But when they are let out again, they see to their disappointment that the stars shine brightly in the sky above. Certainly, at least there is some dew, but they are not allowed to step out of line and not even to bend down. Well, perhaps there will be an air raid soon, then they will have to take cover in the ditches where they could stick the damp grass into their mouths and cool their mucous membranes a bit, swollen as these are from the dryness. But even though the moon is bright there is no sign of any planes, and so hallucinations soon begin among this group as well. One prisoner thinks he sees lush melon vines growing in the ditch - isn't there one of the juicy fruits hanging from every bush? "If only I could get over there, if only I could bend down even once," he says to his neighbor. "I'd have one with a single grasp. The vines are full of them..." He glances cautiously around, but one of the guards is walking right behind him and so he staggers on for a while, keeping his head always turned towards the ditch. Finally he can't bear it any longer and leaps in... The guard fires the same instant. A few times the prisoner's hands still grope through the tall grass, searching for the illusory melons... "Trying to escape, are you?" the guard yells and repeats his rifle. "I've been watching you the entire time, you damned dog corpse, but you won't get away from me..."

Finally, in the third morning hour, a few planes approach, and immediately everyone flings themselves into the ditches without even awaiting the order to do so. How cool the grass is, and how wet it is! Some of them bury their faces in it, others stuff great handfuls of it into their mouth. And - what bliss - the ditch adjoins a turnip field! As unnoticeably as possible they all pull one out, and an arm full of leaves as well, those are so heavenly to chew and the pulp is like balm to their inflamed mouths! And so they are saved for another few hours, saved by the German fliers - gratefully they gaze up at the grey eagles thundering eastward above them in the pale moonlight.

For a few hours they all enjoy some relief, but then the same old torment begins anew. Almost everyone now walks with arms interlinked. That way the ones in the middle can almost sleep while they walk, for their legs move all but automatically by now. And everyone also sleeps during even the briefest of stops, some of them falling so soundly asleep that they do not hear the bellowed orders to resume. If ever they are ordered to sit down, they all drop instantly wherever they happen to stand, whether it be in ankle-deep dust, in the manure of livestock that was herded past, or in the blood of someone who had been shot. None of it matters, just lie down, right away, immediately, don't lose even a second...

Reverend Dietrich patrols the entire marching column several times each night, led by a sullen guard. He is like a loyal shepherd solicitously circling his herd. Whenever he sees someone in one of the rows who totters all too noticeable and has nobody left to either side of him strong enough to support him, he leads him to the end of the column himself and helps him onto one of the sick-carts. Often he notices, the very next time he approaches the cart, that the one he had helped onto it last time is no longer to be seen, but he is not permitted to ask what happened to him. Does he really need to ask anyway, don't the shots that one hears so frequently at the end of the column say it all?

But only few of them still die by a bullet; most die by the bayonet. If a junak happens to feel tired, he simply goes to one of these carts. If there's room for him there, good - if not, he just pulls the nearest prisoner off and sits down squarely on the cart instead of him, while his cronies "liquidate" the sick prisoner, stab him a few times and then simply roll him into the ditch. In this way there is always enough room on the carts for the sick, and despite the constant influx there is only ever the same number of them...

Even at night the roads are now buzzing with peculiar activity. Thousands of peasant carts head eastward along with their column, and in between, entire livestock herds travel along, bawling hungrily. Frequently the prisoners recognize vehicles from Thorn which the refugees have simply commandeered; trucks from the municipal waterworks alternate with street sweeping vehicles, milk trucks from the German dairies follow delivery vans from companies whose owners are staggering along themselves among the ranks of the deportees, and once they are even passed by a factory owner's splendid car in which a whole number of them had enjoyed countless holiday excursions. It seems that all of western Poland is heading east and hardly a Pole has remained in the old German provinces.

"That's their bad conscience!" says old Rausch with a certain measure of satisfaction. It seems this old Siberian's strength is endless, even though one thing torments him constantly: He has not seen his son for days. Perhaps he managed to flee, but perhaps not...

At the next stop he espies an auxiliary policeman who had used to work in his factory for years. He calls him by name, and the guard comes distrustfully closer. "You know me, I used to be your boss - tell me, was I ever not good to you? Didn't I help you often?"

"You did!" says the auxiliary policeman, looking cautiously about.

"Now listen... Here you have my gold watch, and I only want one thing from you in return: Tell me what happened to my son! You know him, you used to work with him..."

The Pole squirms, sneaks a covetous glance at the watch, and finally says softly: "He's dead..."

