Farewell to East Prussia: A German Boy's Experiences before and during World War II

By Erhard Schulz

The author describes his childhood on his parents' farm in East Prussia and the first school years in Erlenrode und Kuckerneese.
The Second World War changes people's lives. As an eleven-year-old boy, along with his mother and two brothers, he experiences the Great Trek on a horse-drawn harvest wagon. It starts in October 1944 and ends six months later in April 1945, after a drive of more than 750 miles through East Prussia, West Prussia, Pomerania, Mecklenburg, and Lower Saxony to Sievershausen near Hannover, Germany. The stages of their struggle and their encounters along the way are depicted with remarkable honesty. Many striking details, often strange and unimaginable, sometimes touching to the heart, are included.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Books on Demand
• Release date: May 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9783749459339

Erhard Schulz

The author, ERHARD SCHULZ was born in 1933 in Elchniederung County, at that time a remote marshland in North-East Prussia, Germany. He graduated from high school in Lehrte, Lower Saxony and worked as a financial accountant for the companies Hanomag, Salzgitter-Chemie and Bahlsen’s Keksfabrik. He retired in 1995. In 2010 he died of pancreatic cancer.

Book preview

2003

1

I was born on my parents’ farm in August 1933. By that time, my brother Siegfried was already a stocky four-year-old farm boy. Seven years after me, my younger brother – a latecomer, so to speak – was born.

During his birth my parents didn’t have use for a curious little boy, especially since he did not suspect or know anything about the impending event. So they sent me on a trip. Summer vacation had started. The morning promised a sunny, warm day. My parents suggested that I should wander into the wide world today. I was already almost seven-years-old. I should hike to our relatives in Nassenfelde. Aunt Ida and Uncle Adolf would be very happy and I could play with my cousins there.

Aunt Ida Gassner was a sister of my mother, and she had an impressive number of children with Uncle Adolf. So I became enthusiastic about this trip right away. I walked outside after my father had explained the itinerary to me once more. After all, it would be a walk of about 12 kilometers (7 miles). In Rautersdorf, I had to take the ferry over the river Gilge to Rauterskirch and then wander a few more kilometers to the north, onto the embankment. It was important not to miss the path branching to the side and leading to my relatives’ farm.

The way was relatively far, but I was used to walking since I had to walk to school every day for 2 kilometers (1.3 miles) one way and another 2 kilometers back. On my excursion to Nassenfelde I didn’t have to carry the kit bag with the reading book and school-slate. At home it was somewhat hectic these days and something wasn’t quite right with my mother, so I was glad to be allowed to leave. I arrived safely but exhausted at my relatives’ place.

I was there frolicking with my cousins for several nice days in 1940. We played catch on a big cattle pasture. The players were free in the four corners but they had to change corners on a signal. After this game, I was so exhausted that my nose started bleeding and I fell sound asleep in the chair even before dinner. The last thing I noticed was that my older cousin Renate was washing my feet in a bowl. Of course, we were running mostly barefoot during the summer months.

Along a ditch was a row of old willows (salix viminalis). They were wide and broad on top. We kids could easily climb up these trees because of the many branches all around and the knots and holes in the bark. We could sit in the willow’s crowns, well-hidden in the dense foliage, and tell each other horror tales. In the numerous holes of these old trees tree sparrows were hatching. We had fun pulling out the loosely woven nests with many feathers and eggs and ripping them apart. Today, I consider this very evil. For decades now, I haven’t seen any tree sparrows. They are probably extinct now in many areas.

A few days later, my Aunt Ida said to me, Your dad called and said that you’ve got a baby brother, and he will pick you up. This was a complete surprise for me and I didn’t have a clue what to make of it at that moment. When I delivered the milk cart at home, I already heard the unusual crying. In my former baby bed with staves on the sides, was lying a wrinkled little something. It was my newborn brother, Hubert.

