A large estate to the left of the road, looming red buildings, long livestock stables, barns, sheds. We saw the vanguard of our column turn off into the yard. We trotted through the gate. To the left behind it stood a hollowed-out tree trunk that served as water trough for livestock. It was crowded round by pushing, shoving, yelling people dying of thirst. The guards herded us on. "You'll get water on the meadow!" they said.

We staggered more than walked across the yard, out another gate, along a brick wall. The first group from our column was already lying on the meadow in the grass. We were assigned a spot beside them, and collapsed to the ground.

The place was without shade and the sun broiled down mercilessly, but we were allowed to rest. Our hearts pounded in our chests, still doing their duty. Our feet burned. We must have lain as though lifeless for half an hour. Then young Meister came up with a bucket of water. It was distributed among our group; we drank the bucket empty, not a drop was left. Meister returned to the yard, he took the young girl along who had obtained bread for us on the sugar factory yard, he fetched water for the women. Even these guards were more amenable if there was a woman along.

Meister repeated his trip numerous more times. He had to put up with curse words, threats, punches, but he did not give up, and other younger comrades joined him in bringing water. Later, a cart with a water barrel came by, all of us received a little water, some even got enough.

We had been on our feet since early morning of the day before. We had stood in the yard of the sugar factory from six o'clock until two in the afternoon, the march-off had begun at about three. For the entire afternoon, the entire endlessly long night, and throughout the morning hours we had marched, with perhaps two or three rest breaks of any note. Yesterday evening we had received a slice of bread, that was all. During the night, if ever we had been allowed to sit briefly at the side of the road, we had dug turnips and even potatoes out of the ground with our bare fingers, and eaten those to try to quench our thirst at least a little.

We had barely a glance for the two groups arriving after us. They staggered up tired, ragged, weaving on their feet, with gray faces, covered in dust, dull-eyed, and threw themselves down on the grass as we had done.

Names of comrades who had been shot or beaten to death were passed around: Albert Schröder from Deutsch-Westfalen, Robert Bitzer from Gross-Lonk, Franz Pankalla, Hugo Zühlke from Netzwalde, a fifteen-year-old... I remember only a very few of them. But I saw that Senator Busse still lived, and others whom I had given up for dead stumbled up to us, supported by their neighbors, or even being carried the last few steps. How much silent, matter-of-fact self-sacrifice, how much eager willingness to help, how much tough endurance everywhere!

A few carts with the weak, the sick, the most elderly arrived. We had to lift them from their places, lay them in the grass, moisten their brows, their hands. Ortwig, whom I met again here, told me in a whisper that there was a cart in the manor yard with ten or twelve dead comrades on it. "Are they really dead, or just so exhausted that they couldn't move any longer?" "No, they're stacked on top of each other, their feet are hanging down over the end. They're dead," he replied, in a voice made terrible by its lifeless, choked monotone.

At the edge of the meadow lay a small swampy pool. I saw that comrades were washing themselves there, faltered over there as well, took off my shoes and socks, put my feet into the water, rubbed the coating of filth off my soles and heels, picked some green leaves, wrapped them around my toes and heels, pulled my socks back over it all. Now it was bearable to stand up again. I returned to my place, almost cheerful. On my way I was stopped. Editor Kuss, whose apartment in Hohensalza had been in the same building as mine, offered me a cigarette. I took it, smoked a few puffs; I felt as though I had just had a refreshing breakfast. Others finished the cigarette.

Despite the heat I slept a little. In the afternoon we had to line up again. Our journey went on.

When we walked out onto the road – it was still the wide concrete road leading to Warsaw – we were sucked into the stream of refugees again. An entire nation fled eastward. Women in cars, in elegant clothes, made up and with painted lips; peasants in well-worn work clothes walked beside small panje carts in which children sat on bedding and boxes, pigs squealed under bales piled high, bare-footed boys herded a goat or a cow, chickens clucked, dogs barked, a private car or rented carriage from Posen pushed through the milling crowds honking its horn. A horse-drawn medical corps rattled past us and we saw the German apothecary from Mogilno, whom we all knew, sitting on the box seat wearing a Polish uniform. None of us called to him, none of us wanted to give him away; he stared down at us, he knew that we were Germans but probably didn't recognize any of us in our present state.

A unit of Polish troops passed us, heading westward. They had no rifles or bayonets. Were the Poles so short of weapons, or did they not trust their own soldiers? The officer leading the first company coming towards us kept his men together and forbade them any maltreatment, but the very next company beat down on us with spades and cudgels that some of the men picked up from the side of the road.

