The cold was intense and soon ice began to form on our clothes as the lorry ploughed its way through the deep snow. During the hour-long journey we huddled together for extra warmth, sheltering as best we could in the corner of the lorry, the canvas shielding us from the snow but providing no warmth. Eventually we came to a halt. We heard the sound of heavy gates opening and then closing after us as the lorry drove through. The lorry stopped again. I presumed we’d arrived at the dreaded Lubianka, the prison where, rumour had it, if you saw the inside you would not live to describe it.
The guards ordered us out of the lorry. As our eyes grew accustomed to the light and the brightness of the snow we saw, looming up in front of us, a huge six-storey building complete with ominous observation towers. Taking in this oppressive scene, I felt terrified of what was in store.
We were split into two groups and taken into separate rooms. Our room was small, with crude wooden benches placed against the walls. The floor was made of rough concrete with a large drainage trough running through the middle.
‘Remove all your clothes for the de-lousing process.’ The guard’s voice echoed across the room. I cringed, daring to look at my companions who, like robots, were already removing their garments. I began to strip, not happy with the situation but knowing that I stood no chance against the guards. When the door opened I was shocked to see two masculine-looking, overweight women lumbering into the room carrying two buckets of pungent water and a number of cloths. It was obvious that neither had ever won a beauty competition.
One by one we were approached and told to wash ourselves with the de-lousing fluid paying close attention to our hair and genital areas. We were then passed on to the second woman who had the task of shaving us. The women spoke to each other as they performed their duties. It was obvious that they regarded us with contempt as they ridiculed our lean, hungry frames whilst shaving our most private parts. When they had finished we were completely hairless, even the hair on our chests and buttocks had been removed by the razors, which we were not allowed to touch lest we go berserk and try to attack the women. After shaving we were ordered to wash once more in the repulsive liquid, which stung our now hairless bodies.
Next we were ushered into a cubicle adjoining the room where an ice-cold shower numbed our bodies but stopped the stinging sensation. Our clothes, which also had to be deloused, were bundled together. We were assured they would be returned to us on our release. We were each given a fresh bundle of clothing. I had a shirt, three sizes too large, a pair of prison trousers, threadbare at the knees and a pair of badly worn shoes without laces. We looked a motley crew in our ‘new’ clothes as we were taken down to the cells and distributed wherever there was a vacant bed.
I was taken to one of the larger cells which contained six pairs of bunk beds, twelve prisoners, a table and buckets for our daily needs. An air of despondency hung over the cell and the inmates seemed very subdued. Finally the man in the bunk opposite spoke.
‘You must be exhausted my friend. Have some of this bread and water.’ I accepted gratefully. ‘We are very sad today. The man who occupied your bed, in fact the man whose bread you have just eaten, was taken away today to be executed. He was a good man. Many of the prisoners here are peasants. They don’t comprehend what is happening to them, the implication of being in this prison. I can see you are intelligent my friend. He was intelligent. That’s why they shot him.’
I commiserated with them, and the ice was broken. I learned that food and drink were brought three times a day, that the days were long and boring but that with the extra food and extra rest I would soon regain some of my former strength. They advised me to save my strength in order to survive the ordeal of interrogation. I rested on my hard wooden bed. I was so cold and weak that the prospect of death no longer daunted me. I slept well, in fact this was the first time I had actually slept on a bed for three months. The food was quite delicious after my diet of herrings and bread and I felt my strength returning. Conversation between the prisoners was infrequent. Sometimes the guards would take one of our cellmates for interrogation and we would take bets on whether or not we would see him again.
My friend was intelligent and a good conversationalist. He told me his life story. I was taken aback to learn that he was an orthodox priest who had been arrested in his home town, accused of teaching religion to the local children. He was awaiting his fate, knowing he had no chance of proving his innocence. He began to quiz me about my life. At first I was non-committal since my trust in my fellow human beings was diminishing fast, but after a few days I began to unwind and slowly started to relate my story. He listened intently and when I had finished he looked at me in amazement.
‘Like most of us you are innocent,’ he said. ‘I know how the Soviet Criminal Codes work. It makes no difference whether you are guilty or innocent, you will be charged under Article 58, paragraph 6, “Suspected Spying”. You will then be interrogated by the NKVD who will force you to sign a ‘voluntary’ confession. It is at this point that you hold your fate balanced in the palm of your hand. You can sign the confession, but if you do you’ll condemn yourself to execution. If that’s what you decide, you can rest assured that I will absolve you from your sins and give you the final blessing, ensuring your journey to heaven. However, if you decide to sign the confession but to plead for leniency, your life will be spared, much to the satisfaction of the authorities. They will then send you off to one of their labour camps where you will provide them with unpaid labour for the rest of your short life. When my time comes, I know which course I will take.’
