Sketch of trucks taking prisoners into the forest by Muriel Doherty, Belsen, 1945
23rd June 1945
The first morning, after a cafeteria breakfast at the Club, we again packed up and moved to a guesthouse which UNRRA in the meantime had found for us. Three of our group share a large, bright, airy and comfortable room on the third floor. I’m rather like a mountain goat now, as lifts in London are still rationed for the lower floors and all are requested to walk down. At the moment we are in the throes of packing and are surrounded by camp beds, blankets, buckets, kitbags and valises, enamel plates, mugs and basins, jack knives, mess tins and K rations. All our books, papers, stamps and any printed matter which we wish to take to Europe have to be censored and heavily sealed before leaving. Even my diary, address book, calendar and directions for filling my pen!
London at first glance looks just the same as on my previous visit, it is only when one moves round and sees whole rows of terraces demolished and blocks of flats torn open that one realises what she endured. In some areas the damage is appalling but everything has been cleaned up so quickly and neatly that evidence of war is rapidly disappearing. A few days ago we came out of the Underground and were expecting to take our bearings from some heavy road blocks we had seen the previous morning, only to find they had completely vanished. Our quarters are not far from Paddington Station and this area has suffered badly, as have all the areas near the main rail arteries.
We took a very hurried bus trip to see St Paul’s which stands proud and dignified among the ruins of the City—that business area of London which suffered so terribly in the 1940 blitz and fire, with eighty-eight nights of intense bombing without respite! Nelson still surveys Trafalgar Square from his Monument and the British lions appear disdainful and unharmed. I am anxiously wondering if I shall see the King and Queen and Mr Churchill before I leave and already have hovered round Buckingham Palace and No. 10 Downing Street in anticipation. The people of England are marvellous—cheerful, patient and most courteous everywhere, although some look very tired and wan. All, however, seem to be going about their work normally. The courtesy is outstanding as everyone queues up with no hurry, no pushing or jostling at all. The traffic is well regulated and the transport efficient, but not yet normal. It is almost impossible to buy a paper in the street because of the shortage of newsprint—all are reserved for regular customers. The other day we spied a hoary old newsvendor with his wares displayed along a low stone park-ledge. We enquired if he had any for sale and he obligingly rattled off the names of several. Explaining that we hardly knew one from the other, he hastened to enlighten us. ‘There’s the Times,’ he said, ‘them’s fer the top notchers.’ Passing along the row he paused, looked us up and down and said, ‘Now, here’s the News of the World, that’s wot yer wants—they call it the barmaids Bible.’ Feeling we were not exactly top notchers and guided by his choice, we gratefully purchased a copy and fled.
Everywhere one sees uniforms-Poles, Czechs, Norwegians, Free French, Dutch, Belgian—and one thinks of Warsaw, Lidice, Narvik and Arnhem. I believe the New Zealanders and Australians we see are nearly all ex-prisoners of war—they look fit and it is good to see the uniform. There seem to be quite a number of USA troops about and one frequently meets RAAF personnel. The British regiments represented are many and their colour patches and insignia interesting. There are foreigners everywhere, probably many are outcasts from their own countries, seeking sanctuary in this grand little island. The children I have seen, with a few exceptions, look extremely healthy, as they were given the correct food when adults went so short. Food is short, although there is plenty of carbohydrate because bread and potatoes are not rationed at present, but with very little meat, and fresh fruit and vegetables practically restricted to cabbage and greens (with carrots, lettuce and perhaps a slice of tomato occasionally), and sugar, milk and butter heavily rationed. It all becomes deadly monotonous and unappetising after a while. In a restaurant yesterday everything that I wanted was off—even the sausages (mostly bread) and mash. The waitress, wishing to be helpful, then brightly asked, ‘Will you have a puddin’?’ ‘No thank you,’ I replied, not wishing to commence with a sweet. ‘No?’ says she, raising her eyebrows in surprise and glancing at the next table. ‘No puddin’!’ she repeated, as if in doubt as to my sanity. Following her glance my eyes fell on a greyish, stodgy and moist-looking steak dumpling floating in some clear liquid and garnished with boiled potatoes and greens. Not wishing to shatter her faith in the culinary arts, I screwed up my courage and said I would try one, thinking as I did so of the shop I had seen in the Edgeware Road with a large yellow sign, ‘Horsemeat: For human consumption only.’ Nothing is wasted here—large bins labelled pig food, dry kitchen waste, rubber, paper, tins, bottles, and the like, invite the public to join in the drive for salvage.
