gruß made another real mistake. He dared to
criticize Jürgen's behaviour.
"You want to bully me!".
Jürgen shrugged his shoulders: “Absolutely! You fix the mess.”
Gruß hesitated for a while. Finally, he obeyed, albeit with gritted
teeth, because Jürgen could paint him even blacker in front of Chairman Lüdtke.
He knew that the chairman didn't like Gruß in particular. Gruß turned, pulled,
and heaved the fish trap posts, which had been driven more than a meter deep
into the lake bed, back to daylight - piece by piece. Thirty times the same
burden and torment, the same groaning curses. In any case, building large fish
traps, is an unpopular task as it offers no hope of immediate fishing success.
Horst Gruß knew that this was also revenge for the argument that he had started
some time before, by insulting the chairman of the cooperative because he had
invaded his fishing area. That day, Jürgen stood next his superior at full
height. What happened to Lüdtke could happen to him. Jürgen wanted to prevent
that. The course and signals should be set here once and for all. He wanted to
decide the question of power and rank. There was deep peace all around while
the beautiful lake lay as still as a mirror. All the noise of the streets lay
far away. All around pictures spread out with the white-trunk birches, the
alders, ash trees and the peacefully green bushes. Anyone who saw the two men
like that would have thought that rational people could not resist such
harmony. Gruß, who then put the dishes in the lake for the next time, noticed
that Jürgen was watching him. He shouldn't criticize him again. The measure was
full. If he still dared to do it, he would jump at the “Lulatsch's” throat.
After exactly one and a half hours Jürgen came rowing again. With the
same movements, with the same excitingly dismissive facial expression. Well,
friend, don't make yourself unhappy. Gruß thought he had an inkling of what was
going on inside the younger man. He tensed. Did his brigadier not realize that
he would strike back?
No! He wanted to get his way.
When Jürgen complained again to the experienced old journeyman, Gruß, he
suddenly pushed his work boat forward to ram the smaller boat that had moved
close to him, along with the haughty person. Jürgen cleverly avoided this
attack. With two small but powerful strokes of the oar, he turned the water
vehicle on the spot.
Grußen's attack came to nothing. This declared the final enmity between
them. Jürgen had overdrawn his account.
At home, Gruß was telling his story. He received tailwind from all the
men, except for Willi Krage and Reiner Lüdtke. Gruß wasn't just anyone, but a
personality with great credit among his other colleagues. So, two parties
formed within the cooperative. A little later, Dieter Giesa also took Jürgen's
side.
Hermann Göck wrung his hands helplessly as he noticed how things were
developing.
“How is this possible?” he complained.
“In such a small group, there has to be unity.” There was an imbalance that
would affect me and would soon present me with insoluble problems. Not the cool mind, as heated feelings
prevailed. From then on, every morning and every evening there was a deafening
noise. Trivialities were exaggerated; words were used like weapons. Jürgen
should have realized that no one can ever be completely subjugated. Pride is
more likely to destroy the last bridge than a person's will. He was too young
and too tough to know that.
The next big confrontation had to come, and it came quickly. At first it
was just a question that Gruß asked his brigadier. He misunderstood and felt
challenged. Maybe Jürgen should have immediately provided information about the
current status of Eel-plan fulfilment. It was known that "Brigadier"
Jürgen was reluctant to reveal his numbers. This was stupid. Even his best
friends thought that, because anyone could get the sums together with a little
effort. One word led to another. Gruß said that Jürgen probably couldn't count
to 3. Suddenly angry, the tall young man attacked, out of control. He pulled
Horst Gruß up by his already long neck. This was dangerous. Did he want to tear
his colleagues’ cervical vertebrae apart? Indignantly, Horst Gruß came to me
and complained. The always argumentative Werner Hansen, a choleric of the first
degree, heard it. Hansen was a tall hunter and with paws that had once dragged
a full-grown wild boar out of the bushes, onto the street. Others told me more
about what had happened.
I had just come out of the cold storage and stumbled upon 17 fish boxes
sitting casually, filled with carp.
Both men came towards me with red faces.
Jürgen must have recently brought this half ton of carp into the light
cooling hall instead of freezing the lot. Who else? You can do this for one
night. But not for three nights and days as it had been a Friday afternoon when
everything happened. It was my responsibility to check the cold storage and
since Chairman Reiner was on vacation, I, as his next in line, had to
intervene.
This involved the preservation and spoilage of high-quality fish, for
the treatment of which there was a catalogue of regulations.
Because of the increasing quarrels, it was now also about the prosperity
or ruin of the co-operative.
Jürgen got dressed. When I confronted him, he pulled his white shirt
over his head. He was immediately irritated and responded angrily. He claimed
he knew exactly who sent me forward to him and now I would take the opportunity
to play the role of deputy chairman to his humiliation and do what I otherwise
wouldn't have had the chance to do. Since I was old enough, and therefore
insightful enough, I shouldn't have allowed myself to be provoked by him. I
should have calmly told him to put the carp in the freezing zone, even though
he had already changed his clothes. Also, that he would receive a written
warning from me for physically attacking Horst Gruß. I wanted to show the
arrogant young man his limits.
He, who was almost two decades younger, was not allowed to do with
impunity what Hermann Witte was allowed - to ridicule me because of my basic
religious attitude.
Hermann Witte had told the spectators while fishing in Strasbourg,
probably the entire collective of the country doctor's outpatient clinic, in
detail, what an oddball I was. Of course he had the laughs on his side. Only
Jürgen had to go one better and explain that “eccentric” was probably not the
right word and that I was a hypocritical twister of words. This hit me because
I gave him little reason to criticize me. Not only did it sound like it, he
said I was lying like a printing press. I didn't want this argument to be
public at the time, but now I'd unwisely returned to it. I didn't speak to him
particularly politely. Then, in his uncontrollable rage, he loudly attacked me
because he believed we were private and that he was already superior to me. He
uninhibitedly accused me of dishonesty. To put it like that was the height of
impertinence. What did my religiously
motivated commitment mean to him? What did that have to do with the 500 kg
carps? Then his two opponents entered the locker room.
"Aha!" He scoffed, packed up
his things and left for the weekend. Gruß resigned. Fed up with the bickering,
I also seriously considered eliminating the inland fishing chapter from my
life.
One day later Reinhardt Lüdtke had an accident while he was on the way
to a fishing conference. In oncoming traffic, he raced his Wartburg station
wagon under the trailer of a W50, a heavy truck. The force of the impact tore
the trailer's axle from its anchorage and during this process, the cabin of
Lüdtke's vehicle was completely cut away. They had to laboriously pull the
seriously injured man, who was lying there like a crumpled bundle, out of the
pedal room. The skin on his face had been torn from his chin to eye level.
If he had been wearing a seatbelt, Reiner would not have survived the
accident.
By chance I drove past the scene of the accident just a few hours later.
I was surprised to notice the wreckage of a trailer and a car lying scattered
in the ditch. Having no idea who it was, I thought that this was a fatal
accident. As soon as I found out about this, I rushed to visit him in the
hospital on Pfaffenstrasse. On the 3rd day they allowed me to visit with him,
with bandages and a small opening around his mouth and eyes.
He spoke slowly but was clearly conscious. Reiner told me something that
day that seemed more important to him than anything else. He spoke quietly and
slowly, but with a certain emphasis. Surprisingly, this had no connection to
the internal company climate; it was about his attitude to the SED.
He has no choice. He'll probably have to join the communistic party: "But
don't worry! I am not convinced" he added. “They tried.” Was he
talking about the Stasi? “Yes, even about that. They wanted me to work with
them." He said, "No. You were at the wrong address for me.”
Reiner was breathing heavily. He added quietly: “Rest assured that I
will never become a communist!” Of course, I understood what he meant.
After saying more about it, he remained silent and I sat there perplexed
for a while. At least I thought he shouldn't get upset. As I was about to
leave, he signalled to me. He wanted to tell me something else.
It took a while before Reiner could speak again. He hesitated. Of
course, there it was again - this oppression of those who wanted to confide in
me. There were issues that needed to be addressed with the utmost care. You
never knew what would happen once a word was uttered. Any criticism of the
regime, no matter how small, could turn into a monster. The opposite could also
happen. Loud attacks on the GDR state
sometimes faded away without consequences. Whether such facts depended on
chance or were tactics, the frightening uncertainty played its role effectively
in each case. You never knew.
I knew a colonel who had to spend a long time in prison just because he
dared to call Alexander Dubcek a brave man during the days of the Prague
Spring. Another told me what work he was supposed to do in the courier service
between communist German citizens and 'the company' (the state security
service) and that he had strictly refused to give his good name as a cover and
mailbox address. Afterwards he panicked because he was suddenly afraid that he
had been too open with me. Hardly anyone was happy with their SED membership.
Many who joined the party over the years believed they saw an opportunity to
get involved in various processes through its membership. Afterwards, however,
they were tormented by the feeling that it was directly or indirectly serving a
cause that was not clean. Reiner's concerns also ran along these lines. He
hated spying and especially this spirit of dishonesty in which the party
falsifies reports to fulfil its economic plans, at least on paper. They would
resort to any shabby trick to secure and justify their leadership role. Reiner
condemned the search for privileges by no less important comrades and distanced
himself from such behaviour. Then he made a careful gesture with his hand and
added: "I'll try to stay clean, but I can't avoid becoming a
comrade. I just wanted to tell you that I'm not blind because of that.”
Coregonus lavaretus or nasus?
Immediately after the trip to Leningrad, the idea of introducing
vendace developed into the idea of naturalizing a new species of fish.
Erika, my wife, expressed her concerns. Mainly because of the way I
wanted to do it. But I raved about the possibilities that were available to us:
“You have to imagine that the bottom of Lake Tollense, the Profundal, is
covered in red with chironomid larvae. Wherever the small grab brought up a
section of the bottom surface from the depths, ten times more chironomids were
counted than on other lakes of comparable size.”
The table for the 'non-predatory' fish abundantly set all year round. It's just
that it's too cold down there for most species of fish. This is why this
nursery of this non-biting mosquito species is rarely visited and its
inhabitants are, therefore, not decimated. That's why the boating observer and
nature lover is amazed when, in May, the otherwise predominantly blue lake
suddenly looks black, even though the sun is shining and the colours of the sky
should be reflected on it. Billions and billions of 4- or 5-millimetre-long
larval shells swim on the surface of the water. In between, just as many black
creatures, just as long, populate the huge area. Before the insects
(chironomids) that have risen from the depths, can rise into the air, they
stand on the surface of the lake with multiple legs and are easily drifted by
the wind. Their relatively large, very differently designed, feathered,
tuft-like antennae, serve as sails.
Thousands of terns and seagulls pounce on the masses of chironomids that
have just emerged into the daylight. They pick them up as a delicacy or perhaps
it is just emergency food that they eat in tiny morsels. As soon as the sun
gets a little higher, the air buzzes. From the eleventh hour of the day
onwards, the swarms of chironomids stand above the tops of the trees near the
banks like waving plumes of smoke and hold a mass wedding. They mate in flight
and a little later the wind and their instinct push them over the surface of
the lake, then they drop their fertilized eggs from above. A new cycle of life begins.
This circle is completed three times a year, but only once in spring, in this
splendour and abundance. Of all the wild fish found in Europe, only the
whitefish, the ground whitefish, is suitable for diving into the cold depths
and grazing on the larval populations. There are two types of vendaces.
Firstly, the vendace that live in open water and secondly the large,
chironomid-feeding ones - Coregonus lavaretus. I wanted to put the latter in
the lake. Lüdtke supported my idea, but querying where the breeding station of
this species of whitefish could be found? Would we find a way to acquire them?
The answer came from our neighbouring company in Prenzlau. There is an
efficient fish hatchery at Madü-lake, near Gollnow, which is now called
Golienow. It would be under the management of the Szczecin State Anglers
Association. Mr. Marczinski is the boss. Did our Polish colleagues also stock
whitefish - that was the question and would the Poles sell us fry at a
reasonable price?
Kurt Reiniger spoke fluent Polish and I, in addition to the desire for adventure,
owned a Trabant station wagon. We just wanted to go there and see what we could
do. All we needed was money. With Reiner Lüdtke's consent, I tried to convince
our accountant, Alfred Voß Adi. Nobody could get angry with Adi. He had just
retired but was still working. He looked at me in a friendly, thoughtful
manner.
“Slush fund?” He smiled, “What’s the point of a slush
fund? If things are OK, there will be no problems.” Well, as we knew from
experience, the Poles wanted cash without receipts. Would I have Reiner's
permission to do this? I didn't want to involve him in this story. In some way,
what we were planning to do was a kind of cloak and dagger operation. We would
have first had to submit applications, obtain certificates for cross-border
animal transport and overcome all sorts of bureaucratic hurdles. Then our request
was postponed for weeks. In a few weeks there will be no more whitefish
hatchlings, but they are there right now. Right now! In addition, the plastic
vessels have been available since the eel breeding, over-wintering period
ended. It would be better if Reiner, as chairman, remained 'outside'. Adi
smiled with this strange, always superior-looking mockery from the corner of
his eyes that from his usually friendly facial features, was harsh criticism
for me.
It said, “What would you say if you were the chairman and got
run over, just like that? After all, doesn’t he have to know everything
that’s happening in his own company?” He raised his eyebrows just the
tiniest bit. That was his way of criticizing. He directed us through facial
expressions and frowns. I could well imagine him explaining to a certain,
beautiful Viennese woman back then, as a front-line soldier on vacation home,
that a man like him will always say no if his conscience insists on saying no.
By the way, when accountant Adi Voß left us a year and a half later, one of the
things he gave us was an old envelope. This was the 'coffee fund', filled over
two decades, never touched; known to no one but him. Money from customers who
were authorized to make small purchases locally and rounded up the penny
amounts. The content was 312.73 marks. There were never any real differences in
his balance sheets. Honesty is cash, he used to say, showing his strong teeth.
This was his deepest belief: 'without honesty, the world will go to hell.'
When I confessed to him, Reiner immediately nodded in agreement: “How
much black money do you need?”
“Approximately one thousand two hundred!”
An hour later I held the 1,200 in my hand. Based on our prices, I had
calculated and planned to get a quarter of a million hatchlings and smuggle
them across the border.
Reiner said that we would probably only receive almost hatched eggs.
This note was important. So, we had to set up Zuger glasses.
The next day we drove to Szczecin with some large plastic bags. Time was
running out. Mr. Marczinski would be available to receive us in the afternoon.
We didn't want to agree anything more over the phone, because we were used to
always thinking that phone calls were being tapped. Who knows what conclusions
the eavesdroppers would have come to if they had happened to overhear our
agreement.
Szczecin's fishing president, Marczinski, sat in his yellowish office at
his desk, which also shimmered yellow, under a gigantic, prepared, majestic
Madü-vendace that occupied a central place on a huge bookcase. This fish must
have once weighed eight kilograms or more. Kurt and I were very impressed. Our
eyes kept going there. We wanted fish of the same size, the species Coregonus
lavaretus. I wondered aloud if Madü-fish could grow into such stately
specimens. Marczinski nodded while Kurt translated. Two or three times he
mentioned, instructing or correcting me: “Coregonus lavaretus nasus.” Nasus,
nasus, I thought, this is a species we don't want.
Marczinski pointed his thumb up behind him: 'Baltic Sea Beak!' Oh dear. “No
Baltic-Sea-snapels, they need brackish water to thrive.”
A torrent of seemingly well-meaning words fell upon us in Polish. “You
can, even in ponds, in freshwater ponds, do business with Nasus!”
I didn't believe him. Kurt shrugged. There we sat with our GDR money.
What to do? But I couldn't prove Marczinski wrong either.
“Shall we try it? Kurt?” Kurt, the man
with the big button nose, nodded. The shrugging agreement came from his face,
which had been bruised many times and which was very much the expression of his
fate, which had been thwarted by many blows to the neck. Marczinski picked up a
piece of paper and did a quick calculation.
“You get 300,000 eggs for it. It
is high time for the transport of these eggs."
So, Reiner was right. We would have to leave immediately to go to
Golienow. Since it was still March, it started to get dark early. It seemed to
me that the 40 kilometres would never end in this dark corner of the forest
When we arrived, the instructions were to go right, right, na prawo, na
prawo. What if I turn right four times? It seemed like there were only trees
everywhere. Dull spotlights only illuminated the sandy ground, while the trees
on the sides shimmered even darker, like black walls. Suddenly new black
contours appeared against the opening night sky.
Kurt translated: “The hatchery!” Someone must have turned on the
tiny yard lights. A short, slightly stooped figure appeared. It was not yet
possible to say whether the person was male or female. We got out of the car.
Complete silence surrounded us. The hunched man walked towards Mr. Marczinski.
I recognized that it was an old man, small, with a firm hand and a soft voice.
When he noticed that I didn't understand anything except "dobri
vetschor" and was dependent on Kurt's interpreting services, the
friendly old man switched to perfect German. He expressed himself very
carefully. There are 70 species of vendace in the northern hemisphere, maybe
even more, who can tell them apart? The spectrum of species ranges from the
omul in Lake Baikal to the curiously summer-spawning species in the Feldberg
deep lakes, the Coregonus albula baunti.
My problem was that I found it difficult to believe him at first. Should
the Baltic-shnapel be the object we coveted? I doubted that this migratory
fish, which prefers slightly salty water, would be particularly easy to keep in
lakes and ponds. However, we had already made the purchase perfect. A large,
dark door opened in front of us, the familiar rushing of water could be heard;
then there was a splash from the Zuger glasses. There were 7 litres of water in
each of these, perhaps 70, oversized upside-down seltzer bottles, which were
lined up in several rows on scaffolding. Tens of thousands of amber whitefish
eggs were constantly rolling around in each of the constantly overflowing
bottles. All just a little bigger than pinheads. Using a pipette, the old
gentleman removed a few of these Coregonen eggs, which shimmered gold in the
lamplight. He held them close to my face. I clearly saw the convulsions of the
unborn, then the black-silver embryo eyes, the fat yolk sac that gives the egg
its colour. The little ones, still held prisoner in their wrappings, were
constantly twisting and turning. Using the counting glass, the old gentleman
measured out 300,000 vendace eggs for us, and quite accurately, as we later
noticed. We only knew the counting procedure for broodlings.
We filled the 50 litre plastic bags, which had been tested for tear
resistance, with sparkling water and released the 300,000 eggs into them. On
top, during the process of closing the bags, they gave us a shot of pure oxygen
from a compressed air bottle.
Then we quickly made our way home. The mood was good. We wanted to drop
off Mr. Marcinski in Szczecin.
Shortly before we reached the city limits, things suddenly got loud
between Kurt Reiniger and our business partner. I pricked my ears. What could be the point of
contention? It seemed to me that I heard the term "Katyn" repeatedly.
Interfering would have been rude. It's impossible to sit there listlessly and
just accelerate.
"What's wrong, Kurt?"
“He accuses me of being a defector! I can’t help it!” I suspected what the accusation was about. I had once seen him in a
photo as a young man in a Polish uniform. It was all a long time ago, over 30
years ago. Emotions ran high on both sides. For both men, the leap over a
nearly 40 year era seemed like a tiny step. They became very excited. Kurt
Reiniger had actually been sworn into the Polish flag in 1939. Soon afterwards,
after the great Polish defeat, he was drafted by the German Wehrmacht on a high
order. A fate that he shared with thousands of half-Germans who lived in the
Bromberg area at the time. Marczinski did not accept the fact that his family
name was Reiniger, which was German. The Poles are always concerned with the
honor of their nation! Kurt Reiniger probably doesn't understand this. Kurt was
really offended. They were always picking on him. If it wasn't this, it was
that that they disliked about him. One he drank too much, the other too little.
It was about Katyn! And about Marczinski's brother. I had that
translated. If they were arguing for political reasons then I wanted to know
why. The angler president's brother was one of the thousands of Polish officers
who were taken prisoner by the Soviets because of Stalin's treachery. A shame.
They firmly refused to hand over their pistols and badges of honor to Soviet
henchmen. The Russians brutally stabbed the Republic of Poland in the back in
1939 in favour of Hitler's Germany, also because these "cursed
communists" were land robbers of the greatest style. They stole from
Finland, annexed the entire Baltic region, Moldovan areas, and eastern Poland.
The prisoners in Katyn did not want to humiliate themselves in front of
traitors. Ultimately, they were all shot.
I heard correctly.
Marczinski cursed the Russian NKVD as a fascist gang of murderers.
Hitler would have made common cause with the Soviets when Kurt defected to the
German army. I was very interested in the topic. During our last vacation, we
discussed the crime in Katyn very controversially with friends. It was simply a
matter of historical truth and the question of whether Hitler's men or the
communists would have shot the non-rebellious, albeit stubborn, Polish
prisoners of war en masse? I was surprised at the time, having discussed it
with friends on Usedom's beach months ago, that there were any doubts about the
Soviet Russian perpetrators. Even my brother, Helmut, was of the opinion that
Hitler, rather than the Russians, could have carried out the massacre. On April
13th 1943, the Germans announced that they had discovered mass graves of Polish
officers in the Katyn forest near Smolensk, in western Russian S.F.S.R. A total
of 4,443 corpses were recovered that had apparently been shot from behind. For
us it was an incredible idea anyway that people could treat each other like
that. We said back then, that it no longer had anything to do with fanaticism,
but only with the atavistic tendencies of degenerates, that were consciously
encouraged by one system or another.
“I can empathize with you, Mr. Marczinski,”
I explained, Kurt was busy translating
filling me in on our discussions.
Marczinski said quite angrily: “Relapses always have bad
consequences.”
He responded passionately to my questions. Poland will never forgive the
Soviets for this attack on the flower of the Polish nation. This will never
expire. I'll remember that later.
“They wanted to exterminate the Polish intelligentsia and with it the
soul of the nation! The Soviets still fear a strong Poland, just as they did in
the Tsarist era.” Both sides, the Germans
and the Russians, had a common cause to wipe Poland off the map. However,
regarding Marczinski's feelings, with all due respect, why was he angry with
us? Why with me? Yes, the Prussians! The Prussians, together with the Austrians
and Russia, in 1772 tore Poland to pieces, 1793 and finally 1795. It blazed like the fire of a blast furnace:
“Look at what they did to us: extermination,
extinction of Polish existence.” Marczinski explained the map of Poland
during the years of division he mentioned. First the Prussians took the
Bromberg area up to Danzig from the Poles; the Austrians came to the gates of
Krakow and Tsarist Russia took Wittebsk. A year later, Russia annexed Minsk and
Pinsk, and the Prussians annexed Posen and Thorn. Finally, the country of
Poland disappeared in 1795. The spark jumped to me. The quarter of my Slavic
blood in me heated up. I remembered reading in various biographies of Napoleon,
that even the great Bonaparte used the Poles as elite soldiers in all of his
campaigns, at the most difficult stages of the battle. He was always able to motivate them to the
highest levels of courage with new promises. However, he had probably never
seriously considered giving Poland the sovereignty that the generous sons of
the country, who had repeatedly been plunged into dependency for centuries, so
desperately desired. On that night in March, I asked myself again whether the
Kremlin could ever truly integrate the so-called People's Republic of Poland
into its territory. I had rarely
experienced so much open expressed displeasure and resistance as I felt from
Mr. Marczinski against the red socialism. Kurt translated diligently and, I
assumed, reasonably precisely. Mr. Marczinski told us that we had arrived. I
stopped and turned off the engine. He shook my hand and said goodbye. Like him,
all Poles thought and felt: “We will be free or dead!”. He then explained something that Kurt
told me with a laugh: “Poland is not lost yet.” Mr. Marczinski sang it
and Kurt joined in. Our partner got out at this deserted, seemingly desolate
street corner. He waved, we waved back and drove away slowly. As we left him
behind, I again had the uneasy feeling that we were headed for bad times. Every
day, every evening, the Eastern and Western broadcasters bombarded us, directly
or indirectly, with suspicions that the other side was planning a great war.