"How much longer is this going to go on? How much longer do they plan to keep doing this to us?" Lehmann-Nitsche suddenly asked in despair. He was lame on one leg, and it had taken him superhuman strength to keep up his courage to this point. Lemke patted him on the shoulder, indestructible, Lemke was the soul and pillar of our group, he said: "No more than another forty-eight hours, my word on it, no longer. Look at them – look how they're fleeing. Our boys are hard on their heels, and they'll catch up to us."

The more dusk settled over the countryside, the more people streamed onto the road from out of the surrounding woods and bushes. During the day many kept themselves hidden out of fear of the German planes; in the evening they dared come out.

We were exhausted to death, our bodies pumped dry, the great heat of that afternoon had not wrung one drop of sweat out of us, our tongues were parched, we staggered, limped, crept forward. And yet, we left no-one behind. The older ones among us began to fail; we dragged them along, supported them under their arms. Just don't drop back, just don't fall by the roadside. Gunshots sounded behind us and we all knew what it meant. And so we shuffled into the evening, spat at, cursed at, stones thrown at us; we kept our eyes ahead, said not a word, held each other up by our arms, and marched.

Behind us rumbled the sounds of battle. The Germans were coming, the German artillery pounded the ground behind us with iron fists. Towards evening the rumble grew louder, they were coming closer. Smoke from burning villages wafted across the fields. Already we could make out individual detonations. When it was dark we counted the seconds between the flash of the fire and the roar of the shot. We got to twenty-six. So they were only nine kilometers behind us. On all sides to the south, west and north, fires could be seen burning, the sounds of war roared and pounded and rumbled at us from everywhere; we were encircled, and the only escape from the cauldron was to the east.

Wild rumors abounded. The Poles yelled details to each other, we listened greedily and believed nothing we heard. The stars shone above us in a clear sky but we did not look up. We looked straight ahead, our ears strained backwards, the essence of our selves listened. Were they closer?

That night Rehse lost his mind. He tried to break rank, we held on to him, had to fight with him. I kept him in line for perhaps an hour, held his arm in an iron grip, encouraged and cajoled him, and forced him on with punches if necessary whenever he tried to stop. He sobbed, begged, tried to throw himself on the ground, tried to flee, I clung to him like a snarling dog. Later, Udo Roth took over. We got Rehse through.

Shots from the guards' rifles cracked ahead of us, behind us. Those who were beaten down or stabbed barely even screamed any more, we heard them groan or whimper at best. One went stark raving mad, leaped at one of the guards. It was just a brief struggle.

A village appeared before us, a church steeple towered tall and black. Beside the church, artillery was firing incessantly. We lay in the roadside ditch, a water's surface glittered to the left of the street, reflecting the moon, tall trees rustled loudly. Someone brought water in a bucket, we crowded round him, everyone got a mouthful, it tasted of sewage but everyone drank, greedily, blissfully, gratefully.

"The march ends in Lowicz, we'll be put on a train in Lowicz!" Nobody knew who'd said it. The rumor skipped through our rows. Many welcomed the thought of being loaded up – it meant an end to our marching. But we said: "Walk more slowly. They'll catch up to us. Once we're on the train we're all lost." In this way our will to resist reasserted itself time and again. Every marching group had men like Walter Lemke, Udo Roth, Stübner, they were hard, tough, fearless. We walked even more slowly. Even our guards were trying not to stagger. And they had received rations, food and all the water they wanted!

The moon shone, it seemed to have grown a bit brighter. The hubbub of the fleeing nation around us had quieted – everyone was tired.

A column of uniformed soldiers passed us, marching in lockstep. They did not beat at us, did not curse us, they were silent. Then, a soft grim voice: "Hold on! They're almost here!" That had been said in German. Now we saw that these soldiers were under guard by others. They were ethnic Germans who had been forced into the Polish army. The Poles did not trust them, had disarmed them, sent them to the rear. A miracle that they hadn't been shot yet.

And the artillery fire roared behind us. We limped, crept on even more slowly.

A bridge over a wide stream crosses our road. It's already dawn. A prisoner drops over the stone parapet into the shallow water below, the guards fire, he's standing up to his knees in the water, bends down, fills his hat with water, drinks and drinks. The bullets splash into the stream beside him, he drinks and drinks, dips his hat full once more, wades to the shore, runs up the embankment, rejoins his marching column, he has not been hit. The guard in charge of his group silently lets him back in, he's one of the few who do not participate in the slaughter. The dripping hat is handed from one to the next, everyone takes a few sips and passes it on; ten, twelve people are a little less parched than before.

There's a brackish water hole by the roadside. Some try to run to it, to fetch water. The Poles drive them back with blows from their rifle butts. One comrade begs for water; a guard takes the man's canteen, walks to the water hole, fills the canteen, brings it back, two trembling hands reach for it, ten, twenty pairs of eyes are fixed on the bulging bottle, the Pole turns it upside down, pours its contents on the ground, walks along beside the column, holds the bottle out before himself as he walks, the water gurgles out and disappears into the sand.

