Berchtesgaden, a famous summer and winter resort surrounded by puissant mountains is undoubtedly the jewel of the Bavarian Alps. A snow cover, 3 feet deep at my arrival, added immense splendor to the peerless beauty of this blissful vale one cannot enter without being overwhelmed. Though the awe-striking impression was not lost on me, I did not come here to bathe my eyes in Alpine grandeur, but to report to the boot camp together with some hundred other men over 30 with families at home, extricated from business and uprooted, who like me, for weeks marched, stumbled and crawled through the knee-deep snow mercilessly driven by the sniping voices of drill sergeants. Here I learned what a military carnival is, how to clean the floor with a toothbrush or change uniforms with the agility of a monkey. Running from dawn to dusk, no time was left to think, intentionally so. A disciplinary trick skillfully applied to let the soldier forget his civilian habits. Thus, training came to an end faster than expected. The master sergeant sounded his last landmark speech and wiped theatrically a tear from his eyes. “You will remember these weeks as the greatest period of your life,” he exclaimed emphatically, while we sat there stone-faced waiting to get out as soon as possible.
The next assignment could hardly be worse, I thought, briefly glancing over the new order which read: Borderguard, Feldkirch, Austria. A few days later I stepped off the train and what I saw let my mood tip up with a jerk. Skyrocketing, ice-capped mountains all around. A romantic castle throwing its dark shade over the provincial town. Long rows of cozy arcades invited me to an amiable stroll. The rushing waters of a mountain river wind through the basin. Narrow gorges, each one opening an entirely new spectrum of the Alpine world. I loved that place from the first moment on. The headquarter was located in a monastery much to the chagrin of the pious nuns who had to put up with a bunch of noisy, rough, and bad-mouthed males. Though friendly and restrained most of the time, they could become irate when they saw us cleaning the staircase with a flood of water. Since their protest usually just drew laughter, they retreated to their conclave in order to compose themselves. I really felt sympathetic with the poor sisters who had a hard time maintaining their meditative lifestyle of contemplation and prayer under these pitiable circumstances forced on them and us.
The monotonous, grinding schedule of the shifts – 8 hours of duty at the Lichtenstein border, 8 hours rest for 3 consecutive days – contributed heavily to the prevailing mood and restlessness of the men. A good number of them were cigarette addicts. When low on nicotine, otherwise reasonable guys turned irrational and aggressive, some began to tremble and brandished their guns carelessly. They even swapped whatever goodies they possessed for cigarettes and I had no qualms to take advantage of their weakness. It was the only way to augment one’s diet with precious delicacies although our food was generally sufficient. To sleep together with a dozen smoking, snoring and farting guys was one thing I never could accommodate to. For me, it was the most painful experience throughout my military career besides the insensitivity of some who in the middle of the night returning from the shift romped through the dormitory recklessly. My anger grew, fueled by these occurrences, to a point that I had to air it somehow. Thus, I wrote a sarcastic poem, “Comrade Rumbleman,” and sent it to the Soldiers Magazine which promptly published it. The news of my talent as a writer spread quickly around and lifted my name above anonymity, an honor that in the military is not necessarily a blessing as I learned later.
The summer of 1941 unfolded with unimaginable magnificence. Moock would be delighted to see this gorgeous place, I thought and urged her to come for a lengthy vacation. We rented an apartment and led an almost normal married life for many weeks. In my spare time, we meandered through the town or extended our excursions to the higher mountains and hidden valleys. Our mood was unburdened and full of happiness. On my shoulders or in a strolling car, I carried Felix to isolated and otherwise inaccessible places. Oblivious to the harsh realities, we enjoyed the time given to us to the fullest.
In June 1941 the German armies invaded Russia, a move frowned upon by many who understood history’s warning. The frightful vastness of this eastern colossus and the devastating winters there did not encourage optimism. The German troops advanced unbelievably fast and within two months could see the towers of Moscow but were not able to enter the capital. As 120 years before under Napoleon, the Russian winter came to rescue the country. The German soldiers clad only in summer uniforms were exposed to extremely low temperatures and heavy snowstorms shattered all hopes for a fast retreat. Without food and gas, they became easy prey for the attacking Russians. As catastrophic as this first defeat was, it constituted merely an ominous prelude to the tragedies of enormous dimensions following soon in Stalingrad, Leningrad, Kiev, and Orel. The Russian soil swallowed the German youth in millions, most of them shoveled into the ground unceremoniously by bulldozers. While I am writing this down, tears well up in my eyes, and horrid pictures chase my mind thinking of the pain and agony of those thrown mercilessly into the holocaust. The path of a conqueror is covered with corpses, I once read somewhere; the meaning of it I could not fancy until much later. During the blessed days in Feldkirch, I had just a faint premonition of what actually occurred. The loudspeakers blared the agitating song of victorious news every day and just occasionally the war spilled over a few drops into the peacefulness of our valley.
