BERLIN WAS BECOMING MORE DESOLATE EVERY DAY. The city was a decaying carcass, like a child’s model that was disintegrating from lack of care. Rubble from destroyed buildings was everywhere. The army patrols, called Feldgendarmerie, increased in frequency as the number of deserters from the Wehrmacht increased. They always traveled in pairs, patrolling the streets, trains, subways, and other public places. I was too obvious a target to feel comfortable roaming around in public places. Aside from the fact that I was Jewish, I was a young, apparently healthy man who, had I been an Aryan, should definitely have been in the Wehrmacht.
For a while, I simply avoided the Feldgendarmerie. They were easy to spot: always in uniform, with metal breastplates on a chain around their neck. I would dart away whenever I saw them. For a time, this strategy kept the dogs at bay. But the first time I was almost caught by a patrol, my enthusiasm for this aimless wandering diminished rapidly.
I had just turned the corner on a busy intersection when I noticed a pair of Feldgendarmerie. One of them was looking directly at me. He turned to his partner and said something, then pointed straight at me. I knew that I had only seconds until they approached me and demanded my papers. At the same moment, a streetcar pulled up in front of me, hiding me from view. I stepped into the car just as it departed, leaving the patrol behind. I took a deep breath and let the air escape slowly.
I needed a basic change in tactics. After mulling over the possibilities, I decided that I would leave Berlin for good. I knew that the end was fast approaching for Hitler, but the long chase was wearing badly on my nerves. I read discarded newspapers left on the S-Bahn and kept my ears open for hints of how the war was really progressing. Goebbels was a master of propaganda, but even he could not completely quash the truth of Nazi military disasters. Soldiers would come back from the front, badly cut up and complaining bitterly about needless defeats. Rations of basic staples were being decreased, which meant that the ability of the Reich to produce war material was also decreasing. The public knew that things did not look good.
Even though the tide of the war was turning, I knew that it was just a matter of time until I was captured. With the number of patrols increasing, one mistake was all it would take, and it was inevitable that I would make it. I could not continue this way. The price of failure would be my life, a price I considered to be exorbitantly expensive and one I did not care to pay. I had to get out of Berlin.
Without money or proper papers, moving to another city would have been almost impossible. I decided to try my luck at living in the forest surrounding Berlin. I knew it would be hard, as I was woefully underequipped for any type of outdoor living. I had a blanket, a pocketknife, a hat, the same jacket I had worn throughout the war, and a few other basic necessities.
In addition, I had a small supply of food in my rucksack, courtesy of the Kusitzkys, just enough to sustain me for one day. After that, I hoped to walk into the nearby town and buy more food, but it developed that the small stores refused to sell to me, saying that they did not have enough for their own local customers. I was told the same thing by other stores in town. It was now apparent that obtaining food was going to be a major problem. But since the alternative seemed to be inevitable capture, the choice was not hard to make. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about the Gestapo or the bombs.
I wanted to find a little meadow where there wasn’t a lot of underbrush or sticks and stones but that was still hidden from casual view. I found a spot where the grass wasn’t too high yet. It seemed suitable, so I laid down the blanket and wrapped myself up in it and tried to sleep. The next day, I walked to the edge of the woods to explore some more. I knew my biggest problem would be food. I had no experience with hunting, and even if I had the requisite knowledge, I had no equipment.
As the days wore on, I became hungrier and hungrier. I had existed on reduced rations for much of the war, but this was something completely different. I was slowly starving to death. I was amazed at how overwhelming the desire to eat had become, as if every cell in my body was literally screaming to be fed. It had now been days since I had last eaten. I found myself experiencing an excruciating need to chew. Desperate and with a vast sense of disgust, I took my leather belt and gnawed on it, swallowing the saliva. I chewed on the leather tongue of my shoe in a pathetic attempt to ease the hunger pangs.
I found some berries growing wild, but I had no idea whether they were poisonous. I couldn’t take the chance, so I limited myself to chewing the leaves. I had been able to drink a bit from little brooks, cupping the brackish water in my hands. In the early morning, I’d lick leaves from the surrounding bushes, lapping off the dew. But that was far from being enough. I had to do whatever it took to get something to eat.
As I searched the area, I looked for unoccupied houses. There were all kinds of situations that prompted people to leave their dwellings. Some left because they were afraid of the bombs and wanted to move away from the city and its environs. Others left because they thought they would have access to more food in the country. Still others left their houses because their men were in the army and the family preferred to stay with relatives elsewhere.
Although the thought of sleeping in a warm bed was inviting, my goal in finding an abandoned house was the hope that someone had left some food behind. The prospect of finding canned goods, abandoned because of their weight, or some fall or winter vegetables abandoned in a garden was tantalizing.