Sometimes it seemed to us that there were no other topics at all. After all,
the danger that the war that was raging in Vietnam could, for the same reasons,
spread to other parts of the world was very real.
The south of Africa, Angola and November 1975 still seemed a long way
off. For 16 long years, however, Soviet-Cuban interests and South African
intentions would fatally collide there. Millions of Africans would become
refugees, hundreds of thousands of innocent people would have to pay the full
price for the passion of both sides' bigotry. The outbreak of major hostilities
was also to be expected in South and Central America. This is all because of
the general conflict between East and West. Didn't Beier-Red or one of his
comrades prophesy it in their drawings?
Only one of the two systems can survive on this globe. The days were
still far away when the GDR press would report in detail on the bloody border
battles between the socialist brother-armies of North Vietnam and the People's
Republic of China. Little did we know that the Beijing communists would prove
that they were serious about their view that atomic bombs were just paper
tigers. How little the individual meant to them was demonstrated not only
during their Cultural Revolution, in which it was forbidden, even under penalty
of exile, to play chess or learn a Western language, or even to be educated.
They cleared the minefields of their southern enemy in their own unique way.
They ordered their soldiers to line up. Running shoulder to shoulder, the sons
of Chinese mothers sacrificed their limbs and their lives. In this way, Mao
spared the expensive technology. The Stasi officers Kindler, Zachow, Zander,
Pluschinat and others who went in and out of our barracks on the Oberbach as
amateur fishermen were embarrassed when I asked them who could agree what the
Chinese Marxists were doing: “No one can understand that a communist country
(China) is waging war on a smaller, also communist country (Vietnam) All
because of a few square kilometres of land.”
Tired and lost in thoughts that had little to do with our intention to
import a new species of fish, we were approaching the border. Although I was
aware that even millions of wishes for peace could not change the great course
of history, it was clear to me that, on the other hand, we decide for ourselves
whether we remain internally free and secure with our own hard-won knowledge,
or whether we allow ourselves to be seduced into choosing the path of least
resistance, into entanglement.
Other than the customs officers who might look at our car and then ask
about the missing certificates, there wasn't much to worry about for us or the
Coregons' well-being. Of course, what we did was forbidden. When they asked
unpleasant questions, we wanted to make the Polish and German customs officers
believe that, in our opinion, these were not animals but spawning products and
that the water from the Polish hatchery was still mixed with the German water
in the Baltic Sea within the borders. Our plan, which was based on the fact
that the freedom of movement in border traffic that had just been decided by
both governments, actually worked, was pretty cheeky. Thanks to Reiner Lüdtke's
advice, everything would be prepared at home. Both Zuger jars, which were
connected to the city network without any complications, could and should hold
our approximately 300,000 eggs. We had also placed our glasses in two of the
knee-deep plastic vessels. It was probably around midnight when we arrived at
the customs checkpoint.
“What do you want to do?” asked the
Polish officer in German. He shone his flashlight backwards and looked at the
50-liter plastic bags lying on the back seat of my Trabant station wagon and on
the parcel shelf, apparently still shaking considerably from the hard stop.
Both were covered by two thin woollen blankets to keep the temperature
constant.
“Jaikas!” said Kurt.
“Jaikas?” repeated the customs officer, and there was a
tremor of laboriously suppressed laughter in his voice. He was probably
thinking of shattered eggshells. “Eggs! Well, you’ll have a good
ride!” In the rear-view mirror I saw him having fun. The idea of
scrambled eggs must have been overwhelming for him. Guys, even the Berliners
don't have a pan that big!
The German border guards also treated us generously. Around two in the
morning, we put them into our jars, the whitefish hatched. Tens of thousands of
them flowed into the new world via the head rings and drain sockets and rubber
hoses attached to the glasses. The second act ended successfully.
What was more important than anything else was to provide the precious
brood with live food. Using trawl nets made of garbage gauze and propelled by
cutter power, we sifted out several thousand cubic meters of Tollense lake
water just 8 hours later. We had to catch hoppers, small crabs and cyclops.
On the first day of their fish life, our “Nasus” vendaces simply aimed
at the crabs swimming around in front of their mouths and tried to see how they
could snap. But just 24 hours later the wild hunt began. They would take a
running start 3 or 4 times, bend their tail like a pike and then, stretching
their muscles, shoot towards their victim with their jaws wide open. A larger
nauplii - a small crustacean - in the penultimate or final stage of moulting,
or even an adult hopper disappears between the jaws of the small eater like a
hand-sized roach between the teeth of a pike. For 3 long weeks everything went
smoothly, without any loss! Not like in
our previous experiments with the little vendace, hundreds of thousands of
which died during the first stretching phase, even though they were standing in
the middle of clouds of twitching, jumping food.
The Coregonus lavaterus have an advantage right from the start. As
broodlings they are only about two millimeters larger, but that is enough to
survive. Like an army on one side and another on the other side, the fronts in
our two feeding troughs faced each other in the clear water. Here are superior
“Nasus”, who have now grown two centimetres. Since they moved in a flock, there
was no difficulty in keeping the vessels clean. In contrast to the solitary
pike, the waste vacuum cleaner almost never caught one of the skilfully evasive
vendaces. We were able to keep the pre-stretched aquariums sparkling clean. In
the fourth week it happened. We had already become arrogant. By the afternoon
of April 22nd they came, the colleagues from Berlin, Prenzlau and Waren,
including the non-experts from the SED Neubrandenburg district leadership.
Everyone patted us on the shoulders and laughed when we told them about the
coup and how we had avoided the lengthy procedures of obtaining certificates.
We boasted that we could get the fish as long as a finger, thinned out of
course using several channels. The food
came to us almost automatically that year. We could have caught 100 kilograms
of nauplii and adult hoppers every day with little effort. Our vendace ate like
barnyard threshers and thrived, until that black April morning on the 23rd when
we found 80 percent dead. The municipal utilities had treated the tap water
with chlorine! Call!
"No! There was no chlorination!”
What then? The reeling movements of the surviving twenty percent of Nasus
indicated that they, too, would not survive. The bad news hit the Institute for
Inland Fisheries in Berlin-Friedrichshagen like lightning.
“Go! The VEB Prenzlau fish disease service must travel to Neubrandenburg
immediately. Determine the cause! Precautionary use of trypaflavin in
concentrations usual for breeding tanks! Wait for new instructions for the
targeted use of medication.” We had arrogantly
accepted all the good conditions as given. We caught a lot of zooplankton in 10
minutes, each of using the cutter trawl. We were able to provide the best food
in the world. Our aquarians were perfectly clean. The tap water had ideal parameters.
And now the institute has ordered a review to determine whether a major alarm
should be triggered for the Baltic Sea coast.
“The trout stocks in the large farms are probably at risk due to the
introduction of a yet unknown disease. In any case, a spread to all salmon
species in the territory cannot be ruled out.”
Therefore, it must be determined what the certificates say. We finally put out 8,000. They must have
survived because we caught their offspring everywhere in the lake. Just 6 years
later, we caught more and more weighing at 2 kilograms. And all ages beneath. A
delicacy when smoked, even a class of its own that we were a little proud of.
In the summer of 78
My branch president asked me to visit an elderly brother by the name of
Gustav Briel. He had joined the church as an old man and was now living in Penzlin.
He had returned to his hometown from West Germany and remarried. Both had been in love in their youth.
We saw immediately that Brother Briel was no match for his
seventy-year-old Lady and totally unsuited for his very old mother-in-law. The
ancient woman sat in the wing chair and every time I opened my mouth she
replied:
“Don’t you know that it is
improper to speak before the lady of the house gives the word?” We had to
endure the most severe rejections.
After the death of this eloquent ancient Lady, I made two or three more
attempts to talk to the Briels. But as before, Mrs. Briel abruptly rejected me.
“There’s the door!” The Mormons are a terrible sect. She doesn't wish to
have any discussion. Brother Briel led me down the stairs and requested:
“Please, please never come back! I know the church is true, but I want
to live in peace."
Rarely before had a task appealed more than cracking this door.
One day whilst returning to Neubrandenburg from a fishing conference in
Waren, I had to drive through Penzlin. About 10 kilometres before the sign of
the town, I cried out:
“Father! in heaven I ask you to help me to open a door in Penzlin.” I mentioned every detail, the first and last names of my soul enemy,
the street, the house number, the opportunities, concentrated all my mental
energy on this goal. When I arrived at the entrance of the apartment building
at Bahnhofstrasse 19, I got out of my Trabant, not quite as quickly as usual
but hopefully. I knocked; she opened the door. Her face spoke of absolute
rejection and hardness. Through the small crack in the door that she left open,
I saw a picture in her room. She followed my line of sight. She looked at me,
could have asked:
“Why are you always poking your stupid nose into other people’s
affairs?” But to my amazement I heard: “This is my
first husband. Come in!”
In the next two hours I learned everything that was important for me to
know. The man with the spiked helmet, whom she had loved as a young girl, had
died on the Western Front a week after their marriage in the last year of the
First World War. She had waited 50 years for her second childhood friend,
Gustav Briel. As soon as she had married him, she realized that she would have
to share him with a terrible organization whose aim was to one day take him
away from her. She believed the doctrine and structure of the Mormon sect is
designed accordingly. Anyone who entrusted themselves to this secret
organization would be completely taken over. Her anti-Mormonism, or what she
believed it to be, left her in many doubts.
I couldn't help but sometimes nod in understanding and once even in
agreement, which in turn surprised her. I said, that is true. It is an all or
nothing principle whether we want it or not. Being even half a member of this
church was virtually impossible. You are either completely “Mormon” or not at
all. But that did not mean that, as the
wife of a member, she would take a lesser place. Because the most important
task of every member of the church was and is to stand faithfully by their
spouse, regardless of whether they share the beliefs or not.
I worded my responses as best I could and probably won some small
points.
Essentially, she was wrong, but who knows which tendentious books about
our church she had read? From her perspective, the best philosophy and history
in the world was a monster. She quickly summed it up:
“Why does my husband refuse to tell me about the Mormon Temple
ceremonies? Why does he wear undergarments with secret symbols? What is he not
telling me?” In order to behave and explain myself
correctly, I had to go a long way... not everything that is subject to secrecy
must be a bad thing!
As I drove home, I realized that I had not only found her ear, but also
a little of the affection of this not insignificant woman. She had been
director of the Lyceum in the early 1920s and was wonderfully eloquent. I had
to promise her that I would come back.
From then on, I visited her and her husband at least once a month. They
were always 4- or 5-hour rounds. (During this time, my sons, as my
homeschooling partners, were doing their homework or corresponding with their
friends, and sometimes they were annoyed
with me for driving them into agonizing boredom. I'm innocent! For whenever I
wanted to leave after our half an hour visits, they told me it was pure
rudeness.)
It went well for years and kept getting better.
One day she declared me her friend: “Please bring your wife!”
This was done to the satisfaction of both women. To be honest, I was
proud to have such a friend. She read a multi-stanza poem 2 or 3 times and then
recited it without errors.
. She told me how she lost her faith in God during the Hitler years.
What moved her was not so much the war-disasters themselves, but that God
allowed cowardly people to inflicted such pain on each other. Even harder to
bear were the constant quarrels between the two local clergymen that lived with
them, in the same house, some thirty years ago.
Whenever she, as a third party, witnessed the spiteful arguments among
these two theologians she lost the substance of her faith, until only a remnant
of religion remained in her.
She literally added: “Today I believe only ten percent of what has to
do with traditional Christian thinking.”
She wrote and sang for me. She had almost nothing to complain about the
Mormons anymore, until her husband, not me, went a step further than she was
willing to go. (She never forgot anything that mattered.)
In his naivety, he enthusiastically told his wife how good it had been
for him to attend a meeting at our church. He confessed to her that he had
internally sided with his church every day in the past, even when she strictly
forbade him to do so. She couldn't cope with the fact that her husband suddenly
became strong. She felt overwhelmed. The excitement of discovering that I had
outwitted her robbed her of sleep. She ordered me to leave.
She deliberately tore down our house of agreement, which we had
painstakingly built together. She finally forbade me from entering her house.
For the first and last time since the beginning of our friendship, she once
again proved to be the inflexible old senior teacher she had always been from
head to toe. My soul friend, Martha Briel, always counted how many people would
come to her funeral. She never got very far with it, as she had previously
confided. Her hard, straight character had long since pushed aside people with
her sharp-critical views. Even her brother avoided her company. I didn't feel
like begging again.
Joseph Smith never said that the restoration of the gospel was the
product of his own imagination. Had he done so, he would have become a
respected person. To say it was revealed to him by God would cost him his
life., but then, that's just how most humans are, we prefer what is easier to
access.
We and §5, property building regulations
Despite being forced to participate in fish refining projects run by the
“Quality Fish of the Mecklenburg Lake District” co-operation association, to
which we had to belong, we managed to save another 800,000 marks by 1975,
despite transferring 600,000 marks.
This sum was enough to have a new sheet pile wall rammed, which we
urgently needed, and then finally to put up a medium-sized building, because we
were still living in the same ancient, small wooden block where the
increasingly large and unusual fish traps were made and repaired. Money flowed
abundantly after the second agricultural price reform. We just couldn't buy
what we wanted or needed. We had to divide our financial resources into 2
categories. Basically, there was available and unavailable equity. The second agricultural price reform was a
trick. Number crunchers needed and wanted to fake economic growth. These were
signs of the ongoing crisis in the GDR economy. We were able to have 10 million
in the operating account, but as long as they did not appear in the balance
sheets of the responsible district or district administrations, their effective
value was zero. This was what the authorities wanted. All company finances
parked in the accumulation fund could only be promoted gradually and through an
overall plan to become a means of payment, which had to be defended before the
GDR Ministry of Finance.
Instead of earning 1,700.00 marks for a ton of vendace as before, we now
received over 9,100.00 marks. That was almost five times as much.
Instead of the previous 3.50 marks per kilogram of carp, we got 14.00
marks while maintaining the end consumer prices (PRP).
Of course that couldn't go well. Nobody turns the price screw
arbitrarily and at the same time with impunity. Günter Mittag's financial
scientists, who had hoped that their agricultural and industrial price reform
would be the saving idea, only accelerated the socialist inflation that had
already started and was taking on a life of its own. In any case, despite our
good financial situation, we did not receive any construction capacity from the
District Council. There were promises because we couldn't continue to live like
this, but there were no budget figures for it. The roofer and civil engineer
Jürgen Krüger gave me the good advice when we were fishing together at night:
“Build according to §5, Land Building Code.”
“And that would be?”
“You build on your own initiative!”
Our application was viewed positively by the District Council. They gave
us the green light. The council members were happy about any initiative. It was
well known that someone who wants to can achieve 10 times more than the person
they have to push.
First the hat had to be put on one of us -to become responsible for the
project. I really wanted it and secured it. Then we discussed on the board how
much eels I would have at my disposal to accelerate the project of building our
new business premises. If things didn't go any further, I intended help with
smoked eels. I wanted to pursue this strange business rigorously, but in no way
other than exclusively for the benefit of the company. I didn't want to be
cheated by socialism, so I didn't cheat on it.
“100 kilos at most,” said Reiner. It seemed to me that I would reach my
goal with just 50 kilos.
But by the end of the completion of the project I had used 200 kilos of
the ever thought for smoked eel. The first problem was that I could not find
anyone who would carry out the necessary drillings on our peat site for the
purpose of subsoil investigation. We figured we were standing over about 5
meters of peat.
There were shrugs here and there. None of the prominent construction
companies wanted to comply with my request. Then I went to a company on
Katharinen Street. The person in charge gave me the same answer I had listened
to so many times before. They are fully booked for many months. So, I
complained as best I could:
“We’re tired of sitting in the old wooden shed by the lake on freezing
winter days.”
The answer was: “Other people get cold sometimes too!” I boldly
shot after: “But I have smoked eels to offer! “I noticed his head
jerking.
"I'm sorry, what?"
Smoked quality eels could actually open closed iron doors. There were no
goods of this kind in our local shops. Small-head eels were worth their weight
in gold. I looked boldly at the chubby man. I didn't have a choice either. In
disbelief the man repeated:
“Smoked eels?”
“Well, yes, we caught some, the little green ones.” The well build boss in question looked at me again, and I of course
withstood the suspicious scrutiny: “One kilo of smoked eels for free, for
every man.”
“Wait a minute!” was the not unfriendly
reply. “I have to look at the calendar... well there we have... there
we have... let's say next week.” They came immediately, drilled by hand,
primitive as they used to 100 years ago, and discovered that we had to build on
top of 6 meters of peat. The drill cores had to be analysed. There was an
unexpected free capacity in a laboratory in the industrial district after I
explained that I could fulfil special requests for fish. Also, no problem
buying the 45 x 10-meter-long reinforced concrete driven piles. Ramming
capacity was also available to us, although not immediately. The iron benders
didn't need to be persuaded either, as we received permission to carry out the
weaving work, recruiting specialists to do the after-work. Work and then pay
them based on their performance. But then the first major obstacle stood in our
way. Concrete proved to be a bottleneck. Because we needed 180 cubic meters in
one delivery. All the temptations with smoked eels didn't help. There was no
mixing plant in the entire area that could supply us with the concrete for the
foundation slab on an unscheduled basis. April of '78 passed, May and half of
June. No view. Hartmut Wißmann from the civil engineering combine gave me hope,
but at the same time he waved me off contemptuously.
“You with your smoked eels!” he criticized
sharply. “Should I cut the 200 cubic meters out of my ribs? Possibly
at the end of July.” If the new mixing plant coming from the West were
tested, then... maybe. I did the math. We hated to think that we would have to
spend another winter in the wooden old shed. In July, that would still be
possible. We could manage to move into the new building in January. In July,
the grandmother of the man who was supposed to install the western technology
fell ill. In August the same man's niece became ill. There was another problem
in September.
It didn't really make sense to me that our well-being should depend on
the health of unknown western nieces and grandmothers. Hartmut Wißmann was also
annoyed. That's how it is with the dependencies on Federal Republic of Germany
imports.
“Do you already have the brigs, the window frames? Do you have the roof
trusses, the plumbing, electrician and tiling trades secured?”
“I have promises.”
“Promises are not brigs. In Eggesin you can occasionally purchase hollow concrete blocks.”
Phone calls: “No, they’re late this year. What are they thinking?
Stones are gold dust!”
I swallowed. “But you told me…” I said.
“Dear man, I didn’t say anything, I just thought
about how I could help you.”
“I have smoked eels!”
“We don’t like it at all. But if they bring the time and people with
them, they can produce the brigs themselves.”
My breath caught in my throat.
I said to the chairman: “Reiner, we have to go to Eggesin with a few
men and make brigs.”
“You have fish to catch, ... but if you have to....” The 4 of us got into my little Trabant station wagon and drove to
Eggesin, 50 kilometres away.
There they poured the ready-made concrete onto an open area for us. By
hand we scooped the mixture into the moulds at the base of the vibrating
machine we rented. In about five minutes each, we made four hollow blocks that
just needed to set and dry. The device shook us as much as the lifeless
material. We felt the shaking while we were still asleep.
On the last day when we needed to produce the remaining three hundred
blocks, my Trabant transmission suddenly stopped working. Every time I tried,
the fourth gear wouldn't engage.
More phone calls back and forth. We had to hurry. As we also had to
fulfil our fishing plan.
“We don’t have any spare parts at the moment!”
“Not even for smoked eels? Oh well! I would have two or three kilograms
left.”
“I’m sorry,” explained workshop
master Roland. “Just persuading them in the main camp costs me two
kilos.” I made it to the repair shop with a lot of hassle.
On the 2nd of October they finally poured the floor slab, and on the 5th
the masons from the motley after-work brigade laid the first self-made hollow
block as a barrier layer.
There was no time for celebrations and big speeches on this late
afternoon when construction began. It was already getting dark. You could still
read the drawing by the architect Robert Brenndörfer. We had provided large
lamps, but they only partially illuminated the construction site as bright as
day. We promised the non-company henchmen and bricklayers a bonus.
“If you have the shell up by the
20th, then...”
Löthe, as they called him, the construction brigadier, grumbled, “Well,
yes, just money...”
I comforted him. It was obvious what he wanted.
“Everyone gets 2 kilograms of smoked eels on top.”
Then “Löthe” shouted loudly: “Men, get busy, there are some nuts!”
On the 7th we continued at full speed. Luckily it was a holiday and we
had a whole 10 hours ahead of us. Reiner, our chairman, balanced and pushed the
building materials from early in the morning until late in the evening. He ran
as if rock carting was his hobby. New found hope arose again that we could
still make it before the frost set in. It was now clear that we would not be
able to purchase the roof trusses of the required dimensions and standard
anywhere. “As far as I know, carpentry-PGH “Vorwärts” in Neubrandenburg has
relationships with one of the manufacturing companies in Anklam and Pasewalk.
At least they have the nail plans.” In addition to the nail plans, it was
easy to receive good advice in Anklam, but no one we were aware of would sell
the required number of slats and boards we needed nor prepare the board trusses.
The carpenters were willing to work an extra shift, especially since I
promised a special delicacy. But could not get any boards.
Chairman Emil Tilp shrugged his shoulders. We would like to help, but
can't. I first went to see Jürgen Meyer, the head of the inland fisheries
department.
“If only you had come a year earlier, I could have gotten you the 30
cubic meters of wood.”
“Man, Jürgen, I need it now…”
“I’m sorry. Go to Horst.”
Horst G., who was on duty in the forestry department that day, listened
to me patiently, shook his curly head in displeasure.
“Because you guys always come in at the last minute. Am I the fire
department?” Unfortunately, the district forestry
department wasn't as quick as the fire department, but I was under pressure
like a heated boiler over flames. In my naivety, I had believed for too long
that I would be able to buy Binder without any problems.
“Faith makes you blessed, baking brings you rest!” I heard that old nursery rhyme to the point of annoyance. That
afternoon in the late fall of ’78, I left the white building on
Friedrich-Engels-Ring discouraged. No verbose persuasion, nor begging, nor
massive attempts at bribery had brought me the success I longed for. Dejected I
wandered off. Although I had the nail plans and the drawing for the roof that
was planned to be covered with Eternit tiles, I even had some smoked
delicacies, yet I couldn't do anything with any of all that.
Feeling angry I rolled up my papers and cursed because I was left
empty-handed. I could have exploded! At that moment I saw a stately forester
coming towards me, decorated with braided shoulder pieces. He was just right
for me. As if through a rifle scope, I aimed at him through my 3/4meter-long
roll of my plans. When he got within 2 meters, I snapped at him:
“You foresters should all be shot!”
He was taken aback. He looked me over. “Comrade, what problems do you have?”
And how compassionately he said it! “Comrade!” For the first time, it
seemed to me, someone understood me and suffered with me.
“I have to put the roof on our new building by November at the latest.
We built according to Section 5. Nobody in your house gives me a quota of wood.
Winter will get in the way.”
“Where are you from?”
“From fishing…so and so!”
He nodded: “Come with me!” I felt like I had been transported
back to my childhood days when Mother lovingly picked me up from the cold, wet
floor as I screamed for help. Comrade Skibbe!... If all the people in the world
were like him.
I read the sign on his door. He, senior forester Siegfried Schreib, was
on the phone with someone for just a few seconds.
Then it was clear: “So thirty cubic meters of larch or
spruce! For your company anyway.” That
was what the best of the “communists” wanted - solidarity.
“Do I want to get the wood?”
“It’s already hit... it just needs to be moved back. The tree trunks lie
there in the depths of the Neustrelitz forests. You can have the logs from the
day after tomorrow!”
What a word and yet I immediately bit my tongue:
“We’re going to Leningrad the day after tomorrow, a company outing.” He smiled instead of scolding me. I laughed inside; these were the kind
of people I liked.
