"The Brisance Of My Century" Part 1
Gerd Skibbe
2025
Picture: Tempel of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Zollikofen, Switzerland. In 1957, Erika, our son Hartmut, and I were sealed there for time and eternity.
Gerd Skibbe born 1930 and Ingrid his wife, in summer 2023 in Freiberg, Germany
In this autobiography, Skibbe describes the dramatic experiences of his eventful life with brutal honesty. It is the English summary of his books "Konfession Mormone" und " Fischerleben im Wandel der Zeit"
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.
Adolf Hitler drew a line under the obligation of ongoing reparation payments amounting to billions of euros, which had to be made under the Versailles Treaty of 1919. Today people can hardly imagine the situation of German parents between 1919 and 1933, with fears of runaway inflation already spreading during the last year of the war. The sudden mistrust of the middle class that the state’s financial policy was based on deceiving the public irritated and whipped everyone’s nerves. Caution drove traders to exaggerated reactions. The artificial financial structure collapsed. A box of matches that could be purchased for a single penny in 1910, ended up costing 55 billion marks in November 1923. The price of a simple stamp was 20 billion.
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
Hitler Youth leaders gave us the order to support the Red Cross sisters. We went to the Wolgaster ferry station. A train with wounded soldiers was expected from Świnoujście late in the evening.
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.
A 15-year-old “warrior” gets an award
The Goebbels propaganda that was still going on had its effect. But after holding the very young, mutilated soldiers in my arms, feeling their misery as if it were my own, I was no longer angry to see my small, energetic mother slam her fist on the kitchen table and in an impressively loud voice state categorically, “No!” filling the whole house. She straightened her back, but couldn’t hide the flicker of fear in her beautiful grey eyes. Before all these terrible experiences, I would not have respected her orders. But now I was worried. The fear that I might actually be killed had taken on a terrible aspect.
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
He shot again and I, scared to death, stood behind the nearest tree. He found me there. “Who was the other one?” he yelled, I wanted to play the hero, then got a slap in the face and told the truth.
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
Dresden 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.
The feeling that here was something of great importance for my future grew.
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!"
As soon as he started telling us about his war experiences, I took my robber books, "Rolf Torring" or "Tom Shark", out of my bag. One time I was deeply engrossed in reading and didn't notice that he had been standing behind me with his stick for a while. Then I was horrified to see the bobbing yellow that immediately attacked my otherwise innocent back. From this I learned that I had to educate myself.
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.
That is why democratic elections took place in West Berlin, however not so in East Berlin. That is why the big party newspaper was called "Pravda" – 'Truth'. It is still published under this name today. Stalin's ultimate truth was this - that anyone who demands free elections, freedom of expression and the rule of law in Russia, or later in East Germany, will be imprisoned! Anyone who demands freedom of expression again after their prison sentence will be shot!
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!
And then, one Friday morning, while I was cutting clogs in our engine room, Mother entered and handed me a telegram stating: “Gerd, I need your help, please come immediately.” Walter Krause. I stopped the engine, looked at the clock and 30 minutes later found myself at the train station. It was the only way to travel. My destination, a 100 kilometres away. It was late morning. 25 kilometres before my destination the journey was interrupted. The railway officials told us that the railway lines need to be repaired and there would be no trains towards Berlin for the next 8 to 10 hours I had to make a decision. “Well,” I thought, “I will just have to walk.” Five hours later, hungry, and exhausted, I reached Prenzlau. Walter Krause shook my hand and said, “Gerd, we need the key to our meeting room so that we can have our service tomorrow. I'm not well enough to go to Brother Bugger's home. He is not well. Would you go to get the key?” Elder Popanz, one of the first German missionaries after World War II, lived 16 km from Prenzlau. Thus, came Saturday, I walked another 32 or more km.
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.
A painting of the evangelical Church in Wolgast by Schongruen
In 1949, I left Wolgast and became an apprentice at a tree nursery in Prenzlau. This was arranged for me by Max Zander, the first man to join the church under Walter Krause's influence in 1946. He also moved to Prenzlau and became a vocational school teacher, of all places in my class. Since Walter Krause's family had also moved to Prenzlau, I became their sub- tenant.
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.
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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.
These were the men with whom I would work for many years:
Görß, third from the right, fearless and honest was superior to everyone in every respect.
Loaded with large nets, the boats only rose a good forty centimetres above the water level. The nets looked as rotten as the small tug, an ancient motorboat. It was powered by a roaring 12 hp diesel engine. This cutter (main loading vessel) had a fist-sized hole in the bow. Its three water chambers were large enough to hold 5 tons of fish.
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.
My partner Kurt who had fled West Germany to the East because of alimony lawsuits, was annoyed by the spray and with me. He was drunk and assumed I had deliberately shovelled a load of water in his face. He raised his heavy three-meter-long paddle(oar) and sent it flying towards my head. I instinctively ducked behind the bale of nets. That is how a heap of fishing nets were my life savers. The storm passed as quickly as it had come. That night our efforts on that first boat-train were pathetic. My job was to heave almost 200 meters of the twelve-meter-high net walls overboard, while the two “front” fishermen used their oars to pull the boat forward parallel to the land. Then the steel cables would unwind. After 200 meters we anchored and the 400-meter-long towing net would be wound in.
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.
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