I succeeded in locating a house that was obviously unoccupied. My hunger easily overcame any sense of propriety I had left. I broke in by smashing one of the glass panes in the back door. To my vast disappointment, the house was utterly barren. It had been completely stripped of food, furniture, blankets, candles; in short, anything that I might have found useful. Not wanting to risk the sudden return of the rightful owners, I left to sleep in the woods again.
The next morning, I got up, willing myself to continue my search for food. My legs worked, but my equilibrium was off. I was fast losing strength and was becoming slightly delirious. I came across another house that seemed to be empty. Along the back of the house, an outdoor verandah was attached to the upper floor. Stairs ran from the verandah to the backyard below. Most important, I could see pigeons flying onto the verandah and staying there for a while, apparently to feed.
I decided that if there was something there that the birds could eat, seeds or nuts perhaps, then I could eat it too. After watching for a bit to make sure no one was at home, I walked to the back of the building and climbed the outside stairs to the verandah.
Once up there, I saw that the pigeons were eating something that had blown off of the trees and onto the verandah. Whatever it was, it was too small to be a viable source of food for me. Even the pigeons looked as if they were working hard to find anything edible. Though my plan to share a food source with the pigeons had failed, I had another thought. If I couldn’t eat what the pigeons were eating, why not just eat the pigeons themselves?
It struck me that it might be possible to catch a pigeon or two. I tried to run after them and catch a few with my hands, but they were much too fast. They would allow me to approach only so close, then they would fly away. I racked my brains for some method of capturing or killing them. I briefly considered trying to make a bow, or fashion some sort of spear with my knife as a spearhead, but quickly abandoned both ideas as impractical.
Then I had another idea. One of my few possessions was a blanket. It was made out of a rough gray wool and looked like a horse blanket, but it kept me from freezing during the night. It was possible that I could throw it on top of the birds, trapping them as if with a net.
I searched the grounds for something that could be used as bait. After looking around for some time, I came across a patch of ground that had some type of seeds lying on top of it. Hoping that they would attract the pigeons, I gathered as many as I could and put them in my pocket.
If I could get the pigeons accustomed to coming close to me, I could catch them. I tossed a few of the seeds out among the pigeons, which they immediately consumed. Then I withdrew a few steps, throwing a few more seeds in a trail leading straight to me.
I sat waiting for them. They dutifully ate the seeds, then advanced forward for the next bite, coming ever closer. I threw my blanket, catching two of them underneath. I twisted the blanket into a bag and threw it over my shoulder with the pigeons still trapped inside. Exultant, I walked down the steps with the bag in tow and headed back into the woods.
Once I was far enough away to be hidden from view, I killed one of the birds and built a fire. Using a sharpened branch as a spit, I held it over the fire until it seemed roasted enough to be edible. Unable to wait one second longer, I took the bird out of the fire and started to eat. I tried to eat slowly, but after starving for so long it was almost impossible. I had never tasted anything even vaguely as satisfying. I ate virtually every last morsel of the first bird, burned parts and all.
I held on to the second pigeon. I didn’t pluck the feathers but instead dug a little hole in the ground and buried it. I hoped this would prevent some other animal from eating it. It would be cool there. I could come back the next day and cook it.
I soon repeated my hunting expedition, overjoyed at having found a source of food. I used the same method and soon returned to the woods with my second round of birds. I had a few branches for firewood but some of the larger ones would need to be split to be small enough to burn.
Using my knife as a wedge, I pressed it into one end of the branch. I tapped the other end against a rock, which forced the blade to split the branch lengthwise. Some branches required a lot of force to make them split, but this piece must have been softer wood than I had used before. After just two or three taps on the rock, the knife suddenly shot down the branch, splitting the wood and penetrating deep into the inside surface of my palm.
“Verflucht! Damn it!” I yelled. Blood spurted out of the wound, shooting out a good six inches. I knew immediately that I had hit an artery and that I had to do something or risk bleeding to death. I yanked my belt out of my pants and formed a tourniquet, which slowed the flow of blood to a drip. But I knew that I would have to get to a doctor quickly.
I left my blanket and other things and started walking. There was a small village a few minutes away, and I wasted no time in getting there. I knocked on the door of the first house I came to. A woman in her sixties answered the door.
“My God! You’re white as a sheet! What happened to you?”
I turned around so she could see my hand and the tourniquet. I was barely able to talk. “I must see a doctor . . .” I uttered very softly.
“There’s one just down this block,” she said pointing her finger. “I’ll walk you there.”
