Steps Through Two Dictatorships  (1)

by Gerd Skibbe translated by my wife Ingrid,

2010

about the author

Born 1930, married, two sons, eight grandchildren and eleven great grand

children.

occupation and political commitment

. Fishing engineer, in charge of a fishing fleet

. Politically active since October 1989

. 1990 - 91 District Secretary for the Christian Democratic Party,

Neubrandenburg

. 1996 - 2002 Member of the County secretary for the European-Union

lay church commitment

. Branch President District President 1965–1982

. Temple worker Branch mission leader

. High councilor 1986–1994

. Councilor to the following Mission Presidents (Walter Wunderlich, August

Schubert, Richard Clark)

An autobiography of Church history, through the years of the Third Reich

and the German Democratic Republic to the fall of the Berlin Wall.

 

Before world war II

In 1932 my parents decided to move with me, their 2-year old nipper, to the

small coastal town of Wolgast in Vorpommern.


Auf dem Schoß meines Vaters

After spending considerable time investigating Church teachings, my father, Wilhelm Skibbe, was baptised in the same year. He had earnestly been searching for more truth and found it with the »Mormons,« even

though the first sermons in the small ward of Wobeste in East Pommern were most boring. The political scene of the 1920s had made him painfully aware that none of the political parties would ever be capable of keeping any of their promises, and that the churches were at best only a poor image of the original. What made it worse was the fact that all their representatives were incapable of changing anything. It bothered my father that both the armies of World War I were almost entirely 100 percent Christians. Was this not an expression of decayed principles within the system of Christianity? Surely Christians should be able to solve their differences without bashing each other to death?

The Protestant pastor and author of the Encyclopaedia Religion for Youth, Hartwig Weber, described the situation of the events that produced World War I as follows: »The clerics of both the Catholic and the Protestant churches welcomed World War I with joy ... ›See how it flies from the sheath in the glow of the morning sun: the noble German sword - never dishonoured –victorious and blessed, God has placed within our hands. We embrace you like a bride. Come sword, you are the revelation of the Holy Spirit. In the name of the Lord, you shall destroy our enemies...United nationalism, militarism and religion became the one great force of the day. Mass hysteria in support of the war especially, overcame the Protestants. Loud were their cries: »If God is for us, who dares to be against us?« Rowohlt Verlag.

My father disliked this spirit of pride and arrogance, and the clever sermons preachers would send forth to their congregations. Cold and heartless, every sentence stood against everything good and wholesome. Men, dressed in their black and brown uniforms, carrying their waving swastika banners, would often be part of the worship services in their churches. My father could never sympathise with the empty speeches and goals of the communist parties either. They too boasted in the same spirit: all too much, and all too loud.

As Mother was still a member of the Roman-Catholic Church it did not take long before the local priest came to visit our home. This man in his black attire told my very sick mother that it did not please him to see her in a mixed marriage, moreover to a ›Mormon‹. Had it not been for the barking of the huge German Shepherd Dog which the priest had left outside our door, voices would perhaps never been raised at all. The innocent creature most strongly rebelled against the rope that fastened him. The annoying sound of the dog barking caused my father’s feelings to erupt. Even though he was never a man of force, he told the priest to leave, and showed him the door. Hastily, the priest ran down the wooden staircase. That event occurred in 1934, one year after Adolf Hitler took hold of the political reins in Germany.That scene is one of my earliest childhood memories.

In those days the nearest branches of the Church were 100 km away: in Stettin, Demmin and Neubrandenburg. Travelling to any of them was most ifficult. In 1936 the first Mormon missionaries arrived in my hometown.

Johannes Reese, my father’s friend, liked the sober-looking young men, even though he stood in defiance of them, declaring: »If you have to do the labours of a missionary why don’t you go to Africa? Don’t you know that Europe was converted more than 1000 years ago? In reply, Elder Beatty or Elder Hold asked him: »Do you believe that all Christians are Christians?«

Now that shocked Johannes’ confidence and gave him food for thought. I remember the day – I was 6 or 7 years old, in my hand the little paper flag with the swastika on it. I was very proud. Down Wilhelm Street I had followed the handsome, black-clothed band, with their shining golden instruments. Oh, what a joy it was to watch the drum major with his decorated cord embroidered suit and staff! How he would whirl and twirl it in the air, only to catch it again with timed precision. I felt as though the whole village was as entranced, as I was by the great spectacle. Still under the spell of all I had just witnessed, I returned back home. When I arrived, Father was sitting like a statue in his favourite living room chair, immersed in his Holy Bible. As I stood before him, he looked at me for a long time, and shook his bald head over me and my colourful flag. Then he bade me to step closer. As I did he simply took the flag from my hand, which left me feeling disappointed and sad.

Shortly after that I received my one and only spanking from my father. That was because I had opened the front door of our landlord, Mr. Eckdisch’s business and called him a ›Saujude‹ (a Jewish pig). This round, jovial, little man, father of two adult children, must have run straight to my father telling

him, »Your son has insulted me.« I was summoned by my father. He placed

me on his knee, face down, took the felt slipper from his foot, and slap, slap!

It did not really hurt all that much. But, into full consciousness, the words

fell over and over again, in total harmony with the descending slipper:

»Never forget it my son: all people are children of God! Do you understand?

All people are children of God!«

Later on, my mother informed me that throughout the following weeks

many discussions had taken place between my father and our landlord,

Mr. Eckdisch. Father was trying to warn him of the future and of the events

that were about to come to pass as he had perceived them through earnest

reading of his scriptures. »Look here, Mr. Eckdisch, read it for yourself,« and

he quoted Ezekiel 37:21: »And say unto them, thus saith the Lord God; behold

I will take the children of Israel from among the heathen, whither they be

gone, and will gather them on every side, and bring them into their own

land.«

»Be wise, sell your houses, take the money and return to the land of your

forefathers,« my father continued. He showed Mr. Eckdisch many other

verses, including prophecies of Joseph Smith, who had predicted 100 years

before that the Jews would be gathered from the far corners of the earth to

their homeland, Palestine. My father said that a Jewish convert, by the name

of Orson Hyde, had travelled to Palestine to dedicate the land for the return

of the Jews in the year 1838. It was to no avail – Mr. Eckdisch shrugged his

shoulders – and made some vague comments. This little ›Mormon‹ could

not persuade him to give up all he had laboured for throughout his life. His

life in Germany was good.

Father talked to Mr. Eckdisch about Hitler and his program in regards

to the Jews. »No,« the latter insisted: »we Jews have survived all the past

has put us through. We shall survive Mr. Hitler. Besides that, I’m of Polish

nationality. The world is a civilized place these days. The prophecy and false

prognosis stood in sharp opposition to each other. Only a few months later,

the black SS stormed the big house at 53 Wilhelmstrasse. Within minutes all

sanctity dissolved into total chaos.

There were no special laws to protect the rights of the Jews. However

there were many who would give everything to show allegiance to the one

and only hero, ›The Fuehrer‹ and his bidding. Oh yes, I can see his face – I can

even remember his name. The strong man with the black cap trimmed with a

silver skull on the front rim. Wild and cold were the looks he threw my way. The

SS-men, citizens of Wolgast, rapidly pushed the four frightened members of

the Eckdisch family into a waiting truck. Mr. Eckdisch looked at his beautiful,

large house and as the vehicle left we gazed after them. Sometime within

the following 3 years these Polish Jews must have reached Warsaw, for in

1944 a postcard arrived from the Warsaw ghetto with the following 7 words

written upon it: »Father dead, Mother dead, Lotte dead. Jakob.« We are left

to wonder how often the well-intended words of a Mormon by the name of

Wilhelm Skibbe returned to the minds of that family.

In the year of 1937, as she was just turning 29 years old, my mother

was diagnosed with tuberculosis and admitted to the university clinic in

Greifswald. Her X-rays showed 7 holes the size of beans in her left lung. The

surgeons decided to immobilise the affected lung. My father, fearing the

worst, mailed a card to Demmin, as the missionaries were stationed there.

In his card he begged them to come to the clinic to give Mother a blessing.

As Brother Latschkowski entered the room in which my mother lay among

20 other women, she waved to him. He shrugged his shoulders, walked to her

bed, and expressed the fact that he had no idea who she was. Mother soon

clarified the situation: »I have had a dream in which I have already made

your acquaintance.« Father entered and thanked Brother Latschkowski for

the prompt response to his petition, to which the astonished Elder replied

that he had no knowledge of any such card, and that the visit was undertaken

on the undeniable feelings of his heart: to travel to this town, to come to

this clinic, and to find a sister by the name of Julianne Skibbe. The veil of

uncertainty fell, for gathered there were 3 souls, knowing that a miracle was

about to happen, that the angels of heaven had already intervened, and

that all would be well. Then the inspired Elder administered a priesthood

blessing.

The following day the surgeons decided to take an additional X-Ray prior

to Mother’s operation. Stunned, and in utter unbelief, 7 doctors examined

the new X-ray repeatedly, but found no evidence of damage in her lungs.

Shaking their heads, they declared: »This is a medical wonder! Where are

the inflammations showing in the first X-rays we took last week? Where are

the holes?«   My mother and we were examined for many years following this event.

Mother lived a happy life for over 50 more years. And never having any

health problems after that, I often ask myself what would have become of

my brother, sister and me had God decided to take my mother away.

When I was about 9 years old, whilst playing in the schoolyard, I found

myself surrounded by Christian children, making fun of me, calling me a

›saint.‹

Some years following the arrest of the Eckdisch Family, my parents

decided to change our place of residency. Father thought that business

in Langestrasse would be better. Whilst inspecting the rooms of the new

location he became acquainted with a lady by the name of Mrs. Martha

Stolp, who incidentally happened to be one of the founders of the Spartakus

party, the forerunner of the communist party. She was our neighbour for

several years. It was not too long before there were difficulties living so close

to this hard line, Stalinist woman. On finding out that Mother was carrying

her 5th child; Mrs. Stolp accused my father of being totally irresponsible. As

the widow of an artist, she had worked as a lyceum teacher, and was a most

accurate, thinking politician and had been left to live with her 30-year old

son, Fritz, in very poor circumstances.