Old man Rausch flinches a little, is silent for a while, then hands the Pole his gold watch and says: "Now you must do one more thing for me, you must shoot me dead as well. No, I don't want to live among you pigs any longer, now that you've even shot my son... Come, take it, don't be shy - but take me as well, right over there is a nice tree..." And the Pole takes the watch. But he does not let old Rausch leave the column, says instead in a hushed voice: "I'll try to find out where your son was left..." and steps aside, walks back along the road...

As the column finally approaches Kutno, they run across countless troop units marching in as reinforcements. But even these fresh units are not troops any more in the German sense of the word; something has already shaken their inner sense of confidence and they no longer have their entire strength and resolve. Maybe they won't be able to push us through after all, the abductees think with renewed hope; maybe we'll end up in the midst of battle? One air raid after another is being flown on the Kutno train station, but even though they march through the city not far from this station they never once feel real fear: It's not aimed at us, they think, almost child-like, they won't hit us, not our German brothers... In many places the houses are already on fire and line both sides of their nocturnal way like gruesome torches. The crashing thunder sounds to them like the drumroll of the Last Judgement.

Near Kutno they are once again herded onto an estate. This time an old cow shed is their lodging for the day. Again there is nothing to drink, except the contents of an old concrete basin that has filled with drip water from somewhere. The bottom of this basin is lined with old manure which has colored the water yellow, like tea, and besides, there is not even enough for a sip for half of them - but how the others envy those that get such a sip! Around noon Dr. Raapke manages to persuade a farmer to sell the group a large pitcher of milk. When he finally brings the container, bought at dear cost for many zlotys, the milk consists of two-thirds water, but at least now those who did not get a sip of the manure tea can have a bit to drink as well. An hour later, Reverend Dietrich manages a great coup: he buys a pig from the estate owner himself, for an outrageous price. In great haste the women go to work, the pig is butchered, scalded, and already it is cut into small pieces and cooks in a large vat. During the cooking time the prisoners are virtually seized by a fever of anxious anticipation; will the soup be done in time, or will the guards order them to march on just before?

They are not driven on just before, as they had rightly feared; on the contrary, the guards even wait accommodatingly until the meat is well done - but hardly is this meal, the first soup since eight days, ready, when the junaki boldly move in. "You've cooked a good soup for us!" they taunt, pull out their dishes and sit down around the stove, grinning broadly. Almost all of them help themselves to seconds, wolf the meal down with lots of lip-smacking - and then they throw the dirty dishes to the women to wash, and bellow the feared words: "March out..."

Hurriedly the women at least fill all the containers they happen to have, and even have an opportunity to carry the leftovers to the men in their shed - but it is too late for them, and only few of them can still fill their tin cans. Not one has the time to eat while they are still on the estate. When the huge column, somewhat delayed by all this, does not line up as quickly as usual, a policeman walks up to the vat and kicks it over. "Now you'll move a bit faster, no doubt!" he yells, and chases them out of the shed with his pistol.

That night they march to Dobrzelin where they are housed in a sugar refinery, a huge, state-of-the-art industrial structure. Here they have a lot to suffer at the hands of the laborers, who have clearly been incited to hatred against the Germans and once more supply them with all sorts of "news from the front", of the same tenor as always. What does it matter to these vapid illiterates that a third of Poland is already occupied and that almost all active armies are fleeing as fast as their legs will carry them?

They remain in this sugar refinery for only two hours; already the order is given with great anxiety and excitement to move on. They are to spend this day in a nearby forest, an announcement that fills even the last of the five hundred with profound joy. Finally, to spend some time again in real daylight, not having to lie crowded together like sardines on filthy boards, not being eaten alive by flies. "No doubt the junaki fear an air raid," says Dr. Raapke, "otherwise they wouldn't be so agitated!"

But they do not even make it to the forest. Halfway there, a counter-order reaches them: "Fast march to Zychlin station!" they are suddenly told. Fast march, the abductees think - what do they call what we have had to do so far? No, it hadn't been a fast march so far, they realize that the very next moment: from all sides the guards begin to beat them, until the five hundred literally are running. Almost instantly this saps the last strength out of many of them who might yet have endured days of marching the old way - dozens of them drop on the road to Zychlin, and behind the column the rifles do not fall silent for even an instant. The crack of the shots acts on the remaining prisoners like whip lashes, driving them forward time and again despite their weakness; perhaps they finally will be put into cattle cars in Zychlin, perhaps the torture will finally be over there? The vague knowledge that they are heading towards a train station carries many of them through some deciding moments; without it, hundreds would have fallen and died on this stretch of road...