I nodded my head in thanks and walked beside her as quickly as I could. She tried to ask me a few questions but I was so weak it was nearly impossible to answer and walk at the same time. We arrived at the doctor’s office. It was also his residence, she told me, so there was a very good chance he’d be there.
The doctor, an old fellow, took one look at me and immediately led me into his office. He walked over to a metal doctor’s cabinet and rummaged around. After a moment or two I heard him say “aha.” He pulled out a circular-shaped needle and some cat gut. Neither of them were in any sort of packaging and through the fog that seemed to have enclosed my brain, I wondered if they shouldn’t have been sterile. But I was in no position to engage the doctor in conversation.
He threaded the needle with the cat gut and inserted it into my hand without any attempt at anesthesia. It hurt so badly I almost jumped out of my skin. He then tied a knot around the artery with the cat gut. It stopped the bleeding, but the pain was excruciating. After he finished stitching the wound, he gave me an injection.
“This is pain medication. It is very strong. Now you must go to the hospital. You need blood tests and additional treatment.”
I kept my eyes shut tight, squinting from the pain, but I understood what he was saying. I nodded my acquiescence but thought to myself that there was no way I’d be able to walk to a hospital. Then things began to get sticky.
“I want to see your identification papers,” he said.
I hesitated, considering what to say. “My papers are with my clothes in the woods where I cut myself. My knife is there too.”
“I need to see the papers. I need to establish a record as to what happened and how I treated you. I want to see the knife as well.”
“All right, it is not very far. I’ll bring it to you.”
“No, you are too sick to go anywhere. You lie here and rest. I’ll get you a glass of water. Then I’m going to get someone to take you to the hospital in an automobile.”
And then he left the room. In a few minutes, a woman came in. I assumed she was his wife. She brought me something like chicken soup and some bread.
“Eat it all,” she said.
I obeyed.
“The doctor will be back in a little while. He wants you to continue to lie here on the examining table.” And with that, she left the room.
My mind worked furiously. I did not want anybody to take me to the hospital. I would certainly be found out if I went there. All doctors were required to report to the police any unusual circumstances or suspicious people.
After a few minutes, the pain medicine began to take effect. I rose from the examining table. The doctor’s wife had already gone back to her part of the house. I stood and tried a few steps. I seemed steady enough.
I could not risk going to the hospital. I walked out of the doctor’s office and back into the woods. As quickly as possible, I returned to the place where I had left my belongings. I put them in my knapsack and continued to walk away from the doctor’s town, toward another little village. The woods seemed larger than I remembered, stretching forward as far I could see.
From there, I took a bus to an S-Bahn station. From the station I took a train to Waidmanslust. From Waidmannslust I took a bus to Lübars. And from there I walked to Anni’s door.
The door flew open and Anni stood there, the blood draining from her face.
“Oh my God! What has happened to you?”
She pulled me inside and I sat down in her kitchen. Alex came in the room to join us. I explained to them what had happened. All about the wood, the knife, the woman in the village, the doctor, the dirty needle and cat gut, and the threat of the hospital.
They immediately understood. “Of course you can’t go to the hospital,” Anni repeated. “It would be entirely too risky.”
Alex went to his bureau and found some pain pills. “They’re all we have. Take them only when you cannot stand the pain any longer.” They took me up to our room, pulled Klaus out of the way, and put me to bed.
“We need to get Ilse; she’s a nurse,” Anni began. “She’s all we’ve got to help you. You need help!”
And so Alex went to get her from her housekeeping job in the nearby town.
As I lay there, the pain pills wore off and I felt like screaming. I tried to sleep, but it was no use.
Morning came and as the sun shone through the curtains, I looked down at my hand. I instantly saw what had made it so painful. Both the palm and the fingers were swollen to almost twice their original size. They looked more like a balloon than parts of a human body.
Anni came in to check on me and gasped in horror. She got a grip on herself and prepared a herbal remedy handed down from her grandmother, which she insisted I drink. Then she got a tub of warm water and some soap and bathed my hand several times a day.
Finally, Ilse arrived. She fixed a rod onto the head end of the bed and tied my hand to the rod so that my hand would always be higher than my heart. She took the rod down only for bathing the hand in a tub of warm water, so my hand was always up in the air. This position was very uncomfortable. I wondered whether this was really what a doctor would have prescribed.
Thankfully, my right hand was still operative. I could feed myself; I could use the portable chamber pot Anni brought up the stairs for me to use.
The wound had become infected. Pus oozed out of the cut and the flesh around it turned green and yellow. For short periods of time, I got up from the bed and sat down on a chair. I continued doing this, alternating between the chair and then getting back into bed to elevate my hand. After about ten days, I started feeling better. The swelling was going down.