“You're running out of time, aren't you? Still has to be cut and nailed,
right?” I nodded a bit helplessly. He waved his
hand.
“No experiments! I’ll have the logs brought to the sawmill in Zwiedorf!”
He sat down at another desk littered with papers,
pushed the ashtray aside, picked up a calendar and wrote something down.
“Here is the date for the editing.”
I saw with horror that this was the high time for night fishing for
vendace.
He noticed my reaction. He didn't ask for long. Just a quick look. In
mid-January.
“I see. This time you are going to the Caucasus. Here you have a new
appointment for the sawmill.”
I was touched: “I’ll give you five kilograms of smoked eels!”
He shook his broad, red head. “I don’t want your eel. It was a
pleasure to be able to help you.” he responded modestly. “Oh,
what?” also because I praised him and thanked him: “Make sure you
get the roof on!”
In mid-January, one day before winter really hit, we moved into our new
building, which was wonderfully heated by night storage heaters. There was
actually still joy under communism.
Leningrad
The cooperatives were allowed to transfer 5% of their sales to the
cultural fund. As production increased, we managed to save considerable sums to
enable us every 3 years to spend holidays abroad with our wives. We saw the
Smolny and the Winter Palace of the Tsars. The offices of the regional party
headquarters were located in Smolny. One of Stalin's closest associates, Kirov,
was shot in Smolny. I almost caused a scandal because I asked the interpreting
city guide the question of whether it was actually other leading Leningrad
communists who were responsible for Kirov's death:
"How do you come to ask such a dangerous question; how do you know
about it?" The tone was sharp and accusatory. I could
only congratulate myself that I didn't ask what I was actually talking about -
namely:
"Is Stalin himself to blame for this?" because some otherwise cautious people, who didn't conform to the state,
let me know that they had certain literature. I was given the book by the
dissident Wolfgang Leonhard to borrow for two days: 'The Revolution
Dismisses Its Children'. Written in an exciting way, it gave us a wealth of
first-hand information. Leonhard came to the Soviet Union with his mother at
the age of 13 in 1934. The poet, Susanne Leonhard, fell for Russian propaganda.
Like many other idealists, she became disillusioned and recognized the reasons
behind the system and was banished to a Soviet prison camp in Siberia as a “communist
deviant.” Her son Leonhard received a rigorous education at the
Comintern School and was prepared there for later leadership roles within the
Communist Party. Together with the “Ulbricht Group” (Ulbricht: “Everything has
to look democratic…”) he was sent to devastated post-war Germany in
1945 as a political commissioner. The forced unification of the KPD and SPD in
the Soviet Zone gave him the bad impetus and in 1950, totally disappointed, he
was fleeing to the West." Heike Mund 'Deutsche Welle'
In the above-mentioned work by Wolfgang Leonhard, the sentence was
written: “Stalin had his rival, the Leningrad party leader Kirov, murdered
in 1934.” At the XVII CPSU party congress of the same year, 292
delegates voted against Stalin and only three against Kirov. Stalin considered
this an unforgivable humiliation. The fact that Kirov should be superior to
him? We learned through various channels that the investigation into this
murder case, on Stalin's instructions, began the infamous show trials in the Soviet
Union, which condemned thousands of innocent people to death by shooting. I
answered the young lady, as we stood on the steps of Smolny:
“The party press in the GDR reported a
lot about it!” She remained silent and felt insecure and distracted. There
have been no evidence of assassination plans or orders to murder Kirov; but she
must have been familiar with this process and all the mass trials that
followed. What happened was too important. Everyone knew it.
Stalin wanted to shift suspicion from himself to others. Things were
fermenting in the state. Everything was in short supply.
A planned economy, as understood and practiced in the Red East, was
bound to fail because it suppressed almost all personal initiatives. Later
convicted and imprisoned himself, Vyshinsky, the chief judge of these trials,
shouted, apparently out of revenge, but also out of anger and uncertainty. In
which he found himself, in which everyone suspected everyone else to be evil:
"I demand that these dogs be shot, every single one of them." We now know from autobiographies that the great artists of the Moscow
Bolshoi Theatre blackened each other to save their own skin. The same scenario
as history relates of the Spanish Inquisition.
I had known it for a long time, and now, at the end of the 70s, it was
no longer a taboo topic, at least not in East Germany. On August 25, 1936, even
the leaders of the previous Smolny regime, Kamenev and Zinoviev - actually
friends of Stalin - were shot in the basement of Moscow's Lubyanka prison. All
of this was important to all opponents of the Kremlin system. I believe that
90% of the population of the Eastern Bloc countries were aware of these historical
events. Secretly the reporting worked, and proved pretty accurate. Everyone who
felt restricted and locked in, found contact with each other in trust that was
rarely disappointed.
In the evening, Erika let me go because I wanted to attend a service in
the nearest Orthodox church. Hundreds stood and watched with me as the
ceremonial exercises were carried out. All of this was very foreign to a member
of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, who doesn't know anything
like that. I only saw a few men in the crowd. I stood out because of my
brownish coat and my general appearance. At least two older men left after I
looked at them. I think they thought I was a secret police officer. Those
present then kissed a larger icon displayed under glass. All mouths probably
touched the same place. The next morning, I wanted to go to the same church,
which was not too far away. There I met an old man with a strikingly mild
expression on his face. We communicated with gestures and little Russian. I
could see how serious the intelligent-seeming man was about his religion. After
all, the Russian Orthodox Church has two faces: the external one with
tremendous pomp and the internal one with genuine piety. I will never forget
him, this huge Goth of about thirty, in the garb of a Russian Orthodox priest;
his young, white face, the whole wonderful expression of his personality. A
hook-nosed man in his sixties, with a long, narrow face and a certain majesty,
who must have been an intellectual, came to the front with other visitors. The
young clergyman took him under his stole and, I presume, gave him a blessing.
Both men's facial expressions showed their complete devotion to God.
Utah
In 1982, the East German government allowed me to accept my church's
invitation to attend the 152nd General Conference in Utah and stay there for
three weeks. For almost 18 years I have been responsible for the few hundred Members
in Mecklenburg. The representative of the People's Police responsible for me
came to my company and, as I later found out, asked specific questions of the
chairman of the fishing cooperative, Reinhardt Lüdtke, whose deputy I had been
for a long time. Only in this context did Reiner learn what responsibility I
had in the church. And that I've never
had an affair.
Well, the Stasi knew everything about everyone they had in their sights.
They even knew that I didn't do any crooked fish deals. Reiner tolerated everything I did anyway,
and that wasn't exactly a small amount. He was always – almost always – on my
side. I couldn't believe they would let me and my wife travel to America. A
small eastern fisherman travels with Madam to the largest enemy country? My
colleagues were amazed. They knew me almost exclusively as an inconspicuous man
in rubber boots. In the end it turned out that Erika was not allowed to fly
with us. Her flight ticket had already been paid for and the hotel rooms for
the conference days were booked. Nothing there. My wife stayed behind as a
guarantee for my return, because quite a few people from the East, when they
somehow had to travel to Western countries, stayed in the states where there
was real prosperity. If necessary, we would both have walked back to our
children via the Bering Strait. Even as I was already sitting in the KML plane
parked at Schoenfeld airfield, I thought that there might still be a call: “Mr.
Skibbe, please go to passport control again. Unfortunately, we made a
mistake. There's something you need to sort out.' But this call didn't
come, unbelievably the plane taxied with me to the take-off point. We flew
nearly over Neubrandenburg. Since the cockpit door on KML machines was still
open back then, I tried to take a look at the equipment. The co-pilot invited me
to come closer and patiently explained what I wanted to know. We had a stopover
in Amsterdam. That alone was overwhelming for me. (The sum of 200 marks for a bed
in the Hilton Hotel at Amsterdam Airport!)
Luckily, I didn't have to pay for it. Before I left, however, I received
100 dollars from my mission president, Henry Burkhardt. My pocket money!
Of course, the responsible church representatives knew that the members
from the East had no Western money, which could not be officially exchanged.
I swore that I would bring every penny back to the GDR untouched.
Mineral water for four Westmarks? I preferred drinking tap water. After
consciously setting foot on American soil, I walked around the Chicago airport
grounds for 2 hours, curious about the smells of the new world.
In a kiosk a man was reading a porn magazine that he had shoved under my
nose, whether I wanted it or not. Then I thought, look, there's nothing like
that in the East and that was a good thing. No-one should be allowed to touch
human dignity.
Then I wrote – as a naive GDR citizen – in my travel diary: “America
is fascinating,” but maybe just because everything was new. Just
this interaction with each other! The relationship between seller and customer.
He is friendly smiled at the little man, even though he only examines things
critically instead of buying. The magazines that haven't yet been bought are
leafed through quite unabashedly, everything is touched, sweets are checked for
suitability and consistency and in the end the whole thing is left behind. The
ladies and gentlemen shop owners are neither losing hope nor patience...
As we fly after the sun in the late afternoon, a little slower than the
earth rotates, it gradually begins to get dark. I see the endless expanse of
Nebraska gliding beneath me from a height of 11 kilometres. Is it down there on
the Platte River, where the Mormon pioneers travelled with their covered wagons
almost a century and a half ago towards their unknown destination, which was
supposed to be somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Over 60,000 Mormons crossed
the plains on foot before the railroad was completed. The first group in 1846,
after rabid dissidents forced the first 14,000 to leave the city of Nauvoo,
Illinois, which they had built with their own hands, in the middle of winter.
What material for future generations of filmmakers.
They mostly moved west in groups of up to 200 to 300. I'm thinking of
the Martin and Willie groups, who had to overcome the route from Iowa to Salt
Lake City in 1856 with self-made handcarts. My plane will take 2 1/2 hours to
do this and while I eat a meal, we cross, easily and unaware, an area where the
most shocking tragedies took place 126 years ago. For 222 members of the
Church, beset by blizzards and wagon wrecks on the final stretch of the route
that year, were never to arrive.
Some of my friends who had emigrated previously, picked me up from the
airfield in Salt Lake City, along with Edith and Walter Rohloff from
Neubrandenburg. Also Siegfried Meyer, son of my fellow missionary, who now
successfully ran a delicatessen shop here in the city centre. He, a very busy
man, immediately asked the question, which I found hardly credible: “Of the
three weeks, you have almost fourteen days to yourself. What do you want
to see? Do we want to fly to California to go sea fishing?” Of course, I
particularly wanted to go to the church's own Brigham Young University in Provo
to talk to Professor Hugh Nibley, a German-speaking classical scholar from whom
I had read a number of essays, although only short ones. I was interested in
his views on a number of specific issues. Negative information about us was
once again spread via the 'Nord Deutscher Rundfunk'. The story was that 3
Mormon students discovered in their studies that the facsimiles of Joseph
Smith's Egyptian Book of the Dead published in "Pearl of Great
Price" had been misinterpreted due to his general ineptitude.
Siegfried made it possible, and I will never forget that. Prof Nibley, who
spoke 18 different languages, would listen to me for 2 hours. 70-year-old
Nibley, a not very tall, almost skinny man, jumped up when I presented the
matter to him. Had it been true, he would have taken a fundamental stance on
this topic in a 300-page book. He would have made all evidence available to the
public. It's not true! It wasn't just any 3 students who attacked the official
version, but rather a university professor of English, who was in expulsion
proceedings from the church for adultery and was trying to vent in this way.
Nibley explained to me that Egyptologists had already discovered that facsimile
number one in 'Pearl of Great Price' had a myriad of different
interpretations. That was the way of the ancient Egyptians to present certain
things in the religious area ambiguously.
“Look,” he said, “what is important for us to know
is that God is a God of revelation. He repeatedly spoke to certain people,
Confucius, Buddha, Lehi. And that is exactly what the ancient Egyptians and
the Hebrews claimed, as did Joseph Smith and many others. This is what the
Priesthood of God is all about. That is why there is a basic consensus between
traditions.”
Nibley, who had initially literally overslept the appointment made with
me, became more and more lively. His long, narrow head jerked back and forth.
He pointed me to the oldest, unravelled, Shabaka stone, which already speaks of
the necessity of God's Plan of Salvation.
“Look,” he explained, going to the blackboard, picking
up some chalk. “The core teachings of different religions of Asia, Africa
and the Americas actually confirm each other. The religion of the ancient
Egyptians particularly points to the common origin of all religions. They all
talk about Creator God and all demand that we worship God by keeping His
commandments. He doesn't need the incense, he doesn't need the liturgies, but
rather that our hearts and minds should turn to him. The fourth commandment of
the famous ten is already mentioned in the Egyptian Papyrus Eber, one of the
oldest written documents: 'It is beautiful when a son accepts his father's
speech well, God will grant him a long life in return.' This is clear evidence
that the Gospel is much older than previously assumed.
In the Book of Abraham, which Joseph Smith translated with some
controversy, it says in 1:26 (Dr. Nibley quoted
from memory) "(The first) Pharaoh, being a righteous man, established
his kingdom and judged his people wisely and justly all his days, and he
earnestly sought to imitate the order established by the fathers in the first
generations, in the days of the first patriarchal government..."
Nibley continued: “This statement, made by Joseph Smith, cannot be
overestimated in its importance! This text is not only of great practical
importance for the insider, because it shows that many religions and their
temple cults, as well as Freemasonry (as Schikaneder and Mozart showed in the
“Magic Flute”) have their roots in ancient Egyptian. At the same time, it is
clear that it is wrong to claim that the Mormon temple rituals were borrowed
from Freemasonry. The significant differences suggested that the lost original
had a pre-Egyptian origin. This is of utmost importance, something that
unfortunately is sometimes, even intentionally, overlooked.”
Nibley told me that the general attacks on the Mormon Temple are not
shared by the majority of major church and Jewish temple researchers.
The busy man gave me two full hours.
I left his office feeling grateful.
I looked around Salt Lake City thoroughly. We also drove to Immigration
Canyon. Nearby stood a monument with which the local Mormons commemorated all
the settlers and pioneers who first came here on the Oregon Trail or, like
their fellow believers, who bravely stayed in the inhospitable land to make it
arable.
My gaze slid over the thousands of single-family houses in the city of over
1,000,000 people and it was difficult for me to imagine what it was like back
then; before the first settlers brought water down from the mountains to soften
the hard, dry soil so that they could cultivate it.
What attracted me most was Temple Square in Salt Lake City. I really
liked the atmosphere there. I just thought, hopefully, this and these friendly
people will still be around in a thousand years! My thoughts wandered and I
looked forward of attending the organ concerts that take place daily at
lunchtime in the Tabernacle. Yes, I remembered my impressions of Moscow. During
the concert I compared everything again. No question who had the original.
These were comparable: Marxism, like Mormonism, wanted to make all
people equal. Some basic elements of the philosophy agreed, even the
structures, you just had to look closely. Here, the communities with their
Bishop and the home teachers, and there, the basic units of the party. Here,
the missionaries, there the agitators. Here, the highest committee of 15
personalities and there the 15-person central committee. Here the inspiration,
there the instructions regarding ideology. Both want to rid the world of evil.
If only it were possible to translate good music into convincing words.
“It's a shame, Erika,” I wrote in my diary: “that
you weren't allowed to experience it.” Suddenly a wonderful flood of
sound flowed around me. Beautiful chords rushed towards the eager listeners.
They were followed by gentle caressing, satisfying the soul using only sounds.
Prelude and Fugue in G major by Johann Sebastian Bach. This was followed by
Henri Mulet's Toccata in F minor, then Bach again: 'Christ lay in the bonds of
death'. For thirty minutes you will hear heavenly music in the middle of the
Rocky Mountains of the wild American West. You ask yourself how it is possible
that you, the person who constantly and often with enormous effort strives for
more happiness, can get the beautiful and good things so cheaply.
We streamed into the countryside, the sky was a deep blue, the sun was
shining. It’s hard to imagine that there are people who hate other people.
The next morning, my ex-Neubrandenburger Siegfried stood in his Land
Rover in front of Walter's door, in the snow that had fallen on the yellow
forsythia bushes during the night. He wanted to go with me to Brighton, to the beginner
ski slope. As a child I had already stood on primitive boards in Wolgast and,
of course, I had never been in the mountains in winter.
“It doesn’t matter,” Siegfried encouraged me.
"We'll borrow the right equipment and you'll see that once
the lift has taken us up, you'll slide down into the valley by yourself."
He was right. When the time came, my slippery feet went off of their own accord
and took me with them. I just had to be careful not to tip over. Before that,
however, he should have explained to me how to stop when the speed increases.
Suddenly I saw a group of children and young people in front of me. When I got
back on my feet, I practised in case of an emergency, because next time there
probably wouldn't be another snowdrift opportunity to sail into headfirst. As I
looked around the communities. The noticeable number of smaller children and
the unrest they caused didn't bother me. This would hardly have been different
in the time of Christ. When He spoke, he would not have snapped at their
mothers that they should silence their little ones. On the contrary! As Matthew
so vividly tells us, he beckoned the children toward him. Three days before the
conference started, I moved to the Hotel Utah, which was closer to the
conference venues. In a training session for Church regional representatives
led by the Council of the Twelve, with President Ezra Taft Benson, attended by
Henry Burkhardt (my mission president) and I as guests, learned that surveys
had shown that active Mormon families would be charged up to 50% of their
budgets. That's not okay. The law of the church is 10%, no more. Once a month,
Church members should fast and sacrifice the equivalent of their savings for
the purpose of alleviating hardship beyond tithes. In addition, they would
continue to send their children “on missions” at their own expense. That is
more than enough; they should no longer be asked to participate in the
formation of other funds. From now on, the church will assume full financing
for the construction of new chapels and sports facilities, as well as their
maintenance. To my left sat Dieter Berndt, a teacher at the TU in Berlin and an
expert in packaging technology. To my right was the mayor of Las Vegas. We
walked from the church administration building to have our dinner in the Lion
House, where Brigham Young once lived with his extended family. Hence the
unusual number of windows and the many rooms. I started talking to a Filipino,
who had studied economics in Cologne. It is the same worldwide - whoever
belongs to this church is either fully committed - or not at all. There would
be about 50% hot Mormons and 50% cold Mormons. Half-heartedness is almost never
encountered. Whoever comes, joins in? Unfortunately, half of the Members are
only in the books.
The next day we found ourselves in President Monson's modest office. As
we entered, he rose to a height of almost 2 meters, came out from behind his
desk and shook hands with Henry Burkhardt and me. After just a few words he
asked what I wanted. I was surprised. I didn't come here as a supplicant, but
was pleased that he had taken half an hour for us. My eyes fell on the death mask of the Prophet
Joseph Smith standing in the window frame.
Electrified, I saw to my right the frozen, young and beardless smooth
face of one of the most important men of the last 200 years. I couldn't help
but ask myself, 'Why do so many people think you're a liar?'
There is no third option! Either he and 11 others had held the gold
plates in their hands or they did not. Either the 12 men were lying or they had
told the truth. Again the thought that
this life isn't everything.
It occurred to me that I might ask Thomas S. Monson to accept the
invitation recently extended to him by Hermann Kant, President of the Writers'
Association of the GDR, after he had attended a General Conference session in
Salt Lake City as a welcome guest. Our host, whose heart beats for widows
living in retirement homes, nodded in agreement. He called for his secretary.
For a moment everything seemed unreal. Henry Burkhardt and I didn't belong
here. We are a piece of non-normality. After all, the eastern juggernaut is
claiming ownership of us. We belong to those who always said, “Our people”.
They allowed us to travel here. They would have had the power to forbid it. Somehow,
I expressed this because I was thinking of Erika. Thomas S. Monson shook his
head defensively - I shouldn't look at it so doggedly. The church is working to
improve our conditions. I couldn't believe it for I had no idea how far this
work had already progressed.
During the return flight, I learned from Henry Burkhardt that a Temple
was to be built in Freiberg in the GDR. He informed me of these facts as we
flew high over the Atlantic. It is still confidential information. He woke me
to show me the incredibly coloured sky just minutes before sunrise. From a deep
purple shimmering sky, the rapid growing brightness emerged flawless like a
stage light, as we were flying towards the sun at ten times the speed of a car.
His announcement was indeed a great, wonderful surprise. It contradicted all my
expectations. After that, sleep was no longer an option. This meant that the
preliminary talks between American church authorities and the communist
Honnecker government could only have been positive. My first thought was:
Honecker and Günter Mittag need money. My second: they won't put a louse in
their fur because of 5,000,000 or 8,000,000 dollars! My logic faltered. Soon
afterwards, during a conference in Leipzig, we heard it as an official
announcement. My astonishment remained great. I would have been more likely to
bet that the communists would try to roll back the influence of my “American”
church.
I was yet to find out why they allowed it.
In Utah I had seen a piece of a new, country that was nearly perfect, that
had the potential for the best development. However, and I have heard this
several times, Utah is not America. The slums of industrial cities and the
associated misery do not exist here - hopefully they will never exist, at least
in my church's sphere of influence! Anything else would be unthinkable. Of
course we have to be careful. Wherever a high standard has been achieved
through hard work and appreciation, that it must be constantly defended through
the same virtues. There is no time to retreat to old merits. Nothing stays the
same, not even love, unless we renew and maintain it again and again. (Not even
a cart runs downhill by itself.)
That’s me forever running down memory lane. Once, whilst driving I got
lost and turned into the Mormon town of Orem. Little did I know that this place
had been officially named America's Most Lovable City. However, anyone who was
born into this flower street paradise and had never experienced anything like
Leipzig in the 1980s, or Bautzen, probably couldn't appreciate it very much.
This will probably remain an eternal problem, for none of us really knows what
we had until we lost it. The same expressions came from Hartmut, our eldest
son, when he told me, that after graduating from high school, he spent seven
long years outside the care of his parents’ home letting other people's ideas
whistle around his ears. Only now would he know how valuable his home had been
and how much it meant to him just to know that his family - stuck by him. First,
he served for 3 years to get his place in the army, then he studied mechanical
engineering and welding technology in what was then Karl-Marx-Stadt. Almost
towards the end of his “parentless” time. I will never forget it, on the way
between Freienhufen and Dresden I asked him: “Well Hartmut, what do
you think of our church?”
“It’s the best we have.” he said. An
answer that deeply moved and satisfied me. Immediately after completing his
professional exams, he threw the folder with the heading “Scientific Communism”
into the garbage container because it was absolutely useless. Up until then I
had my concerns, as I was convinced that he would have felt the pressure of
various temptations in a similar way as I once did.
He too, like me, had received his own testimony of the authenticity and
vitality of Mormonism and, like me, he had a desire to serve such a wonderful
cause that has all the ingredients to bring together the most diverse people
into one large harmonious family. A task that the communists set out to solve,
but would never be able to complete because their slogan “Proletarians of all
countries unite” declared a significant number of fellow human beings to be
mortal enemies. But in our Church meetings we would hear it repeated over and
over that all people are children of God. That is why every commitment,
including political ones, is holy or unholy, depending on whether we serve
ourselves or others.
In the fall of 1983
A year after my release as District President, Klaus Nikol and I were
called as stake missionaries. After I spoke to him, Pastor Fritz Rabe invited
us to give a photo presentation about my American trip to Utah to his youth
group from the St. Michael Parish in Neubrandenburg. The evening began with Pastor
Rabe - as I found out later - studying a circular from his synod, which he had
apparently just received, which delayed the official opening by a few minutes.
The letter told him that contact with Mormons should be avoided.
As a local chairman of the Christian Democratic Party, I learned that
this paper, written by Dr. Page, was signed by the man, who ten years later
served as Prime Minister of Mecklenburg-Western Pomerania and whom I then often
met on friendly terms.
I was sitting near Pastor Rabe and saw a certain movement in his facial
features, but I had no idea that Klaus Nikol and I could be affected by it.