I should add that we didn’t have a telephone. When my father had to make a phone call in urgent matters, he went to Friederici’s Pub. Mrs. Friederici was born a Gassner and related to Uncle Adolf. Beside the restaurant, she was also running a country store with her family.

From left: Siegfried, Dad Max Schulz with Erhard, Mom Paula

A little episode concerning Hubert’s baptism should be mentioned. Hubert was born on June 26, 1940. My parents took their time with his baptism. Such matters were postponed, if possible, until the crop was stacked in the barn. Therefore, my brother was baptized four months later on October 27, 1940 in our octagonal church at Rauterskirch by Mr. Pilzecker, a retired minister. He was named Hubert Siegmar Schulz.

We had gone to the baptism ceremony by horse-coach. The baptism took place outside the regular service, which may have been customary in those days. Mom and Dad were sitting in the first row, right beside the altar, with the baby in their arms. My older brother Siegfried and I wanted to watch all details of the ceremony and therefore occupied the best seats. For this purpose, we had walked up the crackling staircase to the gallery and were now standing behind the parapet. The location was excellent. We could overlook everything. The minister appeared but before the procedure had even begun, he turned around and disappeared through the same door he had just entered.

Shortly afterwards, the staircase behind us was creaking again. Another guest? Suddenly the minister in his black robe appeared behind us and asked, Who are you? Siegfried replied, That’s our brother down there and our parents. Okay, you may stay here but take your caps off! After all, you’re in church! Down the stairs there are hooks on the wall. You can put your caps there and then come back here. You may keep your coats on. The minister went downstairs, and we were following him at a respectful distance. Then he disappeared through the church door and went around the building halfway to the backdoor of the sacristy.

Siegfried and I quickly rushed back upstairs and stood behind the parapet again, holding the caps in our hands. We didn’t trust to leave them unattended down there. We were also worried that we might forget them in all this excitement. The baptism could begin.

I must have been sick a lot in my childhood, since I remained very skinny for years and susceptible to infections. When talking about me, the adults often used the East Prussian expression Gnoß or later Spucht (very skinny person). My earliest childhood memories start accordingly with cod liver oil. I had to drink many bottles of the yellow cod liver oil. When the bottle was standing and the contents had settled, a finger-thick layer of oil formed on the surface. It tasted horribly. During the following years, it was manufactured as white cod liver oil. It didn’t taste good either, but compared to the yellow kind it was edible. One could swallow it without throwing up.

Mom Paula, Erhard and Dad Max Schulz

In addition to the usual children’s diseases there were accidents, too. On the farms there were plenty of dangers for toddlers. I remember a sunny day in late summer. I was three years old at that time. It was after the crop harvest. In the yard a huge steam engine was humming, which was moving a threshing machine over a belt. Everyone was very busy with the threshing. My dog – his name was Luchs (Lynx), because he had short, yellow fur – was lying in the warm sun, watching the activity with interest.

When I grabbed his tail, twisted it, shouted go and trot and perched on him, he turned his head at me in anger and snapped violently. His upper jaw went quite deep into my head right beside my left eye and his lower jaw hit me behind the right eye. I had to stay in bed with bandaged eyes for a long time. My parents were worrying about my eyesight for many weeks. I never saw my dog again. Dad said he had chased him off the farm. Later, I assumed that he had shot him dead with the gun.

There were two more accidents, not quite as dramatic, but with visible consequences for a long time.

My brother Siegfried was fumbling with the chaff-cutter. I believe the machine was operated by muscle power on a crank. Anyway, I was standing nearby, watching. With my left hand I was clinging to some part of the machine. This part transported my hand between two cog wheels. I must have been very young then, since I don’t remember this incident. Much later, when I was already grown up, my brother told me the reason for my slightly deformed hand.