In spite of its terrible hardships and deprivations London is just the same. The spirit of the place still lives and it is just that spirit which kept us Britishers free and on the map. One hears that their endurance was almost at breaking point when the V2 bombs were brought under control and the Allied invasion of Europe took place, but no one complains and I sometimes wish Australia could see for herself just what they have endured and how magnificently they responded to their ordeal. I spoke to a working woman—a typical Londoner—in a Lyons tea shop the other day. She told me that her husband was employed at John Lewis’ in Oxford Street, and when they were bombed out of the shelter there they moved on to one at Selfridge’s the same night and were bombed out again. Not once did she grumble during the whole conversation. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘managed with the food—just a bit of onion, some thyme and marjoram and a little egg powder added to the sausage meat, popped in a casserole with some nice brown gravy and there was a tasty dish when the ole man and me daughter come home in the evening.’
Soon after we arrived in London we were divided into groups, ours was No.15 in which there were about 150 people of all nationalities. The groups were then further divided into parties, with each group and party having their own leaders. Group 15 was to have moved to Paris and Granville (UNRRA training and mobilisation centre in Europe) early next week, but plans have been suspended owing to the Allied Control Commission taking over from SHAEF (Staff Head Quarters Allied Expeditionary Forces). The administrative positions which UNRRA had in mind for us were not ready and the Deputy Director General in UNRRA’s Health Department, European Regional Office, suggested we might go out as Team Nurses pending development of our jobs. A team consisted of about thirteen men and women, each with a job to do. These teams organise and deal with displaced persons at Assembly Centres. Without hesitation I said that I was prepared to go anywhere and do anything, as I considered it would all be experience and would help me to understand the work being done in the field. The nurse who was interviewed with me said she preferred to remain in London until her job was ready as she did not consider that the experience was necessary for us!
As it happened I did not go with a team; four days later the Deputy Director General told me that I had got top marks at my previous interview when I had said I did not mind what I did! He then told me he wanted me to go as Matron of Belsen ex-Nazi Concentration Camp Hospital, where I understand there are still some 10 000 patients. Little did I realise that an innocent remark would bring me what promises to be the most worthwhile job of my life.
UNRRA Travel Authorisation for Muriel Doherty to take up her assignment as Matron at Belsen, 1945
Main HQ
21 Army Group
British Liberation Army
10th July 1945
Our impatience at the delay in setting out was not improved when we found that the first signal from SHAEF requesting the Senior Medical Officer and myself at Belsen was sent on 23rd June with a second on 2nd July, and that neither seem to have been received by anyone at UNRRA HQ! All we knew was that we would be departing at any moment and, later, that the War Office was preparing fresh authority for us. So we began our final non-stop run to various UNRRA Offices, collecting passports, travel authorisations, Allied Expeditionary Forces’ Permit for North West Europe, identity certificates, pay book, and last-minute papers to be censored and sealed. We have been told that we are only allowed to draw £5 per month on the Continent, and the remainder of my salary (less a number of deductions) therefore will remain in Australia.
Then the fun began. The War Office sent our fresh Movement Order by special messenger at 4.30 pm and which at 6 pm no one in any UNRRA Office had heard of. After much confusion and telephoning, the War Office finally decided to send a copy of the original, which was put into my hands at 6.30 pm.
After buying a thousand-franc note, as we expected to travel via France, I dashed back to our guest house in time for a last-minute bite of food before commencing the exhausting task of repacking. You see, previously we had been instructed to pack for a journey by road, and now we were told we could take only as much luggage as we could carry ourselves, as we were going by boat and train. I hopefully thought I could manage my kitbag, two large handbags, and a haversack, so readjusted that way, but by 11.30 pm, when the last article was stuffed in, I decided it would be impossible to take so much, and repacked once more. This meant a completely new inventory. Fortunately Dr Phyllis Tewsley, an Australian doctor with UNRRA, awaiting an assignment, nobly came to my rescue and typed the triplicate lists we were told to prepare and which to date have not been looked at, or even asked for, by one single official.