According to the instructions he had received, he should have expelled
us from the hall immediately. But we were allowed to talk. That was a risk
which he had to take. After all, we represented a dangerous cult. He was guided
more by his own feelings than by instructions. The first picture we showed was
the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Singing Luther’s famous “A mighty fortress is our
God”
Pastor Rabe soon realized that we were not sectarians.
When asked how we differ from other Christians, Klaus Nikol quoted
Joseph Smith.
And I added, we are not so different from other churches that we
cannot embrace one and the same God. One of the great tenets of Mormonism is
that we accept the truth from wherever it may come. Christians should stop
quarrelling and arguing with one another and cultivate unity and friendship
among themselves.”
Are these actually the original words of Joseph Smith?” Pastor Rabe wanted to know.
"Yes! Word for word."
I was able to confirm that. Afterwards there was a heated discussion. Two
aspiring deacons complained loudly that the Book of Mormon was a book of lies.
“It is wrong to put any book next to the Bible.” As the supposed last author of the Book of Books, John the Revelator
would have forbidden adding another word to this mighty work. What a
misunderstanding! I took my Bible and showed it to the young people.
“How much of this do observant Jews accept?” They looked puzzled. One of the two deacons correctly answered:
“They only recognize the Old Testament as Holy Scripture.”
“So, in Jewish eyes the New Testament is an inadmissible expansion of
the collection! Does this Jewish determined position mean it is tenable?”
Pastor Rabe tolerated us even though he didn't feel very comfortable
because he believed that we would introduce even more controversial facts. It
was also clear to him that the New Testament is not arranged chronologically. So,
he nodded thoughtfully when we asked the relevant question. The 2 deacons found
it uncomfortable to think like us. They used strong statements to show that
they believed Joseph Smith was an impostor.
We replied: “Of course, the question of the truthfulness of any claim
must always be allowed. To that extent one must find out whether the
Book of Mormon is a product of Joseph Smith’s imagination or not.”
But if you make a negative decision before examining a comparable problem, then
reason loses out. As soon as we had formulated this reply, they started
shouting again.
Only when the pastor intervened again did the 2 aggressive young men
lower their tone. He said goodbye to us in a friendly manner. He was
embarrassed that the 2 hotheads had argued so rudely. Surprisingly, the 2
attackers visited me that same evening, late. They apologized. In the following
conversation they confessed that it would be too strenuous for them to live
like the Mormons. That's why they spoke against it. Their fear was that we
wanted to steal their joy in life, namely the pleasure they had with certain
females.
This openness amazed me. I replied that no one wants or should force
them to ever accept anything they did not approve of. Unfortunately, at that
time I did not know the words of the famous American Baptist preacher Martin
Luther King, which inadvertently coincided with the tenor of the Book of
Mormon. It probably would have helped them to understand that it's not about
any degree of religious fervour, but about basic truths. Martin Luther King
said it in his own way:
“God has built absolute moral laws into his universe. We can't change
them. If we transgress them, they will break us.”
This philosophy, condensed into three sentences, corresponded to the complete
moral teachings of Mormonism. A little later I met Pastor Rabe again on the
street. We walked a few steps together.
He said something like this: "If I had not known you and your
beliefs personally, I would have remained convinced, like all the other
pastors, that Mormons are dangerous fanatics."
Neither of us suspected that his behaviour towards me would get him into
a lot of trouble.
Important things 1984
On one of my off days, I was looking for something special on the
subject of the original 'Old Church, nothing specific, I had travelled to
Berlin to work in the State Library. As
I strolled through the rows of bookshelves in the library, my eyes fell on the
volumes of the “Handwörterbuch für Theologie und Religionswissenschaft 3.
völlig neu bearbeitete Auflage Vierter Band Kop-O Origenes. “(A work familiar
to every theologian) The name” Origen” immediately came to mind. I knew about
him back then, but not what I found on that special day. In Origen’s books ‘Prayer',
I had not found any clues that could have captivated me; some things even
seemed exaggerated. Disappointed I had given up too soon. This time I
approached the subject with new determination, and, to my astonishment the
results were indescribable. There on page 1696, written in black and white - oh
what delight for a searching soul:
“In their original state, all Logica were disembodied spirits and as
such gods who adhered to the Logos as satellites. Following the example of the
Logos (Christ), who is himself the 'Image of God' according to Genesis 1:26,
God created as many Logica [human
souls G.Sk.] as he can rule with his necessarily limited
providence.” The Logica, that is us! It is undisputed that
it was only in the year 543 that these three main teachings of my church were
deleted and never revived:
Here was the very core of “Mormonism”
1. That we were Logica (intelligences)
2. That we had a pre-earthly existence with God
3. That the (only true God) imposed limitations on himself. Namely the
fact, which Origen always brought into focus, that we mere mortal men can in
time become gods by keeping all his commandments, laws and ordinances, that we
need to participate in labours of our own exaltation. The top prerequisite is
that the Almighty granted us the right to freedom of choice. I was struck by
this enlightening sentence spoken by Origen: “It is only in the acquisition
of virtue through one’s own zeal that man acquires the likeness of God. Freedom
of choice is therefore indispensable for achieving godlikeness.” H. Benjamins
“Origen Freedom and Providence”
Instantly I recognised “That this was it!” What wonderful
evidence of the authenticity of the restored gospel!
There were so many other similarities and congruent teachings with
Origen, which I summarized in PowerPoint presentations and presented with the
approval of German Stake Presidents, starting in 1990 and later in 2011with my
wife Ingrid throughout many of the German Cities.
From 1994 to 2002, I served as a counsellor to 3 successive mission
presidents who provided massive support to us. A year later, the bishop of the
largest German congregation in Darmstadt wrote about the lasting impact, which
the lectures we had presented in regards to European history, had on his
members. We greatly appreciated his and other members kind and positive
remarks. In Innsbruck, at the close of our presentation a sister came to us and
said:
“It’s a shame that you did not come a week earlier: I had a long
conversation with a deeply religious Catholic, I missed your comments.”
In the summer of 1985, the time had come
The first temple “Of the church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints” on
German soil was presented to the public. The GDR politicians had examined the
results of living the Mormon religion. At least that is what the Assistant
Secretary of State for Church Affairs, Mr. Kalb, made clear at the Freiberg
Temple dedication ceremonies:
“We saw that Mormons were not involved
in property crimes; They almost never had divorces. Their young men never even
drank alcohol during their time in the army, and that alone was very surprising
to us. These are people we want to produce. The fruit was good.”
Two weeks open house:
Many members were on hand to greet the thousands who would come. And they came with their questions. For this
purpose, I had planned a week's vacation
An hour before the opening of the site, Holger Bellmann, responsible for
this part of the starting phase, said to me:
“Gerd, be so good and open the big gate.” I
took the key, left the meeting house, past the white-lit temple, and was amazed
that the crowd had grown from 20 to several hundred in the first 2 hours of our
internal preparation. Two young women, both with dark eyes, stood at the front
and looked at me searchingly. I
understood their appearance as a legitimate curiosity:
'Who are you? What is this? What will you show and tell us? Do you
really believe in it? Are you real? What is this thing that was brought here
with the Party's permission? Are you
socialist Christians? Does the SED want to change course? Does Honecker want to
annoy other Christians with this? How much did it cost you?' It is completely incomprehensible that this beautiful
house stands on a hill like an eye-catcher.
Visitors repeatedly asked these questions, shrugged their shoulders, and
admired the overall picture, which was as simple as it was beautiful. Almost
100,000 people were supposed to come to us, each with their own personal
comments, which we responded to as best we could. We tried to be guided by the
Spirit. Of course, it was important for us to answer everyone questions
precisely and briefly. We grouped them into groups of fifty. Sometimes I found
myself in the chapel with 100 or more guests. Each of our speakers felt the
gaze of the visitors penetrate them. It was this one basic question:
'Could it be that you aren't lying?'
There had already been many colourful, iridescent soap bubbles. 'An American
church, of all places, is building a fortress here? Whoever wants to
understand that?' Most people who commented positively, said they had never
heard more modern, religiously motivated views than ours. However, as we found
it, it wasn't actually modern. Everything we taught was ancient. More than
2,000 years ago, Alma the younger had already declared it in the Book of
Mormon:
'That no man should think that he is more than another', (Mosiah 23:7) - that no one can remain as he is, but must develop for
good - it was the old wisdom that no one
can be saved in ignorance.
I often had the visitors read from the Books of Mormon that were
available.
It was clear to us that whoever came here had already heard about the
existence of the Mormons, but nothing good – in fact mostly disgusting.
Protestant clergy spoke almost exclusively in bad terms about things they did
not understand. Many dignitaries only
saw us as negative competition, as if at that time interest in the faith that
their parents still held high was already tending to zero.
In fact, churchgoers of Protestant persuasion could only enjoy the
always beautiful organ music. The word messages themselves became increasingly
meager. It's not enough to tell people:
You can't contribute to your salvation. Sola
gratia! You can only hope for God's grace.” The teachings of the Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, on the other hand, make it clear that we
decide for ourselves through our actions whether we will experience more joy in
this world and the next.
In
the days of “Open House” 96 000 people came. I was one of the 20 missionaries
who led the visitors through the temple and other church buildings, in groups
of 50 persons. On the fourth day, a Protestant pastor confronted me: “We don’t
need a temple! If I had a small bomb, I would blow it up!”
Shortly afterwards, a strawberry-blond student arrived, who had also
brought guests with him. He waved his arms violently and loudly proclaimed to
his group, “Mormons are a plague! They stole the land of Utah from the Ute
Indians. They murdered in wars and covered everything up with their hypocrisy.”
I saw the angry glint in the green eyes of this fanatic who went far
beyond historical facts. I spoke to the man.
He complained: “Isn't that true?”
I replied: “Perhaps there were Jews who poisoned wells, but you
cannot say that the Jews were well poisoners. Not like that. There were Mormons
who took up arms and, for whatever reason, shot Indians and even committed
grave injustices. They were expelled from the church. I don't know how I would
have behaved if my defenceless family had been attacked.
He stared at me hateful and reprimanded me. He said, he knew more about
it than I. He took his people with him.
They didn't pay any attention to me. They disappeared into the crowd of people
who surrounded us and from whom we were only distinguished by the name tag on
our lapels.
Again and again, we experienced it that visitors we didn't know, tried
to explain to fellow visitors’ things on a larger scale. A bus driver who was
there for the 3rd or 4th time 'explained' outrageous and terrible things about
us to his passengers.
The next day, late in the evening, when the flow of visitors had considerably,
decreased Dietmar Hirsch, a 30-year-old from Zwickau, came up to me and told me
that he had witnessed a discussion between a clergyman and an SED man who was
friendly to us. A dispute developed in front of the baptismal font. The
theologian said that this was antiquated; that this was how Christians baptized
in the first centuries. Only the oldest Italian basilicas and baptisteries,
such as San Giovanni in Fonte in Naples or the baptistery in Ravenna, still had
such pools. There, baptisms were actually carried out by immersing the person
being baptized. However, with the cessation of adult baptism, the construction
of baptistries were later abandoned. Dietmar Hirsch could not, and did not want
to understand how an ordinance confirmed by Christ, or instituted by him could
ever become unfashionable. The theologian was indignant. Then the man with the
SED badge intervened:
“Mr. Pastor, I am not a Mormon and I don't want to be one, and you can
believe and think what you want, but if something is outdated, then it is your
Protestant church. They had the opportunity to change the world to become a
better place for more than 400 years. The Catholic Church had had almost 2000 years to do this. What did they move
forward? On the other hand, consider the history and organization of The Church
of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. From a factual point of view, the major
churches cannot be trusted to be able to cope with the coming challenges that
progress brings with them; simply because of their comparatively weak trained
and rigid structures. You will experience it. What was appropriate and
sufficient in Martin Luther's time is inappropriate today. The Mormon Church,
on the other hand, is perfectly structured and tailored to the cooperation of
all the people who belong to it, and what is more important, it has the
teaching to go with it - a social teaching of rank. It is clear to me, assuming
there is a God, that Mormonism will be the religion of the future."
His now completely annoyed interlocutor then asked pointedly how he knew
that.
“I would like to tell you that, sir. When the decision came about
whether the Central Committee of the SED should agree to the establishment of
such a community centre or not, I wrote my diploma thesis on the teaching and
organization of this church on behalf of the GDR government.”
With that the conversation ended. The difference between the 2 men was
that only one was capable of judgment.
After 6 hours of non-stop talking, I regularly felt drained. My friend
Wolfgang Zwirner from Dresden, a university librarian, was able to talk for 10
hours. The most frequently asked question was:
“What makes your church different from the others?” How can you answer that in three sentences?
I said it again and again.
“We are one 100% a lay church! We believe in inspiration. Anyone can receive
them. You must have courage to find the truth in matters of religion. This requires good and strong will, it requires
time and determination. You can only find out about God and eternity if you ask
HIM. One more thing: If we have a symbol at all, it is not the cross, but the
beehive!”
He must have been around
50 years. He looked pensive, then looked at me strangely and at my combination
Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants, Pearl of Great Price - our
supplementary books of canonical character, which I was carrying tucked under
my arm. I felt the rejection, but felt
like I should ask him if he had a question. Cool and decisively he replied:
“No!” He looked at me again:
“Everything I had to ask about your topic has already been answered.”
I knew something was
wrong but what should I do? He wished not to be bothered. It just bothered me
that there was a person who would leave unsatisfied and with the prejudices I
suspected. I knew what the alarmed visitor thought of us. But I had no means to
know what this persons thought. After
almost half an hour, when I returned, the man was still sitting there. I gathered all my courage, apologized and
asked him not to take offense at me for daring to speak to him again.
“I told you I was well
informed.” It was clear to me that he couldn't have drunk from the spring. I
turned and walked away. After a few minutes, I made a 3rd attempt and asked him
to allow me to read to him 3 sentences from the Books of Revelation by the
Prophet Joseph Smith. A little tormented, the thoughtful man replied:
“But just three
sentences, please.” I turned to the Doctrine and Covenants, section 88, verse 67 -68:
“And if your eye be single to my
glory, your whole bodies shall be filled with light, and there shall be no
darkness in you; and that body which is filled with light comprehended
all things. Therefore, sanctify
yourselves that your minds become single to God, and the days will come that
you shall see him; for he will unveil his face unto you, and it shall be in his
own time, and in his own way, and according to his own will."
“Again, please!” He looked far past me, puzzled. I read it
again. He didn't hide his surprise. Now really interested he demanded: “The
other verse, please.” “Let no man be
your teacher or minister, except a man of God, walking in his paths and keeping
his commandments.”
“Now from what book did
you read?”
“From the Book of Mormon
Mosiah 23 verse 14.” He stood up and investigated my face for a while. If I read his
thinking correctly, he would tell me without a word:
“That's unbelievable.” In fact, the principle
it put forward was revolutionary. All churches would look better if they would
profess something similar. He was probably wondering who I was. I noticed his gaze turn back to my black
leather cover as I quoted part 3:
"That the rights of
the priesthood are inseparably connected with the powers of heaven, and that
the powers of heaven cannot be controlled nor handled only upon the principles
of righteousness.
That they may be
conferred upon us, it is true; but when we undertake to cover our sins, or to
gratify our pride, our vain ambition, or to exercise control or dominion or
compulsion upon the souls of the children of men, in any degree of
unrighteousness, behold, the heavens withdraw themselves; the Spirit of the
Lord is grieved; and when it is withdrawn, Amen to the priesthood or the
authority of that man." He snatched my combination from
me and read it himself. His head came back up. He looked into the endless
space. Taking a deep breath, the attentive visitor concluded with the remark:
“I will turn away from my source of
information!” It sounded like paper being torn.
“Do that, sir. Thank
you for listening to me.”
"Thank
you!" Unfortunately, I never heard from him again. But that day is still
coming - even if it is in eternity. The last thing he said was that he was a
university professor in Köln.
Shortly before Christmas 1986
I suffered my first stroke. I believe there were several reasons for it.
Juergen, one of the young men at our fishing association, a very tall,
good-looking man of a strong character, started directing his attacks against
his co-workers and me, whilst I was conducting a work meeting with 18
co-workers. A violent argument erupted between him and another man. My eardrums
were humming - but not just mine! As if that was not enough, those 2 German
warriors started attacking each other over an old, unsettled matter. I arose
and unwisely placed myself between the pair of wrangling giants. At that moment
an unseen hand reached for my throat. Never had I known that hatred could make
itself manifest in a physical sense. I felt as though my whole body was being
wrapped in cold wet bandages. The bottomless hatred between the 2 rivals was
paralysing. Like black snow, it settled on my bare skin. Shocked, I withdrew,
and moments later, I collapsed. As they saw me lying on the floor, they stopped
their fighting and summoned an ambulance. The medics took me to the clinic. I
could not open my eyes nor move my legs. They examined me: “It’s not food
poisoning,” said one of the doctors.
I diagnosed myself: “Then it is a blockage in the main section of my
brain.”
The doctors laughed: “Yes, you’re right, it is a blockage in the
cerebellum.”
Every time I tried to turn my head, the carousel surrounding me just
turned in ceaseless motion. The days seemed endless. Dr von Suchodolitz, a
physician in charge, deliberated that my blood vessels, because of years of
faulty nutrition and my age, were not responding to the treatments he had
prescribed for me. Five long days had already passed and I still could not open
my eyes. When my legs began to work again, I was able to slide my hands
painstakingly along the walls to get to the bathroom. My fears increased as the
hours passed. Then I remembered that it would be wise to have the priesthood
blessing my sons had offered me. Erika called my sons Hartmut and Matthias to
the clinic. Weeks later Matthias talked of this experience. He said that he
felt that this task was his duty to perform, however he felt concerned about
the words that he should speak in this priesthood blessing and anointing:
“What should I, what could I promise you in regards to the future?” But then, he confessed: “As
soon as my hands lay on your head there was no doubt at all that your
health would be restored as in former days.” And thus, it was. Even though
the doctors told me, I would never drive a car again, I have since that day,
accident free for more than 500,000 kilometres, many of them in heavy traffic
(and I still drive our car in Australia). I will never forget, our patriarch,
Walter Krause, told me the same thing:
“Gerd, you will still be needed.”
Yes, I love my Church. Except for once during my youth, I have never,
ever criticized any priesthood leaders, since my father, Wilhelm, admonished
me: “Do it better, my son!” I was 16 years old, laughing at an older
brother - I can see it now: we were sitting around the table for dinner, when
Father pointed his index finger at me and with an earnest face, he said to me:
“Do it better, my son!”
Experiences of value
The following summer, frogmen camped on a peninsula on the lake. They
practiced diving without a trace, using special breathing apparatus. Their eventual combat mission would be that one
day they would sink two Bundeswehr cruisers in Kiel! So sometimes, even on calm
days, we didn't notice them until they appeared right next to us. Once 4 or 5
men in their black wetsuits, came up and suddenly surrounded us. They had,
almost silently, hoisted themselves onto the cutter that had been anchored next
to me to witness the retrieval of the yarn in the last, the most interesting
phase of the dragnet fishery. My partners in the opposite boat noticed them before
I I did. One of them, Hermann Witte, the Woldegker original, immediately saw
his opportunity to crack one of his inappropriate jokes. Nothing other than
their presence motivated him to embarrass me. He said, loud enough for everyone
to hear: “I shouldn't forget to pray to the good Lord when I go on the next
big trip tomorrow.” This immediately made me the centre of attention. The
leader of the diving group was surprised and reacted immediately. He was about
3 or 4 meters behind me.
“Does that mean that you still believe in God and Santa Claus and pray?”
Being used to similar situations, I turned around and asked him with a wink if he didn’t believe.
"Of course not."
“Of course you are a man of great faith. You and your friends believe in
Karl Marx, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin and other classics of communism.” His comrades laughed. He agreed with a conciliatory smile and hissed
out
“Partly, partly “, through his teeth.
But at least he wouldn't worship his "gods."
“You know,” I replied, “I have
seen men like you on their knees before a beautiful women begging to be heard.”
They laughed again.
The usual back and forth ensued. But they all raised their heads when
they heard that I was Mormon. After the Freiberg Temple was built, there were
hardly any people left in the GDR who didn't know what to do with this
seemingly exotic term. Although none of them had been on the grounds of the
building complex that was open to the public, they were somewhat in the know.
Now I should just answer quickly about what is the basis and core of my faith.
If I had responded quickly, the encounter with me would have been just one
small episode among many for them. They would have checked it off like a small,
insignificant calculation. I didn't want to allow myself to be ignored. I
thought if only you knew how tremendously broad and powerful the current of
Mormonism is, how deep it runs. You have no idea. But you should still feel it,
pleasant like warmth and powerful like water penetrating a dry wooden wedge
whose osmotic forces are capable of tearing rocks. It's like the Gulf Stream,
which flows through the Atlantic in a world-changing way. I asked the troop
leader if he thought I could give him an entire worldview in five minutes.
“Okay, tomorrow I’ll take ten minutes, we really don’t need more.”
The next morning came. I saw them from afar, standing on the “Rhäser
Eck” in their black protective suits. We helped them load the equipment onto
the cutter and within seconds I found myself surrounded by happy faces, 8 of
them. We stood on the springy sulphur
boards that covered the large water chambers. We would take them with us to
Fisherman's Island, a good 2 kilometres away. They would swim back. That was
almost 15 minutes that they gave me. They were curious to see how I would
respond to the arguments that their boss would quickly throw at me.
“Otschen karascho!” Manfred began. “We
have already learned the first steps of producing humans in vitro, and we will
soon be able to do even more. Where is there room for God?”
It occurred to me to ask him what man would be like if he went a few
steps further and was able to create life from inorganic matter in a retort. He
looked at me puzzled. His friends were already laughing, but he didn't
understand it. A smaller, stockier man interpreted:
“Manfred! the fisherman's question is: Is there no creator god because
there are creator gods?"
Manfred stayed on board, with me, while his men jumped into the water
and, guided by their little compass, swam back under the surface towards the
camp.
Meanwhile, my colleagues were lifting and emptying the fish traps on the
Lieps while we talked. At times I steered the motorboat and made myself useful.
Manfred had long since gotten rid of his black diving suit and was sitting in
his swimming trunks and a shirt in the pleasantly warming sun.
“Now tell me how it came to be that you are so opposite to us.” It would be interesting for him to hear when and why I, of all people,
stood out from among so many normal people.
When I told him parts of the Joseph Smith story, he shook his head. But
he didn't laugh. There was nothing to laugh about either. Even if he didn't
understand everything that I would have assumed was credible, he said that it
strangely didn't make him uncomfortable. Only, I would seem to him like a
linden tree standing in the middle of a poplar avenue.
Then he talked about himself. There was never an occasion in his life to
dance out of line. His course was clear, his life path had been straight so
far. High school diploma, studied medicine, member of the SED Military Academy
- a working-class child. Of course, it all depends on where we come from, I
admit. “But I wasn’t meant to follow my father’s views. Who would have
wanted to stop me from changing course forever?”
I tried to explain that the search for truth was a lifelong struggle and
not an easy process.
“After I was confronted with two questions at the age of 15, the
possible answers appeared to me as if by themselves.” The first inquiry was directed at my National Socialist superiors and
later at some SED comrades.
It was, “Why did you try to deceive yourself first and then me?” My
second question arose from the first: “Why did the very people who
had shown me how easily they could be deceived, so strenuously claim that
Joseph Smith was a liar?”
His mousy eyes studied me as I tried to explain that I never wanted to
be an oddball.
“I didn't see or desire anything different than other people. With the
caveat that, unlike you and many others, I had a reason to look for God, and I
didn’t just look, I found.”
As almost always in conversations, he brought up the theory of
evolution. I had just read 'The Ur-Gene' by Nobel Prize winner M. Eigen.