The wallpaper in Mrs. Stolp’s living room had turned shabby and brown.

I guess it must have been about 100 years old. The ceiling was blackened by

smoke. However, her artistic husband had scratched a historical scene upon

it: German General Bluecher, following the battle against French soldiers,

gave Napoleon Bonaparte a kick in the rear, and returned him to the far side

of the river Rhine.

No money on earth would persuade Mrs. Stolp to relinquish her fond

memories of her beloved husband. We could feel this by viewing the excellent

paintings, which adorned her dwelling. One work that would always catch

my eye hung to the left of her front door. It was a naked maiden standing

erect on a rock, gazing at the ocean, her long blond hair fluttering in the

breeze. I would look at her from a distance of about 20 meters, admiring her

beautiful profile.

Mrs. Stolp became aware that I, as an 11-year old boy, stared at this

masterpiece. Pointing towards it, with her old, wrinkled hand, she explained

to me: »This picture is the symbol of freedom.« Happy to share her husband’s

artistic works, Mrs. Stolp then proceeded to explain other paintings and

their meanings to me. Above the very old fashioned iron bed of her son,

Fritz, - he being a convinced atheist – hung a painting of Jesus Christ. Only

a stern-looking face against the background of a blue sky, it seemed to me

that His eyes were questioning me, »Gerd, who are you?«

After a while Mrs. Stolp turned toward me, uttering words that frightened

me: »I hate Adolf Hitler! The future belongs to communism.«

At the time all that was far too much for me to understand. I was too young

to digest it, but too old to forget it.

I expect, because of her old age, the Nazis left Mrs. Stolp in peace. Not

so with her son - vengeance was to be had. Both of them were outspoken

and fearless which was not a wise in the years between 1933-1945. To have

different opinions, and to run against the main stream, was not favourably

looked upon and was consequently set upon with severe scrutiny. Father was

accused of being an opportunist. If he were not, then surely he would stand

to support their views. Running a small workshop deprived of all luxuries,

he should be aware of where his loyalty lies. Oh, how they laughed at him

when he explained to them: »You dear neighbours would be Mormons if

only you could understand and know all that I perceive.« However, great was

their amusement on listening to my father who had never studied Greek,

who did not know the writings of Homer, Plato, Marx or Hegel. Who would

listen to such an uneducated person? Surely such a man as my father was

not entitled to utter anything at all to do with philosophy, nor to remark that

humans are dual beings comprised of earthly body and eternal spirit.

Did that hardened soul take any notice of my father? In her studies of

Greek literature the old lady had become convinced of the eternal nature

of the soul. On the contrary, her son, Fritz, believed he had outgrown such

ancient follies and that atheism was the only way. Many of the vocal battles

carried out between mother and son occurred in the middle of the night,

or in the semidarkness of our shared hallway. It mattered little that others

would have to listen to their boisterous conversation. I see Fritz, tall and

thin, with thick glasses, looking down upon the rest of humanity. It seems

to me that he hated all children and women. It’s true, he was very clever - a

man of strong character. Looking back on it, I believe the main question at

hand was about Marxism and Stalinism. Both were aggressive. Well I know,

in those days, that neither Mrs. Stolp nor Fritz liked me. To tell the truth, I

did not like them either.

The Mormon missionaries would often grace our home. I liked them,

but all their funny talk held little interest for me. Often they would shake

their heads, especially during our church meetings. I would rock on the

chairs in utter boredom, kick my unruly feet, disturb the meetings where

and whenever I could. I knew better, even though they looked very smart in

their suits and ties. Had I not watched them, years ago, throwing my oneyear

old brother Helmut across the living room, using him as a baseball

whenever mother was absent. They were born baseball players, sure of very

movement. But who in the world knew it? I can still hear my mother’s frantic

cry, when she discovered what was happening: »What in the world are you

doing?« she might as well have said: »Are you both crazy?« But then it’s

not the thing we would say to missionaries, especially when these men are

only 20 ½ years old. Their message demanded a certain amount of maturity.

However, they had left their mothers only a short while before, and would

often just be boys.

In their small unit located at Langestrasse, in Wolgast, with Mrs. Spalding,

the missionaries amused themselves by creating photographs. One was of

the Elders lying on the bed, pulling faces, holding a long knife, with large

pancakes decorated as spiders suspended from the ceiling netting,. The

back of the photos read: German spiders. They would send these pictures to

their homes in the everlasting hills.

There is a photo in which Elder Rudolf Waechtler and Arno Dzierzon

appear. These two were the last German Missionaries Hitler had not drafted

to serve in the army. This same photo shows my father and me buried in

the warm sand on the East-sea in Zinnowitz. It was there that I followed a

discussion, which the missionaries held with my father. Somehow all they

said embedded itself deep within my heart: »You know, in the premortal

world we got pretty bored, looking at the glory of God. It just left us feeling

empty. We could feel no joy, for we knew no sadness.« One of the two Elders

must have said that. I felt far more at that time than I could possibly perceive:

the width and depth of the restored gospel, the pre-existence of mortal

men, the creation of the planet earth - all these things gave me much food

for thought.

Many years, later when in 1985 I found myself in the reading room of

Berlin’s biggest library, immersed in a historical theology book. Could

anyone imagine my surprise as I read the words about Origen (Origenes 185-

254) recorded so long ago: »All ›Logica‹ (angels, humans, and demons) are

of the same nature. The differences came to pass, by way of the fall ... In the

first estate all Logica were spirit beings and as such Gods ... All generations

are the literal offspring of our heavenly Father, for we are all beings of

spirit, who existed in a premortal heavenly state. The reason for the fall,

the spirits from heaven to earth, was weariness. Looking at our heavenly

Father’s glory, we desired to achieve the same status. For it is the will of

God to bring all his children back to his beautiful realm of happiness and

love.« (Handwoerterbuch fuer Theologie und Religionswissenschaft, 1960,

J.C.B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck – Verlag) Tuebingen, Stichwort ›Origenes‹ p. 1696,

last column) I sat, stunned and overjoyed as I discovered another 28 points

in total harmony with the teachings of my church, The Church of Jesus

Christ of Latter-day Saints! What proof, what testimony, to compare it and

to know that Joseph Smith was the great restorer of Christ’s gospel! How

many Christians have any idea at all? Here then were the exact words the

missionaries had spoken to my father when I was just a child.

I felt as though electricity had penetrated my whole body through

the sentences, »On the day in which you, Adam, will partake of this fruit,

you shall surely die«, »sin entered and thus followed the expulsion, the

separation from Gods presence, meaning that all trespassers will become

fallen beings away from the presence of God.« I could remember the words:

»For as death hath passed upon all men, to fulfil the merciful plan of the

great Creator, there must needs be a power of resurrection, and resurrection

must needs come unto man by reason of the fall, and the fall came by reason

of transgression; and because man became fallen they were cut off from the

presence of the Lord.« 2 Nephi 9:6.

Here lay the answers to the problems of Evolution. With my hand pressed

to my forehead, I read Doctrine and Covenants 93:33. There it stood, in black

and white: »For man is spirit …« This, then, is the reason that The Book of

Mormon holds 2 separate reports that God’s judgements and the plan of

redemption are given only to Adam’s family and all of his descendants. (They

do not include beings of a prehistoric nature, like Neanderthal people). See

2 Nephi 9:21 and Mormon 3:20. I had invested many years of intensive study

before recognising these connections. Often I would recall these insights

and feel a pleasant light.

In the years 1942-1945, step by step I became a typical German youth.

The drills of the Hitler Youth - prescribed for all children and young men

between the ages of 10 and 18 - were designed to develop an awareness of

nationalism. With the absence of my father, who at best hated serving in the

German Army, I became a totally convinced Hitler fan, delighting in every

report of success. Whilst listening to the news, I would often rejoice. Oh joy!

Germany had won another battle, and sent huge ships to the bottom of the

ocean. Pure heroism stared at me from all sides. Never did I give even one

little thought to the fact that innocent people would lose their livelihood,

their families, their health, to spend the remainder of their days in hopeless

disability; that children burned like grass, that thousands of fathers drowned

or tens of thousands of young Russians boys starved to death because of the

lack of humanity shown by their conquerors. Oh, yes! My schoolmates and

I were busy being excited about conquering the whole world. Our national

hymn: Germany, Germany over all others in the world, sounded ever so good

in my ears.

I was still too young to be a Nazi, but as things developed, I was well on

the way to becoming one. In school and everywhere else we were told that

every good German boy had to love the Nazi flag and all it stood for. It was

the most natural thing in the world to follow the signs of the times. Too late

did my parents recognise that I had drifted along with the political stream.

Author, Hartwig Weber, reports in his Lexicon, how his church, at a time

where mankind was in more need then ever to be led by the hand of God,

would choose their own course and fall victim to their own folly: »Under the

influence of the Nazi Party the Confidential Consulting Office of the German

Evangelical Church praised the efforts of Adolf Hitler, with the goal in mind,

that under his leadership a new social order would be created.«

Only a small group of Lutheran Christians recognized that the way of the

»German Evangelical Church« was wrong, and in 1934 they expressed their

understanding of faith in a work called The Theological Barmen Declaration,

p. 330. They gathered in the »Confessing Church« (Bekennende Kirche).

»Wherefore, I the Lord, knowing the calamity which should come upon

the inhabitants of the earth, called upon my servant Joseph Smith Jun., and

spake unto him from heaven, and gave him commandments.« D&C 1: 17

 

before

TopFoto Galerie: and after

The great war

As a 13-year old I experienced my first love pangs for Ev’chen, a visitor from

Hamburg. She was a delicate creature, like a beautiful flower. My father,

home on his 2-week vacation from the Russian front, must have become

aware of my feelings and that I had reached a new phase in my physical and

emotional development. I remember the day as though it was yesterday.