One morning I sat on my bed reading. Suddenly I heard the sharp clap of a gun and simultaneously the bone-piercing shriek of a fatally wounded man in utter torment. His cries became weaker and weaker vanishing finally with a last sighing groan. I knew what had happened. A French prisoner tried to flee and was shot by the border guard. But the violent death of this man let my blood freeze. It was a senseless act to shoot him, senseless as the whole war cursed by millions. In 1945 the guardsman was picked up by French authorities and disappeared.
“He became frightened, ducked down, slipped, fell on his back, and glided down the icy slope with increasing speed.”
The summer’s end was near. Moock and Felix were gone. An autumn abundantly rich of colors followed and lead us into the winter which manifested its entry with clanking frost. Returning to the barracks from a night shift I was often frozen from the waist down, unable to warm up and fall asleep. My toes, frostbitten, were hurting and did not heal for many years. As the Christmas holidays approached, I was assigned to serve as a telephone operator and could not but envy all those lucky ones who were able to enjoy the Christmas tree with their families while I was busy making connections without having the possibility to talk to my own dear ones, because we could not afford a telephone. Moock’s pension was very low and strict parsimony had to be observed to maintain a minimum living standard with the money at her disposal. Besides, she was pregnant and expected a baby to arrive sometime in May. By the middle of February, however, her sister-in-law, Niko’s wife, died, still a young woman in her forties, killed by cancer. Moock, though not in the disposition to travel, believed it was right for her to attend the funeral in Augsburg, by train several hours away. The temperature was below the freezing point. Icy winds swept the streets. The train wagon was unheated. Returning from Augsburg, Moock suffered from a terrible shivering fit which induced premature labor pains. A girl was born, a tiny, sweet thing weighing only 1250 grams, but fully developed. She could have easily survived in an incubator. The maternity, however, had none. After 2 days she died, starved, and frozen to death because nobody cared. Too many people had to give up their lives daily. Why fuss about a prematurely born baby? We named our dear girl Gieselind. Although she could be with us only a short time, she nevertheless was a part of our family and the fruit of our love. Moock was heartbroken for months and I suggested she should recover in Feldkirch when spring arrived. Life goes on and is meant to go on in spite of those left behind in the graves. We behold them lovingly in our thoughts, but life has to go on and with joy.
As spring embraced the frozen earth, its warm breath melted the snow and the soothing song of the birds made nature smile; Moock, Felix, and I were united again. Seeing so many couples today living in miserable marriages, heatedly arguing and separating with hatred in spite of all the luxuries they own, makes me wonder what has been lost. We possessed very little beyond happiness, a gift not to be bought with money because happiness grows like a flower under the sun of loving care. Tender weeks followed. We tasted the honey of our togetherness to the last drop and forgot the madness rumbling uninhibited through the world. As reminders and vividly speaking witnesses, we still enjoy the photos made during that blissful period. One, in particular, gained so much my love that I kept it as a talisman throughout the war. Over the years it became tattered and stale but never lost its power to invoke harmonious recollections.
As the summer broke in with glowing heat Moock had to leave again. I brought my dear ones to the train station and all joy seemed to leave me when they disappeared. Loneliness encroached on my heart. The fascination and glamour of the mountains had suddenly lost their magic spell. The endless nights I had to spend awake began to demand its toll. My memory showed signs of serious lapses. Thus, I decided to apply for a transfer to the high mountains. Up there, I guessed, would be much less control which meant more time to retrieve the lost sleep. Not many favored the isolation and rough conditions in high altitudes; therefore, my application was approved without delay, and within a short time I had to report to my new headquarters in Mayrhofen, Zillertal, also a famous tourist resort, where I was ordered to a station 5000 feet high. Loaded like a mule I marched along the narrow path enclosed by rugged stone walls on both sides until I reached “The Au,” a former resting place for mountain hikers. A handsome guesthouse provided some food and hidden in the corner behind sturdy rocks stood a primitive shack to accommodate the border guards, a half a dozen men I had to join. It looked like a retreat for renunciants. And indeed, this was the world of loners, of those content to be close to nature appreciating the unreal stillness and the beautiful, but frightening turrets of stone and ice which looked down upon us with threatening proximity. Every day now I shouldered my rifle and sauntered to the neighboring valleys branching off from the main tract to watch the access to the Italian border. Nobody ever came. In these bathtub-like vales, every step could be heard for miles. All day long I was alone with the tranquil music of waters trickling from the melting glaciers. Once in a while, I heard the faint mooing of a cow or observed a marmot playing. The rocky boulders overgrown with cranberry bushes were loaded with clusters of ripe fruits which I collected and sent home to Moock. Oh, how she appreciated the cherry-sized berries, something she could easily swap for more essential food like meat and butter. On rainy or foggy days there was always a shelter where I could hide and dream for hours gazing into the milky soup until my shift ended. The air, spicy and filled with pure ozone invigorated every fiber of my body and for the first time in 18 months, I slept like a drudged horse. Night shifts were rare as I had assumed correctly. Every 2 or 3 weeks I was ordered to a tourist’s home way above the timberline at 8000 feet. I loved to be there, meet interesting people and hike on sunny days up to admire the strange, gloomy world of the glistening glaciers. Sometimes I climbed the Kreuzspitze, the nearest peak, 11,000 feet high, where one could oversee an uninterrupted chain of glittering summits and the blue sky to touch infinity.
