We had waited for two or perhaps three hours when finally the policeman with the pince-nez appeared again and called our names. We had to line up on the road, were re-grouped and then led as the first of all of us into the yard of the factory. At first we thought the factory had been bombed by German planes, but soon we learned that it had just not been used for a few years. The yard was separated from the road by a high barbed-wire fence and, in some places, by a red brick wall. Guards were posted everywhere. We were led up to a long, tall building, evidently an old sugar warehouse, but were not permitted to enter; instead, we were assigned places along one of the two broad sides of the structure. And that's where we were left to camp out. Not a soul saw to us all day long, and we got no food and no water. Since the day was warm it was quite bearable. Some of us had a few leftovers of rations, which were distributed among our group as fairly as possible. But in the noonday heat our thirst grew worse and worse. I picked a guard who seemed to have a humane demeanor and asked him if we would be given anything to eat or drink. The man replied that of course we would get food, after all, the Poles are not barbarians. But this promise, made by other Poles as well, was all we received.

In the afternoon someone said that coffee was being brewed in a corner of the yard. Some of us managed to get hold of some cups. Since hundreds of people crowded around the iron pot that had been set up in a shed, and the Poles did not dream of ensuring order, there was not much to be done. Anyone who managed to get a cupful shared it, sip and sip alike, with the rest. These past days had taught us what comradeship is. The word was never spoken among us, but each learned from the other, none wanted to come up short, and the example set by Udo Roth and Walter Lemke worked on all of us. I also cannot forget to mention old man Stübner; even later, during our great march, he often refused bread and water altogether, saying that others needed it more than he did. Old man Heinecke, the young brave Wilhelm Meister, sly Julius Mutschler who often managed to find something edible, be it a few turnips, some sour pickles or two cups of buttermilk, and delivered it all faithfully to Lemke – all of them did what they could, and their tenacity, their eagerness to help, their willing sacrifices, all done as if it were a matter of course, made my heart beat faster with pride and joy many a time.

When we had entered the factory yard there had not been a single other German in it. Only a few hours later the place was teeming with people, and convoy after convoy of tired, frightened prisoners arrived. All of them were assigned to spots in the open air, and soon we were told to move closer together. We already knew how cold the September nights were getting, and gladly moved as close together as we could so as to be able to keep each other warm in the coming night.

As the afternoon went on, we all grew ever more hungry. Yes, we had been fed in prison, and in our cell where we had not had any exercise the food had seemed almost enough. But here in the open air it turned out that we were really quite debilitated.

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I wandered around among the new arrivals and the groups already encamped, even though the guards had forbidden it. But we were always looking uneasily for friends and acquaintances. Whenever one recognized someone there was always much to tell; it passed the time and one did not heed one's rumbling stomach as much. Soon, Wilhelm Meister joined me.

As I already mentioned, the square where we were confined was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. I had heard that the women were also being kept in the same factory yard, but separated from us by barbed wire. I ambled slowly through the groups of our men, standing around or encamped as the case might be, and in fact found the women in an enclosure of their own. Cautiously we approached the barbed wire fence behind which they were settled. Meister called to a girl standing near the wire. She came towards us right away, but pretended to just walk up and down the fence; without looking at us, with her face half averted, she asked if she should get us something to eat. I told her she should keep her supplies, as none of us knew what was to come. At that, she dared a glance in our direction, smiled, and said that if we had money she would try to buy some bread and fruit for us. They were not kept under as close a guard as the men were.

Neither of us had money but we knew that one of our comrades had managed to keep a larger sum hidden from the Poles. Meister hurried back, while I now observed that on the opposite side the women's enclosure bordered on a road and that there was only a wooden fence there. Behind that, she told me, were the Jews; at first they had tried to curse and harass the women but once they had realized that they might be able to do some business with them they had instantly become very obliging.

We talked a little, and agreed that if a guard were to try to chase me away I would claim that the girl was my daughter. After Meister returned with money we soon had an entire loaf of bread, a bag of apples and even a piece of sausage. A few women had gathered together in a group and stood in such a way that the guards could not see the exchange. Another woman even obtained two bottles of lemonade for us. They were rolled under the fence with a vigorous shove. Similar barter was going on at other points along the fence as well. Meister had soon made friends with the girl – and truly it was a joy just to look at her. Her spirit was completely unbroken, and in her delight at being able to help us she laughed so that her entire healthy fresh young face lit up. When we said good-bye we promised to return soon.

