21 July 2012 - Glenholm
GillieB here
We left Prague and the Hotel Rott
reluctantly. I highly recommend this very well appointed and
reasonably priced hotel. It is perfectly situated for the old town
and very quiet and extremely comfortable. Staff are very pleasant and
helpful and speak English fluently – causing me to feel very
humble.
We were chauffeur driven to the Hilton
hotel underground car park, collected car and drove up into posh
hotel car park. Typed in Gorlitz in Germany into GPS – no luck! So
we headed into hotel reception where a young woman said it was
actually in Poland ( we knew the town was divided in two by river
Neisse ) and gave us spelling for the city in Polish – still no
luck when we entered it into GPS. OK – what now? We didn't have a
map of Germany!!! Back to see the hotel concierge this time –
lovely young Polish man who knew the town and he gave us a small map
of Ceska and located Zittau on it – which is near the Polish
border an in the area near where we knew Gorlitz to be. He knew the
town as Gorlitz and gave us advice re route to take. We entered Zittau in to GPS along with some stern words to the stupid woman who
lives inside the device and why doesn't she keep up with border
changes etc...and off we finally went.
Most of the way we were on the
European Route and it was a lovely drive through countryside that
went from rolling terrain with stands of trees to more hills and
valleys and woods became denser. We went off at one point to have a
drive through some villages. Taking the Hanichem off ramp we headed
for Rossau – a charming village and carried on down into a valley
toward the settlement of Kriebethal. As we made our ascent up a steep
hill, which was clad in dense picturesque foliage and slender
trunked trees ,and rounded a bend there was a beautiful castle
nestled on the side of the hill! It is called the Krebstein Castle
and is obviously a well known, well visited tourist site. Parties of
school children were being taken through the site as well as a lot of
other people wandering through and around.We popped into a charming
café for a coffee in the village on the top of the hill.
After that it was back to the autobahn.
Once we arrived at Zittau the signs to Gorlitz were easily followed
and we found our accommodation easily using a goggle map Stephen had
printed off. Piccobella Pension! We had a large room on ground levels
so took the opportunity later in the day to pull out and repack to
avoid excess baggage cost from Frankfurt!
Before the battle of the baggage though
we walked up into the town of Gorlitz to an information centre. Our
quest was to get directions to Stalag VII A. A prisoner of war camp
where my father was interred from 1944 – 45, having been
transferred from Italian POW camp when Italy 'changed sides”. The
woman we spoke to and her colleague knew of the site and we bought a
map of German and Polish Gorltiz. They identified the site – known
mostly because of the Olivier Messian music centre.
Off we went in our Peugot . The area
they had identified was clearly not correct – being a suburb of
housing and some recreational areas. It is at this point I would like
to thank Terry Crandle and his partner Karen for the advice and
information they gave us before we left NZ. Terry's dad , John and
others, were instrumental in gathering photos, materials , poetry
and accounts of life in the Stalag VIII A camp written by
internees. This involved carrying these documents on the forced march
in 1945. This was a gruelling and inhumane imperative by the Third
Reich.
There are accounts of conditions and
what the men endured – the recounting and reading of these accounts
is always edited by the author for the sake of their audience – the
reality is always much harsher. Once in London John Crandle and other
ex prisoners compiled and organised the publishing of a book called
'Interlude'. Men had previously signed up for and bought copies while
in the Stalag – lists were compiled and in due course copies were
sent out to these men. One of these men was my father – Joseph
Ernst Caldwell – known in the army as 'Snow'. He was extremely fair
headed. Fair minded too apparently as he was the quarter master for
his barrack . I say apparently as he died when I was 2 years of age.
My mother took good care of this document and now it is mine.
So – armed with my precious copy of
Interlude and the information from Terry and Karen I was sure we
needed to head out into the country side. This we did. This first
road we took was obviously not the right one though we did find the
German equivalent of 'allotments' ! OK – back to the round about
and take the main road – bingo! In short order we found the site.
Sign at the entrance to the Stalag VIIIA site.
The site was laid out as Terry had
described –a central track with side tracks leading off it. The
track / road is covered with some gravel but big stones protrude
regularly and there had been some rain so there were many large
puddles across the surface of the road. This is not a well drained
site – more about that later.