And indeed, in the station of Zychlin there is a freight train, with its steam already up, and even a few passenger cars are coupled to it. The men are crammed into the freight cars, sixty-two per boxcar, but the women are in fact led to the passenger cars, where they can actually sit down for once. From here it is merely a hundred and twenty-five kilometers to Warsaw; they could be there in three hours. Finally the train moves out, but it is delayed for a long time at almost every blockade.

Due to all this standing time in the searing sun, the temperature soon soars to tropical levels, and sixty-two people soon use up the air in their confined space. And once again there is nothing to drink, nothing to eat... During one stop at a track inspection station Dr. Raapke manages to call a boy playing on the embankment over to the train. "Bring me a pitcher of water," he says to him, "I have so many sick people here in the car..." The boy hesitates for a long time, but finally he brings a bottle of water and says shyly: "One liter - one zloty..." Someone has a sort of egg-cup on him, and this is now used to divide the one liter into sixty-two tiny portions which, thank God, means half an egg-cup for everyone! Even if it's not enough to drink, it's at least enough to soothe a little, to soothe the swollen tongues and cracked lips...

But this ride as well ends unexpectedly soon. It is more apparent with each passing hour that the Commandant does not really know what to do any more. Is the train almost encircled already? Is the Commandant trying, by means of this back-and-forth, to break out somehow? After only fifteen kilometers on the train they are chased out again, in the middle of nowhere, and are again fast-marched to Leonzyn. Once again dozens fall by the wayside, but now they are no longer shot, due to the noise; they are now silently beaten to death. In the town of Leonzyn they are quartered, for the first time, not in a stable but in a fire hall, in whose huge outbuilding they discover, with wild amazement, a huge hydrant.

A drinking spree begins such as none of them had ever dared dream of: moans of pleasure fill the entire room, some of them let the water literally run into them, nearly choke on it, almost all of them conclude by taking a final mouthful which they do not swallow for a long time but hold in their mouths to cool the mucous membranes. Drinking is followed by another pleasure, that of washing their swollen feet - in long rows they sit on the stone floor, a bowl or some other sort of vessel full of the cool water beside them. Slowly they peel the rags off their mangled feet, some of which have had the flesh worn off literally down to the bone. Almost everyone's toes are little more than a mass of pus. How good the cool water feels, how unspeakably good it feels... After everyone has cleaned their ulcerated sores as best they can, they tear the last good shreds out of their shirts and carefully bandage up their poor mutilated feet once more... Even if hunger still gnaws at them, at least their thirst has been quenched and the worst of the raging pain in their feet has been soothed - now if only the Reverend could obtain some food from town...

But this time even the Reverend fails, and they must march on that very same night without having had a bite to eat. Not far beyond Leonzyn is the river Bzura; for a while the Commandant searches for a ford, since the large bridges are hopelessly jammed by the troops. After a while he finds one where the water is only just over two feet deep, and the five hundred are fast-marched through. "If we'd had such a crossing a few days ago," many say to their neighbors, "no doubt all of us would have thrown ourselves in for a moment!"

For the first time the deportees see fleets of destroyed vehicles at this ford, a battery and dead horses lies in the Bzura, and peasants' abandoned escape vehicles lie scattered everywhere. Again the night is brightly moonlit, and it is gruesome to gaze at the pale faces of fallen soldiers whom the deportees have seen more and more frequently for the past hour... Were there battles here already? they think with renewed hope. Indeed there were battles here already, but a day earlier, a day too soon for the prisoners; but again they are lucky: just one hour later the ford is already under German artillery fire! Only one hour later the Battle of the Bzura would have crushed all five hundred of them...

Ethnic Germans outside Warsaw, shot and beaten to death en masse. Bodies litter the streets, fields and forests. Those who are found are identified at the collection station. Enlarge

But even though they are now close to Warsaw, they are still not safe. Every few hours they must change their direction. If the Commandant were not such a good field soldier they would no doubt already have become stuck in a dead end somewhere. Fortunately the murderous pace has slowed as well; it was the junaki themselves who protested against it because despite being well-fed they could not keep it up. They rest briefly once more on the Lomna Estate, a model estate owned by the brother of President Moscicki, and that night they see flashes from the artillery on the horizon, on either side. Again they march in sharp angles, once to the right, once to the left, and again the Commandant manages to evade the combat area. Gradually the sound of the machine guns fades, the roar of artillery diminishes with every kilometer, and now it can't be much farther to Warsaw. "So it seems he got us through after all!" says old man Rausch, resigned. "He would have done better to show his skills at the front, than here with us poor sots..."

They spend the day in the town of Blonie, and from there they are to march in one shot to Warsaw - aren't those the city towers that they can already see in the hazy distance?

Death in Poland
The Fate of the Ethnic Germans