Escape from Auschwitz

Prologue

FRG, Frankfurt-am-Main

To: The Chairman of the Court in the trial of Auschwitz’s Hitlerite criminals, Mr Hans Hofmeyer

To: The Chief Public Prosecutor of the State of Hessen, Mr Fritz Bauer

From: Andrei Alexandrovich Pogozhev (born 1912), a Citizen of the USSR, and former Auschwitz prisoner No. 1418

As an eyewitness to the murder of tens of thousands of people in Auschwitz, I consider it my human duty to fulfil the last will of those victims who perished in terrible anguish.

I offer the Jury and Prosecution my eyewitness testimony regarding the crimes committed against humanity by the accused – Hanz Stark, Stefan Baretzki, Bruno Schlange and Herbert Scherpe – in 1941 and 1942, in the Auschwitz/Oświęcim camp, who were direct participants in the mass murder of prisoners, and who personally killed and tortured inmates. Over the thirteen months of my stay in the camp I was witness to the many hundreds, many thousands, of murders and atrocities committed by these SS men; and for that reason I implore the Jury to call and question me as a witness for the Prosecution.

The crimes I beheld are as yet unknown to history, and so I beg the Jury to accept my testimony – a small fraction of what I saw and suffered – and to punish the SS butchers of Auschwitz. This is a plea from my conscience. The conscience of a man who survived the horrors of Auschwitz.

Andrei Pogozhev

CHAPTER ONE

Entrapment

‘Please come in.’ I heard a policeman who’d entered the room address me in broken Russian. We walked through a vestibule filled with people of all ages, still hoping to get inside. The policeman courteously opened the door and stepped aside. Left and right, hundreds of eyes were fixed on me. Keeping myself in check, I calmly walked with even stride, down the aisle separating the rows of onlookers, and on to a small desk where Vera, the Interpreter, was sitting. Tense and rigid, she stared at me as I approached, a trace of anxiety in her eyes. But I focused on the Chairman of the Court, whose stony face regarded me with an unblinking beetle-browed stare.

The hall had been built as a place of entertainment, a stage rising above floor level to dominate the scene. Here the Judges and jury sat at a long table, the Chairman in the middle and his two deputies on either side. Along the proscenium were the members of the Public Prosecutor’s Office. On the right, by the wall, sat public prosecutors from Frankfurt, East Germany and France. On the left sat the accused with their defence counsel. The rear of the hall was allocated to the public, the dress circle to the Press. But the centre of the chamber was empty, save for the witness stand at which I stopped, saluting the jury with a solemn bow. For some seconds all eyes stared at me: a witness from the Soviet Union, a man who had survived by a miracle, risen from the ashes to tell of days spent in Hell.

The Chairman of the Court spoke and Vera interpreted:

‘Surname, forename, patronymic?’

‘Pogozhev, Andrei, Alexandrovich.’

‘Year of birth?’

‘1912.’

‘Marital status?’

‘Married, two daughters, the older is married and has a daughter . . .’

‘Place of residence?’

‘The City of Donetsk, in the Ukraine.’

‘Current occupation?’

‘Mine worker.’

‘Do you have any objection to your testimonies being tape-recorded? ’

‘No.’

‘Which religion do you profess?’

‘I am an atheist.’

‘Will you swear with the cross or without?’

‘Without.’

‘Raise your right hand.’

The Chairman began speaking German, distinctly enunciating the words and emphasizing some of them. Bewildered, I looked at Vera: ‘The words of the oath – to tell the truth only,’ she whispered. ‘I swear!’ I repeated firmly and lowered my hand. The Chairman continued: ‘Tell the court how you found yourself in the Auschwitz camp and about your stay there . . .’

The war was both expected and unexpected. People both believed and disbelieved in its possibility: ‘There is a non-aggression treaty with the Germans, isn’t there?’ – ‘We trade with Germany and despatch grain, oil and coal there. How can there be a war?’ – ‘Molotov didn’t visit Hitler for nothing. They agreed on peace.’ But on that warm, sunny day of 22 June 1941, war struck like a thunderclap.