“Eigen speaks of targeted, ‘directed’ evolution.” You have to understand
that directed evolution is something different than the blind evolution itself.
Do you believe in evolution and in God?” “Yes, at least
even Charles Darwin said: I have never denied the existence of God. I believe
that the theory of development is absolutely reconcilable with faith in God.” Pastoral letters from the Diocese of Bamberg
“We are children of God and children of the earth. Only if we keep these
two simple facts in mind at the same time can the contradictions that exist
between the different basic statements be minimized. The material bodies of
plants, animals and humans emerged gradually as part of God's ordained
evolution. (And perhaps, perhaps they even came into being with our personal
assistance, under the guidance of the Eternal God.) As soon as human bodies
conformed to the model, the chain of incarnation of our soul, - our spirit, -
but this spirit is in no way the result of evolution began!”
“But who can really believe that?” he
exclaimed.
I admitted that, despite the best guidance and instruction, I only
realized relatively late that God works exclusively by law and that his law is
identical to the law of nature.
“There are different definitions for the term human. This has already
caused a lot of confusion. For you, Manfred, the body is the human being, for
us Mormons this body is just the house, a tent, a hut, at most a temple. For us
'man' is the immortal within him. So, we have a name for the content that you
materialists only give to the vessel.”
He was tolerant enough to let me have my way and so I continued. I asked
him and myself whether we are all blind to attribute such technical precision
and patterns of beauty and perfect behaviour in each one of the many hundreds
of thousands of creatures of the most diverse kinds, to chance and only to the
principles of selection; rather than to attribute them with reverence and
gratitude to a planning deity.
“There aren’t that many coincidences!”
With absolute precision, the bee builds entire suites of rooms from the
wax that her body can only sweat out at 35 degrees Celsius.
“Then in your opinion evolution would just be God’s way of working!” he concluded.
"Yes! - But please don't forget that for a Mormon, man is spirit!
And in pre-existence there was no struggle for existence. Every civil and
mechanical engineer would turn pale if he were faced with a similar undertaking
without any aids, especially at night. With the micrometre screw you can check
the spaces that any worker builds and you will find that not only are the
hexagons exactly right, but that the thickness of each cell wall of the normal
bee is 73 thousandths of a millimetre, while the wall of a drone cell has to
measure 94 thousandths of a millimetre. Both with a maximum deviation of 2
thousandths of a millimetre. It was
decided that way. But what a brilliant achievement it is to install such an
instinctive act as highly complicated software in the brain of a bee, let alone
write it down in the first place. The great house builder becomes a collector
after the 20th day of her life. Before that, however, the 'Build' program, like
the 'Maintenance' program, had to be deleted and the new one called up. No
other bee could have taught her what she has to do when she finds a rich source
of nectar. Nor that after returning home she has to dance in the beehive, in
the same way and not differently, and how she can read and understand someone
else's round dance and waggle dance in order to implement the information - a
rapeseed field 500 meters away at a deviation of 45 degrees from the direction
of the sun horizontally to the right.
Of course, you can explain away the 'programmer' God and point to
millions of years of development. But all that smart talk never convinced my
head. Of course, millions of years ago there were foraminifera and others as
precursors of higher organisms, but they still exist today, the same
foraminifera. God builds everything new on the foundation of the old. The same
applies to his philosophy.
Everything new, if it wants to be victorious, can only exist on the
basis of the proven old truth. This is how the whole world is connected. All
life is interconnected. It has a common father.
But, in my opinion, it would still be a catastrophe if we found
scientific evidence for the existence of an all-powerful Creator!"
Manfred suddenly trembled. I shouldn't have said that last one. Now I'm
breaking the logic.
"No, absolutely not! You know them too, our personal weaknesses and
preferences, going with the flow and making sure they are all on our side.
There are enough people who cannot rest day and night until the last
resister has crawled to the cross. Fanatics will accuse us of making an obvious
mistake. You must stick to the
prescribed line!” I can clearly see a few
suitable examples of this.
Once, at a parents' evening during Hartmut's school days, I sat next to
a decorated officer, almost shoulder-to-shoulder. It was about questions of
vocational training, about the fact that Erich Honecker and the SED insisted
that we needed more plumbers and heating technicians. As it happened, no one
from the “9 R” wanted to pursue one of the training careers mentioned. I saw
how the loyal man began to tremble. He trembled with indignation.
That's what I meant.
Grace to him who would dare to defy the commandment of the Highest when
it is firmly established that it is his commandment. We had sharp-eyed
inquisitors in most of our neighbours who would follow any little error we
might have fallen into. If we finally knew about God, we would be exposed to
the merciless criticism of those who cannot stoop low enough under the heel of
a dictator, in addition to our own conscience, which has been made much more
acute. But then it's not worth living. That would be hell on earth.
Fortunately, God is not a dictatorial ruler. “He gives us leeway.”
“How do you know that? “If God were a dictator, He would have
subjugated us a long time ago.
All actors, whether visible or still invisible, leave their traces. I
have always found that we are completely free to choose and for me that is
exactly His intention. God wants to take us to a higher level, but He doesn't
want to force us there.”
We took a long break. I thought Manfred didn't want to abroach the
subject again. We glided over the slightly roughened water of the Lieps. There
was a pleasant wind blowing from the south.
“So far, so good,” said Manfred
unexpectedly, “but my theory did not fit Christian practice at all.
The tracks in the sand of history that he would have seen only showed
him the misery and the millions of people murdered in the name of the cross of
Christ: “Where has Christianity ever done any good? “That brought him
right to my main topic... “Yes, Manfred, my church is a guarantee of freedom
of choice. The so-called “Christianity” was based on greed for power and money.
This is one of the reasons for the existence of my church.”
I painted my pictures of the terrible past for him - forced baptisms and
more in all their contexts. Powerful people took over the church of the
harmless and humiliated anyone who would not submit.
The rest of the day flew by.
I looked for my rowing colleagues. They lifted the last fish trap. I saw
the mass of fighting fish they were throwing into the dinghy and my mind went
back.
We drove back leisurely, talked unforced about history and Philosophy,
and did an additional lap on Lake Tollense in our wave-throwing steel cutter.
The sun was already in the west-southwest. My two colleagues were asleep,
exhausted after the day's strenuous work. They were lying stretched out on the
boards of the large lids. Manfred got ready to go ashore and shook my hand
goodbye. He looked at me in a friendly way:
“I didn’t believe such perspectives existed! But I really enjoyed it. It
was nice with you.” He shook his head and
laughed: “So positive!” So, we parted as friends.
To my regret, the following summer of 1988 he was no longer there. The
frogmen, seeing us, came towards us in their high-speed boat. I wondered what
this pace meant. Is it a bad omen?
They stopped abruptly. Three men
immediately jumped over and the question came straight – like a bullet out of a
pistol:
“What did you do to Manfred?”
They laughed afterwards, to my relief. In Berlin he ran from one library
to the other and read articles and books about 'Mormons' like a man possessed. “Poor
Manfred!” I thought. He searched for something usable in a foul-smelling
garbage heap. He would have returned
from the trip with me with the words: “This little fisherman’s philosophy is
more rounded than mine. It is glamourous. It was wonderful! Who would have thought that?” He
repeatedly poked the bivouac fire with a stick: “I would never have thought
that possible!”
It's a pity that I never heard from him again, the victim of pious
slanderers. I couldn't help but think of the Cologne university professor who
swore just a few months earlier:
"I will turn away from my source."
The men told me that he gave up the job.
American missionaries in the GDR ?
It is true
that we do not pose a criminal or political threat to the state. Was this an
opportunity for the communists, who had a very bad reputation, to prove to an
ever-vigilant world public:
“Look, we are not the bogeymen you think we are! It was also clear that
Mormonism would never grow into a mass movement. This church simply demands too
much self-denial from its members, or at least a high degree of
self-discipline.”
The GDR
politicians had seen the results. At least that is what the Deputy State
Secretary for Church Affairs, Mr. Kalb, made clear on the inauguration
celebrations of the Freiberg Temple.
Was it these
results that practically gave us special status in the last years and months of
the GDR?
Many details
helped to reduce existing tensions. These included the conferences on security
and cooperation in Helsinki in 1973 and 1975. Then the SALT II Treaty in
Reykjavik in 1986, to which President Reagan and General Secretary Gorbachev
contributed, with the help of their negotiators.
On June 29,
1988, I was astonished to read Michael Gorbachev's confession, which he made as
General Secretary of the Communist Party of Soviet Russia. At the Union Party
Conference of the CPSU, in its extensive annual report, it stated: “The
concept of freedom of choice occupies a key position within the new
thinking.” 'Neues Deutschland´ June 29, 1988
Intellectual
life in the GDR was different since Gorbachev’s talk became known. The GDR
leadership could not contradict the current head of the Kremlin leadership, who
boldly emphasized that the human right to freedom of choice plays a key role in
the future life of all peoples. Consequently, in October 1988, three
representatives of my church wrote a letter to the GDR government signed by
Henry Burkhardt (President), Frank Apel (Stake President), Manfred Schütze
(Stake President). It states, among other things:
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints uses its extensive
international connections to contribute constructively to improving relations
among peoples based on the Christian worldview. In doing so, it also supports
our government in its efforts to promote co-existence, peace and good
neighbours. This path, which we believe is the key to a happy and peaceful
future for humanity, also requires new consideration of one's own situation and
that of one's partner and, as a result, the willingness to talk to one another,
to exchange ideas and to work together.”
Our task was mainly to work on ourselves towards our personal
self-improvement, no matter how far it would take us. That's the secret of the
Book of Mormon. If you read it carefully, it continually encourages you to
choose the right things and to be good and honest to all people. What separated
us did not need to be emphasized again and again, but what we had in common
did, the desire for peace and the welfare of all.
Immediately before the May 89 elections
Quite a few GDR citizens told me, that the powerful people in the Honecker
government would enjoy a clean 'victory' for the last time. That was the
downside of the softer surveillance policy. We were reading the truth between
the press lines every day: the Ulbricht legacy in the communist system was very
sick.
On the other hand, just the vague thought that Moscow and the old
politicians in Wandlitz would ever voluntarily give up their well-founded
military power was inconceivable for us.
There was something new in the spring air. Many more people than ever
before were able to visit relatives from the West and everyone came back with
the impressions what a colourful, shimmering land of milk and honey must give
to a resident of a gray-on-gray state. Things can't go on like this, said the
majority of the shocked returnees. There was hardly any chocolate, hardly any
good candies, and there was a greater lack of efficiency in the economy than
ever. We essentially only found the normal range of food in the so-called
delicatessen stores, while the gaps in the HO department stores widened on
every shelf - with the exception of the alcohol range. The western perfection
that flickered into the smallest room every evening, like China's student
revolt, seemed embarrassing. Egon Krenz - the second man after the
Government-boss, Honecker - should never have travelled to Beijing. If he had,
then he would have had to say and do something smart afterwards - or remain
silent. But he was just one of those people who thought their mere word could
override the laws of the world.
I was wrong about some things. Almost until the end of this development,
I thought that only a conflagration that would destroy all of humanity could
harm this ice palace. Its breathtakingly quick and silent crumbling
demonstrated how quickly the mass had rotted under the influence of the
Gorbachev thaw. The permafrost of the Stalin dictatorship made the creation of
this very artificial apparatus and state structure possible.
The sun of reason wanted to prevail, triggered by a few men around
Gorbachev.
Let others condemn him for this. I am sure he hoped what he did would
not get out of hand. After all, in his own way he had laid his hand on the holy
of holies of the dictatorship by disempowering untruth and arbitrariness.
All Eastern statesmen knew it, especially the Russians. Almost
everywhere the statistics, and the people who made them, lied. They had neither
harvested the quantities of grain nor the tens of millions of tons of cotton in
the fields of the southern Union republics, as was reported - American
satellites with their false colour cameras proved this -. It must have shocked them
to see reality.
The rest, their downfall, was just the result.
Baptist School
A little later, Brother Bernd Schröder, Berlin, Friedrichs Hain
congregation, and I were invited to give a lecture on the topic of 'Mormons' to
prospective Baptist preachers in Märkisch Buchholz. The Greek professor gave us
plenty of time and asked the usual questions. As a friendly farewell, he gave
us the Theological Literary Newspaper No. 2, February 1984.
At the front of it was the essay 'Joseph Smith and the Bible.'
Everybody should read that amazing paper
„Joseph Smith und die Bibel“ (ISSN 0040-5671)
A renowned Protestant Bible exegete, Professor Räisänen, Helsinki,
Finland, did not imitate his colleagues who copied from each other, telling the
people rubbish about Joseph. Räisänen
had used the spring and found untainted water.
Author Räisänen explains that Joseph Smith did partially change the
wording of the Bible, but not because he wanted to bend the texts to suit his
own purposes, as self-proclaimed experts often accused him of doing. Räisänen
praises Joseph Smith, the young prophet who only attended school for a few days
of his life.
“...In transforming the passage Romans 7:25, Joseph Smith displays an
astonishing degree of insight. Several times his observations largely correspond to those of modern exegetes - the conclusion that speaks
of serving the law of sin with the flesh - a stumbling block for modern
exegesis as well - is omitted by J. Smith! As another small example of how
Joseph Smith attempted, not without some success, to correct a dark line
of thought, consider his treatment of Romans 3:1-8. C. H. DODD describes Paul's
argument as “dark and weak.” The logical answer - which Paul shrinks from - to
the question about the privilege of the Jews (Romans 3:1) would have been:
'Nothing at all!' J. Smith also seems to have felt that Paul is thwarting his
own logic here. He brings the answer into agreement with 2:29: 'But he who is a
Jew from the heart, I say hath much every way.”
For pages, Räisänen scrutinizes Joseph Smith's statements: “In
summary,” says this renowned exegete, “it can be stated that Joseph
Smith consistently recognized real problems and thought about them as if
through a magnifying glass, the mechanisms at work in all apologetic
interpretation of Scripture can also be studied here; The numerous parallels to
today's fundamentalism, but also to the sophisticated apologetics of the church
fathers, for example, are extremely interesting.”
Räisänen says that modern exegesis of the large church certainly allows
the question of whether the original text was handed down correctly. After
further explanation, he concludes with the following noteworthy words:
"With these examples from the works of Joseph Smith, as well as
from the more recent literature on Mormonism, I hope to have sufficiently
indicated that a serious study of these works represents a worthwhile task, not
only for the symbolist and the religious scholar, but also for the exegete and
the systematist.”
It was extremely rare that outsiders spoke so positively about Joseph
Smith. It moved us very much. Shortly before the fall of the Berlin Wall, Bernd
Schröder and I were invited again to speak to the students. It was seething
everywhere; people went to demonstrations in droves to punish the communists.
Sharp speeches were made by new politicians and I saw two American super
missionaries of our church calmly approaching certain addresses in the midst of
the turmoil. They wore light-coloured coats because it was autumn and therefore
cold. What a miracle that the GDR government, with almost its last breaths,
called up our missionaries!
Anyone who could understand this was great clairvoyance. And I thought
back to the time when I was in the office of Thomas S. Monson, as he told us 6
years before, “We are working to ensure better times for you members in the
GDR.”
We were no longer supervised and were allowed to speak freely about
whatever we wanted. So, we chose the topic 'Apostasy and Restoration' that was
particularly close to our hearts.
“There are obvious identities in doctrine and practice between The
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and the early Church,” I said, supported by Bernd. I looked back at Origen, the church's main
theologian around the year 220, who was called upon to act as an arbitrator
when doctrinal differences arose in the congregations. Even those who question
Origen's authority admit that Origen was almost always successful in mediating
because he was convincing. What he explained were considered the teachings of
the apostles. Later I summarized the content:
With just a few sentences from international recognized theologians it
can be proven that the early church of the first 250 years was completely
different from all the others in presence. The primitive church stands there as
a counterpart to "Christian" realities of the post-Nicene period. We
all must think about 2 ancient emperors (Constantine and Justinian) as well as
an imperial advisor (Ambrose of Milan) who were in the main responsible for the
changes and radicalization of the church, including the negative paradigm
shift.
Joseph Smith did not restore and reconstruct just 'anything,' but rather
the image and the basic teachings of the early church. This is easy to prove.
But without divine guidance this would have been just as impossible as a
reconstruction of the world's first car without a model by a layman.
It is considered downright blasphemous in the 'non-Mormon' world of
theologians, that Joseph Smith went too far when he said “God was once a
human being and humans can become like God!” The Lexicon of the Evangelical
Central Office for World View Questions writes: “The idea according to which
(a) humans can become God or (b) the biblical God developed from a human being
is diametrically opposed to the biblical distinction between creator and
creature.” Other major church experts say it similarly, but much less
friendly. However, Joseph Smith never taught that “Elohim, the biblical God,
evolved from a man.” For HE is the architect of the universe. Before Him,
there was no universe as we understand it today.
So, HE could not have been a mortal man before he became God. Dr. Lothar
Gassmann from the Pforzheim Bible Community, Germany, was even more harshly
negative: “It is quite clear from the Mormons' writings that they are not
Christians, but polytheists (they believe in many gods; Mormons will evolve to
the level of gods; the gods are more highly developed people). This is pure
spiritualism and blasphemy!" But! does Dr. Gassmann know this ancient
early Christian quote? "... in Jesus Christ the world God became a human
being in order to deify people." Anton Grabner-Haider-Maier 'Cultural
history of early Christianity' Vandenhoek&Ruprecht with reference to:
'Irenaeus' works against the "false gnosis'.
Later, a Pope was to formulate: "...In addition to various
letters and a biography about the monk, father Anthony - we know above all the
work 'On the Incarnation of the Word', which describes the core of his doctrine
of incarnation: Christ, the Divine Word, became human so that we could be
deified..." Pope Benedict XVI. General audience on June 20, 2007
Nikolai Krokoch quotes Tuomo Mannermaa who points out that the word
Theosis (deificatio) occurs more often in Luther than the main concept of his
doctrine of salvation, formulated during the famous Heidelberg Disputation
(1518), namely Theologia Crucis. “If the incarnational truth is expressed in
a special way in Luther's epistle commentaries and Christmas sermons, then,
similar to the Orthodox doctrine of salvation, he means real participation in
the divinity of Jesus. As the Word of God became flesh, so surely it is
necessary that the flesh also should become the Word. Then for this very reason
the Word becomes flesh, that the flesh may become the word. In other words: God
becomes man so that man becomes God..." Tuomo Mannermaa "Luther
and Theosis", Volume 16 Publications of the Luther Academy Ratzeburg,
Helsinki/Erlangen 1990, p. 11: 'Theosis as a topic of Finnish Luther research'
“...The idea of deification was the last and supreme. After
Theophilius, Irenaeus, Hippolitus and Origen, it can be found in all the
fathers of the ancient church, in Athanasius, in the Cappadocians, Appolinares,
Ephraim Syrus, Epiphanius and others."
A. vom Harnack "Textbook of the History of Dogma" Mohr-Siebeck, 1990
“It is only in the acquisition of virtue through his own zeal that
man acquires the likeness of God. Freedom of choice is therefore indispensable
for achieving godlikeness.” H. Benjamin’s “Ordered Freedom; Freedom and
Providence in Origen
Of course, earthly man can never become a “God” of heaven. But his immortal, his eternal self, his
spirit, which descends from God the heavenly Father, can do it thanks to the
grace of Christ! The ancients called the eternal self the "nobilitas
ingenitus". But the grace of Christ alone is not enough. We ourselves must
strive and do what we can, not abusing our privilege of choice, but keeping the
commandments of God.
Hippolytus of Rome (canonized antipope around 220) said: “Through the
Logos God brought everything into being, and otherwise it could not have been
made. He created man as such; If man wants to become God, he must obey him. Joseph Langen “History of the Roman Church”
Here comes the next special teaching: No other church at the time of
Joseph Smith taught that there was a pre-mortal struggle in heaven over the
question of how, when we fall into mortality, we can be freed from this depth.
Lucifer - the light bearer - developed the idea that people could be forced not
to sin. He wanted to deprive us of that individual right - freedom of choice -
that Elohim granted to all, (Pearl of Great Price Moses 4) which, however, is
"indispensable to the attainment of god-likeness." This brings us
full circle. Joseph Smith, said, while
he was in chains in Liberty Prison: "That the rights of the priesthood are
inseparably connected with the powers of heaven, and that the powers of heaven
cannot be controlled nor handled only upon the principles of righteousness.” Doctrine and Covenants 121:36-37
Forced baptisms, religious wars, every kind of dictate by church
leaders, every coercion of a human soul robs the violator of his legitimacy.
Ambrose of Milan overthrew civil liberties when he declared the religious law
“Cunctos populos” to be state law.
Every religion in the Roman Empire became forbidden, except the Roman-Catholic
Church.
This law brought up the darkness of the middle age.
Another point: Sometimes even
long-time members doubt the accuracy of Joseph Smith's 6th Article of Faith:
"We believe in the same organization that existed in the early
church..."
But he was right. A Catholic researcher unintentionally established the
accuracy of this claim: “Until recently, it was generally assumed that the
offices in the church only came into being at the beginning of the 3rd
century.” But modern research now massively contradicts this. Literally: “The
Church of the Letters of Ignatius is (around 100 AD) surprisingly well
organized... but the Church had well-developed organizational structures by the
beginning of the second century at the latest. (There was) a hierarchy of three
levels, clearly different from the simple believers of the people: bishops,
presbyters (elders and priests G. Sk.), as well as deacons. They are the core
of the church, without them there can be no question of the church:
everyone should respect the deacons as they do Jesus Christ, as well as the Bishop
as an image of the father... It is clear from the cited quote that the
visible structures of the church are an image of the invisible conditions in
heaven. In the local church, the bishop corresponds to God the Father. He has
all the authority and the powers that come with it..." Stanisław
Łucarz, "The Church as a Community in Ignatius of Antioch" 1993
Other research results confirm the 'Mormonism' in the early church:
“... the bishop leads the community. At his side are two counsellors and the
college of elders. If it was a church discipline to be exercised... the bishop
formed the college of judges with the college of presbyters (college of elders)
... The bishop is present at every baptism, at every communion and at
ordinations... the deacons visit those sick and elderly whom the bishop cannot
reach, but they give him a report." Jungklaus, Full Text of: "The
congregation of Hippolytus depicted according to his Church Order”
Only from 1830, when the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
claimed to be the “restored early church,” did episcopal congregations with the
same structure and comparable distribution of tasks exist exclusively within
its ranks. Even in the early church there were different degrees of priesthood
"The bishop appointed as presbyter the person in the congregation
who, in his opinion, was suitable for this office and who pleased him... When
the Bishop ordains deacons, the bishop promises that the deacon, if he has
served impeccably, can later receive "the increased priesthood" Jungklaus, full text of: "The congregation of Hippolytus presented
itself according to his church order"
Only then did the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
re-establish a lower Levitical or Aaronic Priesthood as well as the 'higher'
Melchizedek Priesthood, as also described in Hebrews chapter 7: 11-17, which
any worthy legally baptized man could attain through ordination by a person
authorized by Peter. On the contrary, the Lutheran-oriented churches claimed
and claim: “All Christians are priests through baptism.” The EKD
However, the alleged “priests through their baptism” know nothing about
this. However, the Roman Catholic Church continues to recognize gradations in
the priesthood. This becomes clear when it comes to confirmation: “Confirmation
is usually administered by a Bishop – as the successor to the Apostles. Where
this is not possible, confirmation can also be carried out by a priest,
although this requires a separate commission from the diocesan Bishop." The
media department of the Austrian Bishops' Conference
All community offices were voluntary.
No one in the early church ever received compensation for their service
to the community. Consequently, the Bishops remained professionals and after
their appointment they earned their bread through the work of their hands. As
is well known, as late as 325, Spiridon was both Bishop of Cyprus and shepherd.