Father invited me to go with him for a stroll in the park. With his arms resting

on my shoulder, he spoke of ordinary little things and I took it all in, finding

it very pleasant. Then all at once his tone of voice changed. The contents

of his words penetrated my heart like a sharp knife: »Son, never touch a

woman except she is yours. Always remember this advice - never forget it.

There are only two ways: you can go, be driven by your passions, or you may

choose to be happy.« I did not really understand a single word he said. He

turned me toward him and saw utter confusion written all over my face.

»Let other people say what ever they please. But that which is not yours, you

must never touch. If you do, you lose the power to act correctly towards your

fellow beings. There is no growth in unrighteous deeds. It is a Mormon’s first

duty to be honest. Be honest with yourself. Hypocrisy cankers the soul. Ask

God for understanding and wisdom and pray for the strength to be a good

person. Do it! Especially when you know that it is right, and never ever, be

swayed by the things others may say.«

The challenge to read The Book of Mormon, however, caused me the

biggest problem. For all the efforts of the past to read more then a few

lines had failed. As I perceived it, there could not possibly be a more boring

book. My world of excitement also lay in America, but my heroes’ names

were Winnetou and Old Shatterhand, not Nephi or Ammon. Besides that,

little can be said about my spirituality, especially as I was made to kneel,

whilst my father would utter the lengthiest, most boring morning prayers.

Well, as long as he was on vacation I could bear it. Father always prayed for

guidance and protection throughout these trying times. Whatever was he

talking about? What trying times? There were no bombs in Wolgast. Wasn’t

everything going according to plan? Even the fact that we had no chocolate

didn’t matter all that much. Hadn’t the Germans wiped the Russians off the

map? Didn’t they stand on firm ground in France? Just one more short step

and then surely the whole world will lie at Germany’s feet, like a dog that

had undergone a severe beating. Before us Germans, lay a paradise with

colourful flags and banners decorated with the lovely swastika. I used to

get so angry at comments that the war would be lost because too many evil

deeds had taken place. Often this anger was directed at my father and my

innocent mother. In spite of it all, once he had returned to the battlefields,

a strange longing followed him. Being so far removed I could bear his words

when he declared: »I must go, but this I promise you, I shall never aim my

rifle at another human being.« It was good that he was so far away, else I

might have run to my Hitler-Youth leader and accused Father of being a war

enemy.

In one of the bombing raids the Allies executed on Hamburg, my little

friend, Ev’chen, was killed. This was the first time that it hit me; the first time

I became aware of how serious times were. No better was the horror-filled

night of 17 to 18 August 1943. The sound of loud sirens tore us from our deep

sleep. This meant only one thing: get to a bomb shelter as fast as possible. I

just turned over and fell back asleep. How often had these sirens disturbed

us in vain. The aircraft would fly over our little town to some important city.

Suddenly, somewhere close by, a loud explosion occurred. Grabbing my shirt

and pants, I hurried into our cellar. All hell had broken loose. Our house

shook and my young heart was in trouble. I had only one thought: »This is

the end!«

In the morning we were informed that not Wolgast, but the neighbouring

village of Peenemuende had been under attack. Hundreds of Lancaster

and Halifax planes had executed their deadly mission. English Intelligence

Services had gained the knowledge that Hitler had ordered the construction

of rockets there, named V-weapons (with the intention of destroying London

and other cities in Great Britain.) Even though it was 6 km away it seemed

that I could hear the wild screams of the prisoners of war who worked there.

Their cries shook the air between the blasts. Prisoners from France, Russia,

Britain and others countries, left without any kind of protection, were burned

with phosphorus. Helpless, they hung on the wire fences that surrounded

their prison camp.

Both these events opened my eyes and shaped my soul. I became a very

serious person. I had matured far beyond my age.

Just as the boys in this picture, I too blow my fanfare

During 1943-1945 Church meetings were held on weekday evenings. Our

missionaries had served in vain to find anyone to be baptised. It looked

as though all their efforts were ineffective. At Relief Society there were 2

sisters, namely Mrs. Schult and my mother. Oh yes, and then there was I,

troublemaker number one!

It was in the middle of one of their meetings that I finally succeeded in

having my mother sign the papers permitting me to pilot a glider. She had

finally given in, and I was happy.

In the first weeks of 1945 we received only negative news. Oh, how I

longed to be free: no one, nothing to stand in my way, no, not even the dry

teachings of my parents. Father was far away in German-occupied Narvik,

in Norway … I dreamed of a life free from all commandments and laws that

held me bound. I longed to enjoy my youth whilst Father, with every letter

we received, informed us that he prayed for us.

At that time however, the ideas of breaking laws were harmless. Let’s

face it, when we’re 15 we might wish to be men, but when all is said and

done, we’re still only kids. In spite of that, I began to have my little romantic

fantasies in regards to some of the beautiful girls in Wolgast.

One late afternoon in March 1945, all youth were summoned to assist

at the railway station, »Wolgaster Faehre«. We were to help Red Cross

personnel transport wounded soldiers to the local hospital. The train came

from Swinemuende, the next battlefront. I envisioned pictures of the weekly

newsreels at the picture theatre: well-furbished transports for all injured

people, with the best of hospital accommodation. However, as I stood,

watching the steaming engine climb over the rise at Mahlzower heights, a

feeling of doom enveloped my soul. We ran towards the carriages, the sun

lending her last rays to the day with just sufficient light to behold a scene of

utter horror: the train had been blown to pieces there were mere remnants

of a train. Above the noise and the smoke of the engine, were the screams

of 200 or more 17 and 18 year-old boys. Here was another moment of truth.

No one could possibly evaluate the measure of suffering and pain except

they were to behold it with their own eyes. Was this the glorious victory I

had been dreaming of? My legs gave way under my body. I was barely able to

stand up. A man called out: »They attacked the train!«

It must have been »Rattas«, Russian pilots taking their final revenge, or

perhaps English »Spitfires.« I felt helpless and enraged, especially because

each one of the carriage roofs was marked with a large red cross.

As the door directly in front of me was torn open by a huge »Weapon-SS«

man, the stench almost knocked me out. The first soldier lying in the doorway

was dead. The next, who had been bandaged up before the journey, pulled

him self up on me until his arms had found themselves around my neck. The

third cried out: »Friend, friend!« His head, except for his mouth, was covered

with bandages. The bandages were black. Somehow I was able to catch him.

Even though I was only 15 my feelings were of a love I had not known before,

mixed with unspeakable anger. As quickly as possible we transported our

comrades in hand wagons, wheelbarrows, and on everything that had

wheels, to the auxiliary hospital.

In the days that followed, our little town was filled with more and more

soldiers from all fields and status of war personnel. They were all trying to

escape the battlefront.

My order to join the »Volkssturm« (Folks storm), which consisted of 15

and 16 year-old boys, arrived on 22 April 1945. On that day the Russian forces

had crossed the River Oder near Stettin. Had this order come just one month

earlier, nothing would have stopped brainwashed kids from running without

a care into the certain death trap, in the firm belief that, with the aid of the

promised »Wonder weapon« such as the V2 (built in Peenemuende and

other places, with a shooting range as far as London), this war could still be

victorious.

Goebbels’ propaganda apparatus, to which we were exposed without

interruption, had left its effects. But after having held the bloody leftovers

of my young friends in my very own arms - after hearing the screams, after

seeing their pain - I was happy to see my small, yet very vigorous mother

bang her fists on our kitchen table, and with all the strength her anguished

voice could muster, she cried: »No! No!« She straightened her back to show

who was in charge, but in spite of it could not hide the fear in her beautiful

eyes. Had I not witnessed all I had, I would not have respected her decision.

As things stood, I was scared. The thought that I could really be killed had

put a totally different view on the matter.

On one of the final nights under »Great German« rule - after we had

transported many more wounded soldiers to the emergency hospital, where

the surgeons worked 16 to 18 hours daily to rescue mutilated young comrades

– I caught my mother with her head underneath a green woollen blanket,

listening to Radio London. There were those treacherous 4 drum sounds. My

mother stood bent over our little receiver. We boys had been told to report

any person caught listening to lies from our enemies to the Nazi authorities

instantly. It was our duty. We had to react immediately - the NSDAP had to

be informed of such treason, whether by father or mother, it did not matter.

In my anger I yelled at my mother. She emerged from her blanket snapping

at me, telling me not to disturb her. The blanket still around her small

houlders, her soft hair in tangles, her forehead showing the strength of her

personality, I felt so disgusted. As a good German I needed to run to report

this. I needed to do my duty. Punishment must be meted out. The turmoil

inside me grew to a raging river. However, to my everlasting happiness the

better good within me seemed to scream out: »Don’t do it!« I stopped in my

tracks. All of this was in total opposition to what I believed. Now in all this

hopelessness, this helplessness over losing the war, feeling totally degraded,

I slammed the door behind me. I saw only this huge black hole in which the

whole world had disappeared. I did not wish to see it any more. I wanted to

go away, vanish for ever.

Just days before the Russian forces entered Wolgast, at one of my piano

lessons, my teacher, Mr. Johannes Reese, whilst sliding his long, elegant

fingers across the keyboard in the final cords of the piece before us, said in a

most solemn tone: »I can feel that the Mormon Church holds far more truth

than all the others.« Sentences like this one caused much reflection inside

of me. Like the coloured stones of a huge mosaic they seemed to find a place

inside my heart. Even though that place was far away at that time, the little

stones would lie in wait to fulfil their purpose.

Later on Mother would remind me how, on 29th of April, I had been placed

on the top of the high watchtower to be a look out for the approaching Russian

Army. I did not think much of it; especially as just an hour prior to that I

had upset our local police officer. It all seemed a just punishment. However,

when Mother found out that I was to be the guard throughout the night, she

Wolgast watchtower

stormed to the police station, where the local authorities sat contemplating

what to do. If they were to somehow leave - quietly vanish - and then be

caught by the very dangerous army-police (»Feldgendarmerie«), they would

be shot on the spot as traitors. On the other hand, if they waited until the

Russians arrived, they would more than likely be transported to Siberia.

