Unlike most of the rumours to which we German plenis were often prey, there was some truth in this one, for it seemed that we were just across the border in what many of my more rabidly Nazi comrades probably still thought of as the German Protectorate of Bohemia, otherwise known as Czechoslovakia.
And excitement mounted as we marched into Saxony.
'They're going to let us go! Why else would they have brought us all the way from Russia?'
Why else indeed? But it wasn't long before our hopes of an early release were dashed.
We marched into a little mining town called Johannesgeorgenstadt and then out the other side, up a hill with a fine view of the local Lutheran church and several tall chimneys, and through the gates of an old Nazi concentration camp – one of almost a hundred sub-camps in the Flossenburg complex. Most of us imagined that all Germany's KZs had been closed, so it was a bit of a shock to discover one still open and ready for business. A greater shock awaited us, however. There were almost two hundred German plenis already living and working at the Johannesgeorgenstadt KZ and, even by the poor standards of Soviet prisoner welfare, none of these looked well. The SGO, SS General Klause, soon explained why.
'I'm sorry to see you here, men,' he said. 'I wish I could have been welcoming you back to Germany with pleasure but I'm afraid I can't. If any of you are familiar with the Erzgebirge mountains you will know that the area is rich with pitchblende, from which uranium ore is extracted. Uranium is radioactive and has a number of uses but there's only one use for it that the Ivans are interested in. Uranium in large quantities is vital for the Soviet atom- bomb project and it's no exaggeration to say that they perceive the development of such a weapon as a matter of the highest priority. And certainly a much higher priority than your health.
'We're uncertain what effect prolonged exposure to unrefined pitchblende has on the human body, but you can bet it's not good for two reasons. One is that Marie Curie who discovered the stuff died from its effect; and the other is that the Blues come down the mineshaft only when they have to. And even then only for short periods and wearing face masks. So, if you're down the pit try to cover your nose and mouth with a handkerchief.
'On the positive side, the food here is good and plentiful and brutality is kept to a minimum. There are good washing facilities – after all this was a German camp before it was a Russian one – and we're allowed a day off once a week; but only because they have to check the lifting gear and the gas levels. Radon gas, I'm told. Colourless, odourless, and that's about all I know about it except I'm sure it's also hazardous. Sorry that's another negative. And since we're back on the side of the debits I may as well mention now that in this camp, the MVD employs a number of Germans as recruiting officers for some new People's Police they're planning to create in the Soviet zone of occupied Germany. A secret police designed to be a German arm of the MVD. The establishment of such a police force in Germany is banned by the rules of the Allied Control Commission, but that doesn't mean they're not going to do it under the table, by subterfuge. But they can't do it at all if they don't have the men to do it, so be careful what you say and do, for they will most certainly interrogate and interview you at length. D'you hear? I want no renegades under my command. These Germans the Ivans have working for them are communists, veteran communists from the old KPD. What we were fighting against. The ugly face of European Bolshevism. If there were some among you who doubted the truth of our National Socialist cause I imagine you have learned that it was you who were mistaken, not the leader. Remember what I've said and watch yourself.'
I was one of the lucky ones in that I wasn't ordered down the pit immediately. Instead I was put on the sorting detail. Wagonloads of rock were brought up from the mine and emptied onto a large conveyor belt that was running between two lines of plenis. Someone showed me how to inspect the pieces of brownish-black rock for veins of the all-important pitchblende. Rocks without veins were thrown away, the others graded by eye and tossed into bins for further selection by a Blue holding a metal tube with a mica window at one end: the better the quality of the ore the more electric current that was reproduced as white noise by the tube. These higher-quality rocks were taken away for processing in Russia, but the quantities considered useful were small. It seemed that tonnes of rock would be needed to produce just a small quantity of ore and none of the men working at the Johannesgeorgenstadt mine were of the opinion that the Ivans would be building an atom bomb any time soon.
I'd been there almost a month when I was told to report to the mine office. This was housed in a grey stone building next to the pithead winding gear. I went up to the first floor and waited. Through the open door of the office I could see a couple of MVD officers. I could also hear what they said, and I realised that these were two of the Germans General Klause had warned us about.
Seeing me standing there they waved me inside and closed the door. I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was eleven a.m. There was a microphone on the table and, I imagined, somewhere a large tape machine ready to record my every word. Next to the microphone was a spotlight but it wasn't switched on. Not yet. There was an undrawn black curtain beside the window. They invited me to sit down on a chair in front of the desk.
'The last time I did this I got twenty-five years hard labour,' I said. 'So, if you'll forgive me, I really don't have anything to say.'
'If you wish,' said one of the officers, 'you may appeal the verdict. Did the court tell you that?'
'No. What the court did tell me was that the Soviets are every bit as stupid and brutal as the Nazis.'
'It's interesting you say that.'
I didn't reply.
'It seems to support an impression we have of you, Captain Gunther. That you're not a Nazi.'
Meanwhile the other officer had picked up a telephone and was saying something in Russian, that I could not hear.
'I'm Major Weltz,' said the first officer. He looked at the man now replacing the telephone receiver. 'And this is Lieutenant Rascher.'
I grunted.
'Like you, I am also from Berlin,' said Weltz. 'As a matter of fact I was there just last weekend. I'm afraid you'd hardly recognise it. Incredible the destruction that was inflicted by Hitler's refusal to surrender.' He pushed a packet of cigarettes across the table. 'Please. Help yourself to a cigarette. I'm afraid they're Russian but they're better than nothing.'
I took one.
'Here,' he said, coming around the desk and snapping open a lighter. 'Let me light that for you.'
He sat down on the edge of the table and watched me smoke. Then the door opened and a starshina came in, carrying a sheet of paper. He laid it on the table next to the cigarettes and left again without saying a word.
Weltz glanced at the sheet of paper for a moment and then turned it to face me.
'Your appeal form,' he said.
My eyes flicked across the Cyrillic letters.
'Would you like me to translate it?'
'That won't be necessary. I can read and speak Russian.'
'Very well, too, by all accounts.' He handed me a fountain pen and waited for me to sign the sheet of paper. 'Is there a problem?'
'What's the point?' I said, dully
'There's every point. The government of the Soviet Union has its forms and formalities like every other country. Nothing happens without a piece of paper. It was the same in Germany, was it not? An official form for everything.'
Again I hesitated.
'You want to go home, don't you? To Berlin? Well, you can't go home unless you've been released and you can't be released unless you appeal your sentence first. Really, it's as simple as that. Oh, I'm not promising anything, but this form puts the process into motion. Think of it like that pithead winding gear outside. That piece of paper makes the wheel start to move.'
I read the form forwards and then backwards: sometimes, things in the Soviet Union and its zones of occupation made more sense if you read them backwards.
I signed it, and Major Weltz drew the form towards him.
'So, at least we know that you do want to get out of here,' he said. 'To go home. Now that we've established that much all we have to do is figure out a way of making that happen. I mean sooner rather than later. To be exact, twenty-five years from now. That is if you survive what anyone here will tell you is hazardous