The other accident also took place in the middle of summer, before I was enrolled at school. My father had borrowed a water barrel from my Aunt Klara Wohlgemuth (also my godmother) and Uncle Ernst from Großheidenstein, which had to be returned. It was a big tank of shiny metal, which had a hatch on top. Such a tank was needed to get the water for the cattle to the pastures. Today, farmers use such barrels to drive liquid manure on the fields. Normally, water was taken from the adjacent ditches or canals. If necessary, these ditches were deepened at such water-places for the special reason to always provide enough water during the summer.

This year’s summer must have been unusually dry, so this was the second best solution. The water-tank was already lying on the farm-wagon like a zeppelin (airship), and two horses were hitched. This day, my cousin Horst was on a visit and we both wanted to go along. We imagined that we were tank commanders while sitting on the open hatch with our legs dangling into the empty tank space.

Though my cousin Horst was my age, he was, contrary to me, strongly built. Nevertheless, I managed to be the first to climb on the wagon and the long barrel and to jump quickly through the hatch. Here, my right leg forcefully hit the double blade edge of the filling trunk. A long wound formed under my right knee and immediately turned dark blue. Strangely enough, hardly any blood was flowing. It hurt very much and got inflamed soon, despite iodine. The blow had not only injured the skin, but also the bone, and the wound was festering for weeks. Healing was slow and the accident left a deep scar.

Some words about my cousin Horst. He was the only child of our Aunt Herta and Uncle Hermann Schleiwies. They lived in Berlin. Aunt Herta was a sister of my mother and one year younger than her. In most years, Aunt Herta and Horst spent the summer holidays with the grandparents in Kleinheidenstein. We kids were always looking forward to seeing our cousin because he liked to join in our rough games. Although deep down we considered him a softy as he was a city-boy, and we made fun of him whenever Aunt Herta treated his mosquito bites with some kind of lotion, or if he had been burnt by a stinger-nettle (urtica dioica).

My parents’ farm was located in Rehwalde (Deerwood) in Kreis Elchniederung (Elk Valley County).

Elk Valley County was bordered by the Kurische Haff (Curonian Lagoon or Bay) in the west. Between the bay and the agricultural land, a dense alder swamp forest was stretching. It may have been 8 kilometers (5 miles) wide. From my parents’ farm, about 3 kilometers (2 miles) out, one could see the fringe of the forest as a dark margin.

In the north, the county was limited by the river Ruß. Behind it was the Memelland. The Ruß was mainly the extension of the Memel River. The Memel flowed along past Tilsit for some length, and then split into the Ruß and the Gilge. The Memel lost its name, so to speak. The main stream with strong water current was given the name Ruß. The Gilge also was a broad river, particularly in fall and at the time of the snow melting. Then the streams of Ruß and Gilge poured their water into the Curonian Bay, while both rivers, especially the Gilge, branched a few times and formed the fertile, low-lying marsh delta.

The already mentioned city of Tilsit was situated on the Memel, approximately 40 km northeast of my birth-town. Tilsit was at that time known for its cheese, and the Tilsit Peace. In this peace contract of 1807 between Napoleon I and the Russian czar Alexander (at first), and a few days later between Napoleon and the Prussian king, Friedrich Wilhelm III and Queen Louise, Prussia lost, among others, all provinces left of the Elbe River and was burdened with huge war compensations. To the south, or rather southwest, about 100 km (62 miles) air line was Königsberg, the capital of East Prussia.

Elchniederung (Elk Valley County) (not complete, drawing by Erhard Schulz)

1 Tilsit

2 Kuckerneese

3 Karkeln

4 Herdenau

5 Klein Heidenstein

6 Erlenrode

R Rehwalde

7 Rautersdorf

8 Rauterskirch

9 Nassenfelde

10 Seckenburg

11 Neufelde

12 Heinrichswalde

The name of Elk Valley County already gave a hint concerning the features of its landscape. For the most part, it was low-lying meadow and pasture land. Approximately half of my parents’ fields were fenced pastures for cows and horses.