»Where is my son, Gerd?« The walls resounded. Mother could hardly

make out the grim faces of the men cowering in the smoke-filled room.

Then she spied Mr. Wallis who was a well-known member of the Baptist

congregation »I heard from friends that you fired a shot at my son.« One

man tried to excuse him self and the fact that he had fired a shot at me, in

the air, because I had thrown a stone at him. Mother was in no mood for any

antics. Victorious, as any brave warrior, she rescued me from the lions’ den.

On the 30th of April 1945, at 11 am, a huge explosion rocked our

neighbourhood. Oh, boy! It must have been a beauty of a land mine.

The force of it knocked my friend, Richard, and his sister, Gisela, and

me flat to the ground. Gisela had just invited me to a little adventure. The

explosion shook us like leaves, and I pressed myself even closer to the floor.

But the feared second explosion did not eventuate.

»Mother!«

The fear that perhaps she had not survived this event pushed me to

my feet. Like a crazy person I threw myself over and over against the huge

wooden door, which, because of the enormous blast, had set solid in its

frame. In my mind I could see my mother, my sister, Helga, and my little

brother, Helmut.

»I’m coming, I’m coming!« I screamed. I could see myself turning over the

fallen rubble of our big, old house, trying to find them. After what seemed

like an eternity, my friend and I finally succeeded in opening the jammed

door. I ran – oh, how I ran! My feet barely touched the pavement. Through

the narrow lanes I flew, repeating the same sentence over and over: »I’m

coming, I’m coming!« One more turn and there was our street, ›our house‹,

my home: 17 Langestrasse. All the houses stood undamaged, except for the

windows. Praise be to God! What in the world could it have been but for an

enormous bomb?

Someone leaned from an upstairs window to inform me »They have

bombed the huge bridge. It’s all gone!«

So what! I was alive, my brother and sister were alive, and my mother was

still with us. The 2 German soldiers who we had watched just some hours ago

must have known the time this would occur, but had not informed anyone

of it. The German military had destroyed the huge elevator bridge, hoping

to keep the advancing Russian forces from entering the island of Usedom,

on which the Germans still hoped to establish some military resistance.

Let’s face it, any minute now Russian tanks and canons would roll down our

streets.

My fears soon left me. I stood in the street waiting. All the town shop

windows were shattered. Excitement filled the air. Freedom was moments

away. For 2 hours Wolgast was a no man’s land, without law, without police,

without soldiers. It was a mess of glass-splintered, open shop windows.

The establishment of the Gauger confectionery store in the market square

beckoned: »Come! Help yourself! Today everything is free.« Was I to refuse

myself? No, no way? I stepped into the clothing section of the shop to view

the meagre lot of men’s clothing. Many people had already entered the

same way. As I had intended to help myself, it occurred to me: »Gerd, this

is stealing. This is not right. This is not kosher.« I had these feelings as I had

experienced them many times before. The small but firm voice: »Don’t do

it.« For some moments I stood paralyzed and confused.

More and more people had entered the shop. Not only had they come

via the broken windows, but by now they had also entered through the

open doors. I saw myself mirrored in the faces of those people. What I saw

seemed so unreal: women, mothers, especially all these grown ups. Had I

not always regarded them as angels? How could they behave this way? Were

they all lost somehow, somewhere? All that was within me swung like a

pendulum from one extreme to another. For a while the frantic grabbing,

squabbling, and fighting seemed as though a whirlwind of crazy humans

were performing a witches’ dance. All this behaviour over a few grey and

black suits which hung lost on a single rack. Everything raced: my blood, my

thoughts, the people. All my emotions were caught up in a dizzy spell, in the

total confusion everywhere. But as fast as it all began, it ended. Yes, even my

normal thinking power returned. For I said to myself, now is now, otherwise

I was just determined to survive it all. And whilst I harboured the hope that

I was going to succeed, others gave way to their pessimism and ventured

down to the Peene River, driven by fear and helplessness. Mothers, now

widows, tied their children to their bodies, added some heavy rocks and

jumped off the pier.

Driven by a cheeky fearlessness, I grabbed a pair of green trousers, which

happened to lie directly in front of me, and took them home. I did not feel all

that happy about it. But who cared any way? I harboured the same feelings

as some time before, when I had climbed a garden wall and taken a handful

of apples - and had been caught! Only this time it was I, myself who had

caught the villain. For this is the reason I hung my stolen goods over the

cellar window instead of taking them upstairs to my room. Next the thought

came that some sweets would be nice. »It has been 2 years since I’ve tasted

sweets.« So I ran to find a place among all the boys and girls of my age, who

were all hoping to find a little chocolate or coffee at the Andersen shop. I had

not yet learned that a guilty conscience reacts by diminishing one’s moral

potential. I acted somewhat brutally as I pushed my way to the margarine

shelf over which women and boys were fighting. Above my head someone

yelled: »See here, I have found this container!« Others grabbed at it and tore

the item from his hands. The carton broke and all the coffee beans spilt on

the floor. Someone started to throw glass jars through the air, fuelled by

anger because they contained only red beets or perhaps because they did

not hold the desired fruits. Wherever they landed the ground turned red.

Several boys threw the jars through the open window into the street. It all

turned into a hellish spectacle.

The shopkeeper, Mr. Anderson, appeared on the scene. He was a little

50-year old man, with a large bald spot on the top of his head. »Ladies!

Ladies!« he lamented, wringing his white hands as he assessed the disaster

in and around his shop. One of the women approached him: »I’m not a

lady!« she screamed, throwing one of the bottling jars at his feet. The poor

man, now sprinkled by the red juice, gasped for air. How could young men

ever understand the fears of the women at this particular time of Russian

invasion? »The Russian Army will come and hurt us!«

In all that confusion I had managed to collect 16 pieces of margarine, which

I took home. Then I returned to try to make another theft, no longer worried

by my conscience. As I turned the corner of our street I beheld my 9-year old

brother, Helmut, with a large round cheese, almost as high as himself. He was

coming down the gentle slope of the street, rolling the cheese like a wheel,

straight towards me. Not much further up the street was Mr Kriwitz’s general

store. There, as everywhere else, the crazed population had turned to shop

lifting. People everywhere were just concerned with survival. It would have

been easy to take such a possession from a 9-year old. The picture of my little

brother and the huge cheese wheel will remain engraved in my brain forever.

The little blond-haired guy grinned at me. »Hold on,« I thought, »hold on.

Something is very wrong here.« My thoughts came more clearly, much more

clearly than 30 minutes before, when I had first reached out to take that which

was not mine. The awareness that what we had done was not right, and the

command to return that cheese, came with the same breath. »This is theft,«

I snapped at him. He returned my reactions with a happy grin. For him it was

just fun. After all, rolling such a large object required some skill. Within me,

however, developed a totally different concept. I came to the apt conclusion

to return everything we had taken, and I did just that.

Some minutes later I beheld the first Russian soldier, as he walked down

Langestrasse. He walked straight towards me, his finger on the trigger of his

pistol. For years I had listened to the lies of Nazi propaganda, which had

painted a picture of a deprived, uneducated, inferior race of human beings.

Besides that, had I not often seen the half-starved, raggedly-clothed,

miserable creatures as they were driven through Wolgast like cattle, to be

placed in some prisoner camps. To meet this handsome man, a warrior and

fighter of the Red Army as he approached me, left me utterly surprised and

stunned. I was not frightened as his appearance was very pleasant. There was

something about him that reminded me of my own father. The thought came

to my mind: »Gerd, before you stands a true hero!« He wore a high Russian

hat of black lamb fur and a loose black cape over his uniform. Although his

pistol was aimed at me, at no time did I fear for my life. Surely he too had

reason to fear. All around were windows, doors and corners from which

a deadly shot could be fired. He walked easily, showing no haste, neither

looking to the left nor the right as he passed by me. My eyes followed him

in amazement and thoughtfulness. I shall never forget that encounter. I had

not yet learned that it was not the uniform that separated the good from the

bad. Thus I learned within mere moments one of the most important lessons

of my life, strange as it all may seem. Somehow I felt drawn towards this

stranger. I became aware of how wrong my attitude had been throughout

all my life. After he had long disappeared, I stood still, contemplating and

questioning, »Is this how they really are?«

It was very disappointing to see that not all Russians were like that noble

stranger. For just hours later hundreds of new soldiers of a totally different

kind entered our town. Hordes of unrestrained, wild men filled the streets. I

had persuaded old Mr. Gottschalk, also known as »Leller,« our helping hand

in our small business, to come with me to investigate the new scene. He was

surprised at first not to be bothered by the Russians. However, it did not take

too long before a youth about my age, dressed in a thin, dark green cotton

shirt relieved the hunched, rheumatic old-timer of his golden watch. Two

big tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks as limping, lamenting, bent over

his walking stick, he turned to walk away. What he had lost had been his

one and only possession. Screaming women rushed past us, soldiers chasing

after them. A shot rang out and we stepped aside to let the maddened crowd

of robbers and rapists pass us by. My bewilderment over everything I had

witnessed was so extensive that, in a reflex motion, I raised my right hand

and shouted: »Heil, Hitler.« An elderly officer, in his green uniform, must

have noticed my shock. For what it was worth, he could have taken offence

at such an outburst and shot me on the spot – after all we were at war! He

looked at me, shook his head, just as a wise father would, smiled, lifted his

index finger to his forehead, turned and walked on. Later, other soldiers

would kick my backside with their boots for just looking at them.

As the shooting between Germans and Russians started all over again

we took refuge in our cellar once more. There we sat on wooden benches

for 2 days and nights, in total darkness, and listened to the artillery fire

and explosions. In fear the women listened to every sound that came from

above. Was the front door being opened? Would footsteps descend into the

cellar? Would beasts in the form of humans fall upon them? On the third day

a tall young lady settled down beside me, cried, and told the other women

in our shelter how she had been mob-raped, how she had fled and hidden.