Around 220, “Bishop Hippolytus of Rome complained that the “schismatic”
community of Theodotion’s in Rome was paying their bishop a monthly salary.
this is “a terrible innovation” Jungklaus, full text of: “The congregation
of Hippolytus presented according to his church order”
Brigham Young, who followed after Joseph Smith, was asked by Horace Greely,
an eminent Reformer and editor from New York, travelling to Utah to meet this
well-known church leader, in the time of slavery:
“Am I to infer that Utah, if admitted as a member of the Federal Union,
will be a slave state?”
Brigham’s answer: “No, she will be a free state. Slavery here would
prove useless and unprofitable. I regard it generally as a curse to the master”
Greely said: “How, then, do your ministers live?”
Brigham responded: “By the labour of their hands, like the first
apostle. We think a man who cannot make his living aside from the ministry of
Christ unsuited to that office. I am called rich, and consider myself worth
$250,000, but no dollar of it was ever paid me by the church.” Leonard
Arrington 'Brigham Young 1985'
Liturgical vestments only existed towards the end of the 6th century.
Like the 'Mormons', they all always wore civilian clothes: “As late as 403,
it was seen as vanity for the Patriarch of Constantinople to have his own
vestments put on during church services... liturgical clothing only appeared
from 589 onwards.” Hertling, “Geschichte der katholischen Kirche bis 1740”
p. 46
Baptisms were only performed on those who had previously been taught. "According
to Tertullian" (cf. de bapt. 18), until then (around 200) baptism was not
the baptism of infants, but of more mature children or adults by immersion. In
the early days only, adults were baptized” Anton Grabner-Haider-Maier
“Cultural History of Early Christianity”
Between 540 and 550, Emperor Justinian forced a series of changes, both
in church practice and in the areas of theology and jurisprudence. He
introduced infant baptism: “In 545, Justinian ordered the persecution of
non-Christian grammarians, rhetoricians, doctors and lawyers - he had pagan
books burned. Infant baptism was forcibly introduced and non-compliance was
punished with the loss of property and civil rights.” Philipp Charwath
“Church History”
Supper
There was no altar in the meeting rooms, like those of The Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “It’s about sitting around the table. It
becomes clear again that there can actually be no altar in a Christian church,
but only a communion table.” K-P. Hertzsch, Evangelical “Theological
Lexicon”, Union –Verlag, Berlin, 1977
The cross as a Christian symbol did not appear in the first 400 years of
church history. 'Mormons' reject the cross as a sign of Christianity. According
to Döllinger, the sign of the cross was considered by the Cathars Bogumils and
the Arians as the sign of the Demiurge! "... in 431 the cross was
introduced as the central Christian symbol at the Council of Ephesus."
The "Protestant Church Messenger..."
“The sign of the cross can only be identified as a generally widespread
and used symbol of Christians in the period of migration after 375 AD.” Episcopal Ordinariate Regensburg, 2010
Christian Felix Minucius wrote in about the year 200 what he thought
about connecting the cross on which Jesus died and the cross of the emperors
and their legions: “We neither worship nor desire crosses. However, you who
consecrate wooden gods may worship wooden crosses as part of your gods. What
are they, the military standards, and flags, but gold-plated and decorated
crosses? Your (!) victory signs not only have the shape of a simple cross, but
they also remind you of a crucified man... (the cross) is used in your
religious customs." Stemberger "2000 Jahre Christentum"
These days
On October 30, 1989, when the Eastern CDU announced in press releases
that it wanted to break away from the SED's tutelage, I demonstratively joined
it. Not because I wanted to 'show' it to the 'comrades communists', but rather
my wish was to help us achieve a free, democratic basic order through the best
possible means and carefully, step by step. The Church was important to me. The
basic Christian values should also become the basic values of party
politics: integrity and benevolence towards everyone. The Ludwigshafen basic
program that the western CDU adopted in 1978 spoke for itself. “Human beings
are designed to live together with others - primarily in fixed social living
arrangements. His life withers away when he isolates himself or drowns in the
collective. His essence is fulfilled in turning towards fellow human beings, as
it corresponds to the Christian understanding of charity. Men and women have
equal rights and depend on partnership. Differences in opinions and interests
can lead to conflicts. They should be carried out openly and with mutual
respect and thereby be made fruitful. In the dispute over the best path,
everyone has to take responsibility for their own point of view. No human being
has absolute truth. Resistance therefore applies to those who want to impose
their limited beliefs on others. Every person is subject to error and guilt.
This insight protects us from the danger of ideologizing politics. It allows us
to see people soberly and gives our passion in politics a human dimension...”
I freely admit that I considered the loud marches in Leipzig and
elsewhere that were directed against the SED and carried out by people to be
premature. GDR law still prevailed and permitted the use of force by state
organs. In my opinion, demands were
made too quickly: freedom of travel, freedom of speech. I was one of the
pessimists. I admit, it seemed to me that we had already achieved a lot. We
older Mormons have increasingly enjoyed the new religious freedom since 1985.
That's another reason why I didn't march at first. I thought the worst
anyway. I told the chief accountant of our fishing cooperative, Inge Schoemann,
who was one of the first revolutionaries in Neubrandenburg:
“You are tearing down the whole
building, hopefully the beams won’t fall on your head.” However, I was
proven wrong. The communist leaders left the cannons in the arsenals.
Things could have turned out differently had it not been for Gorbachev.
We will probably only know later how close we came to experience a
catastrophe.
Nevertheless, I must praise them - the admirable Protestant women of the
Nikolai Church in Leipzig who initiated this uproar. All of us who love
democracy must gratefully acknowledge this. Their daring courage to be the
first to openly demonstrate on the streets was the beginning. Rock-hard men who
had repeatedly and literally assured me that they were loyal communists and who,
days before, had been willing to die for the red flag, woke up on October 31st
as Democrats. Miracle after miracle happened.
But was that enough to be able to talk about a change for the better?
I saw these crowds of party group organizers and company party
secretaries rushing through the Neubrandenburg Cultural Park to the town hall.
Everyone was extremely excited on October 30th. For them, the watchword for the
next ten days until November 9th was: damage limitation. But there was now
nothing left that could be saved to the advantage of the communist system. The
real communists had enough time from October 1949 to October 1989 to prove to
the world that their state was the better German state.
From the Protestant Neubrandenburg St. John's Church, thousands of
opposition members marched through the streets of the city centre to
Karl-Marx-Platz after work. They walked courageously under red-coloured posters
with anti-regime slogans
All of this happened because of one man, Mr. Gorbachev, supreme leader
of all communists, swore that he would never break the will of the people. Had
he ordered his army to intervene ruthlessly, the beginning of the new era would
probably have been delayed by decades. I read his autobiography with
astonishment. Since his youth he had planned to rise in the party hierarchy to
eliminate the evil of this system. His much-loved wife, Raisa, was privy to it.
People who joined our church, through baptism by immersion, in these
days of upheaval rarely remained steadfast. They probably expected too much
goodness and social security. That was asking too much. In very turbulent
times, it is difficult for even oak sprouts to push down the roots quickly
enough. Many came, only a few stayed.
Sometime later, a former officer in the National People's Army, Bernd,
came to my investigator course in Neubrandenburg. His wife Martina had
previously joined the church, which he was not happy about. But when he heard
that the congregation was fasting for the health of his daughter Helen, he
decided to go to church to fast with the members.
That day I taught Nephi’s testimonies. Then the thought occurred to me:
Invite him to study 1 Nephi 13 and share his thoughts about the following
Sunday. He looked at me mischievously, thought about it and excepted the
invitation: "Bernd, you need to know that the darkness of the Middle
Ages arose because power-hungry peoplewhich abused the purity of the original
gospel." We talked for a while and he agreed. He wanted to help
organize part of the lesson time. He liked the topic. Just a few weeks later,
Bernd finally joined the church.
Sochi
At the beginning of October, the head of the Agriculture and Forestry
Department from the District Council granted me an award trip - for activities
fulfilling our fishing plan - a flight
to Sochi on the Black Sea with a one-week hotel stay. I gratefully accepted.
However, we had to pay Erika's share ourselves. We flew out of Dresden
on December 5th 1989. In our very modern hotel in Dagomir,
beautifully situated at the foot of the Caucasian mountains, in which huge
restaurant areas geared towards Western visitors stood completely empty, we
were cut off from the unfolding events at home. The information was sparse. On
a large blackboard in front of the dining room we found the core sentences of
the latest news from the GDR (not yet from West-Germany). How important that
was to me. Erika waved her hand, her heart concerned about her sons and
grandchildren.
We were a group of fifty people, all leaders of collectives who had been
working in the agriculture section for many years. I was amazed at the
unanimous expressions of joy when they
read it out to each other: “Egon Krenz, who was only confirmed as General
Secretary of the SED on October 18th, was overthrown by Hans Modrow!”
They cheered, these SED members, as if we had won a lottery ticket. I was happy
because small reforms were now becoming bigger.
Only I worried who and what would be at the end of the chain of
surprises.
The day before, I had spoken to one of the two interpreters in the
sparkling clean botanical garden of the sprawling health resort. “Yes.
Gorbachev allowed the officers to resign from their service. But, as the
party leadership had hoped, not the older people left the Red Army, but the
young, more pacifist-minded men who left the Red Army.” Her brother had
also left. She knew from him that this was the case. The young pigeons flew
away, the old falcons remained. This important, plausible statement from a
clever and honest Russian woman was to influence me to make an important
decision of certain political significance shortly afterwards.
After we returned home, a general meeting of the CDU Neubrandenburg took
place. At this meeting I met for the first time the young Catholics, Rainer
Prachtl, Paul Krüger, Ralf Kohl, Günter Jeschke and others, who were to become
important leaders in the new democracy. I began to express my views, formed
over the previous years, in newspaper articles and in speeches, saying again
and again that faith without reason will produce fanatics and reason without
faith will produce automatons. My hope, was that faith and reason make artists,
not just artists of life, if they remain true to their ideals and their love.
When I bought a new Bible in 1954, I chose a motto from the texts and,
because I saw it as a beautiful invitation, wrote it on the cover: “Speak
up for
those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are
destitute.
Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy.” Proverbs 31:8
Only later did I learn that these lines were also chosen as a life motto
by a
great Christian by the name of Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
I tried to bring my faith into
new times politics. For me, politics and religion have always been one and the
same. For me, truth was that which, like gold, never changed. Sentences like
Shakespeare’s Polonius says in Hamlet: “Be honest with yourself and it
follows like day from night, you cannot be wrong towards anyone.”
One day, at the end of January 1990, I happened to meet Pastor F. Rabe
from
St. Michael again, in front of the hospital on Pfaffenstrasse and told
him that I had decided to do what I could to help strengthen democracy. He knew
my
views, which I had described in an article about faith and reason in the
Democrat newspaper. He shared them with me and therefore invited me to
speak on the day of the peace prayer on February 12, 1990 in the St
Johannis church in Neubrandenburg. He gave me a theme from the 97th Psalm. Of
course I looked at him somewhat surprised “What will your fellow ministers
say about that? A Mormon speaking in a Protestant church?” He
shrugged his shoulders: “We just got rid of the fact that people are
excluded.”
The head pastor of St. Johannis was Mr. Martins. He is said to have
swallowed
hard when he heard a Mormon would speak in his church.
He also knew me for many years. We met once in the early 1980s in his
office
on Great Wollweber Street. It became a long conversation on the topic of
the
Protestant doctrine of justification. Like almost all the other
conversations I
had with clergy from major churches, thy were always friendly. That is
why I was so surprised when the Pastor (Mr Martins) finally informed me that he
would not be available to talk to me again.
“What is he afraid of?” I asked myself.
My intention in St. Johns Church, was to speak about a Polish Catholic
by the name of Father Maximilian Kolbe, whose courage and faithfulness I
greatly admired.
Before I stepped up to the microphone F. Rabe said to me:
“Pay attention to the reverberation! In this large space you need to
speak clearly and slow, which was completely unusual for me: “Maximilian
Kolbe was one of the men who showed us in a wonderful way how supportive
faith can be. On the evening of May 12, 1941, the iron gates of the Auschwitz
concentration camp closed behind Pater Kolbe. Leaving him with nothing
but his great humanity, determined by his religion. He should never leave this
gate a free man again. A few weeks after his imprisonment, one of his fellow
prisoners managed to escape. The leaders of the SS administration were fuming.
They declared that they would shoot every tenth person in the block where Kolbe
was lying. When the camp commandant made the fatal count to Frantisek
Wlodarski, a family man who screamed in horror, Maximilian Kolbe stepped
forward, took off his prisoner’s cap and said: 'I will die for him.' The
shocked SS officer accepted and ordered to let him die in a particularly cruel
way. Over several days they gradually tortured him to death. Where Maximilian
Kolbe should have been lying despondent and shattered on the ground, he
straightened up. From his mouth came none of the complaints that we so often
hear and declare: 'If there were a just God, he would not allow misery.' He
knew more. He had learned that God wants to cover visible suffering with
invisible joy. The brutal SS men could not believe it. And sometimes we cannot
understand it, because we are people who can only see the surface, and rarely
beyond the current moment.
We can live! Try to make the best of it for ourselves and those around
us.”
Pastor R. nodded as I sat down again. That was the begin of our
friendship. I
later gave him a Book of Mormon, and when we discussed it sometime
later,
he replied, “I like the texts of the Book of Mormon.”
Four weeks later I was to give a talk at the same place. I was happy to
do so,
another chance to meet more of my fellow citizens of Neubrandenburg. I
also appreciated invitations from Catholic circles.
I saw many Bibles In the community hall of the Catholic church, all
standard translations distributed to the 30 or so people present to discuss
with them special points as I did in many subsequent meetings. I wanted to
prove that God spoke and speaks through prophets on current occasions. Like in
the case of Eli and Samuel, 3000 years ago. My astonishment came when I
noticed that they were not used to picking up the Bible themselves, at least
not in public. Two ladies who looked about 50 years old came to me once
and said “I’m considering joining your church!”
Why did they change their minds? I do not know. Germans somehow just
seem to be different than Anglicans. Germans look around always with the
thought: “What will my neighbours say?”
My duties, which I had chosen, took all my energy, especially since I
still had to go out fishing every day.
Dr. Alfred Dregger
Shortly after the party conference, participants elected me as deputy
CDU
District Secretary. I had to make important decision. Since my superior,
Ms.
Benz, lived in Friedland, I was tasked with leading our political work
in Neubrandenburg.
In April 1990 I thought an open confrontation with fanatic communists
was still conceivable. Our city of 90 000 inhabitants housed many thousand
Stasi
people. West German advisors who visited to reassure us brand new
politicians, to influence us positively, did not convince me. There is no
security - the more we want it, the less we get it. Red fanatics were still
able to start a major fire.
The problem was Dr. Alfred Dregger chairman of the CDU/CSU parliamentary
group who announced his visit shortly before Easter. His wish was to perform on
the market square in Neubrandenburg on April 20th. There were a variety of
people who provided me with a different information. They warned me. I thought
about the serious information I received on Good Friday from circles of enemies
of the West, that there would be a mass demonstration by fanatical leftists if
the extreme “right-wing” politician gave his speech in public. In my mind I
foresaw a riot. What then? This vision of waving red flags bothered me
considerably. In contrast to my interlocutors from the Konrad Adenauer House
(Center for Politics in the Federal Republic), I was not of the opinion that a
final uprising by the 1,000-air force and the 5,000 military personnel, still
under arms in our city, could be ruled out. In my opinion, there were still
enough Colonels who could defend their insignia of power against all reason in
accordance with their still valid oath of loyalty if a red signal asked them to
do so. GDR law still applied! What was I to do? I drew all kinds of differed
conclusions. We must of course be allowed to correct ourselves, in every
respect, until the foundation of our being is truthfulness. Certainly no one is
well advised to be asked to simply throw their beliefs overboard. That is why
it seemed to me that it was reckless to rule out such an uprising on the left,
especially since April 20th was Hitler's birthday. A circumstance that no one
in Dr. Dregger surroundings would have given the slightest inkling. But a
clever propagandist could have used it in his argument against our guest, and
therefore against us. It may be that I was considering crazy fears. Meanwhile,
after discussing the problem, the members of the District Executive Committee
of the CDU Neubrandenburg voted, by a majority, to agree with my request, in
regard to the public appearance of Dr. Alfred Dregger's speech at the park,
convening it to be held in the Neubrandenburg town hall. Above all, the mayor
of Neubrandenburg, Peter Bolick, saw things the same as I. In Dr. Dreggers
office folks were horrified because I had changed some of the details on the
announcement posters.
On the morning of April 20th, Dr. Dregger wished for a one-on-one
conversation with me, to explain my views and what I thought and feared. He
reacted controlled but at the same time angry with my replies. He
probably
thought me to be another Red in disguise.
Perhaps that assumption sent shivers down his spine. Even though I
disagreed with some of his political views, I was not against him. It was just
clear to me that a man from the West, with the best will in the world, could
not understand how someone who had spent his life under the dictates of the
working-class party felt.
Unfortunately, I had to render Dr. Dregger a second rejection. It was my
duty to inform him of the decision of the Council of the Neubrandenburg
Clergy.
This council had invited me and suggested that I see Dr. Dregger, to
tell him
that he should not place a cross at the Memorial for the Victims of Nazi
Barbarism and Communist Tyranny at the Fünfeichen Concentration camp. That this
would be the churches responsibility. They had already set the date for hosting
a prayer service. On this day they wanted to determine the place for an
artistically designed cross. I recall a photo somewhere that shows us together
in the front garden of what was then the Neubrandenburg CDU house. Dr. Dregger
smiled into the camera. But I knew how bitter his feelings were because the
press release which he had already prepared had to be changed. The wooden cross
he had ordered was made in vain.
He invited the Neubrandenburg CDU leadership to dinner at the hotel. I
had to displease him again. He was looking for an answer in regard to the
Oder-Neisse border.
Germany had lost 15 % of territory and we knew Dr. Dregger was trying to
bring it back. I summarized: “It is deeply sad, but the loss of
enormous German ancestral areas in the East is the price that Germany has to
pay for the Second World War that we started.” He swallowed hard.
Now I was his enemy, but I understood him better than he knew.
No one in the group of twelve objected when, just a few hours earlier, I
was commissioned by one of Dr. Dreggers aides who asked for an assessment.
(A monetary union stood before us)
“What do you think the actual exchange rate should be?”
I promptly said: “10 to 1.”
I was very aware that all the small savers in the East would have stoned
me if they had heard that. But who would know and have thought that the
agricultural cooperatives, which were grouped into many larger cooperatives,
all were heavily in debt? They were burdened with loan sums in the
millions.
Their debts would have been reduced by 90 percent! The rebuilding of the
homes needed in our city caused enormous strain on the construction companies.
In fact, the value of one GDR mark was equivalent to 10 West
German pennies. Dregger and his friends will have laughed about my
stupidity. 'All the GDR industries are falling into our laps, what a
blessing.' Really? Eighty percent of these companies were in poor
condition, rotten and outdated.
In the end, I laughed with the same laugh as Dr. Dregger, who made the
decision to swap 1 for 1. We undeservedly won 400,000 Westmark. We never
had this much money before; these were fantasy numbers. A financial trick was
intended to make the GDRs economic structure attractive to the outside world at
a time of impending collapse of the Eastern system.
A magic spell had turned zeros into horrendous sums. Thank you very
much,
Dr. Dregger, I always liked your straightforwardness.
At the beginning of July 1990, my fishing colleagues elected me as their
managing director. This immediately after the upgrade of our funds following
the entry into force of the agreed monetary, economic and social union between
the two German states. I took on more responsibility. Months ago, the jugglers
of the GDR Ministry of Finance ensured that a customer could buy a kilogram of
carp for 4.40 marks, while we were supposed to charge 14 GDR marks for the same
amount. The 10 marks plus went to the account in question and should be deleted
at some point. But that did not happen. I accepted the election as managing
director on the condition that I would only be available for a term of 2 years.
I said: “I am convinced that together we will continue what we
started. We remain equal partners - e.g.. I do not want to earn more
than you. We will use a third of the cash for a new complex, processing,
smokehouse and sales. The second third is for security purposes, and the third
we divide up proportionately as compensation for lost wages.”
This was unanimously accepted. My opponent Jürgen Haase did not object
either. With the other ladies and gentlemen as my fellow fishermen we
officially confirmed in a roll-call vote that we wanted to stay together.
“Then we can also think about getting into debt by taking out a building
loan!”
Reiner Lüdtke nodded,
Jürgen nodded. To be on the safe side, I repeated: “We
will have to pay off around 300,000 marks together.”
The new building had been planned for a long time. Architect, Robert
Brenndörfer, did a great job and adapted everything. The first bank discussions
were promising. We ordered the steam ram. Prestressed concrete piles were still
lying around. We had already started during the GDR era and only included new
ideas. Going back was no longer an option. There were many reliable people at
my side, the loyal Wolfgang Homeyer, Werner Hansen, Wolfgang Sittig, Frank
Busse, Detlef Inhof, Reiner Rottmann, Dieter Giesa and of course Lüdtke.
Ulrich Johanns, who died much too early, would also have supported me.
He
collapsed dead in the bathroom at the age of 35.
Late one afternoon a tall police officer knocked at our door. He
stretched as I opened the door and put his hand militarily on his peaked cap:
“Mr. Skibbe, I have come on behalf of my
family to inform you of the sad news that Ulli died last night. We would
be most pleased if you would give the funeral speech!” What was I to say?
just a week before I had words with Ulli, told him off:
“You are avoiding your share of the work that needs to be done in this
place.”
He left the difficulty of loading quantities of fish by hand to his
weaker colleagues. With his gigantic strength, he regularly just disappeared. I
took it upon me to follow their request and prepared for Ulliel’s funeral talk.
Asked for permission to weave into it a little religious thought. The
family knows you are a religious man. It is OK. Celebrities were there, such as
the city architect, Iris Grund and some others. Following the service, they
came to praise me,
“You did a wonderful job. There was such a peaceful spirit there.” They felt good. “You showed us how Ulli was, he came figuratively
before us. We were able to see him going out onto the beloved Tollense see,
laying out his nets.”
The first notice of termination hit us on July 4, 1990. The Knorrendorf
community council told us briefly and succinctly what they thought was right. “We
hereby terminate all waters in our territory!” What a shock! The next blows
were to come a few days later. Who dared to steal from us the waters that we
had stocked with expensive stock fish? This operation was illegal. I
immediately lodged a written protest, referring to Article 9 of the Single Treaty.
It said: “Until further notice, the GDR conditions and the GDR contracts
apply.” I assumed that the economy would essentially remain as it was, at
first, I did not take what was happening seriously. We were still the legal
managers of these waters. The areas between Neustrelitz, Stavenhagen, Penzlin
and Neubrandenburg were equipped with management contracts. My finger was
always on the legal volume of the Single Treaty. I was not thinking about
Jürgen - our powerful extremist . I wanted to assume that my long-term opponent
Jürgen knew as well as I did what his agreement to go into debt meant. At least
he was not allowed to take any actions against us.
In the meantime, I was called by the Berlin Stake as High Councilor for
Missionary Work in the Leipzig Stake, the Tiergarten ward and the
responsibility for single adults. My first talk was well received, as I was
told by the brethren. I introduced myself a little and told the congregation
the basis of my testimony: the harmony between logic, feelings, and realities.
I quoted an evangelical researcher saying, “Mormonism is radiant optimism!” Hutten, “Seher, Grübler, Enthusiasten”
I was responsible for a meeting for single adults in collaboration with
Sister S. Oh, dear what next? After the
trip to Potsdam, I had promised to organize a
lunch on Peacock Island. Sister S. looked a little anxious because I had
promised that my friend, Hilmar Girra, would come with his car and feed the
approximately 60 participants. How should that happen? She could not
understand. She was unsure and worried; this could become catastrophic. As we
got home on the ferry and crossed the forecourt to the next S-Bahn- station,
Sister S. asked:
“Where is your Hilmar Girra now?” Far
and wide there was no sight of any one at all. There was no possibility of
feeding 60 hungry single adults. And suddenly he drove up and just on time.