On 5 July I received a call-up notice, instructing me to report to the voencomat [military registration office – trans.] at 9am. On arrival I was told to set my affairs in order within six hours and return at 3pm with my gear. I’d be sent to my unit straight away. I went back home, collected my things, and bade farewell to my mother, wife and daughter. I left home conscious I might never return. My heart was breaking, yet I felt a certain elation: I wanted to participate in the defence of my Motherland. After reporting for duty I found myself among a group of artillery officers herded into the clubroom of some factory, wherein a travelling group of artists gave a variety show: a dose of artificial cheerfulness that was totally out of place. Then we were shepherded onto the troop train.

We got off at Serpukhov. The 252nd Rifle Division was raised here and two artillery regiments formed within it. Next morning several senior officers or ‘brass hats’ arrived. One of them, a Major, introduced himself as Commander of the 1st Battalion, 787th Artillery Regiment – our new unit. We hurried to prepare our battalion for battle. Everything had to be done within four days because on 10 July the trains would arrive for loading. We knew there was heavy fighting at the front and knocked the battalion together in time for our scheduled departure.

And so, on 10 July 1941 our three batteries were loaded onto a single freight train and we took off. But to our surprise we found ourselves heading towards Moscow. We arrived at Kursk station, then crossed the city along the branch line connecting the capital’s Southern and Northern stations, and rolled further onwards towards Kalinin. But somewhere around Lake Seliger, when we were still far away from the front line, the war came upon us unexpectedly.

13th July was a hot day. I was travelling in the officers’ carriage – just an ordinary freight wagon – situated at the head of the train. We’d left the carriage door open, passing the time lying on our berths reading. Suddenly there came a tremendous thump followed by a terrible roar. The train screeched to a halt and we darted out of the carriage, rolling down the embankment into a field of rye. Black smoke and white flames were rising from the middle section of the train, and people were spilling from the carriages. A plane with black Swastikas on its wings swooped like a huge carrion crow, strafing us with a hail of lead, before shrieking away out of sight. Some horses, their grooms, and a dozen more men perished in the storm of machine-gun bullets, while many more were wounded. Meanwhile the bomb-blast had torn up the track, leaving rails bent and broken. As for the carriages that caught the explosion, nothing much remained, the passengers having been turned to mincemeat. It was all done in a matter of moments.

Having recovered from the initial shock we began to act. The wounded men were loaded on carts procured in the nearest village and sent to hospital. The dead were buried. An order to unload the train was given: not an easy task in an open field without stationary ramps, but ‘zeal can overcome anything’ so we managed. The shortage of horses was compensated by trucks and we began our march westwards.

We stopped overnight by the side of a lake. Exhausted, hungry, overwrought, we dropped on the ground and tried to sleep. The night was humid, muggy and hot. Swarms of mosquitoes attacked us, whining and wailing. I never saw such a huge mass of these midges, either before or since. We lay bundled in our greatcoats, suffocating from heat and dripping with sweat. We tried to breathe through our coat-sleeves but the mosquitoes found their way through, filling our mouths and noses. Thus a grotesque night followed a ghastly day.

In the morning we resumed our march and soon our whole division assembled near Lake Seliger. We pitched a temporary camp and began putting ourselves in order. Several days passed in this way.

One night we were awakened by an alarm. We were ordered to be battle-ready and move westward to close with the enemy. A fearful fuss of preparation kicked up but by the morrow everything was ready. Gradually the harnessed guns, ammunition wagons, two-wheeled carts, carriages, foot and mounted troops began stretching into marching columns. I galloped up to the head of the column, where the Major (our Battalion Commander) was receiving reports from battery commanders regarding their state of readiness. Unexpectedly, the Major ordered me to stay behind in order to remove the guard posts, after which I was to pick up all remaining gear, load it on carts, and catch up with the regiment. How I disliked the idea of staying while all my comrades were leaving! But I had my orders . . .