In her despair, she had remembered 17 Langestrasse and Mrs. Stolp, our

neighbour, and hoped to find protection there, because the old lady was a

member of the communist party.

As fate would have it, Mrs. Stolp had passed away 2 days prior. As the

young lady feared to venture out into the street again, we sat next to each

other in the cold, dark cellar. I found it most pleasant to know that my lap

had become a pillow for her head. Totally exhausted, she cried herself to

sleep. Several times throughout the night, her body jerked in fear. Gently I

would run my hand over her head and cheek calming her down and she did

not object to it.

On the fourth night the noises coming from outside did not seem to be so

severe, so I decided to go back upstairs to sleep in my bed. Old friend, ›Leller‹

did the same. In the distance, some hundreds of meters away, we could still

hear the rumbling of grenades. In no time at all we fell into a deep sleep.

After the war

On the 8th of May the shooting finally stopped. I ventured out into the

street. Everywhere I looked I beheld intoxicated Russian soldiers. To one of

the vehicles that rolled through the streets, they had fastened a cow. The

rope around her neck had strangled her to death and she had been dragged

over the cobblestones leaving a huge streak of blood behind her. My eyes

followed the martyred creature and the thoughts that came to mind were:

»This is a symbol of war and victory. This is what it looks like.« Many of the

people, most of them refugees from the east, elderly men and women, had

misery and pain written all over their faces. Many of the young women were

pregnant. They had seen many places that were totally destroyed, they

had witnessed brutal mobbing, murder, rape and more. They had lost their

homeland. Their husbands, fathers and brothers were dead or crippled. There

was no hope, no future - only fear of the rough »soldateska« (soldiers).

Still there were others in uniform, men who stood out from the maddening

crowd - men like the first Russian I had encountered.

I remember the day a convoy of installed lorry rockets (Stalin’s weapons)

stopped in front of our house. In the midst of all the well-disciplined soldiers

sat my little brother. On his straw blond head they had placed a huge, dark

steel helmet. Laughing they passed him around like some rag doll and

spoiled him with biscuits. What they found amusing was that the little

guy had one brown and one blue eye. They were most civilised, for none of

these men would leave the vehicle to enter and rob our home. Many of the

locals cursed all of the Russians. That was really not fair. There were soldiers

who did enter our home and tried to play our piano but they were always

pleasant. At this time I could not tell why people were good or bad. I needed

to gain far more experience in such matters. Had I not believed the Nazis,

the news reporters and men like Josef Goebbels or Adolf Hitler? Had they

not all perpetrated fantasies and lies?

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. 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 then 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 then 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 Zimmermann, »been murdered on Brigham Young’s orders.« (p.

45). Instantly I knew that Zimmermann 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,

Zimmermann could not help praising some of the amazing achievements

accomplished by these faithful people. Zimmermann hated Brigham

Young (who became the leader following Joseph Smith, the prophet of the

restoration), like no other Mormon. However, at the same time, Zimmerman

admired all this man had achieved, and wrote of Brigham Young’s excellent

leadership abilities. Zimmerman saw him as a man of far sightedness and

perspicacity in regard to 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. The extreme width of

the streets, the enormous blocks are pleasant to behold. In the first weeks

of April and October Latter-day Saints flock to the centre of their faith to

attend General Conference of which the final session is the most beautiful.

The Saints are admonished to live according to the principles of the gospel.

Thousands of faithful saints rise as the prophet lifts his hands towards

heaven to pray and bless the people. This is followed by utter silence during

which one could hear a pin drop. The Saints feel how the inspiring words

of their prophet, fill their hearts and souls. Even the stranger can feel the

wonderful spirit emanating throughout the building. All this is followed by

the sound of the massive organ as 500 voices break forth in singing praises

to their God. To close the gathering the whole congregation of 1600 people

would sing the Hymn of the prophet: »Praise to the man who communed

with Jehovah. Jesus anointed that prophet and seer. Blessed to open the last

dispensation, Kings shall extol him, and nations revere. Hail to the Prophet,

ascended to heaven. Traitors and tyrants now fight him in vain. Mingling with

Gods, he can plan for his brethren; Death cannot conquer the hero again.«

Strangely enough not so much the positive in Zimmerman’s words, but

the negative caused me to ask many questions. I needed to find the answers

to these questions, in order to gain my own testimony. All the things that

Pastor Roessle wrote lay in opposition to each other: on one page »This

godless priesthood, which has claimed thousands, trampling on the word

of God, dragging the Saints through the dust. Countless Germans are being

defiled with teachings making them believe it is all heaven’s food for their

souls.« But on the very next page Roessle believes that Joseph Smith was an

honest man. »His character is much disputed. The Mormons think of him as

the greatest martyr of the century and as the most important man to have

lived in our time. His enemies just call him a liar. Others say that Joseph

Smith himself believed in his fantastic revelations and believed to be a tool

in the hands of God. With all these facts he developed an amazing skill of

planning the future. Moreover, he knew about labour and business affairs.

His friendliness and love towards all men had always been appreciated,

especially by the humble and uneducated people who adored him.«

I thought, »Look at this – the back and forth of these reports. Surely

everyone who reads these pages must notice them. This knowledgeable

thinker could not be compared to a mere teenager such as I was. Besides, I

knew all that my father had taught me, even if the meetings I had experienced

as a child were ever so boring. I tried to remember, but then I could not think

of anything at all that was not good and positive. The messages were clear:

»Be the best you can, whenever you can, wherever you can. Be the best,

always rise to the challenge: Do it!«

And thus, in spite of my lack of knowledge, and in spite of my youth, I

could see the warped views of both these authors. I read and reread whole

passages. I read far more in those 7 days than I had in the past 15 years

of my life as a Mormon boy, every fibre of my being vibrating to the truth

that someday in my future I would be capable of explaining that here were

eternal principles of great value; that the teachings of Mormonism show us

an ever-expanding view; that they are filled with ideas to build and expand

the human soul, ideals that will lift all mankind to a higher level of existence,

without boundaries or limitations; teachings that leave individuals free to

choose their own destiny. I felt as though these teachings opened up a door,

leading to a kingdom of spiritual growth where I would be free to cherish my

own thoughts, where I could do all I wished to refine and educate myself if

I so chose. This then was in total opposition to all other Christian doctrines.

Here the name »Church« had a beautiful sound.

Soon I was able to find the connection between the different teachings.

It became intuitively clear that what the world needed more than any other

thing was the blessings of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.

Well I remembered the day, it was on the 30th of April 1945, the

conversation I overheard at the front door of Mr. Gauger’s shop between

a German parachute soldier, his round steel helmet in his hand, and a

young Russian journalist in uniform. They were discussing the future and

the question of what would become of Germany now that the Third Reich

of Adolf Hitler’s era had collapsed. The surprising answer from the young,

fluent, German-speaking Russian journalist was: »We need something that

will bind all nations together.« These words planted themselves in my heart

like the roots of a mighty oak tree. I could feel the conviction with which

this man spoke, giving the disillusioned German a view of the kind of future

he envisioned. The Russian asked for support from one who was once

his enemy, now his captive, who had laid down all his medals of war and

somehow appeared like a shorn sheep.

Why was I, Gerd, there? Why did they permit me to listen to their

conversation? Now I know! It was all part of a far greater plan. Here a

Russian journalist asked a German to start writing articles that would go

to all prisoners of war in Russia. I do not exactly remember why I seemed to

comprehend the Russian’s request, except that somehow I knew that once

conditions had settled down, people had to find a better way, otherwise the

silly as well as the smart would succumb to their human follies, commit the

same errors, and would, because of high spirits, fall upon each other, causing

endless grief. It seemed perfectly clear that Christianity thus far had failed.

I sat in the attic of our house pondering the many thoughts that engulfed

my eager mind: the words »We need a new idea.« Over and over it occurred

to me that Mormonism may well be that idea: After the original teachings of

Jesus Christ. He who called himself, »the Prince of Peace.« had been changed

and falsified and lost their effectiveness. If the hidden knowledge of the

preexistence of the human soul, as taught by Joseph Smith, and restored

by Heavenly Father to the earth to teach us once more about higher ideals

in life, if all Christians would became aware of the eternal nature of their

souls. Surely this knowledge, as far as people would accept it, would become

a healing balm to unite all nations. Surely this is what God wants for his

children. As I reflected on these ideas I could feel a pleasant light and a

spirit of peace resting on me. I’m left wondering, »Would I have had all these

wonderful feelings, if I had kept the stolen goods? - if I had allowed myself to

give way to weakness and passions?«

Zimmerman’s and Roessle’s attacks on my Faith the Church of Jesus

Christ of Latter Day Saints, or nicknamed by the world as the Mormons were

a wake-up call for me. True, all they had written would perhaps be believed

by tens of thousands of ignorant people who would demand even as these

authors: »Stop the Mormons and all their false teachings.«

I have read Roessle’s book, Aus der Welt des Mormonentums, that State

and Church must unite to wipe out Mormonism. Roessle insists: »I cannot

emphasize it loudly enough: the Mormons’ goal is to convert the whole world

and thus enslave all of mankind. The whole system is geared towards this

goal. This is the purpose of their extensive missionary effort. One must also

be aware that Mormonism is in opposition to Islam, although in many ways

has the same capacity to adjust to all traditions, situations, and views, even

to the point of absorbing all beliefs.« To cap it all, he adds: »This still small,

nominal, completely different church, will one day gain global status. This

American church is a dangerous shallow belief, with a total lack of biblical

knowledge, aided by the power of Satan. Under the banner of the gospel

they are going about spreading their teachings. Because of their satanic

forces the Mormon sect will become a world power and a great danger to

the nations of the earth.«

My finger lay on page 91 of Roessle’s writings, and thus he opened my

eyes. Among the literature I found in our attic were several pamphlets. I

shared them with friends and distributed them among the refugees who

had settled all over Wolgast. Often there would be more than 20 people

living and sleeping in our hallway. All of them had lost their homes because

the Russian and Polish Governments would not return the lands that they

had conquered. Most of the refugees had lost everything, save the clothing

on their backs. At the end of 1945 most of the beautiful old Cities of Great

Germany lay in ruins.