Sitting in the dining room one evening I had a lively conversation with a middle-aged couple. “We are passionate mountain climbers,” they said, “and intend to make the Kreuzspitze tomorrow.” Since I knew the route my offer to join them was enthusiastically welcomed. The glacier’s surface was hard in the early morning hours and we encountered no difficulties up to the peak. As we descended, however, the rocks had soaked in a lot of heat from the blistering sun and the glacier had melted away confronting us with a 5-foot wide and deep gorge leaving only one narrow bridge. I took the woman’s hand and led her over the small passageway telling her husband to follow. Right in the middle of the bridge, however, he became frightened, ducked down, slipped, fell on his back, and glided down the icy slope with increasing speed. My God! he will be gone was my first thought. At the end of the glacier, the sharp rocks will tear him to pieces. Suddenly he disappeared. “Gustav, Gustav,” his wife screamed in despair. I tried to calm her while we walked cautiously to the spot where we had seen him last. The surface was glib and slippery, but we made it and there was a long, 10 feet deep, freshly opened Crevasse. We found Gustav laying in the icy chasm almost buried in snow but apparently alive. Walking along the edge desperately looking for an entrance, I was lucky to find a place where I could climb down to the bottom and work my way to him close enough that he could grasp my rifle shaft. Once I had a hold of him I dragged him quickly to the surface, put him in the sun, and began to dress his wounds. Although he had spent no more than 15 minutes in the icy vault, his body was trembling from shock and frigidity. Fortunately, no bone was broken and we were able to continue our tour homeward. The couple departed the next day, back to Mayrhofen, thankful for the happy ending and somewhat humiliated.
Glaciers cannot be trusted and are very dangerous as I soon learned in a drastic adventure. A few weeks later I decided to climb the same summit again. I was so sure to know the mountains, flung my rifle over the back and ascended to the crest. The view was as magnificent as ever. Hesitating to leave and full of wantonness I climbed down the rocks, reached the glacier, and in wild spirits sped along the icy slope alternately running and gliding. Suddenly there was darkness around me. Dazed at first I found my body dangling over a deep rift below the surface held only by the rifle belt. I had jumped with full force upon a snow-covered crevasse and fell in. The rifle was tightly locked at both sides of the icy walls. Cautiously I groped up with my hands to the surface and managed to get out of the trap. You might imagine how I felt. Freezing slowly to death would have been my fate until a searching team would have discovered me in this ice field stretching over several square miles.
In August I was granted a two-week furlough. When I returned the mountains wore white caps. Winter had descended upon the Alps and soon the snow cover penetrated deeper and deeper into the valleys transforming the character of the landscape from lush green to a blanket of glittering beauty. In sunlight, the white sheet became embroidered with countless sparkling diamonds and during bright nights the moon’s silver rays dancing through the trees added a magic spell to the unreal, transfigured world of vanquished pulchritude. The stillness surrounding me most of the time had opened my senses to the subtle mysteries of creation filling the mind with awe and fathomless gratitude, a mood fitting perfectly the upcoming Christmas which I hoped to spend with my family.
My superiors, however, had other plans and assigned me to duty during the holidays so that the Tirolians residing nearby could be with their families. It made me mad because I already knew the military would draft me in early January 1943. The war fatalities were high and the insatiable machine reached out for men over thirty. “Why should I be singled out to serve in the mountains to the last day and move then directly to the boot camp in Berlin?” I asked myself. They would not fool me. I requested a one-week leave just before Christmas, which was granted, and traveled to Bamberg firm in my resolve not to return. I had suffered from minor circulatory problems which would provide a credible excuse for remaining absent, I guessed. The first doctor I attended in Bamberg found me in perfect health. Our neighbor had a better idea. “Never mind,” she said. “Visit Dr. X; he is a nice man and very understanding. Just don’t be disturbed if he falls asleep during the examination. He suffers from the aftereffects of a tropical disease.” The good doctor attested to my disability and informed my bosses without delay. “In case of sickness,” they replied, “you are ordered to come to Mayrhofen immediately and get treatment in the local dispensary.” Discouraged I went to my doctor and showed him the letter. “Nonsense,” he said, shook his head angrily, sat down, and confirmed my total disability to travel. Needless to say, Moock and I were relieved and enjoyed three weeks of uninterrupted family life. To turn in my outfit, however, I had to show up at the headquarters. Although received with sour faces and sarcastic remarks, I could hardly care less. With my draft card in hand, they had no power over me anymore. I felt truly justified because I knew the war monster had knocked on our door. The shredding mill was now waiting for me. Before leaving I felt it was proper to pray: “Lord, I am unable to kill. Let me not face a situation beyond my strength. I don’t want to be found guilty of having extinguished somebody’s life.”