He touched me and I felt a feeling of peace flow through his fingertips. The Jesuits too had this gift of transferring peace and tranquillity.
‘One more thing, don’t object to being called a German. Ten times as many Poles and Russians as Germans are shot, so you probably have a better chance of surviving than the rest of us.’
I relaxed, my mind reviewing the options open to me and secretly admiring the man who had decided to die for his religion and his God.
I now had time to find out about the Lubianka. Thousands of prisoners passed through it on their way either to concentration camps or sudden death. There were almost as many interrogation rooms as there were cells. These rooms were in constant use. I found out many things about the prison from the prisoners themselves, who passed on their own experiences and the experiences of the ex-prisoners who had already departed for the labour camps or been executed. I was surprised to hear that they had women interrogators and that they were even more sadistic than the men. After my experiences in the de-lousing room I was prepared to believe that half a dozen amazons in a room would be enough to grind any man into a shivering wreck.
‘Natasha’ was a name to conjure up terror among the inmates. Anyone having been interrogated by Natasha bore the scars for life. She was known as the ‘Angel of Death’; an extremely beautiful woman with a heart of stone.
My first experience of Natasha’s work came a few days later when one of our cell-mates, a Russian army officer sentenced for offending the army ‘Politrook’, was taken away for interrogation. He was away for four hours and when he was brought back to the cell he was unconscious, on the verge of death. We carried him to his bunk. His body was covered in sweat and his clothes were wet and sticky. We stripped him in order to sponge his body, unprepared for the shock that awaited us. The sticky substance was blood. On removing his trousers, we recoiled in horror at the blood pouring out of a hole where his testicles should have been. The prisoners spoke in whispers, totally shocked and unable to touch the poor unfortunate man.
It was the priest who took control of the situation, placing his hand on the young soldier and absolving him of his sins. We joined in the prayers for his salvation. Gently bathing the soldier’s forehead, the priest spoke to us in a calm, hushed voice. What we had seen confirmed the truth of the rumours about Natasha; that if she were unable to obtain a confession, she had her victim spreadeagled on a table and then squeezed and twisted his genitals with a pair of cobbler’s tongs until a confession was forthcoming. If the prisoner still did not confess, she would rip the poor man’s testicles from his body and he would be taken back to his cell to die as a warning to his cell-mates.
The unconscious man stirred, his eyes opened and in a rasping vote he strained:
‘She used the cobbler’s tongs, the bastard bitch! But I didn’t confess.’ With the effort of speaking, he lost consciousness once more and died ten minutes later.
My strength was beginning to return. I realised that to survive interrogation I would have to be fit and so, every morning on rising, I did press-ups on the rough concrete floor. Other prisoners soon realised that this was a good idea and we would take it in turns to exercise before the guard came with our breakfast.
I had been in the Lubianka for four weeks when I finally received my order to ‘poganiaj’. My time had come. The two Red Army soldiers standing in the doorway called out my name, adding the words ‘German spy’. All eyes turned on me. Not a word was spoken. I was sandwiched between the two soldiers and escorted out of the cell.
Gritting my teeth, I was determined to tell the truth. I still could not believe that one human being could ill-treat another simply for telling the truth. I should have known better. How many times had I seen my fellow cell-mates return with swollen faces, teeth missing, torn fingernails and badly bruised bodies!
I congratulated myself on being prepared both mentally and physically as I entered the interrogation room. I digested my environment; the walls were padded, obviously to provide soundproofing; a long, strong table and two chairs were the only furniture in the room; facing me on the wall hung a picture of Stalin and above his head were two red Soviet flags, the golden hammer and sickle embossed on them standing out and almost intimidating me. A packet of cigarettes, matches and a cardboard file were the only articles on the table. One soldier remained with me, standing silently staring into space. Ten minutes of sheer panic followed. I looked first at the table, then at the flags, then I stared into Stalin’s eyes, the portrait almost coming alive under my stare. Finally I let my eyes drop to the newly-scrubbed floor, searching for dark patches of discoloured concrete.