At the entrance to the camp there is a
large memorial. There is also a plaque where there is a plan of the
site – annotated to show where kitchens, latrines, barracks,
chapel, library etc were situated. As we walked the road there were
plaques that further described each site in a variety of languages.
Today trees have made the left hand side of the road their home –
they are slender, tall trees and winds whisper or whip ( according to
the weather) through their branches. The ground, uneven because of
remnants of drains and barracks / building foundations, is covered
with grass – some ferns grow here and there. On the right ,as we
walked through the camp, the ground is covered by lower growing scrub
and wild flowers abound. This is more uneven ground. The buildings
have been demolished – within the last 20 years – but it is
possible still to find the foundations should you brave the prickly
and non prickly under growth.
Around the middle of the camp we
reached the plaque that commentated the centre where Olivier Messian
completed and performed for the first time his “ Ode to the end of
time”. Turning 180 degrees and looking out over the scrub I knew I
had found the site of my father's barrack. Grateful thanks to Terry
again.
This was a moment in time for me.
I saw pieces of red brick – sun dried
brick – that I knew had been used to build the barracks. No full
bricks from my father's barrack are left so – knowing this was
where his barrack had been I popped the fragment into my pocket. (
now well scrubbed and in my luggage – hopefully to come home with
us)
I knew my father loved violets. He
often gave bunches of them to my mother. While we were in the town of
Gorlitz I bought an African violet plant ( no violets available and
they wouldn't survive) and carried it to Stalag VIII A . The area
where my father's barracks had been was now scrub land so I decided
to plant the violets opposite the site, beside the rusty memorial to
Olivier Messian amongst the trees. Having clearing a small area of
the grass that grew there I had nothing with which to dig a hole so –
taking a long stick that was lying on the ground – I began to break
the surface of the earth. That took a little effort but then, to my
surprise, soon my stick sank easily down into the earth. OK – the
reason for all the ditches between the barracks became immediately
clear. The camp site is/was a bog!!
Violets planted by Gillian
Once I had I planted the violet I
sought pieces of bricks from the barracks that were around to
surround it. I then sunk the digging stick I had used beside the
violets. I hope the violet plant survives – I guess the chances of
that in the soggy soil are limited – and I will never know.
However I am grateful that my father did survive this Stalag ( so is
Stephen apparently!!) and also the previous PoW camps where he had
been held captive in Italy. He he did not describe these camps much
to my mother and there is only one reference to them in one of his
letters that I have. I do know though from my reading that Italian
camps were horrific – second only to the Japanese.In the
inscription at the front of Interlude he described Stalag VIII A as
his best time in captivity. Having read the book and the accounts of
the camp I shudder!
As we went we were reading plaques.
When the road made a division to the south I told Stephen I would
like to go down it to the Russian prisoners grave yard. A wee
discussion ensued about the location of this site.
Finally I persuaded him and we tramped
on and soon found the cemetery. The Russians were imprisoned away
from the other prisoners, little food provided and the ground around
their 'shelters' was bare earth as they had eaten all the grass.
16,000 men are buried in this cemetery!!! Interlude recounts
endeavours by the NZers, Australians and Brits to send contents of
their Red Cross food parcels through to them – mostly thwarted by
the guards .
As I walked into the cemetery a prickle
of goose bumps ran up my spine and a shudder – Stephen had no such
sensation. It is a beautiful place but not a happy place and I was
glad to leave it.
The memorial in the Russian cemetary
Back to the main track again, with
much to think about – we walked to the outskirts of the camp. As
we had been walking we were already aware that there were still
fence posts evident beyond the scrub. Now - arriving at the edge of
the camp we gasped. There, standing sombrely as sentinels of the
past, remain the posts that held the wires that interred my father
along with thousands of other young men in the prime of their life.
Young men caged as wild animals – that is probably how their
potential was seen.
Remains of the camp fence
We walked on – we saw more of the
first and second line defences. The fence posts are evocative and
affected us both.
As Stephen explored these and worked
out camp perimeters I went into a small crumbling building that was
obviously related to administration – no roof but walls with some
tiling remained. Tiles!! In a POW camp!?
We walked back through the camp –
wondering how 10,000 plus men could have been confined never mind
live for so long in such a small area.
I have no idea how to end this account
- All I can say is at a personal level to my father is ' thank you
for all you endured and for managing to survive and return home
intact – in all senses of the word'.