Two men from the last group who could no longer take the thirst ran out of their row at this same water hole. They ran the few steps, they had no containers, they knelt down, scooped the brown liquid with their hands. Two Poles walked across the grass, seized them by their heels from behind, tipped the two drinkers into the water, held them by their feet until they no longer moved. Then they let them go. "Now they've got enough water in their guts," said one of the murderers.

A railroad track came over from the right, then another one, then more and more converged. We were approaching the train station. From out of the fog, a town appeared, covered by a dense layer of smoke. Occasional tongues of flame licked upwards. It was light now, bright morning, veiled over by drifting banks of smoke and fog. The past night was an ugly dream. Soldiers had thrown hand grenades among us, had beaten us with spades, white-haired men lay murdered on the ground. Now we saw the women again, walking ahead of us. Indeed, they had survived it all too. Now it was light, the cool dawn air was refreshing.

Suddenly, beside me, Lemke bent down. He had received just as little water as the rest of us, and had eaten no more than anyone else. Where did he find the strength? He picked something up off the ground, a shiny object, held it up, showed it around! "Today we'll get something to eat, comrades. Look, I've already found the spoon!" How good such words did us all.

We were herded off the road down onto a narrow path. Ahead of us lay the burning city, a long row of small square wooden houses stood to our left, and behind them, a large flat meadow, with a small stand of pines at its far edge. We walked along it. The artillery had been silent for hours.

Suddenly there was a crash ahead of us, toxic clouds of smoke plumed up from the earth and there were ear-splitting explosions. The air above us howled. We threw ourselves into the roadside ditch. An iron fence stood there, and big red buildings on a large yard. The guards yelled and screamed: "Up! Back! Everyone on the meadow!"

"Keep off the road, get away from the tracks here!" I heard Walter Lemke say. His voice was completely changed: hard and quick. I looked at him, his lips were clenched, face dark as a thundercloud. "Man, Reinhold!" he said. We hurried, stooping, along the ditch, urging the others along.

"To the right, onto the meadow!" Udo Roth was now also yelling, "away from the tracks!" What were they so upset about? His voice carried sharply, as though he were an officer again, instructing his unit. Again there was a howling whistle above us, then an infernal crash, we ran, hundreds ran. Where were our guards? I saw none. They were gone, had run away.

"Not that far, not that far!" I heard someone roar. A rattling sound filled the air, and I threw myself into a dry ditch that zig-zagged through the meadow. "Trenches?" I thought. "Here?" They had been very hastily dug. The machine gun still rattled. We huddled behind the trench walls. We looked into each other's flickering eyes and saw hope. Great God, could it be true?

A piercing cry: "A plane! A plane!" We looked up, from the sky a gleaming silver bird rushed down, it circled over us, we could not lift our heads above the trenches for the machine gun fired its rounds right over the grass. Now another voice rang out: "He's putting a red flag out!" And another: "He sees us, he sees us!" Just a few seconds, and then it rushed, howled, hissed above us again, and then there were detonations that made the earth tremble. The sand skittered down our trench walls. And now there was a new rumble in the air, planes high above us, several planes, eight or ten or twelve of them, and now bombs crashed and thundered down from above, they landed distant from us, more towards the Poles. They had arrived – they separated us from the Poles. They had been called in, they had been told about us, our Fatherland had not forgotten us – it struck, now it struck. Grenades and aerial bombs hung a curtain between us and the Poles. We were in the battle zone between the frontlines.

Thus it went on for an hour, eased off a little, returned, for two hours perhaps. Then, suddenly, silence. And then a cry, a shining, bright, clear voice, heightened to superhuman registers by overwhelming joy: "German soldiers! German soldiers at the tracks!"

It catapulted us up. Yelling, running, stumbling, tears, piercing loud cries, the entire field a sea of sobbing, laughing people, rushing forward, we fell, jumped up, ran, the women in our midst, we carried the lame, the sick, the old right along with us, grabbed them under their arms, loud cries like a song, a wave, a crescendo, Heil, Heil, Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler! Our voices failed and yet we shouted, mouths smiling, lips trembling, tears coursing down. Our hearts? Could our hearts bear it – this, too? Could a human heart bear this?

There they stood, our soldiers, ours, just a few, ridiculously few, young, almost children, blond, smiling, under steel helmets, dusty, sweaty, they let us hug them, kiss them, did not fend us off. We stood around, lay on the ground, pounded the earth with legs and fists, shouted, laughed, sobbed.

Until – had much time passed, or just a little? I don't know – until silence fell, and we all stood up and joined in a song. The singing rose and fell; like a wave it ebbed when only a few sang while the others choked back their emotions, and like a wave it soared when everyone had regained control. Arms raised in a holy vow. Germany was among us. –

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