Again, quite a few looked at me with mixed emotions. Hilmar opened the tailgate
and the
pleasant smell of freshly smoked first-class eels immediately spread.
Sister S. breathed a sigh of relief when the first people praised her:
“That’s the best meal ever, what a wonderful delicacy.” Even those who were critical of fish meals asked for second helpings.
The whole group was satisfied.
A few days later I continued to let the co-operative issues and problems
slide.
An attractive young lady, from the Konrad Adenauer House, showed up in
my
office. She asked me a few questions about local politics. There were no
difficulties that affected me, at least not major ones. When she heard that I
wanted to maintain the company I had taken over, not only in terms of
personnel but also in terms of structure; that all members of our
company
were equal partners - she was shocked. Her mouth pursed.
She said: “Oh, oh, I often see you sitting in front of the Kadi!”
I laughed and said goodbye with a joke. Of course, we fished in the waters that
the mayors had given us notice of. However, there were first indications of
fishing in our lakes by others. At first it did not worry. There were similar
problem cases in Waren and Prenzlau. To be on the safe side, I drove to
Lindenberg, where the Stasi had lived in huge, multi-story building complexes,
where the main body of the former Neubrandenburg District Council was now
located. My wish was to talk to Rainer Prachtl. He sat there and represented
the highest authority in the district. We were still legally in the GDR.
Although we already traded with western money, that we longed for in our
pockets, our country was still officially called the GDR.
“You are right. I will give it to you in writing!” said Rainer Prachtl and summoned Jürgen Meyer, the districts expert for
inland fishing. “Yes, the old legal entities remain in effect for the time
being.” That gave me confidence.
That is why I stayed quiet, probably too quiet, too long.
July 19, 1990, we were informed in a letter from the mayor, Mr. Schwarz,
Rehberg, that the lake area recorded in the land register in corridor 3, parcel
6 had been leased to a private individual. The Balliner See, also known as the
Rehberger See. New termination letters were arriving. We defend ourselves. But
in the meantime, on July 28th, we received an answer from Knorrendorf to our
protest.
“We have received your letter dated July 13th. According to information
from a lawyer, we have received confirmation that our termination of June 27,
1990 is legally binding and therefore remains in effect.”
Excerpt from the minutes from July 28th: “A personal visit from the
managing
director, Mr. Skibbe, to Knorrendorf. The conversation with the mayor,
Ms.
Hartwig, does not reveal any agreement.” Of
course, I could understand that
the new mayors were looking for ways to improve their financial budget,
including by leasing out the lakes that surrounded them. But the law was on
my side, as the so-called German “Unity Treaty” had just enshrined.
However,
the mayors did not care about it. Chaos. A fishing friend who was good
to us
gave me the crucial tip:
“The leading head is Mr. K., look for him.”
The person who advised me had sufficient insight into the situation. I
went there immediately and wanted to talk to Mr. K., the head of the Rosenow
community association. I was let in. I said my name. He just nodded. He knew.
There he sat, an energetic, bearded man in his fifties. He sat safely behind
his dark and imposing desk. His glasses sparkled: It seems to me, he was
saying: 'I am a Democrat!
Who are you? a Stalinist?”
I countered in a similar way, but loudly: “I am a CDU man!” He
looked at me piercingly. I presented him with my request:
“We are building a new business
premises, we have decided to stay together and do business together, not
against each other.”
His succinct answer was: “We no longer need Stalinist cooperatives!”
It seemed to hit me where it hurts
“Did you say Stalinist?”
He was angry; “I said and meant Stalinist!” Like a fish in bad
water, I gasped for air. Democrats? Does the man know what that is?
“I am the CDU district secretary!”
He waved his hand arrogantly: “Recorders!” he replied scornfully.
“Bring in the Flutes!” That was the name for the pious
opportunists in favour of the SED. They were beggars to the Kremlin party.
Good thing I didn't have a gun; I would have shot a hole in his ear.
Should and could I explain to him that I joined the CDU on October 30,
1989,
because on that very day it announced that it was ending its alliance
policy
with the SED? He insisted. I insisted: “We will fish in Lake
Kastorfer tomorrow”
“I will send the police. Mr. Jürgen Haase is the new manager!”
Didn’t I know it? I did not let my helpless anger show; my member and
co-
sponsor of all resolutions broke his promises.
I slammed the door. “Do what you can’t help doing!”
I quickly found myself outside. Our comrade Jürgen had a “valid” lease,
but we were now considered fish thieves. I drove home to the fishery at high
speed in my old, yellow, Trabant. I met Detlef Inhof in the hallway of the old
farm building. The straw-blond, ex-deep-sea fisherman pointed his head towards
the door of the net storage:
“In there,” he whispered. I pushed
the door open with a jerk. Jürgen and Reiner, the traitor and my ex-boss. Two
outlines as if cast in bronze, thoughtful and concerned.
Reiner, usually good-natured and helpful, was just about to explain that
he had little hope that I would give him an advance for the rent due.
“Are you deserted by all good spirits? Would you help him ruin us? The general
meeting is in an hour!” There was no stopping
now. Either Jürgen or us.
“Man Jürgen, we have your promise in writing!” My throat tightened. The tall young man Jürgen, with the expressive
face went back into the working room. Then he sat down and knitted a row of
nets as if nothing had happened. I spoke to him briefly and he answered
normally, as if nothing had happened. In the general meeting that I led, I
explained the situation in a few sentences. Either Jürgen takes our side, or he
must leave the co-operative.
“The leases that Jürgen runs
would exclude us from the right to recapture the small broodfish we had stocked
the Lake with some time ago.”
He replied: “I want to be free and I won’t take anything back! The
command economy is over!”
“Then we’ll exclude you!” He looked at me,
eyes filled with bravery and resentment. I read hate in his eyes. He rejected
me, he rejected the co-operative and most of the men, apart from Dieter Gisa
and Willi Krage.
“You voted in a roll-call vote for the continued existence of our
company.”
“So what? I am right!”
“Then we’ll cut you off.”
Excerpts from the minutes of August 10, 1990: “After a short period
of reflection and subsequent discussion, Mr. Skibbe submits the motion at the
general meeting to exclude Jürgen N. from the Tollense co-operative. Of
the 16 voting members, 14 are present. 3 abstentions, 1 against, 10 in
favour...”
Jürgen went outside with his friends. He consulted with them. When I saw
him standing there, it seemed to me that he didn't even understand what had
happened to him.
“We’ll see each other again in court!” was
all he said and I remembered the words of the young lady from the
Konrad-Adenauer- house.
First, I had to make my announcement in Kastorf come true. The next
morning, we would demonstratively fish in Lake Kastorfer. But not with nets,
that could be an obstacle, should we be surprised by the police.
I told my friend: “Werner (Hansen), I’ll come with you tomorrow!”
I said it, because we could be sure that we would encounter strong resistance.
Werner Hansen did not want me to go with him, I had enough to do at home. But
our joint appearance in the Rosenow-territory was more important to me. We
loaded one of the light green plastic-barges, the emergency generator, the hand
electrode, the safety switch, negative pole, rectifier, landing net, the large
fish container and sat down in the Robur-type ex-military vehicle. If we had
seen the secretary at the mailbox as we drove through Knorrendorf, then it
might have occurred to us that she was the person mailing us. As usual, we
moved carefully and attentively along. Werner, standing on the safety switch,
pushed the palm-sized electrode attached to a 5-meter-long fiberglass rod into
the almost crystal-clear water at intervals of 4 to 5 meters to the bottom of
the lake, a few feet deep. As usual, 8 out of 10 attempts were in vain. Then a
small spring moss meadow came into view. It was only a meter deep there. Werner,
a man of 90 kilograms and a big red face, said, as every time in his fearless
life: “Here are some (eels!”). I had done enough electric fishing
before to know that he would be right.
First the undersized eels shot out, writhing and anesthetized, tumbling to the
side. Then a thick, two-inch-wide eel tail snaked out. Since the edge of the
eel-fin represents a relatively large potential level and we had moved the
anode close to its body, the direct current held it in place. However, the
force emanating from the anode was not enough to completely pull him out of
hiding. Werner Hansen helped. He was excited because it was a valuable strong
eel. Out of 3 eels of this size, 2 usually escape, especially if they are more
than 1 meter from the positive pole. They are also quick and extremely clever.
Werner hooked the electrified metal into the curved fish tail. At that moment I
noticed that a cloud of sand was moving towards us 400 paces away. However, I
first had to take care of the eel, which suddenly appeared full length. With
difficulty I managed to hold the landing net in front of the powerful fish’s
wide mouth and I netted the wildly struggling 3 pounder and poured it into the
water-filled tail. The small eels, on the other hand, fled as usual. As soon as
the circuit is interrupted, they flee. They immediately wake up from the
anaesthesia and swim away within a second or two, enriched by an important
experience. If these fish ever again hear the sound of the fishing boat
swinging to the rhythm of the roaring emergency generator, they escape in time.
It takes weeks, and sometimes months, before the hand electrode fisherman sees
them again. Among them there are also the adult males, which only weigh about
one 180 grams.
Like the large, sexually mature females, they are called silver eels.
Sorting out then takes a lot of time. I suddenly touched Werner Hansen.
He
nodded. A red 'Wartburg' appeared. He had dragged the cloud of dust
behind him. For a few seconds he disappeared from our sight again. The man
behind the wheel seemed to be driven by immense anger. He raced down the sandy
road like a madman. Werner arched his broad back and turned to me with a
distorted, stubbly face. It was a slightly crooked smile that stretched across
his lips. Werner said a name that I did not understand.
We were aware that the visit was primarily aimed at me. We continued and
from our new vantage point saw that the 'Wartburg car was now directly
in
front of our Robur. He had blocked us. But we could not see anything of
the
driver.
“He went to the village to bring the police!” Correct. We were pinned
down. To the left of our Robur was a one-and-a-half-meter high gravel
mountain, to the right the lake. In front of us the new red car, behind us the
barge on which we transported our boat and behind it a ditch. Almost
without a word, we agreed not to risk a confrontation with the police. If they
showed us the mayor’s letter, they could force us to throw the fishes back into
the lake -
just like our men had already experienced elsewhere.
A fortnight earlier, I had had to spend twenty minutes at the police
station in
Stavenhagen to put my strident protest, written on an old typewriter on
paper, to ensure that the fishing equipment, confiscated by the police at Lake
Ivenacker was returned, which happened immediately. They were just amazed at
the police-station because of the many words and sentences that were written on
their white paper in such a short time. However, the fish they put back into
the water remained lost. The only annoying thing is that our customers, who had
ordered the fish from us, had to go home unsatisfied. Quick as we could, ashough
we were fish thieves, we loaded the
dishes and fish, pushed our boat onto the boat trailer and tied it up. We had
no choice. Either we escaped our opponents or we were embarrassed. Disgraced?
Werner laughed. He had pain in his back again and felt not well. I didn’t need
to instruct him; the Robur was an off- road vehicle and would climb the pile of
rubble without any problem. Just like that? The load could tip over. That was
Werner Hansen. He looked briefly, started, pushed back half a meter, curved
right up to the red fender of the Wartburg, pushed back again, sharply turning
the steering wheel. Now forward again. There was still no sign of the eager car
driver, nor the expected Police.
However, that could change at any moment. There is no denying that we
wanted to flee from this scene. It is obvious that no one who is innocent tries
to escape! I could already hear them sneering. Now our good truck
climbed
the small, steep mountain. He slid a little to the left, then to the
right. The
barge trailer followed us. The water in the cubic meter fish tank was
sloshing,
but things were moving forward. We slid and rolled and braked down the
small slope. Not a trace of a scratch on the Wartburg, that was the most
important thing. In slang German, Werner said with a laugh,
“The most important thing is that they
don’t catch us!” and took a path I had never seen before. The journey went
cross-country over hill and dale, past cattle paddocks and corn-stalks. We
behaved like bandits. This concept took over my thoughts. He and I had gone
among the robbers. At least 3 reports of fish poaching brought me to the police
repeatedly.
We had never fished in waters other than those officially assigned to us
for
management. I was right once; Jürgen was right twice. However, nothing
had
been finally decided yet. The war with Jürgen continued.
He set up nets and we got caught in the middle with our drag nets.
Jürgen insisted on his contracts, we insisted
on our customary and management laws that the GDR had given us. I appealed. But
it was a big war.
In those days, at the beginning of August 1990, Iraqi troops invaded
Kuwait.
Big Iraq declared the small state of Kuwait the 19th Iraqi province. The
deposed sheiks screamed for help so loudly that we had to hear it as well. On
November 29th, the UN passed a resolution threatening the forcible expulsion of
Iraq from the free country of Kuwait. Like a dark premonition that this could
be the prelude to World War III, the old anxiety was once again upon everyone.
My journal entry note, written on December 6th, read: “What will 1991
bring
us? Everyone is suffering from the pressure of the worsening Kuwait
crisis.
Everyone knows how easily wars involving superpowers can escalate. We
see many other problems, including economic ones, all around us.”
Dark business
Instead of bills of radically decreasing value, we had money since the
first of
July. We felt like birthday children who were supposed to be happy but
not really able. In the grocery stores it looked heavenly colourful, but
in our souls, it was still gray. Looking ahead, we found that there would be
few
insurmountable obstacles on the path ahead. In one respect, most ex-GDR
citizens acted logically correct. Now everyone turned the revalued penny
over 3 times before handing it over. In late autumn our men once again caught
large quantities of bream in the Lieps, all of them impressive specimens.
Werner Hansen came rushing up in his Trabant to inform me. My colleagues hoped
that we could earn more than 10,000 marks from 10 tons of fish.
Werner, always extremely agile and often aggressive, looked at me
because I had shrugged my shoulders and asked critically who would still buy this
kind of fish in the new consumer wonderland?
“The Russians!” he countered sharply and
looked at me reproachfully from the side. Sometimes he squinted a little. I
should have come up with this idea on my own. In any case, he is now driving a
truck with boxes to the passenger ship pier in Prillwitz. That could not be
wrong. The nearest Russians were in Neustrelitz. However, as far as I know,
their needs were met by the Prenzlau and Neustrelitz fishermen. I was not yet
thinking in modern terms. This thinking: “I come first!” still seemed
immoral to me.
Since I was obliged to keep the business going, I had no choice but to
ignore
my concerns. It was already 2 o’clock. Quickly! I made a phone call and
interpreter Herbert Fischer agreed. He would be available for me. Even now?
“Well, yeah, let’s say in an hour!”
Ex-Lieutenant Colonel Herbert, who had already been practicing dealing with Red
Army officers for 4 decades, asked by telephone for a personal conversation
with the head of the rear services of the Neustrelitz Panzer Division. “Come
whenever you want!
“We’ll be there in half an hour.” A dashing Second
Lieutenant in kid gloves, who walked and performed like a member of the Bolshoi
Theatre dance company, picked us up from the gate guard. Colonel Berlett
Woodlander. I think it was the same gate that I first saw in 1946. It seemed
there were still the same words that surrounded the picture of tanks and
brothers in arms painted on the wall: “Glory and Honor. Slawa
Since then, no ordinary mortal
has come and gone through this door. Perhaps 600 or 800 Neustrelitz residents
may have once lived in the single-family homes in this part of the city. The
daylight under the cloudy sky was already decreasing. That is why the house,
where the colonel was supposed to be, seemed so gloomy to us. He stood up as we
entered, held out his hand, showed his gold teeth and all his friendliness. I
had already noticed the many officers standing around in the hallway,
discussing unknown things. I had rarely seen such Russians before. I only knew
square faces and predominantly rough expressions in appearance and language.
This people were another kind.
Friendly Russian-Soldiers
As soon as Berlett had heard us, he nodded encouragingly. He just needs
to talk to his superior. That is what happened. Herbert Fischer whispered that
the colonel was trying to convince his boss that they urgently needed ten tons
of fish.
“How expensive?”
The desired size existed in my head - 1.75.“Almost two marks per
kilogram of fresh fish!” Herbert interpreted generously. This is how he
occasionally appeared. Berlett beamed.
“Two marks is a good price. When can you deliver?”
“Five tons immediately. The rest tomorrow.”
He frowned doubtfully. But I knew it. Five tons is a smooth cutter load
and netting this amount in and out quickly was no problem for our men. I looked
at the clock. An hour and a half to load, another at most for trans-shipment,
half for transport.
“Between eight and nine o’clock!”
With 100 things to do where possible, I raced to Prillwitz. There stood my
impatient fishermen that early evening, just waiting for the longed-for sign.
When we arrived at the “Russian- store” shortly before 9 with the first load,
the uniformed boys laboriously set about weighing things. I looked at the
theatre for half an hour and finally said:
“You are out of your mind!”
I cannot say what Herbert translated. In any case, they were taken
aback.
“There are at least 32 kilograms of goods in every fish box and the
delivery note says 30!” At the snail pace
that they were weighing in and
with this amount, it would have taken us until dawn and I was dead
tired. Of
course, only the total mass could be correct plus 5 percent.
“Let them do it!” Herbert Fischer
reassured me; he was calmness personified. His encouragement did me good. Now
that the GDR was finally broken, someone like him could look at everything
calmly. Even the clocks ran differently for him. I thought back to our
conversation. Herbert Fischer said he had seen the collapse for the GDR coming
for a decade. For him it was natural as the fall of leaves in autumn.
Communism could not win. He had calculated this for me on the way here.
The maintenance of the complicated weapon systems alone has become too
expensive and then this two-class society. What would have upset him most was
that the deer were reserved for the privileged among the leading comrades,
while people like him were supposed to be keepers instead of hunters.
He often shouted this bluntly at the heads of his great military
officers:
“The labour is for the people; the deer is for the Politburo!” In higher places they would have really resented him for that. He only
remained in their favour because they valued his ability to interpret
simultaneously, even when they
were talking quickly and at once. He always got along well with both
sides at
these Kazakh missile training areas because he liked them, the
rough-and-
tumble guys on the Soviet side and the somewhat loud-mouthed ones on his
own side. Herbert said it would be easier to convince the garrison camp
managers next time if they saw that we were not trying to cheat them on the
first try. I turned away. That was the height. After this encounter nobody
ever weighed our fish. We always gave a generous plus, except for eels. While I
am standing angry and extremely tired at the dark end of the long loading ramp
and staring into the dim circle of light in which 10 men are moving incredibly
slowly, someone touches me from behind. I turn and see the blink in a young
man’s eyes and at the same time the flash of his bayonet. The tip of this side
gun protruded half a meter above the head, which was more than half hidden. “Fifty,
fifty!” whispered the guard wearing a large Siberian fur coat. He made
inviting gestures and pulled me with him, deeper into the darkness, down the
small wooden stairs.
“There, there! Buy!” He took his Kalashnikov,
which he had been carrying over his shoulder, and held it out to me. He clearly
extended his other hand.
“Njet, njet,” I said, helpless because
of so much magnanimity. He talked about ammunition like I do about small fish,
and all for just 60 marks. Fifty for the submachine gun and the rest for the
marbles. I made a big question mark. We weren’t on the Tajik Afghan border
after all. As I turned away from the lively boy and turned my back to him, I
felt like he was tapping his forehead with his finger. How can you be so
stupid? A Kalashnikov is worth more than 10 times as much. The men who were
still weighing were not happy when I explained to them that I just wanted their
confirmation, that they had received the fish they ordered. That I would like
to go home now.
“How many? Five tons?”
“Yes, exactly, and if there is a deficit, we will deliver twice the
missing quantity.” Herbert Fischer talked
to the responsible persons, he too was now fed up with just standing there and
constantly just looking at the stereotypically repeating shadow plays. It went
slower and slower and seemed to me to be progressing in slow motion. Was it
because Herberts guttural murmurs made them even sleepier or were they not
interested in anything at all? But they could not be persuaded to sign either.
Suddenly an officer arrived. I quickly had the signature and the stamp.
Colonel Berlett would like to take another look, please. Berlett was
still
sitting with his legs stretched out as we had left him, writing in the
half-light of his desk lamp, which had been turned aside. He would have heard
that our fish were fresh and big. He smiled. He would like to stay in touch
with us and become our customer.
“But you have to go to Berlin and sign a contract with Co-Impex!” Colonel Berlett, a distinguished guy with slightly wavy dark hair and a
precisely drawn part, would never have called me other than Mister Fish
straight away. That is what the translation did. Later, when they acknowledged
that we always supplied them generously, they called me “Daddy Fish!”
Well, I was almost 60 back then.
Co-Impex gave me an appointment.
Two days later, it was with mixed feelings that I entered this blue and
white
building near Berlins Friedrich-street and was soon sitting across from
a man who looked to be 40 years old and about 6 feet tall. At first glance,
this was someone who knew how to enjoy life. Sparkling clean, light blue shirt,
subtle tie. What struck me about his clean-shaven face was how well his beard-
line was spread out. He smiled obligingly.
“You were a leading Stasi officer,” I
thought. Despite everything, I liked him. If my guess was correct, this one was
certainly one of the greats and probably played a part in keeping democracy an
impossible dream for people like me for 4 long decades. Nevertheless, I
distinguished between programs and people, even though in politics they often
represented a unit. I wanted to separate the 2 and focus only on the business
cause. Sometimes I thought that one sentence I thought so often was written all
over my face. The right to choose is more important than the right to life. The
conspicuously well-dressed man asked: “Could you deliver 60 to 80 tons
per quarter at this price and quality?” I think I managed to keep a
straight face. Because I was shocked. My goal was no more than a 6th of the
amount he told me.
I hastened to explain, “Yes, we can.” But to be honest, I did not
know how this could be put into practice. Berlett must have spoken to him! So
Berlett was happy, he praised us! I still had this idea of co-operation.
After all, we, the north-eastern inland fishermen of the former GDR, were,
whether we wanted to or not, in the “Quality Fish Association” The Mecklenburg
Lake District had been tied together into one large economic unit, but that was
now over. Now everyone was next to themselves important and nothing else.
Within a few seconds I had calculated that our colleagues from Waren and
Prenzlau, like us, had many tons of Tolstolob, silver carp, in our lakes, that
no German liked. They would certainly take it if I offered them one Mark and 50
or 60 a kilo. We would have earned 400 marks per ton without lifting a finger.
That would be almost 20,000 marks per year in additional income. Even with just
a 10% profit, that would still be 10,000. Man, Chancelor Helmut Kohl, just
leave the Russians in Germany for a few more years. We fishermen would love to
help feed them at your expense. We had to introduce silver carp, these Far
Eastern algae eaters that can jump up to two meters high into the air - and
occasionally into the boat of an unsuspecting angler - into our waters by
decision of the party and government. Must! Yes indeed. My heart warmed when
the person I was talking to nodded in confirmation:
“Brass and Tolstolob are ok.” So, he knew what we were talking about. I saw
these huge amounts of large fish in front of me, often weighing more than 10
kilograms each, and no one knew who was going to take these hundreds of tons
from us.
“What else do you have to offer us?” “Roaches.” (Rotaugen or Plötze) He nodded again and wrote:
“Silver carp and brass, larger than
500 grams each and roach of all sizes.” Am I sitting in the front yard of
paradise? The sharp eyes of my counterpart examined me before he carefully
asked:
“But what do we do if the Soviets have special requests - to a small
extent, of course?”
“No problem if it stays within, say, a 3% range.”
He waved his hand and was satisfied. He clearly was not interested in
detail. Putting his well-groomed, long fingers together, the competent
representative from Co-Impex concluded the conversation:
“Good, you initially deliver five tons to Neustrelitz every week upon
request.”
I added hopefully: “Contractually bound.”