After three hours in bed, the borrowed alarm sounded and out I crawled, bleary-eyed and wondering why I was ever bitten by the UNRRA bug. Cook had a thermos of tea and sandwiches ready for me downstairs and my room—mate Helen Michell (another Australian) like a heroine went into the drizzling rain to Paddington Station in a vain search for a taxi.
We finally set out on foot, laden like pack-horses, to the Underground, en route to Fenchurch Station, away at the farthest end of London. I realised the kitbag would have been impossible under those circumstances and was so thankful I had decided to leave it to follow me. My escort did not arrive and so at Purfleet the Railway Transport Officer directed me to an Army lorry which drove me and my chattels to an Army Territorial Service Transit Camp where I was ushered into a Nissen hut of fifteen beds and given a welcome cup of very sweet tea. Healthy-looking German prisoners of war browsing in the warm sunshine and leisurely scything grass around the huts, whilst a British Tommy in charge read the latest London Illustrated, made me think of the contrast I was about to see at Belsen. I found I was to join a small party of Army and Red Cross nurses returning to Europe from leave, and that we were to move on that evening. A hot bath, offered as a special favour, I gladly accepted, not knowing when and where my next ablutions would take place. We were also issued with landing rations which consisted of a packet of twelve biscuits, two cakes of chocolate, two packets of cigarettes, a deflated life-belt, and three large, strong, lined brown paper-bags!
A tender took us to Tilbury where we stumbled over the gear of thousands of recumbent Tommies awaiting embarkation. Still no sign of my escort, but as I had spoken to him by phone earlier and found he had come by a later train, I did not worry. Then again to the censor and customs, etc. I exchanged £1 for 176 Belgian francs, and £1 for forty Allied marks, and was reprimanded for having the French currency which I had bought in London and too enthusiastically declared. Apparently there are a large number of counterfeits of the new currency in circulation and so they cross-examined me as to where I had procured mine.
Tubby Layton, as my Senior Medical Officer is affectionately known to his colleagues, and I travelled on separate troop ships. Mine, the SS Mecklenberg, was a smelly, exceedingly dirty Dutch transport, packed to capacity. There had been no time to clean these vessels during the war, and they looked tired and overworked. We women embarked first and so were able to watch the scene, including a final roundup of defaulters, from the deck. I was on active service at last, even though I had been considered too old for this in Australia at the outbreak of war.
On shore a huge fire blazed fiercely, and we were told that it was the store of the Imperial Paper Mills. The powerful jets of water directed on it had little effect and before we left the wharf a large area was gutted—and paper is so terribly scarce over here, too.
We dined on board at 10 pm—bare tables, bread and butter, tinned cheese, stewed chops, haricot beans and a mass of potatoes (the first really satisfying meal I had since arrival in England). After surreptitiously wiping out the enormous battered enamel mugs, we drank with relish the sweet, stewed, milky tea which had been mixed in the teapot.
All were issued later with rubber life-belts (we women already had ours) and red emergency lights. I smiled as I thought of the drill with our Mae Wests before leaving the Australian mainland. The instructor explained the use of the red light, whistle and automatic inflator, and advised us that we could always blow them up if the latter failed. My own vision of dog-paddling alone in the darkness of the Indian Ocean, wiggling my toes to keep the fish from nibbling whilst I puffed and blew, also came back to me, as did my relief when I found my seat in the Liberator was next to the rubber dinghies.
We retired to bed at 11 pm, and later the good ship Mecklenberg began to move to Southend. Sleep was impossible—troops paraded the deck over our heads all night and mysterious biters were very active also. The palliasse was hard, and as my pillow had been left behind in London I folded the ship’s blankets, which were none too clean, and covered them with a calico bag meant for the palliasse and used this under my head.
Reveille was at 7 am and breakfast an hour later. It was a very calm night at sea as we moved through a minefield at five miles per hour with three sweepers ahead of us. The mines are magnetic, and I was told before sailing that they lie on the ocean bed and the vibration of the ship passing over them sets them off—nice thought! We were told also that they were set by the Germans to explode for 200 days—and that this time had not yet expired.