I could not do so that day; on our way back to our place in the yard, when we had passed the short end of the first sugar warehouse, we saw in the long narrow space between it and the adjoining building how a young boy, no older than fifteen, dressed only in a bloody gym shirt and black bathing trunks, was being chased back and forth by half a dozen crazed, bayonet-wielding guards. The boy made not a sound, and perhaps this was exactly what enraged the guards so much. The hounded young boy tried repeatedly to break out at either end of the narrow space forty meters or so in length, but failed. Evidently the Poles had singled him out and then beaten him, for his face was swollen and suffused with blood, and his naked legs were also bleeding from multiple bayonet stab wounds. But the boy refused to give up, and eventually he managed to outmanoeuvre the Poles who kept trying to force him towards the middle; he broke through, ran as fast as he could down the narrow space to the end farthest from us, and darted around the side of the warehouse, the Poles cursing and hard on his heels. But they could no longer get him; his minimum of clothing was his salvation now as the uniformed Poles in their tall boots could not keep up, and he disappeared into the crowd that had gathered. Some quick-witted comrade must have lent him a jacket, probably also a cap and pants, and his pursuers lost him in the crowd.

The two of us stood boxed in between some comrades we did not know. They were dead silent, and then turned away with faces like frozen masks. I had not noticed before now that along the wall of one of these warehouses, lining the sort of corridor where the manhunt had just taken place, a row of completely apathetic men sat on the ground. All of them had clearly endured horrific maltreatment, most of them wore bloody shirts, their faces were beaten black and blue and their heads were crusted with blood.

A moment ago we had been full of optimism on our way back to our group. Now we arrived there in crushed silence and gave the food we had bartered to Walter Lemke, who distributed it among all of us. I ate, for I reminded myself that I would yet need a lot of strength. But I had a hard time choking down the bread and fruit that only a short time ago had tempted me as the epitome of a lavish feast. Then I got up. I could not sit still, and wandered restlessly around the yard. Lemke joined me and I told him what we had just witnessed. I was trembling with rage and fear alike.

"We have to do something about it, we can't just sit around helpless while they butcher us! We have to get some weapons!"

Lemke was as pale as a sheet but kept a calm exterior. That wouldn't help at all, he said; they were only waiting for us to defend ourselves, and then they would shoot us all – and if not, they would pick every tenth of us, and the misery would only grow and grow without us having helped whoever they chose to target next.

We debated back and forth. Udo Roth joined us as well. Eventually we had to part, for we found no solution; there was nothing to be done but to bear it all with patience. "There is one thing we can do: never ever show fear! Never let them see even the slightest bit of fear. Prepare yourselves that they may shoot you or beat you to death, but then die fearlessly. These dogs will not hear me whimper." Roth's lips twisted as he said it, but I knew he would keep his word.

So I walked away aimlessly through the crowd, but turned back right away. I had heard Udo Roth's voice: "For God's sake, Pastor!" Roth stood facing someone I could not recognize from the distance. I pushed my way back to them. Every fibre of my being fought against seeing even more, but the wish to not deliberately close my eyes to the truth won out. All of us were as though cursed with the need to find out more and ever more. Udo Roth was speaking with a man of average stature, whose face looked like the many we had already seen. It was black from countless blows, his eyes were almost swollen shut, lips cracked and bleeding, blood crusted at his temples. We led him to our group and sat him down on the thin layer of straw there. Every move must have been painful, but he saw our horrified faces, he felt our shock, and smiled to ease our worry. He did not complain as he told us of his journey, and it was moving to see how his unbroken spirit strengthened many of our comrades.

It was Pastor Mix from Strelno; the Poles had regarded him and all his fellow clergymen as a particularly dangerous stronghold of all things German. And it is indeed a fact that the Protestant Church in Poland was one of the most unshakeable supports of the German people in my homeland. The Protestant clergymen, therefore, were targeted particularly harshly; Pastor Mix, who had to endure the entire march of the following days from beginning to end, died in Lodz of the inhuman abuses he in particular was subjected to over and over again, but he lived long enough to see our hour of liberation.

Another one to join us here in our imprisonment that afternoon was Senator Dr. Busse from Tupadly, a man more than seventy years old, who had so often represented the German ethnic group and their rights in the Polish Senate, a calm and courageous champion of our people. The Poles had taken a special interest in him, naturally. The old gentleman had to be carried into the camp by comrades as he could no longer walk. He had been treated almost even more viciously than Pastor Mix, and we all feared that he would not survive the night. But our women got us a few refreshments for him and it helped a little. Thanks to the wonderful spirit of one-for-all that reigned among us, he made it to Lowicz and later even to Lodz, and we may hope that he will yet spend many happy years in our liberated homeland and watch its resurrection.

Long Night's Journey Into Day.
The Death March of Lowicz.
Erhard Wittek