Suddenly the soldier stood to attention. The door opened and a tall, middle-aged man wearing the three stars of a captain and carrying a large Russian revolver in his holster entered. He smiled at me warmly, giving the impression that I was his long-lost friend.
‘Zdrastuite?’ (How do you do?)
He sat down, methodically picked up the cigarette packet, took one for himself and offered me one, lighting my cigarette first like a perfect gentleman. He then opened the file.
I had not tasted a cigarette for six months and I swallowed heavily on the smoke, content to let him peruse my file whilst I enjoyed this luxury. He finished his cigarette, clasping his hands in front of him on the table.
‘What is your name?’
I answered.
‘Can you speak the Russian language?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘Good, good. I am your friend here and I would like you to read this report. If you agree with it please sign your name. I’m sure you would like to remain my friend since I can protect you from some of my colleagues who, I might add, are very bloodthirsty. However, I can only help you if you agree to co-operate.’
He passed me the report. It listed a number of fictitious spying activities, ending with a description of my capture on the German/Russian border. It noted that a German passport had been seized on my arrest and that my failure to co-operate with the authorities had shown proof of my guilt. When I had finished reading this nonsense, I placed the report on the table.
‘This is a total fabrication. I cannot sign anything that is not the truth.’
‘That is entirely up to you, my friend. Remember, the evidence produced in this file is enough to prove your guilt. You’ll receive a death penalty. Surely it’s better to confess and sign and then we can show you leniency and spare your life.’
I shook my head, refusing to be part of this.
‘Please, listen to me,’ I begged him. ‘I can convince you of my innocence. I escaped from German-occupied territory after serving in the Polish army fighting the Germans. I crossed the border in search of my parents who had escaped the German occupation. In all honesty I came seeking your protection as they did before me.’
He picked up his papers, a grim expression on his face.
‘So, you insist that the people responsible for this report are liars, including Colonel Korylov, a Russian hero who possesses Stalin’s highest order? He signed this report! Surely you don’t think I’m stupid enough to accuse the colonel of lying?’
He pushed the papers back towards me, pointing to his pen. I shook my head.
‘I cannot sign my name confessing to crimes I have not committed. I am ready to die for my principles.’
His voice changed, all traces of friendliness gone.
‘We shall see, we shall see. I shall send for you again tonight when you have had time to think about the implications.’
The second guard unlocked the door and I was escorted back to my cell.
I waited anxiously for my recall but my name was not called that night. Instead a Ukrainian soldier was called. Since he did not return we assumed he had been shot. Every night at about seven o’clock we heard the rattling of the machine-guns in the yard, then deathly silence. If you had not been sent for by seven o’clock, you knew you would live to see another day. I was despondent, blaming myself for his death. I should have been executed; why had they taken him?
The priest, knowing my turmoil, tried to explain.
‘He was ready for death. He’s been waiting since his last interrogation. Once they have sentenced you to death they do not take you straight away but keep you waiting, to prolong your agony. I absolved him of sins many weeks ago. His soul is no longer tormented. He is at rest.’
Incredibly it was six weeks before my name was called again. This time there was no friendliness, no offering of cigarettes, just three stern-faced men, the captain among them, seated in front of the watchful eye of Stalin. It was the captain who spoke.
‘I have re-read your papers. All the evidence points to your guilt. We want to gain your co-operation so we have made contact with your family, your Polish father, your German mother, your brothers and sisters. They are all in our care. In punishment for your spying activities, they have been sent to labour camps, provided they survive the journey.’
He went on: ‘The only punishment in the Soviet Union for any counter-revolutionary activities is death by a bullet through the head. However, because your family are paying for your crimes, we will give you a choice once again. If you sign this newly-prepared document accusing you of “suspected spying” we will spare you. Otherwise you will be shot right here in this room.’
I banged my fist down on the hard table.
‘Shoot me! What are you waiting for? You know the evidence is fabricated. And I don’t believe that my family is in your “care”.’
I lunged forward. While one of the guards restrained me, the captain drew his revolver and pointed it at my head. I closed my eyes. I then heard a shot and felt something heavy strike my neck and automatically I lost consciousness. How long I remained unconscious I do not know. I remember the water reviving me and, opening my eyes, I saw the soldier standing over me with the empty bucket. My body and head ached – I had obviously been kicked several times – but I was surprised to be alive. I was aware of the captain shouting.
‘Death is too good for you, “German spy”! If you won’t confess you must suffer! When we have finished with you maybe a bullet through your brain will be welcome relief!’