Johannes Reese, my piano teacher and Father’s old friend, asked around,

if any of the refugees or others would be interested in attending meetings at

our home. Johannes Reese conducted the meetings in my father’s absence.

Among the first visitors to our home were the Dunkers, the Chusts, and

the Weber family. Mrs. Weber was a widow with 3 children, all of whom

later became members of the Church. So did Lady Waldmann, my friend

Hans Schult (who later became district president in the East Berlin area),

and others. More than 20 souls investigated the Church in our home. But

Mr. Reese taught a fair mixture of Catholicism, Evangelical and Mormon

doctrine. As most of our guests were happy to talk, think and exchange

thoughts on subjects other than the lack of food and everything else, they

returned on a regular basis to the meetings held on Fridays or Sundays. At

times I found these meetings very boring, but I learned a lot about The Holy

Bible and history.

Mr. Reese was a cosmopolitan man. His knowledge was enormous. He

would never forget to bear his testimony about The Book of Mormon: »This

record is true!« If asked why he was not a member of the Church of Jesus

Christ of Latter-day Saints, he would simply shrug his shoulders and answer:

»I have a lot of friends - I want to hold on to their friendship. But, I’m certain

Joseph Smith did not deceive the world.« The men and women looked at him

with wide eyes. »One must ask the question why a man would write such a

book? Had Joseph Smith insisted that these things were of his own making,

he could have had a long and peaceful life. With all his talents and abilities

he could have became a wealthy, famous preacher and leader. All he would

have to have said was: »I think!« or perhaps instead of organising a church

he could have started a new political party, and perhaps received much

applause. As it was, he was mayor of a city called »Nauvoo, the beautiful«

of which he himself laid the foundations. After all, it was one of the largest

cities in the United States at the time. He had original thoughts and a mind

that operated with crystal clarity. This is made manifest in the structures that

he built. His ideas in the realm of education were extraordinary. It was his

goal that uneducated people in prisons should receive lectures and courses

that would give them a chance for a new start in life; that industrial centres

should be situated outside the borders of the city; that homes should only

hold one family and be built on large blocks of land in order to have sufficient

acres for gardens and recreation. He was a man who loved all people, who

called everyone a brother and friend. It was he who was persecuted, driven,

and threatened. Ever since the publication of The Book of Mormon he

was hunted like a fox by a dozen hounds until the very end. Yes, he could

have saved his own life. All he had to do was to deny the principles he had

preached. Instead he said: »I am going like a lambto the slaughter; but I am

calm as a summer’s morning; I have a consience void of offense towards God,

and towards all men. i shall die innocent …« Doctrine and Covenants 135:4.

Then he submitted himself to his hang masters, even though, at the time,

he could have chosen to escape the raving mob. Now I ask you, my friends, is

this the way a liar would act?«

After Mr. Reese’s impressive explanations there would be silence in the

room. He continued, »Don’t get me wrong, I was not always of this persuasion.

Many times I have fought and argued against this man. Now I must admit

that I did so because I was ill informed and ignorant. This, I believe, is often

the reason why people close their eyes and hearts to the truth: the less they

know, the more they talk.« He laughed: »Well, why should I be any different?

In the end you really need to figure it out for yourselves. Go out into the

streets, ask any Christian to tell you about the Mormons and even though

they have no idea what so ever, they will firmly decide against them.«

Hans Schult and I took up Mr. Reese’s challenge. Together we went out to

prove it for ourselves. As we entered the street we stopped a gentleman aged

about 60, who I knew belonged to a Christian congregation. »What do you

think about the Mormons?« I asked him. Stunned, the old man looked at me

with an earnest expression and replied: »The Mormons are a horrible sect.«

»Why are they horrible?« I asked.

»They have polygamy and, on top of that, other scriptures!«

»Do you personally know any Mormons?« I asked. »Do you know their

other scriptures?«

»Oh, no,« he replied. »Praise the Lord that I don’t!«

A little later the missionaries arrived in our area once more. In the fall

of 1946, shortly after my father had escaped from a prison camp in France,

Elder Walter Krause came to visit us. (See: Edith Krause, Walter Krause in

seiner Zeit, 2005, p. 122). In spite of all his wounds Walter came to visit us. He

was a survivor of the destruction of the city of Dresden, in February 1945. He

had left his family in Cottbus, to serve a mission for the Lord. Unbelievable!

This was shortly after his return from the war and after years of absence

from his waiting family. But, he found a ripe field to be harvested, and within

a few weeks 50 people became members through baptism.

The first of these converts was Mr. Max Zander. He was a well-educated

gardener who had asked his friend, Johannes Reese, about good literature.

Mr. Reese had given him The Book of Mormon. Max read it and was totally

surprised. »Is this really true?« He asked.

»Go and attend their meetings,« my piano teacher told him. Max did. He

listened to Walter Krause, and felt the spirit of this man and the Church. It

was overwhelming for him. I remember those wonderful hours of inspiration.

Without hesitation Max asked to be baptised.

Elder Krause said: »Are you sure?«

»Yes, Brother Krause, I am!«

The date for Max Zanders’ baptism was to be on the 14th of December

1946. The night prior to that, very cold weather arrived in our area. Concerned

we followed the mercury on the thermometer: minus 10 degrees Celsius! I

carried the axe, Walter and I broke a hole large enough for 2 people through

a 12 cm layer of ice in the river. And thus it came to pass, that the branch in

Wolgast was organised.

In October 1946 my father returned home a sick man, his soul recovered

very slowly … In the last days of the cruel World War II, my father had

listened to the news. The newsreader had announced that my father’s little

hometown, Wolgast, had been totally destroyed, and in his imagination he

saw his wife and children dead, lying under piles of rubble. Shortly after that,

he became a prisoner of war. He was transported to France where he had to

labor in a coalmine. There his soul became terribly ill. Month after month,

the darkness and the uncertainty over his family, made him even more sick.

No hope, no light. Around him were desperation and hunger, but we were

OK. I was 16. We were lucky to live in an undamaged home.

After one and a half years in the coal mine my brave father made the

decision to flee and escape that hell. And he did. It was very dangerous …

At last, in October 1946, after traveling for more than 1000 kilometers

and experiencing many adventures, he saw his hometown Wolgast well

and whole. He saw my mother, my brother and sister and then he found me

at the workbench, in his workshop. He was so overwhelmed that he broke

down. He did not regain his balance for several months and was incapable

of work. One day he asked: »Gerd? Will you help me?«

»Yes,« I answered.

»Please, fast with me so that I can get better.«

We fasted for many weeks, 1 or 2 days, sometimes for 36 hours. It was

hard. I was young and hungry, laboring daily in our small business. After

weeks of effort, and not seeing any improvement in Father’s health, I asked

myself, »Why?« Later on, however, I could see. Father’s health had improved

and, with that, my own soul received strength.

One day, whilst working in our machine room in which we produced

wooden shoes, Mother came in to show me a telegram from the district

president. «Gerd, I need your help, please come immediately. Walter Krause.«

Immediately I stopped the machine, took a look at the clock, and 30 minutes

later I stood on the railway station. It was the only way to travel as nobody

had a car, or a motorbike. My destination was 100 kilometers away. It was late

and, 25 kilometers before reaching my goal, the journey was interrupted. I

felt terrible. The rail officers told me that the rail lines had been destroyed,

and that there would be no trains for the next 10 hours … I had to make a

decision. »Well,« I thought to myself, »I will just have to walk …« Five hours

later, hungry and exhausted, I reached Prenzlau. The President shook my

hand and said: »Gerd, we need the key to the assembly rooms to proceed

with our sacrament meeting to morrow. I do not feel well enough, to go to

Brother Popanz. Would you go to fetch the Keys for me? Brother Popanz (one

of the first German missionaries after World War I) is sick as well and is not

able to come. Now the residence of Brother Popanz was 16 kilometers away.

And so I kept right on marching for 32 more kilometers.

The next day, Sunday, with key in hand, we opened the door. I had no

idea that this would become one of the best sacrament meetings of my life.

We were having our meeting on the first floor; in the room directly below us

young people were having a party with very loud music.

It was a hot afternoon. There were 6 of us singing: We Thank Thee, O God,

for a Prophet. Elder Krause began to preach and I heard his first words. It

was also the last one for me. I fell into a deep sleep. It was wonderful. I will

never forget it. I’m sure that in the next life I’m bound to tell you the same

true story. It was here that Heavenly Father blessed me with my first great

testimony, for in exactly those minutes I could feel the beautiful power of

the Holy Ghost. It was like tender waves flooding over me, again and again

whilst I was asleep. I felt it, and I could see and understand. I received a great

confirmation: Joseph Smith is the prophet of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Exactly 50 years later I related this experience in my address to the members

in Prenzlau. Following the meeting, Edith Krause and Luise Eckert approached

me and said, »We can remember that Day and the wonderful outpouring of

the Holy Spirit we could all feel it. It was a special time for all of us.

Excerpts taken from Walter Krause’s Diary, published in 2005 by Edith

Krause, Walter Krause in seiner Zeit, p. 138:

Ehrlich gesagt:

Ich werde ihn nie vergessen, diesen etwa dreißigjährigen, hünenhaften Goten im Gewand eines russisch-orthodoxen Priesters, 1972, in Leningrad (St. Peterburg). Sein junges, weißes Gesicht, der ganze wunderbare Ausdruck seiner Persönlichkeit. An diesem Herbstmorgen wollte ich ihn ein zweites Mal sehen und bin früh aufgestanden um ihn, vor dem Morgenausflug unserer Reisegruppe, sprechen zu hören.