The camp was abandoned at dawn, the artillery regiments following the infantry. I began driving around the deserted camp, removing outposts and gathering all those who’d lagged behind into one detachment. Then I ordered all remaining gear, ammo and harness to be loaded up. A reserve gun was hitched to the only motor car, which, occupied by several soldiers and an NCO, I sent speeding after the departed column. Among those who remained under my charge was a starshina [sergeant major – trans.] – a handsome young guy, smart and circumspect, who turned out to be an excellent helper. I almost made the mistake of sending him away with the vehicle but he suggested: ‘Comrade Lieutenant, I’d better stay with you. It’ll be difficult for you to handle the people and the convoy.’ I agreed and kept him with me: a decision I didn’t regret.

Thus I suddenly found myself in command of a detachment of some twenty-five soldiers and a convoy. Only the day after the regiment’s departure did the Starshina and I manage to collect all the gear, organize the convoy and people, and get them moving. Yet I had no map of the area to serve as a guide, and no idea how long our march would take. We hadn’t even been left any rations, and as it was my responsibility to feed the men, I had to buy bread and potatoes at a kolkhoz [collective farm – trans.] we passed on the road. It was fortunate that I had some money on me. Later a herd of cattle came our way, driven by cowherds away from the advancing Germans. I managed to obtain one exhausted calf against a receipt the drovers hoped to exchange for food. At the next halt I tried to get my bearings by consulting one of the locals, an old man, who told me which settlements, forests and rivers lay ahead.

So we were marching west. Refugees – mostly townsfolk with backpacks and trunks – shuffled towards us. Exhausted, burdened with children, they stopped to sit by the roadside. Some of them warned us to be careful but others yelled: ‘Defend our Motherland!’ Further to the west saboteurs dressed in Soviet uniform were active. In one village a peasant woman came up and asked us to check on a group of strangers in a neighbouring street. The Starshina and I rode over. A group of men, perhaps ten or eleven in number, were sitting on a log. They were scruffy, poorly dressed, and carried kitbags. The Starshina covered me with his rifle as I rode right up to them: ‘Who are you? Present your papers!’ – ‘We have no papers. We were released from gaol and ordered to go east.’ Examining their haggard, emaciated faces, I realized they were not lying and left them alone.

The villages we passed through were half empty. Where were the locals? Maybe these places had been abandoned before the war? After all, collective farmers were unlikely to quit their land and homesteads. Meanwhile we pushed on, our carts groaning under the weight of artillery shells, and our soldiers foot-slogging it under a scorching sun, for only the Starshina and I rode horses.

We were tramping down the street of some half-empty village. I noticed a girl in plain peasant clothes staring at us through the window of a hut. I rode up, asked for a drink, and a moment later she opened the door and handed me a mug of water. But as I drank I couldn’t help looking at my benefactress. The mismatch between her looks and mode of dress was striking. She was undoubtedly a city girl: beautiful, refined, with dainty features, but clothed in simple homespun. She, in turn, watched me with a quizzical air: ‘Where are you going?’ – ‘To the front.’ – ‘What for?’ – ‘What do you mean, what for? To defend the Motherland!’ She turned slightly, and motioning towards the gloomy interior of the cabin, asked again: ‘To defend this existence?’ My face froze, but the girl met my gaze and held it. At last I blurted out: ‘Do you think the Germans are coming with fire and sword to make our lives better? You are sadly mistaken!’ But the maiden muttered: ‘I don’t know, I don’t know . . .’ Then, all of a sudden, she ran inside and slammed the door. I placed the mug on the windowsill and galloped after my detachment, which had already disappeared around the corner.