We circumvented a number of wrecks outside Ostend, which we sighted at 8 am, and at 10.30 am, still laden like a pack horse and joined by my SMO whose ship had arrived simultaneously in our convoy, I disembarked. The inevitable visit to the customs and embarkation offices then followed. After a cup of tea and cake at the Navy, Army, Air Force Institution we were conveyed in a fifteen-ton truck to our respective transit camps. Before we parted my escort decided, contrary to a very emphatic written instruction, that he would go direct to Bad Oeynhausen instead of to Brussels. Finally he was persuaded to send a signal to 21st Army Group, Monty’s Headquarters, to say we were coming that way, as we had been notified that there would be no accommodation at Belsen unless we warned them in advance from Brussels.
Immediately on arrival at the Service Women’s transit camp, I queued up for lunch and was surprised to find a one-time Royal Prince Alfred Hospital colleague, Fauna Campbell, in the same mess. She was proceeding to England for demobilisation from the Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service (Reserve) as her orders had come through since she last wrote from Belsen where her unit was posted. You can imagine how we talked! I wanted to hear so much at first hand about the patients I was to care for.
I prayed that there would be no through train to Bad Oeynhausen that afternoon, and was overjoyed to find that we were not to set out until the next morning.
We walked round Ostend in the heat, and saw what was left of the Atlantic Wall, which at one stage had so much publicity. Gigantic concrete gun emplacements, cleverly camouflaged to represent dwellings, were unrecognisable until we were almost upon them. The Belgians are gradually demolishing them but we could see the extensive damage to portions of them and to the surrounding houses and large hotels on the waterfront. The Belgian houses looked as neat as ever, with their fresh hand-made lace curtains and photos of King Leopold in many of the windows. The people who were taking their Sunday afternoon stroll were moderately well dressed and the children appeared fairly well nourished. Masses of people were sunbaking on the shady beach or browsing in the shade of gaily painted bathing boxes.
We had tea at the YWCA and tried to buy some fruit for the journey—but the price was very high and the quality very poor. Fauna looked tired. She has been through so very much and has had some extraordinary experiences. We talked far into the night and she gave me a graphic picture of what I would find at Belsen.
Another early morn departure with twenty-four-hour rations-sandwiches—and a truck drive over cobblestones to the station. A lovely morning—the fishing boats with their russet nets festooned from the masts made the harbour a picture. On the station were hundreds of baskets of their shimmering catch awaiting transport. We departed at 7.05 am, in a former German train which had very comfortable, upholstered plush seats.
Arriving at Bruges thirty-five minutes later, we saw the Belfry and Hotel de Ville from the train and I thought of the hot potato chips I had eaten there fifteen years before! The surrounding country was neat and fertile, with quaint hayricks supported by a pole in the centre. An hour later we reached Ghent, where there was extensive damage round the station, with the rolling stock empty, rusting contorted skeletons. All the way to Antwerp there was evidence of recent war. Dumps of damaged planes, enormous tank parks and collections of wrecked vehicles soon became a familiar sight on all sides. Some of the houses picturesquely decorated with coloured tile fronts stood amid intense cultivation of crops, vegetables, clover, potatoes. Scarlet poppies, cornflowers and daisies thrived amid this devastation, almost screaming Mr Churchill’s ‘V for Victory’ sign. We crossed many bombed bridges, replaced by newly constructed army structures, and at 12 pm entered Holland and saw the first windmill. Rosendaal was a badly damaged Dutch station but fortunately we were able to get some safe and cool drinking water from a fountain.
Quaint Dutch architecture with thatched roofs to the farm houses and coloured shutters, set in a background of rich fields and spruce forests, was in sharp contrast to the mass of twisted rails, burnt-out skeletons of whole trains, and the extensive damage seen round the railway marshalling yards. Fat cattle, beds of strawberries, raspberries, and asparagus surrounded bombed—out families living in tramcars and gaily painted caravans. The Dutch women were standing outside their homes to wave to the troop train. The children appeared poorly dressed. Everywhere there was evidence of thrift, with piles of twigs and branches of firewood all neatly packed in gardens amid huge round bushes of rose-pink and mauve hydrangeas and rounded thatches on the centre poles of the hayricks. Each farm seemed to have one draught horse and about five or six head of cattle, a couple of pigs, a sheep or two, a few goats, fowls, and an orchard.