Aber, das gibt es ja nicht bei den Orthodoxen, dort wird herrlich gesungen und innig gebetet.

Ein hakennasiger Sechziger, mit langem, schmalen Gesicht und gewisser Hohheit, der ein Intellektueller sein musste, kam mit anderen Besuchern nach vorne. Der junge Mann nahm ihn unter die Stola und gab ihm wie ich vermute einen Segen. Beider Mienenspiel bewies mir ihre ganze Ergebenheit gegenüber Gott.

In Moskau bewunderte ich, ein Jahr später, die schlichte, einfarbige, aber ergreifende Deckenmalerei eines Künstlers der in der Epiphanien-Kathedrale eine Geschichte aus dem Johannesevangelium, in einem Zyklus darstellte. Es war die Atmosphäre die mich ansprach, es war die Jahreszahl 1922, die mir sagte, dass in der bittersten Zeit der Nachrevolution einem Mann dies da wichtiger war als alles andere. Hingebungsvoll erzählt der Maler, wie Jesus zum Jakobsbrunnen geht und eine Frau anspricht, die fünf Männer gehabt hatte und die nun unverheiratet mit dem sechsten zusammenlebte, was Jesus wusste. Ihr Erstaunen: “wie kannst du als ein Jude mich eine Samariterin um Wasser bitten”, beschwichtigte er beeindruckend. All das fand hier seinen schönen Ausdruck.

Wikipedia: die Epiphanien-Kathedrale

Viele Jahre später, etwa 1995, besuchte ich in der Nähe von Orlando, Florida einen Gottesdienst der "Born again". Die hübsche Dame auf der Bühne, deren Beine auch meine Blicke auf sich zog, rasselte mit einem holzfarbenen Tamburin um die etwa sechshundert Anwesenden, die allesamt den Eindruck gut situierter Bürger erweckten, in Schwung zu bringen....

Alles was folgte konnte gefallen, hatte jedoch, nach meinem Eindruck, eher den Charakter einer Show. Dagegen waren die Versammlungen die in der naheliegenden Mormonengemeinde stattfanden langweilig und nüchtern.

Der Lehrer in der Priesterschaftsklasse war kaum imstande eine lebhafte Diskussion zu entzünden und doch... da war ein Satz: "Laßt uns das Beste sein, das wir sein können."

Eine Woche zuvor, bei den "Born agein" gab es etwas ganz anderes das tief in meinem Bewußtsein haften blieb: "Jesus lebt! Hallelujah!" ein korpulenter Mann im noblen Dress eines Londoner Bankers war aufgesprungen und rief es ins Mikrofon: "Hallelujah!"  Begeistert wiederholten Farbige und Weiße dieselben Worte, auch sie erhoben sich, warfen, wie ihr Prediger, die Hände in die Höhe: "Jesus lebt". Sie jauchzten geradezu. Mich beschlich jedoch die Frage: "Wieviel hast du heute verdient, Prediger?" Verfolgt dich jemand deines Glaubens wegen? und in Gedanken sah ich wie Pfarrer dieser Christengruppe den Pöbel Missouris, 1838, aufhetzten: "Schickt sie zur Hölle, die Mormonen!" Und sie taten es.

Ehrlich gesagt und ehrlich gefragt: Was ist das, ein Christ?

Der Traum eines Mennoniten

Seine Vorfahren waren 1788 nach Rußland ausgewandert, aufgrund der  Einladung der deutschbürtigen Zarin Katharina II. (1762-1796). Sie siedelten sich im Westen der Ukraine an, ließen musterhafte Dörfer zwischen den Flüssen Torez und Donez entstehen, die zum Schönsten gehörten was es in dieser Gegend zu sehen gab. Sie fühlten sich dort bald heimisch.
Kurz vor dem Revolutionjahr 1917, nachdem sich die Lage grundsätzlich zum Negativen gewandelt hatte, wurde der damals etwa sechsjährige Georg Hildebrandt mit einem Wahrtraum geehrt. Er sah sich in Deutschland, "es wird sehr lange dauern bis ich reise. Ich werde noch lange hier in Rußland umherwandern, erst danach fahre ich... eine alte Frau fährt mit...nein, nicht die Mutter, aber die Frau ist immer dabei..."  Seiner Schilderung am Frühstückstisch wurde kein Gewicht beigemessen, schließlich war es Erntezeit und die Gedanken der Erwachsenen drehten sich um die Tagesprobleme. "Mich aber hat der Traum mein ganzes Leben begleitet..." und beschützt, schreibt Georg, der sich, in den vielen Jahren seiner grauenvollen Gefangenschaft in sowjetischen Sibiriengefängnissen und Arbeitslagern fast ununterbrochen  in höchster Todesgefahr  befand.

Dass Gott ihn auswählte Zeuge für jenen Tag zu werden, der, nach unserer diesseitigen Laufbahn für jeden von uns kommen wird, ist die wohl unausweichliche Erklärung für die Besonderheit dieses Menschenlebens. Georg-Isaak sollte ein Augenzeuge für die Verruchtheit des Kommunismus, wie er ihn erlebte, werden. Sein Verbrechen bestand darin, der Sohn eines wohlhabenden Bauern zu sein, in einer Zeit, um 1929, als Stalin die Kollektivierung der Landwirtschaft ankommandiert hatte.
Sein Pech und das hunderttausender anderer Rußlanddeutscher  bestand darin, 1941, als Hitlers Armee grundlos und vertragsbrüchig die Sowjetunion überfiel, ein Deutscher zu sein, ein Umstand der nicht immer, aber überwiegend, wie in seinem Fall,  so gedeutet wurde, er sei ein potentieller Faschist.
Zu den unentschuldbaren Vergehen der damaligen Sowjetbehörden gehört die Ungeheuerlichkeit, dass sie die "politischen" Gefangenen nicht strikt von den Kriminellen  getrennt haben. Im Gegenteil, wichtige Mächtige wollten, dass  sie auf engstem Raum zusammen arbeiteten und "wohnten", Schwerstverbrecher und Unschuldige. Niemand sollte dem Sadismus der Peiniger entkommen.

Georg erinnert sich: "Am achten Tag (meiner zweiten Verhaftung) wurde ich in eine Zelle verlegt, in der ungefähr achtzig Häftlinge zusammengepfercht waren, die alle aus dem Verbrechermilieu stammten. Es war die schrecklichste Zelle von allen. Eine solche existierte in jedem der großen sowjetischen Gefängnisse, die ich kennenlernte, und trug auch immer denselben Namen: Indien. 
Als ich hereinkam, wurde mir von dem ältesten Gefangenen, einem vielfachen Mörder, eine Stelle auf dem Fußboden unter der aus Brettern gezimmerten Liege angewiesen. Auf diesen Brettern sitzend, spielten die Verbrecher nachts Karten, dann rauften sie - das ganze Gestell wackelte und schaukelte, und ich stand eine furchtbare Angst aus, darunter zerquetscht zu werden. Am zweiten Tag wurde ich zum Zellenältesten gerufen. Er saß in Badehose und weißem Hemd alleine auf einem breiten Lager. Sehr genau wurde ich ausgefragt, wer ich sei, woher ich käme und in welchen Zellen ich schon gesessen hätte. Solche eingehende Befragung fand bei jedem Neuankömmkling statt, denn jeden verdächtigte man zuerst als eingeschleusten Spitzel. Wurde ein Spitzel entdeckt oder ein Häftling besonders verdächtigt, dann setzten sich vier bis fünf Männer auf ihn und und hielten ihn fest, ein Handtuch wurde um seinen Hals geschlungen und von zwei Gefangenen zugezogen. Dies alles geschah blitzschnell. Kein Schrei, kein Lärm - das Opfer starb lautlos..."

In seinem Gesuch um Rehabilitation an den Ministerrat der UdSSR schilderte Georg, Isaak Hildebrandt im Spätsommer 1961,-  nachdem die gröbsten Missstände schon behoben worden waren -,  die Zustände, die in sowjetischen Gefängnissen der Stalinära herrschten: "... nach zwei Wochen kam ich für sieben Tage und Nächte in die kalte Einzelzelle mit betoniertem Boden. Von der armseligen Kost in diesen sieben Tagen will ich nicht reden... schon vor der Gerichtsverhandlung war ich moralisch auf dem Tiefpunkt angekommen und vom Hunger ausgezehrt. Ich lag im Gefängniskrankenhaus und zeigte überhaupt keine Willenskraft mehr... bereits im Gefängnis erkrankte ich an Lungentuberkulose. Während der ganzen Zeit, die ich im Gefängnis zubrachte, bekam ich  keinen einzigen Brief oder ein Nahrungsmittelpaket. Später erfuhr ich, das mir durch einen Sonderbefehl alle Gaben verboten waren... die gerichtliche Untersuchung wurde in gröbster Form vorgenommen, die Zeugen waren ohne Willenskraft. Sie waren eingeschüchtert und bezeugten, das der Untersuchungsrichter zu hören wünschte. Bei der Gegenüberstellung mit den Zeugen ermunterte er sie: "Sprechen, sprechen sie nur, er kommt nie zurück, er verreckt, den werdet ihr nie mehr treffen. Wir verstecken ihn so, dass er verreckt."