He smiled. I worried. Instilling confidence, my partner added:
“A verbal commitment is a contract.”
How I wish I had a piece of paper with what we had negotiated written
down. So, there was still one hurdle. The question of what still tormented me.
We delivered continuously from our own resources for 8 weeks. We even
fished on Christmas Eve very successfully. Up until then, Colonel
Berlett had
only made modest special requests twice. The first time he let us know
that his general was coming from Karlshorst. He would be happy if we got him a
lobster. If necessary, I would have driven to Kiel myself to fulfill his
wish. You
could not be more modest than Berlett. We sent him 2 kilos of lobster
and
put 3 golden smoked eels on top. The second time, for a similar
occasion,
he wanted a carp. We offered to give him only 4% plus instead of 6% in
the future, but each time we would add 30 kilos of fine fish on top.
Berlett was suddenly informed that he had been transferred back home.
He was unhappy about that. In Neustrelitz he knew there was a safe roof
over
his head. In Russia there was probably only a barn waiting for his
family and
him. His successor, whom he was supposed to train, was a sturdy guy, a
Lieutenant Colonel with the face of a bulldog. The man immediately overstepped
his authority. Berlett would have no idea. Instead of 5 tons, we should deliver
10 tons next week. The first broadcast on Tuesday and the
second on Friday. I immediately felt uncomfortable. I suspected it. This
is going wrong. But the new guy put me under pressure. What should we do?
Colonel Berlett was traveling back home, albeit very reluctantly. To get the
new man to like me, I offered him several kilograms of lobster and a small box
of smoked eels. With a scathing expression, the lieutenant colonel lowered his
lion’s head and growled. Was that still not enough for him? During the
following delivery he motioned for me to come with him. A disgusting smell hit
me from afar. Our goods, which had already been stored a week ago, were standing
black and untouched in boxes on the light cooling surface. My breath caught in
my throat. He had allowed 100 hundredweights of fish to rot. Why? This should
not happen to even the most incompetent warehouse manager. The fish are more
likely to be given away. Shrugging his broad shoulders, as a friendly lady from
Neustrelitz translated to me, he mocked Berlett. I bit my tongue. For the time
being, as I have now seen for myself, he does not need any fish. With that he
turned and lumbered away. As soon as I was alone, the new guy’s adjutant talked
to me. It took me a while to understand that he was looking for a
counter-trade.
“We’ll sell you a wagon of flour.”
“Flour? What should I do with the flour?”
“Well, for the bread factory!”
They both naturally took me for a bandit. What did I have to do to get
back to normal trading? For us it had become vital to the survival of our unit
to sell at least 60 tons of Tolstolob, roach and brass in the remaining year
and a half. We had loans and they had to be repaid with around 8% interest.
“If I were you, I would inform Co-Impex,” Herbert
Fischer advised me when I went to see him to make sure that we had not made any
transmission errors. He scratched his head for lack of better advice. Next time
he would not let me drive alone again.
Co-Impex gave me the following information by telephone:
“There is a structural change. Now it is summer. Please contact ‘Fisch
export-import’ in Steglitz. Maybe it would be better if they negotiated with
Wünsdorf first. We are very sorry. Our hands are tied.”
We did not get far in Wünsdorf.
We stood like schoolboys in front of the black, iron-forged entrance
gates to
the Park of the Almighty. On the left the big yellow manor house that we
could
not get into, on the right the street on which the 'Muschkoten' paraded.
A
senior Soviet officer came cycling up. Herbert shrugged at his torrent
of words.
“Tomorrow you should go to Berlin-Dahlem.”
“Tomorrow?” Once again, I would have
to forego his interpreting services, although for compelling reasons, but the
people sitting there understood German. This word “morning” was the entire
fruit of a day’s journey of more than 300 kilometres.
The next day, in the Berlin-Dahlem area, when I read the simple sign on
the
hidden white house, the mere fact of its existence depressed me. It
darkened
my dream of big business. Still, I went in bravely. I took a seat in a
small waiting room. I saw those hard and pale faces of nobly dressed Russian
civilians bustling past me. Fragments of words reached me. In the office of the
invisible conductor of fish and money flows, thousands of tons were at stake. I
was finally invited in. A stocky, bald gentleman in a white vest, who spoke
good German, sat half slumped in a black leather armchair.
“What do you have to offer us?”
I explained. There was not much talk about my Tolstolob and Roaches. One
look here, one look back:
“Eighty tons per quarter?”
No magnitude for him. You could send the fishes deep frozen across your
large country.
“One mark per kilogram.” He waved away a
fly. I swallowed. He studiously overlooked my dismay. 80,000 marks per quarter.
But still better than nothing. His black orb eyes froze as he asked me the most
important question.
“How much smoked salmon?”
He smiled as I felt myself starting to blush. He smelled my reluctance
with his vulture nose. I pondered with difficulty controlling myself. But I was
unable to calculate the maximum number of smoked salmon I could offer gratis to
him. What would the people of Waren and Prenzlau say if I only offered them 60
or 80 pfennigs for their Tolstolob? After all, they had to do extensive
fishing. We ourselves had already thinned out our Tolstolob stocks in good
time. What factor could I expect if he so rigorously halved the price? I would
first have to talk to the managers of our neighbouring fisheries and arrange a
second appointment. On the other hand, I had to offer him a significant number
of free fish right here and now. After all, he took 320 of silver carp or roach
from us. If we could bring in other difficult-to-sell species, it would be an
expandable business of initially a third to a maximum of three-quarters of a
million marks in sales. If he withdrew, then I alone would deprive our small
company of direct income of 50,000 to 80,000 marks - and how much indirectly?
First, I had to calculate the other one.
“8 to 10 kilos every week - for free?” That
would be half a ton of smoked salmon to be purchased over the course of a year.
A small, slightly contemptuous twitch flashed across his greasy face.
Cold anger welled up inside me. Do you want to have at least 30 kilos of
smoked trout every week for nothing? Not you! I thought. I do not do
business
with gangsters.
“I don’t have that many!”
I said out loud, already regretting that emotions had led me astray. Should
I have said I need to think about that? It seemed to me that he was thinking:
you lightweight!
“Hmm,” he said, cradling his round head and shaking
it, as the Russians tended to do when they refused. I stood up, or rather, the
anger rose up. I wanted to slam the glass door behind me. He had already
cheated me out of 160,000 marks before there was any mention of his stupid
salmon trout. We never heard from each other again, nor did I ever see the
lovely shed in the Russian magazine in Neustrelitz again.
An unpredictable ending entry in the note calendar on September 5, 1991:
“The war between Jürgen N. the cooperative and me is over!” The
Neubrandenburg district court had finally decided against him, in our favour.
Mr. Kurschus was my lawyer who repeatedly had to stop me when Jürgen claimed
untruths when questioned. He had the nerve to tell the presiding judge that he
had asked for my permission before leasing our waters. Then I jumped up.
Kurschus said calmly: “Leave him alone, he is already lost.”
The verdict came quickly. Jürgen Meyer, the former and now current
fisheries administration officer in the Neubrandenburg area, had previously
ironed out the mistake I made in the Altentreptow court by confusing management
contracts with lease agreements, which resulted in me being seen as a fish
thief. I had to struggle to get used to new terms. The court’s decision was now
in front of me in written form.
My wife told me the next day: “I think Jürgen was here.” She said
she saw him
standing at the front door, ringing the doorbell, and then walking away
before
she would even speak to him, because they didn’t know each other. The
following evening there was a knock on my apartment door.
It was him. Towering, he stood before me. I looked at him dumbfounded.
He should have come to congratulate me on my victory. Jürgen held out his huge
hand to me.
“You can’t congratulate me on your defeat!”
But his plan called for that. I thought: What a load of nonsense.
The very idea was absurd, let alone the realization. We fought like
head- hunters and he comes to congratulate because he lost.
“Come in!” Breathing deeply, Jürgen
sat down in the armchair. I stared at his mouth. How many times had he endured
this scene in the last 60 hours? A man like him, who did not do anything
without carefully considering it. We put the toughest obstacles in each other’s
way.
Days before he said: “I am a liar!” But he was dishonest, even
before the judge. He spread a rumour, that decades ago in Prenzlau, I forced 30
vocational students into the FDJ. (In this time this Youth-organization was
politically neutral, only left orientated) Funny how much people had knowledge
about it. Forty years ago in fact, I had been on the way to make a compromise
with communism, for a short while. Of course, I got 30 applications for
membership from the FDJ district leadership and placed them on the class bench
for each of my younger classmates and then gave a short speech. I even pinned a
picture of Stalin on the class wall. But the Korea-war opened my eyes.
Jürgen looked around our apartment out of the corner of his eye. There
were,
probably to his surprise, no signs of bigotry, which he certainly
expected given my known beliefs. I would have given much to have been able to
read his mind at that moment.
I asked him: “Was that necessary?”
To be able to call themselves engineers, technical school graduates had
to describe and defend a feasible, meaningful innovation. However, he had no
idea, so he asked me for advice, years ago.
After some thought, I said: “Jürgen, electric fishing is highly controversial.
We now look back on 20 years of experience, do an analysis. You must compare
how the eel yields could be increased by this seemingly brutal fishing method.
You must investigate whether and what disadvantages arise. This requires
20-year statistics. Look at the documents that we have and other companies
have. You must present a perspective; related to this is the question of eel
stocking measures. The question is whether the 'small fish' caught in the
English Channel, and later placed in large tanks, would have to be treated with
medication because nematodes are present in the swim bladders of these young
fish, which could infect entire existing stocks”
I do not know what Jürgen then brought to Paper. It could not have been
great. He got through, barely. As was the case then, his now again
humble
request to be heard touched me again this time. If I were him, I
would not have gone to my enemy. But there he sat now.
“I wanted...” he began haltingly. I
knew everything. His desire for freedom was stronger than his reason. He saw
the political upheaval as his great opportunity to finally get away from the
constraints that necessarily came with life in a work collective or in a team.
He was not born to take orders or instructions, but to give them.
Until then, there was always someone above him, and another above him
and so on. Wanting to be free and not being able to be free and independent was
his problem. He had taken up the fight and used every means possible, even
those that were unsuitable. Jürgen spread his large hands, which I saw were
probably tied, but which only emphasized what his bright, restless eyes
reflected. He asked that we forgive him. I saw how deeply he regretted
hitting his head against the wall. I saw this glimmer of hope. Jürgen was
uncomfortable and stubborn, big in hatred but big enough to bend himself.
The words came softly from his now seemingly childlike weak mouth, which
had often seemed hard and cold, like pebbles. For many years he had
built a wall. His wish was that his personality should have been
insurmountable. For many years he had wanted to pretend that the shield and
armour he had acquired was his own natural armour. This self-made monster now
hung on him as ballast. Yes, I hated his proud behaviour sometimes. It was not
easy for me to overcome these feelings. The other men also harboured strong
dislike.
“Would you take me again in your company?”
For a moment I did not know what to say. Could I have said immediately, “no”?
But I could not decide it alone we had structured the new cooperative in
such a way that all members had the same rights as before, even more than in
the old days. It would be incredibly difficult to convince the fishermen that
he wanted to deal with them in a more peaceful and friendly manner from now on.
He looked like a man waking from a bad dream when I spoke openly about what he
had done. He asked the same question, perhaps assuming I had missed it.
“Will you take me back?” He wanted to
visit man after man, for the 2nd time. Yes, that was also right, but this time
truly purified. He spoke humbly. He became converted through great pain. I knew
him. Just as he had raged against us
before, he would repeat this outrageous attempt until the stiffened wall fell,
even if it was only on the 100th attempt. He would go against all the logic in
the world. Anything other than catching fish - and he was a master at that -
was out of the question for him.
He wanted to believe in the impossible; otherwise, life was not possible
for
him. Determined to accept all scorn, he had come to me.
For the sake of his wife, whom he loved more than himself, for the
future of his children, he had to do it. Not for a minute after his defeat had
been sealed did, he consider another option. He had to go through that. He
asked again for forgiveness. Even if I had not wanted it from my heart, after
these words I had to give him a hand of reconciliation. I felt strange as his
large hand wrapped around my fingers. He dared a small smile.
“If you stand behind me, all will be alright.”
On the third day we wanted to discuss what I could do for him against
his toughest opponents and who we could win over for him. To fulfill his wish,
we needed 9 yes votes. There was no 3rd day - not for him. After he left me, he
talked to his wife for many hours. She learned every detail of his long
conversation with me. Then he went to bed for the last time in his young life.
The next day Jürgen had a fatal accident in traffic on the country road. I
would never have forgiven myself if I had refused his offered hand. I have
never heard a hit played by an organ organist at a funeral, but I have also
never found a simple melody as impressive as this song: “When the red sun
sinks into the sea near Capri.” I envisioned him extending the nets
and suddenly I was 13 years old sitting on the bench of our neighbour Janzen’s
sailing boat. I saw the corn-yellow, puffy sail and how the red sun sank and
remembered the night of terror that followed - the bombing of Peenemünde -
which, however, did not mean the end, but gave me the wonderful insight to
understand how valuable every day is.
That we are allowed to live in order to see the rising sun again and
again after enduring the dark hours of the night.
President Dieter Uchtdorf
During my time as a city-councilor in Neubrandenburg (1990-1998), I was
also an advisor to various mission presidents -Walter Wunderlich, August
Schubert,
Richard Clark.
From mid-1996, the missionaries complained about difficulties in
obtaining
their residence permits in the larger cities of Mecklenburg-Western
Pomerania. This was particularly the case in Stralsund. I often had to spend time in the town hall of
our city and one morning I met Carlo, a friend. This man was a die-hard
evangelical – a pietist - and by no means a friend of our church. He had come
to us from the West as an advisor. He smiled as I entered. His eyes sparkled:
“I have something for you!”
He was not permitted to tell or show me anything. He got up to leave the
room, saying he would come back soon. Beforehand, he moved a piece of paper so
that my gaze inevitably fell on the lines. It was a 'confidential' Circular No.
18-95 from the State Ministry of the Interior. I was shocked, as it affected
our missionary work. Immediately clear was the fact that behind this was the
Minister of Education of the state of Mecklenburg-Western Pomerania, Ms. R.
Marquardt, the wife of the main pastor in Schwerin. It turned out that this was
the case. This lady had already caused quite a stir against us. Now she tried
to force our missionaries out of the country on flimsy lies; with certain
clauses that were drawn up with the co-operation of the Interior Ministry.
As already indicated, Mrs. Minister, who was in office with the SPD
mandate,
had, among other things, published a revised 'Information brochure',
supposedly to spread more knowledge about sects and ideological groups,
although the one from 1990 was still in circulation. Hundreds of the
booklets were lying in the Neubrandenburg town hall. (see city hall
Neubrandenburg below)
The revision essentially consisted of adding a chapter about the Church
of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, which she personally found to be an
eyesore.
She tried, as much as she could, to portray our church dangerous because
the 'Mormons' do not disclose the details of their Temple ritual. This also
emerged from the “Schweriner Volks Zeitung” of December 20, 1995. The headline
read: “We don’t want to stir up fears!” Minister Marquardt wanted to use
her reputation to ensure that 'Mormons' were viewed with suspicion; or to
reinforce existing prejudices, which she often succeeded in doing.
What a trick. This time politically powerful and at state expense. I
called the responsible journalist, Mr. Schultz, who reacted somewhat rudely. It
seemed clear to him that there was a narrow-minded, half-blind sectarian at the
other end of the line. Some members of the Schwerin community reacted
indignantly and cancelled the newspaper... As a member of Neubrandenburgs Youth
Welfare Committee with a CDU mandate, I had the reputation of a moderate man
who was on good terms with quite a few PDS members, and with those of the SPD.
I immediately went to see my friend, the deputy mayor of Neubrandenburg,
Burkhard Räuber, and told him that I would be resigning from my position as
City Councilor with a statement at the next meeting of the city
representatives. Burkhard, an active Catholic, shook his head. What was certain
was that the Neubrandenburg press had quoted me positively for years, about 2
or 3 times a week. It would cause quite a stir if I, among other things, if my
resignation was announced under this 'personal statement'.
“For 100 years no-one (except the communists of the 1960s) forbade our
missionaries to work in Germany. Now, with the new democracy, after we have
overcome the dictatorship of the communists, my religion of freedom and peace
is to be displaced.”
The truth is, I would have used the press to voice my concerns. I would
have prepared this article most carefully.
Burkhard knew this and immediately called Schwerin officials.
On 7 April 1996
I
informed President Dieter Uchtdorf., he was transferred to the First Quorum of
the Seventy. He promised me his full support and asked me not to resign my
mandate. Shortly afterwards, in the spring of 1997, we, President Uchtdorf and
I, met at the expected invitation in the State Ministry of the Interior in
Schwerin. Two state secretaries came to us. President Uchtdorf took the
opportunity to explain the teachings and purposes of our church for about half
an hour with the help of an illustrated book. The senior street secretary then declared
that my appeal had been successful. We were informed that the Interior Ministry
M.-V. will withdraw the said circular. President Uchtdorf expressed his
satisfaction and shook my hand outside. After this, Dieter Uchtdorf, who was
not afraid of the 600 km long journey, and I, then drove to the Ministry of
Culture to inform the responsible State Secretary H. and to inform him of the
necessary corrections to the brochure.
The disinformation that we protested about. State Secretary H. replied
that he would inform the Minister of Culture, Ms. Marquardt. A little later we
learned that her ministry had given instructions to delete the pages concerning
our church.
Dieter F. Uchtdorf was the chief
pilot for the German Lufthansa Deutsche Lufthansa. He was called as a member of
the Quorum of the Twelve in 2004; a Member of the First Presidency of the
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in February 2008 he was awarded the
Cross of Merit with Ribbon of the Federal Republic of Germany. on October 2012.????
In 2004, President Uchtdorf responded to my wife Ingrids and mine,
congratulations on becoming a member of the Council of Twelve.
In March 2011
In March 2011 I was invited by MormonFair (later FAIR) to present the
results of my private research in Offenbach.
This meeting took place under the title 'Second German-language
Apologetics Conference'. The Evangelische Zentralstelle für
Weltanschauungsfragen Berlin commented:
“FAIR aims to provide “well-documented answers to unjustified criticism
of the teachings, beliefs and faith practices of the Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints” (LDS, Mormons). Apologetics as a representation of the
superiority of one’s own teaching therefore also characterized Gerd Skibbe's
lecture. The 80-year-old speaker impressed with his lively presentation and the
high level of commitment with which he worked through the wealth of literature.
But his request met with little response. Not only from the perspective of the
reporter, his argument was influenced by an anti-attitude that attempted to
prove that the Mormon doctrine of God corresponded to the original Christian
doctrine by portraying the Council of Nicaea and the doctrine of the Trinity as
an apostasy guided by the power interests of Emperor Constantine. From a
content perspective, this attempt also turned out to be a rather questionable
undertaking.”
See on Google.
Mao
In 2016 - then 86 years old - I travelled from Australia to Germany to
visit my family, but booked the flight so I could spend a few days in China. I
wanted to deepen the impressions that Ingrid and I had during our stay in Hong
Kong in 2011. On that August day in 2016, it was exceptionally hot in Shanghai.
Early in the morning I bought a ticket for an adventure trip to Hangzhou, the
ancient imperial city of which the Chinese say: “In heaven there is a
paradise, on earth there is Hangzhou.”
The children on the bus stared at me like little children in the Western
world, only stare at Santa Claus; because that is very rare in the land of
smiles, a grandpa with snow-white hair.
If only I had exchanged more money! The boat ride was great, but the
subsequent 5 kilometre “walk” in 42 degrees Celsius was not. I had left my
water bottle on the bus and initially thought a hat was unnecessary. Lunch was
to be had in an ancient restaurant. Before-hand however, a tour of every
interesting side this city had to offer, in broad Mandarin explanations.
There was a very small courtyard that I will never forget; a tiny square
between the huge buildings where the sun was beating down. I would have liked
to sit down for a few minutes, but my group moved on. Suddenly I felt dizzy,
with no end in sight of the happy wanderings or chatter of this group. Then, a
Chinese man, almost 2 meters tall, stood in front of me, Mao. He did not look
at me for too long and handed me a large tumbler of water. Around his neck he
wore a small silver chain with a little cross. Just goes to show, angels come
in all shapes and sizes. We conversed in broken English. He invited me for a
chicken soup dinner, which I mistakenly thought was included in the price.
Well, there is something in the saying:
“Age does not protect you from folly”.
I would have had to take a special fast day. Mao shared the wonderful
meal – not exactly a small one; a whole cooked chicken honestly. He promised he
would be my companion for the remainder of the day. Of course, I had no idea
that he would save my life a 2nd and 3rd time that eventful day. For hours we
marched through the streets and alleys of that beautiful old town of Hangzhou.
Followed by an open-air presentation and the many, many dealers who begged and
begged me - but how could I? It would have been so easy to stock up on Chinese
money. Everything was only half as expensive as in Australia. How I longed for
a shower and my bed.
Afterwards, hundreds of people who had arrived in huge bus convoys, were
offered a performance lasting several hours that one needs to have seen just
for the splendour of the costumes and colours, called: 'Life in ancient China'
with dances and water games. Lit front and back by small lamps with flickering
lights, an old man rowing a large boat was part of the show. Ten trained
cormorants circled around him, he had put a tight neck ring on them so that
they would give the prey to him instead of swallowing it. As is well known,
cormorants are successful eel hunters. During the breeding season they kill up
to 300 grams of medium-sized eels per nest per day. Despite the huge crowd of
spectators, everything seemed quite relaxed. Around midnight, we made our way
back to the bus stops. Thats why I wore a badge with the number 25 on my shirt.
Suddenly I fell because the way back led over ancient stone steps that had
unusual dimensions. If Mao hadn’t caught me, and then caught me again my day
would have come to a bad end, because the ancient cobblestone bridge that we
had to cross in the darkness was steep and extremely sharp-edged. On the bus
the conversation continued on cell phones. Mao’s English was poor. He spoke
into it and received the answer in print. At last, we were safe on the bus, or
so I thought. Suddenly, in the middle of nowhere, our buses stopped. Mao looked
at me. This is the end. No apology, nothing. Everyone out! Mao, an employee, or
self-employed person in the film dubbing business, remained seated and spoke
into his cell phone. He then offered me the comforting words:
“Don’t worry, I’ll take you to your hotel.”
And there you see it, the cross that he carried, with which he openly expressed
his faith in Christ.
“I told you; I will take you to your
hotel”.
What would I have done without him?
Mao pulled me out of the total darkness into an area where you could
hear cars rolling. The first one coming our way stopped. Chinese people like to
get themselves pocket money this way. Mao knew that, I did not. I breathed a
sigh of relief and for the first time that day I praised myself as I had
pocketed the hotel address that morning, which I initially thought was
unnecessary because the bus station for departure and arrival was right next to
my hotel. Fifteen minutes later we had arrived. Now, I thought, I am going to
reward him handsomely, then as I turned, he was gone and I stood there in shame
at the exchange machine with my banknotes in hand.
The last thing I told him was how grateful I was. He didn't want my
money. The
letters I wrote to him somehow still hoping to thank him for everything
he had done for me remained unanswered, although I used the address, he had
written down for me. I
don't know how many times my life has been saved.
In 2018, after months of living in the city Neubrandenburg, Ingrid and I
spent the last nights in the beautiful Matthias apartment building, which is a
few kilometres from the outskirts of the city. I missed the right exit in the
middle of the pitch-black night. Instead of returning to the bedroom, I stepped
forward and for a split second I was in free fall. A meter from the floor, the
steep staircase made a sharp turn. It would have been my death, but invisible
forces, my guarding angels pushed me back. For three days I felt the pain in my
breastbone that the pushing back had caused.
Thank God. For without him we are but poor little human beings amounting
to nothing.