About 3 pm we crossed the River Meuse where the original bridge could be seen lying in pieces in the river, suggesting that it had been demolished by the retreating Germans. Our train crawled over the temporary structure on a single track and arrived at Gennep, where a long flower-bedecked train, covered with French slogans, ‘Vive de Gaulle’ and ‘Vive la France’, stood. It was packed with French refugees, men and women, who were strangely quiet and who were being repatriated from Germany and Austria.
Another truck drive to a British transit camp, tented and cool. Being the only woman on the train I was to have the place of honour on the seat beside the driver. Alas! My skirt was extremely narrow and short (wartime restrictions) so great difficulty was experienced in gaining a foothold on the axle.
Whilst a helpful British Tommy gave a mighty heave from behind, I came to my knees on top of the five-feet-high wheel and subsequently fell clumsily into the cabin. The driver explained that he nein sprechen English, and I that I nein sprechen Dutch, but nevertheless we carried on quite a friendly conversation.
We drove through the town and circumnavigated masses of tangled wires. Not one house or building was undamaged (a land mine had scored a direct hit).
At 5.30 pm we entered British Occupied Germany, or the British Zone as it is called, at Phalzdorp—where there was extensive damage to the few visible houses. Our train was the first to pass on this line since it had been repaired.
At Cleve the devastation was terrific, huge sections of rails and sleepers evulsed [sic] across the road, and enormous torn camouflage nets spread over damaged gasometers. German women were searching for loot among the ruins, loading prams and barrows.
We crossed the Rhine that evening by a narrow, improvised bridge, somewhere in the vicinity of the first British crossing at Wesel, I think. A town nearby was in complete and absolute ruins, and rows and rows of what had once been trains were now one tangled mass of steel. Large areas were wired off and interlaced with white material, with a notice. ‘Mined’, attached. I remembered Goering’s famous boast: ‘and not one single bomb will fall on Germany’.
The children look healthy, and the crops everywhere are in abundance at present—the result of slave labour, of course. There was also more cattle here than on the Dutch farms. We are told that the Germans stole them from the Dutch, and that as soon as possible after the cessation of hostilities the Dutch crossed the border and took back all that they could find!
General Montgomery recently issued an order that the British soldiers might fraternise with German children under ten. There was an obviously organised galaxy of waving on the part of every German child in the district as we passed. It was, of course, as I mentioned, the first British train that had come through as far as Bad Oeynhausen, and so was an event in itself. It was light until quite late, being double summer time and twilight. We passed a pile of RAF plane wreckage, which brought to mind the British Broadcasting Commission voice we knew so well: ‘some of our planes did not return’.
At 9.10 pm we came to Coesfeld and no words could possibly describe the utter devastation. It had probably been an important German marshalling yard, and if you can imagine one of our own with all the engines as far as you can see, blasted and overturned; lines and lines of trucks and carriages in the same condition; miles of rails and sleepers ripped up, twisted and balancing grotesquely like gaunt skeletons; and all buildings in the vicinity in complete ruins, you will have some idea of the scene. Bomb craters everywhere. All this set in a background of intensely cultivated country makes you wonder why Germany ever started the war, and laid herself open to pulverisation such as this. Of course a good deal of the damage was probably done by her own retreating armies. The number of churches still standing is in marked contrast to the hundreds in England in complete ruins or gutted by fire.
At 10 pm we came to what was once Rheine, and witnessed an even more chaotic scene. The bridge across the river had either been demolished by the Germans or destroyed by the Allies. Festoons of twisted rails draped the embankment. There was evidence of local fighting here also, as well as enormous bomb craters. It was now thirteen hours since we entered the train, and I was feeling, and probably looking, decidedly grubby after handling the greasy sausage rolls and sandwiches from our rations. At Osnabrück we were handed most welcome mugs of sweetened tea, ladelled from a dixie by a cheerful British Tommy, and another bag of sandwiches!