Nach langer Lagerhaft und anderthalb Jahren Zwangsarbeit in der Kolyma ist Georg am Ende seiner Kräfte angelangt, wird jedoch schließlich zum "Freigelassenen" erklärt. Er darf aber nicht heimreisen. Plötzlich steht er jenem Offizier gegenüber, der Jahre zuvor, zu gewissen "Zeugen" gesagt hatte: "Redet nur, habt keine Scheu, packt aus, wir verstecken ihn so, dass er verreckt."  Verblüfft, so unerwartet seinem Opfer gegenüberzustehen rutschte dem Mann die Frage heraus: "Warum lebst du noch?"
Georg schaut ihn an. Das war ihm ja verheißen worden, dass er noch Deutschland sehen werde.
Nun versuchten sie es erst recht, den "Faschisten" zu ermorden.
Aber die das planten konnten nicht ahnen, dass eine höhere Macht über Georg waltete.
Sie transportieren ihn auf dem Wasserweg über das Ochotskische Meer, vorbei an den japanischen Inseln. Immer wieder wird er von den ebenfalls freigelassenen Kriminellen attackiert.
Wie sollte Georg ahnen, dass der Staatssicherheitsdienst die von ihrem Minister, Berija, amnestierten Verbrecher dazu aufgefordert hatte, ihn umzubringen.
16 Freigelassene fehlten, als sie im Hafen von Nachodka gezählt wurden. Die Banditen hatten sie aus Spaß in den Ozean gestürzt... "schon am zweiten Tag (der Heimreise) hörten wir von Deck aus die verzweifelten Hilferufe eines Mannes der über Bord gegangen war. Wir baten den Kapitän haltzumachen und ein Rettungsboot auszusetzen. Er aber schien taub zu sein... dieser Vorfall ließ mich vorsichtig sein. Ich schnallte mich oben an Deck an," (denn eine Kabine zu benutzen war Georg Hildebrandt verboten worden) "... mit meinem Hosengürtel band ich mich an einem starken eisernen Ring fest... denn von meinem Schlafplatz bis zur Reling war nur ein Abstand von anderthalb Metern... dann hörte ich die Worte: "Über Bord mit ihm", und im selben Moment packten sie mich an Händen und Füßen, um mich über das Gelände in die eisige, vom Sturm aufgewühlte See zu werfen. Sie zerrten mit solcher Gewalt, dass ich glaubte zerrissen zu werden. Aber der Gürtel hielt mich fest. der schreckliche Schmerz ließ mich laut aufschreien. Trotz der lärmenden Feier (die im Schifssinnern stattfand) drang mein Schrei an die Ohren der anderen Passagiere. Meine Peiniger suchten das Weite, das Ochostkische Meer wurde nicht zu meinem Grab..." Unter den Freigelassenen befanden sich auch einige deutsche Frauen. Eine von ihnen "erzählte mir in Nachodka", berichtet der Verfasser, "dass der Staatssicherheitsdienst MGB den Kriminellen befohlen hatte, mich zu töten. Sie hatte das von einer Wachfrau erfahren, die sie schon einige Jahre kannte. Diese Gefangene hätte es nicht länger ertragen können, mit diesem furchtbaren Geheimnis zu leben...

Meine Bitten auf eigene Kosten weiterzureisen, ohne Aufenthalt in Übergangsgefängnissen wurde immer wieder abgelehnt,... nach zehn Tagen in einer nassen Zelle wurde ich in einen Raum mit Kriminellen gesteckt. (die natürlich wissen wollten, woher er kommt und ob er "echt" ist...) Drei Tage lang musste ich vom Leben in der Kolyma - dem Kältepol der Erde und seinen Todeslagern - erzählen...Sie wiesen mir dann einen Platz in der Nähe des Fensters zu, einen der besten Plätze... die Kriminellen sagten: Wer in der nassen Folterkammer nicht verreckt, wird zu uns zur endgültigen Erledigung gebracht. Aber vor einem Menschen, der die Kolyma überlebt hat, vor dem haben wir Hochachtung, den rühren wir nicht an..."und wieder drohten die Untersuchungsbeamten ihm eine fünfzehnjährige Haftstrafe an.
In einem weiteren Übergangsgefängnis muss Georg erneut mit anderen Kriminellen zusammensein und schlafen. Dann liegt er plötzlich alleine. "Nach drei Sunden wurde ein sehr kräftiger, noch junger Mann in meine Zelle gebracht,... Brust, Arme und Rücken waren mit Tätowierungen bedeckt, er rühmte sich drei Männer umgebracht zu haben, und erzählte mir sehr ausführlich, wie er es getan hatte..." dann prüfte ihn der Verbrecher, erkannte jedoch an den Namen die Georg ihm sagte, dass sein Bericht zutreffend ist... "Kurz vor Chabarowsk, seinem Reiseziel, sagte er: Du weißt nicht, weshalb ich in dieser Zelle bei dir bin. Der MGB hat mich beauftragt, dich zu erwürgen... Ich tue dir nichts, doch deine Reise bis Swerdlowsk in den Ural ist noch lang. Die werden dich kaltmachen. Ich lege nicht Hand an einen Menschen der die Hölle durchgemacht hat..." Dieser Unhold gab ihm dann wirklich gute Ratschläge, die Georg noch sehr hilfreich sein sollten.

Georg überlebte danach auch einen Gefangenenaufstand, obwohl er längst auf freiem Fuß sein sollte. Dieser Protest  wurde von zwölf hochrangigen Offizieren angeführt, die den Tod weniger fürchteten, als jede vermeidbare Unterwerfung unter die Willkür der bestialischen Aufseher. "Wir werden in Moskau mit gutem Gewissen als Helden erschossen. Euch aber wird das Gewissen, wenn es der Satan nicht schon herausgerissen hat, bis zum Tod plagen. Ihr seid nur elende Diener der Kremlbande, die früher oder später vom eigenen Volk vernichtet werden wird."
"In großer Ehrfurcht" so schreibt Georg Hildebrandt, "gedenke ich der zwölf tapferen Männer. Für das Leben dieser Helden habe mit Innigkeit gebetet, so wie meine Mutter für meine Rückkehr gebetet hat... Mich aber hat der Traum mein ganzes Leben lang begleitet."
 

Als Rentner erhielt er schließlich die Erlaubnis zur Ausreise nach Deutschland, Georg fährt durch eben die Städte, die er als Kind schon im Geist gesehen hatte, die ihm in seinem Wahrtraum gezeigt worden waren, wie die Frau an seiner Seite Agathe, sein Engel der Ergebenheit.
 

Georg Hildebrandt "Warum lebst du noch?" Ullstein, 1993

"Mormonen taufen Tote und rauben ihnen damit die Seele"

so lautet der Inhalt einers Protestes von Dean Grunwald in "EIP red. us" am 25. 02. 2012. Ohne Frage, die Seele (der Geist) des Menschen ist unsterblich. Immer mehr Reanimierte berichten, dass sie am Ende einer Reise durch einen Tunnel in eine oft als herrlich empfundene, völlig andere Welt aufstiegen, willkommen geheißen von einem liebevollen Lichtwesen. Immer mehr Ärzte neigen dazu diese Berichte als real zu werten.
Kann nun irgendjemand denken, irgendeine irdische oder gar unterirdische Kraft sei imstande, auch nur eine einzige dieser im Reich Gottes angelangten Seelen könnte z.B. durch einen geheimen Teufelskult gestohlen werden?
Wenn es nun nicht pure Anti-Mormonen-Propaganda ist, eben dies den "Mormonen" zu unterstellen, was ist es dann?
Ich selbst habe hunderte stellvertretende Taufen miterlebt oder mitvollzogen, bin seit 1957 Tempelinsider und leide weder an Schwachsinn noch an einem ähnlichen Syndrom. Jeder Tempelbesucher der Kirche Jesu Christi der Heiligen der letzten Tage hat sich bereits durch die eigene Taufe und durch jeden Tempeltag erneut entschieden verpflichtet, den Grundsatz individueller Entscheidungsfreiheit, der jedes Menschen heiligstes Gut ist, mit der ganzen Kraft seiner Persönlichkeit, selbst bis in den Tod hinein zu verteidigen.
Der Schutz des Individualrechts ist ja der Kern des sogenannten "Mormonismus", was auch unsere Feinde wissen.
Weshalb wir auch rückhaltlos für das Existenzrecht Israels einstehen!
Deshalb ist es eine gewollte Beleidigung meiner Kirche und unseres Gewissens zu behaupten wir versuchten verstorbene Seele posthum zu "Mormonen" zu machen. Niemand, der seine Sinne einigermaßen beieinander hat, kann zu solcher Schlußfolgerung gelangen, weil die Seele, um die es sich handelt, in der besseren Welt in noch höherem Maße den Schutz seiner Persönlichkeitsrechte genießt, es sei denn er bezeifelt die absolute Integrität des Schöpfers.
Kann ein ernstzunehmender Christ oder Jude dieses ewige Rechtsprinzip auch nur ansatzweise in Frage stellen?
Die auch im Neuen Testament nicht negativ erwähnte "Totentaufe" ist lediglich der diesseitige Part eines Bündnisses mit Gott Jesus Christus, der aus dem religiösen Verständnis nahezu aller Christen, (und nach Jesu Worten, die er an Nikodemus richtete,) unverzichtbar ist.
Zu einem Bündnis gehören immer zwei. Für einunddieselbe Seele könnten zehntausend "Totentaufen" vollzogen werden, sie wären völlig wertlos, wenn der Allmächtige und die verstorbene Persönlichkeit es nicht akzeptieren.
Was mich wundert, ist die Absicht dieses Thema zum einem Politikum zu machen.

PS. Nein es wundert mich nicht mehr, soeben las ich diese Notiz in

"The New York Times"

GREENVILLE, S.C. vom 18 Januar 2012, von Serge F. Kovaleski:
" This Year, Voters Focus More on a Man Than on His Religion"

Da heißt es mit Blick auf die Wahlen von 2008 mit welchen Mitteln und Tricks einige Jesusfromme in South Carolina arbeiteten:  "The month before the voting, several thousand South Carolinians received fake Christmas cards purporting to be from Mr. Romney that endorsed polygamie and that falsely claimed to have been sent by a Mormon temple in Boston."

Zu deutsch: "Monate vor der Wahl, 2008, erhielten mehrere tausend Bürger Süd-Carolinas gefälschte Weihnachtskarten, die angeblich vom Boston-Tempel der Kirche Jesu Christi der Heiligen der Letzten Tage stammten, auf denen es hieß : Mr. Romney billige Polygamie."

Good luck, America