Some areas were dug up in autumn and grass was sowed. I remember my father called it Timotheum grass. Maybe it was multiplied at that time or mixed with the grass blends for the first time. It resembled the meadow foxtail (Alopecurus paratensis), but grew higher and was harder and stronger. Together with the other grass types, it made a thick, green carpet. After the hay harvest in June, the grass regrew and was mowed a second time, called Grummet. The field hares, in any case, liked these meadows as hiding places. When the mowing machine went over the grass, it sometimes happened that hares got cut by the blades and were severely wounded. The cries of wounded hares are heart-wrenching; and they are impossible to forget.

The remaining fields were used as agricultural land. My parents grew rye for baking bread, and also barley, oats and beets for the animals. Furthermore, potatoes were grown – in some years with red peels – as pig food. The pig potatoes were steamed daily in a steaming pot as tall as a man. Then they were picked out of the pot as hot as they were, mashed and mixed with bran. The feeding kitchen was so full of steam then that you could hardly see anything. It was at the end of the hog-pen. You could walk through a door into the middle aisle where the pig boxes were situated to both sides. The grunting and bawling of the pigs before the feeding was always maddening. When the troughs were filled, the bawling turned into loud smacking.

A large part of the potatoes had to be stored after harvest. Beside the barn, one or two long storage places for potatoes were prepared. The ground was carefully dug up two meters (2.2 yards) broad and two spades deep. Then the potatoes were brought in and piled up as a heap. They were covered with a thick layer of straw, and soil on top. This way, the bulbs were protected from the winter cold and kept fresh until spring, or maybe even until the next crop. Field mice, too, were using such storage places as their winter homes and supply rooms.

Erhard Schulz

Why my village was called Rehwalde (Deerwood) probably remained a mystery to most residents. There was no forest in this region, and I never saw a deer there. We did see elks there almost every year. When the frost period kicked in and the ice in the alder swamp woods wasn’t yet thick enough, the moose were walking either alone or in small groups through the bordering farmland. They left their dense woods because they broke into the ice all the time, and the sharp edges of the ice cut their legs. That’s why they jumped over ditches and fences and fed on the wicker shrubs and alder bushes growing everywhere along the paths and riverbeds.

It was in autumn 1936, when suddenly three elks were standing in our backyard, nibbling at the lower twigs of the apple trees.

In the previous nights there had been a hard freeze and the landscape was covered with a thick, white rime. It was early morning and I was still recovering from my dog-bite. My breath had caused the windows in the bedroom to freeze all over and they were covered with glittering ice-flowers. Mom had blown a small viewing hole into the ice crust and thawed the ice away with her finger. She called me out of bed and I could see the huge animals through the bedroom window, only a few meters away. Dad didn’t dare go across the yard to the stables in the morning without his hunting gun.

I don’t know how many people lived in our village, or their names. There may have been about ten properties. The farms were amidst their pastures and land and were therefore more or less far from each other. I do remember our nearest neighbors though, who also lived in Rehwalde.

To begin with, there was our neighbor, Enstipp. He was a miller and had a big windmill, with which he milled the grain for the other farmers around. We could reach his property in 500 m (547 yards) distance by foot, climbing over the wire-fence behind the pig-stable’s outdoor den, jumping over a shallow ditch, where each spring the hazel shrubs produced blooms which we called ‘honey kittens,’ and finally walking along the edge of a field. To make errands in Friederici’s Pub, we also went this way. Watching the miller at work was always very interesting. Enstipps had several kids. I remember Heinz and Edith, who were much older than me, and Arno, who as a latecomer may have been three years younger than me. There may have been more elder children, too. Miller Enstipp contributed a lot to my development and maturity, probably without even noticing it.

Miller Enstipp had nice blue chalk, with which he wrote big numbers on the full flour-bags. One day I took a small piece of blue chalk. I may have been five years old. I stole it, so to speak. I must have known the difference between yours and mine by that time however, so I did it secretly. When