The soldiers came forward, kicking me around the room like a football. I was too weak to resist and there was no escaping the heavy jackboots. I thought earlier I had regained my strength but I was proved wrong. As I slipped quietly into oblivion I remember thinking that at least I had been spared Natasha and her cobbler’s tongs.
Some time during the night the beating stopped. The soldiers were gone and I was still huddled upon the bare concrete floor. I heard a movement and through my swollen eyes I could see the silhouette of the captain standing over me. I muttered to him that I would sign his paper but on condition that they shot me as soon as I had signed. He smiled. He had won, and soon another medal would be coming his way. He placed the pen in my hand and I signed my death warrant.
I closed my eyes and waited in vain for the shot that would put me out of my misery. Instead two guards entered the room and since I was unable to stand they picked me up bodily and carried me to a different cell, where I would have to wait until they received the authority to shoot me. I immediately slipped into unconsciousness which brought temporary relief for my aching body. When I finally awoke I was surprised to see that I shared the cell with about eighteen other prisoners. Someone offered me a drink and I forced the mug between my bruised lips.
This cell faced onto the execution yard and that night we got a preview of what could shortly be our fate. At seven o’clock, twenty naked prisoners with hands on heads were herded into the yard and lined up against the concrete wall. The soldiers, each carrying a machine-gun, faced them. We heard the voice of the corporal ordering them to shoot. A few short blasts of machine-gun fire followed. Blood from the naked bodies of the victims coloured the wall and the ground beneath them was red as the Soviet flag. The soldiers then proceeded to prod the bodies for any sign of life. Any sign of movement was met with a bayonet stab right through the heart.
When all signs of life had gone, the lorry arrived, the human carcasses were thrown into the back and a tarpaulin was thrown over them and secured. They were taken away to be disposed of.
As soon as the lorry had gone, the soldiers brought in water and brushes, swilling the still-warm blood into the gutters, making the yard spotlessly clean in readiness for the next day’s victims. These executions were carried out daily in the Lubianka whilst Stalin was in power.
The following morning we were given a good breakfast, which was a bad sign. My mouth was swollen and I could hardly eat but now that I had survived their beatings I was not sure that I wanted to die. After breakfast six soldiers arrived. As I levered my battered body into a standing position, I thought this was the end. Formed into twos we were taken across the execution yard and into a damp room which was the shower room. We were ordered to strip and shower. As I stood under the cold shower inspecting my bruised body, the coldness numbed the pain and revived my sagging spirits. Yesterday I had wanted to die but now I wanted to live.
Dressed in our prison rags, we followed the soldiers into the main building where we awaited our fate. The prisoners were called according to the seriousness of their crimes. Several of us, myself included, were awaiting the death penalty. I waited and waited, expecting to be one of the first to be called but when my name was finally shouted there were only three of us remaining. Entering the room, I saw it was much the same as the interrogation room but without the padding on the wall. Instead of a picture of Stalin there was a statue, but the two red flags were still in evidence, crossed on the wall above his head.
The man behind the table looked sombre in his dark clothing. He was grey-haired and wore a pair of thick-lensed glasses. ‘My friend’ the captain stood on his right, a younger man on his left, a huge bundle of files spread out in front of him. I was ordered to attention, feet together, arms at my side. The younger man asked me my name and handed the appropriate file to the prosecutor, who started to read out the charges against me: ‘That on such and such a date in the town of Przemysl I had been arrested in the Russian Protectorate territory by the Russian hero, Army Colonel Korylov, with the help of his distinguished army patrol. Being in possession of a German passport, I was accused of espionage duties …’ etc. His voice droned on, but finally, he said:
‘For espionage as for any counter-revolutionary behaviour, the only punishment in the Soviet Union is death.’
The captain interrupted him and a whispered conversation took place. With an evil smile on his face, the captain turned to me.
‘I understand you confessed to all your crimes and so we can offer you leniency. Your sentence is therefore reduced to ten years’ hard labour in a specially designed camp in Siberia. However, owing to the gravity of this case, I am recommending that when your ten years’ servitude is over you will remain in exile in northern Siberia for the rest of your miserable life.’
My papers were signed and I was returned to my first cell to wait for transport to the ‘deportation camp’. My cellmates were glad to see me. I held up ten fingers to signify I had got ten years. They were relieved. As I rested my weary body on my bunk I hoped that with God’s help I would survive.