Here we had one and a half hours’ halt, but as it was dark could only exercise on the platform. At 2.30 am we arrived at Bad Oeynhausen, were met by the RTO and directed to the Visiting Officer’s Mess at the Victoria Hotel, where after a quick wash I thankfully fell into a large feather bed and covered myself with a soft, cerise German eiderdown and slept.
There is a notice in the entrance hall which reads in English, ‘This hotel, reserved for officers of the rank of Colonel and above and equivalent ranks in other services and allied forces, and certain important civilian visitors who are visiting H.Q. on official business only.’ We are not sure into which category we fall, but we like to imagine the latter—particularly as we were asked to sign the visitors’ book, which contained such illustrious names as Monty’s!
A cheerful Fräulien brought me a cup of the usual brand of tea in the morning, and after a welcome bath and a good breakfast, my SMO and I reported to 21st Army Group Headquarters, and there met various officials, medical and otherwise, who were interested in us. An outline of the early and terrible days when the British liberated Belsen Camp was given to us. We then drove some fifty miles to Herford where we met the Director of Medical Services 21st Army Group, and Senior Principal Matron QAIMNS, after which we bumped over the cobbled streets at 55 mph!
British Army personnel everywhere, and things generally appear to be returning to normal. Civil affairs are in the hands of the German burgomaster and the local authorities. German officials are on stations and directing some of the traffic. The barracks we visited had recently been a Nazi stronghold and an arrogant eagle surmounting a swastika was carved on the wall. All signs, of course, of the Nazi regime had to be removed when the Allies occupied the country, but there are so many that it will take some time to eliminate them. It was good to see the Union Jack fluttering above all.
The district was rich in crops from roadside to horizon, some crops five to six feet high. We passed a convoy of the first batch of ex-Wehrmacht farmers, returning to the land to bring them in. All wore yellow triangles, denoting demobilisation, and looked shabby, sullen and unkempt. After a short rest in the afternoon we walked in some lovely gardens and watched a fountain (shot with rainbow colours) playing.
F. Tannenbaum, ‘Life in Concentration Camp’ series, Belsen, 1945
Main HQ
21st Army Group
British Liberation Army
11th July 1945
We have spent the last twenty-four hours since our arrival in Germany at the above mess, and after calling on the UNRRA representatives in Bad Oeynhausen and paying my account of six marks (3/-), the UNRRA Medical Administrator of Belsen Camp, my SMO, and I are awaiting transport to Belsen in half an hour.
We are to travel in a jeep with Dr W. A. Davis, USA Medical Corps (Consultant in Typhus attached to 21st Army Group from the USA Typhus Commission), who directed and controlled anti-typhus measures at Belsen camp on liberation. I have been told that Dr Davis’ work and that of the British field Hygiene Section undoubtedly resulted in preventing a widespread epidemic of typhus in Europe. Dr Davis has warned us that he always drives just as fast as he considers safe, so you can imagine my feelings! If I survive and am in a fit condition, you will receive this letter completed.
Later
Well, whether I am in a fit condition is a matter for conjecture, but here I am! At 9.45 this morning I packed myself between the luggage in the back of the jeep (my SMO preferred the front seat) and prepared for the worst. We travelled between fifty and fifty-five miles per hour on roads of all kinds—some moderately good, others cobbled and many rich in craters. Had I not watched for the bumps ahead, grasped the handle of the suitcase on one side and my haversack on the other and raised my hinderparts from the saddle, as it were, there would have been multiple fractures of the spine and pelvis, I’m sure, for our speed did not slacken for a small thing like a bomb crater.
Although summer, the lashing wind cut my face and wrought havoc with my hair, which was most devastating, for we were to call on HQ of 30th Army Corps (under whose authority the UNRRA Operational Unit at Belsen was to function) and I did want to look tidy.
We followed rivers and canals some of the way in a very picturesque countryside. There was more evidence of street fighting as well as aerial bombing. We passed burnt-out woods where flame throwers had attacked pockets of troops, and crossed several newly constructed army bridges. It was good to see British troops in occupation and street signs in English as well as German.