Thus for several days we headed south-west, down the Ostashkov – Peno – Adriapol – Toropets road, then further south towards Staraya Toropa. It was at this point we began meeting casualties coming from the opposite direction. They said our division had been defeated near a place called Il’ino and was in full retreat. But I knew from my experience in the Finnish War [a reference to the ‘Winter War’ of 1939 – 40 – trans.] that wounded men frequently exaggerate the horrors of combat, as well as the enemy’s numbers, so I paid little attention to these accounts. After a day of such sad encounters and testimonies we stopped at some village and fell asleep, dog tired. In the morning one of my sentries reported that during the night some military unit had passed by in disorder. He’d waited till daylight to make his report because, as he said, he hadn’t wished to wake me! At that moment a wounded driver plodded into the hut and confirmed that our division had hastily withdrawn: now there was nothing between us and the Germans but thin air.

Having turned back we soon came across an outpost belonging to our division. At first they wouldn’t let us pass, asking us who we were and where we were from. It was just as well they hadn’t taken us for the enemy and opened fire. But eventually we made it through, only to find ourselves in a kind of Gypsy camp, with soldiers sleeping around bonfires and wandering in the forest. Some had weapons, some were unarmed, many were wounded and bandaged. With difficulty I found the remnants of my regiment. There in the forest, under a tree, sat the Politruk [political officer – trans.] from our battalion, with no belt and no collar on his blouse. Noticing me, the Politruk – a Tartar – began begging for mercy. It turned out that during the battle he’d feared capture as a political officer and removed the collar of his blouse with its rank insignia, as well as the red stars from his sleeves. Now he was awaiting execution. A soldier was accompanying me and the Politruk pleaded that I should order the man to swap blouses with him. I said I’d no right to do such a thing. I don’t know what fate befell the Politruk, but a general atmosphere of menace reigned.

But what had become of the division? We were told it had encountered the enemy’s advance guard near Staraya Toropa. Our General should have deployed the division in a transverse front, formed a battle array, sent out reconnaissance patrols, and then advanced or retreated according to circumstances – elementary stuff. But having learned the Germans in his front were pulling back, the General immediately followed. Abandoning the rule book to seize – as he thought – a priceless opportunity, the General ordered: ‘Pursue the enemy and destroy him!’ And so the division set off along the forest road in marching columns. Meanwhile, the main German force was waiting, having peeled off the high road into the forest. When the division approached Il’ino the Germans struck from both flanks and a massacre began. Along with a considerable number of commanders and soldiers, a great haul of weapons and equipment was lost in the subsequent rout. The division – recently formed from reservists – was already a wreck. All that remained was this Gypsy camp, scattered about the forest, which, as we discovered, was encircled by the enemy.

Discipline, too, was a casualty. No one was in the mood for orders, so all authority was undermined. And the situation was exacerbated by hunger, for the supply train had been lost during the battle and no food had been organized. In these conditions criminal elements surfaced and a binge of thieving broke out. My trunk – containing all my gear, spare outfit, underwear, footwear, and so on – was among the items that ‘disappeared’. I counted myself lucky I still had the stuff in my saddle-bags, but they were soon cleaned out by scoundrels – even my trench coat, which had been strapped to the saddle, was stolen. Thus I was left with clothes on my back and my map case, in which I kept shaving kit, soap, towel, paper and pencil. Thankfully my documents and photographs were still safe in the pockets of my blouse. And I still had some money, which I used to buy a greatcoat and backpack from some starshina. Finally I found an abandoned mess tin, minus its spoon: but it didn’t matter, as there was nothing to eat anyway.

This grievous situation couldn’t continue much longer. Had the Germans known our condition, they could’ve finished us off with minor forces. And so we middle-ranking officers, the lieutenants, began raising our voices in an attempt to restore order. Almost spontaneously, and of its own accord, a detachment of commanders coalesced and organized a defence line near the edge of the forest. We were headed by some infantry captain or major.

There was a small clearing in front of us, and beyond it, where the forest began again, the Germans had set up a machine-gun post. We had no tools