We arrived at our HQ at Nienburg about noon, and saw dozens of overturned tanks, cars, and anti-aircraft guns all burnt out, and piles and piles of unused ammunition. Farm houses appeared prosperous, built mainly of red brick, half timbered, with a large barn adjacent or nearby. We passed innumerable lorries, farm carts, push carts, wheelbarrows, buggies, and old-fashioned carriages laden with the luggage and household goods of German evacuees returning. A small white cross surmounted by a British steel helmet alongside a roadside studded with fox-holes was a grim reminder of the fierce battles which had so recently been fought there.
We met all the HQ Staff Officers and lunched at their mess, and later collected our passes—mine permitting me to enter Belsen Camp to take up the post of Head Nurse to the Senior Medical Officer. As we left we ran into heavy rain, but we put up the hood and kept the worst of it out as we skidded along the road. The country had changed from rich farm-lands to lovely wooded areas and it was hard to believe that it could have concealed such horrors, as there is ample proof it did. We passed the peaceful and picturesque little village of Bergen-Belsen and saw the long military railway platforms and the road winding down to that small clearing in the forest now known to the world as the Horror Camp.
I visualised those last terrible months of the war when the decisive battles were raging. The Nazis, knowing they were losing, endeavoured to hide the evidence of their wholesale brutality. They feverishly transported thousands of slave workers from Bremen, Hamburg and other areas to Belsen in open trucks and on foot, in the depth of winter. The concentration camp was already grossly overcrowded and rotting. These miserable people were driven into the nearby forest when there was no more space in the camp. Epidemics were raging, thousands were dying without medical aid. When the forest was full and the disintegration of the Nazi regime had set in, the victims were left in open trucks at this village railway station, among the dead and dying, without shelter, food or water. Death was a merciful release. The villagers must have known what was going on, but I am told that when the British ordered the German civilians and members of the Wehrmacht to visit the camp and view the result of Nazi Kultur, many denied having known what was taking place.
In my letters I shall endeavour to tell you how some of these victims of the Nazi terror found freedom after having suffered the tortures and terrors of the ghetto and the concentration camp.
It was about 5 pm when we drove into the camp and I suddenly realised with tremendous force that what I was about to see was all a deliberate part of the awful suffering, the unbelievable tragedy and the colossal disruption which the Nazi-Fascist scheme for world domination had attempted to impose on humanity.
As we were unexpected officially (the signal notifying our arrival came through the next day!), temporary accommodation had to be arranged. While waiting, Major Davis drove us round the present camp, a former German Army Barracks, to which the British authorities had evacuated the survivors of the Horror Camp, to give us a picture of the whole area. Some roads must be about three miles long—I shall describe it in detail later. We passed many so-called fit people wandering round in the rain, little children playing in the puddles and saw great activity round the cook-houses. How I was aching to get into the thick of it all!
The Officer in Charge., Military Government, was rushing to a conference, so I talked to a pretty Czech Jewess, Brunehilde, who was working in the office. Being young and intelligent, she told me, she was forced to work for the Germans in Ruthenia and later in Hungary. She was thrown into Belsen two days before liberation. Her entire family—her parents, her sister and the sister’s two children, and all her aunts and cousins—were all exterminated in the Nazi gas chamber and crematoria at Auschwitz in Poland.
She explained how on arrival at the extermination camp, she and other prisoners were stripped naked and marched before the SS Guards—mainly men. The usual selection took place, when the so-called fit and young were marched one way and those of no use to Germany or the Germans were marched in the other direction. The latter were told they were going to the bath, and were never seen again. She said people were sometimes insufficiently gassed before cremation, with children not always being gassed first. Brunehilde had recovered from her illness sufficiently to work in the Administration Office here.
I also met a young Rumanian Jew, a technical engineer from Paris University. He had been a POW and was marched by the Germans with hundreds of others, barefoot, from Eastern Europe to Belsen during the Russian advance. Although exhausted and ill on arrival he had recovered fairly well, and is now acting as a guard for the British.
The Commanding Officer invited us to be his guests until accommodation could be found for us, and after collecting two army blankets and a pillow case each, we were driven to a comfortable German farmhouse at Dageford village, some fifteen minutes from the camp, where he and several of his Senior Officers live.
