Authors: Max Egremont
Forgotten Land (34 page)
The ruins of Königsberg cathedral.
The Professor’s pale eyes are humorous behind rimless glasses, most unlike Lenin’s cold gaze. There are, he thinks, still some ten thousand people in the Polish part of what was East Prussia who have German origins. After the war there’d been perhaps half a million; then most Germans were expelled and the Polish-Germans (whom the last Kaiser had called ‘our Poles’) stayed; the decisions were made by communist officials. The expelled people were sent out on trains from 1946 to 1949, often in squalid and brutal circumstances.
This left some hundred and twenty thousand former East Prussians in their old homes, in the new Poland. At first the
German government wanted the Germans to stay; the new frontiers had not been confirmed by treaty and might change again. There was a preponderance of women and old people and children; many others were either dead or in camps in the Soviet Union. German language and culture were forbidden in communist Poland but secret schools and church instruction went on and the ban was unenforceable in private homes. For many, German remained the second language.
German government wanted the Germans to stay; the new frontiers had not been confirmed by treaty and might change again. There was a preponderance of women and old people and children; many others were either dead or in camps in the Soviet Union. German language and culture were forbidden in communist Poland but secret schools and church instruction went on and the ban was unenforceable in private homes. For many, German remained the second language.
In 1972, the Federal German government agreed to fund the costs of Germans who wished to settle in Germany – recognition, perhaps, that the eastern territories had gone. German bastions that remain are the Marion Dönhoff private school in Mikołajki, German classes in state schools, a German House in Olsztyn and publications financed from Germany. Most skilled and educated Germans left. It’s hard for the Professor to say this, but some of the Poles who came in from the east after the war, in the 1940s, were primitive people.
After 1918, many cemeteries were established in East Prussia, the only part of Germany to have been invaded during the First World War – some large, others with only two or three graves. The modest stones at Drw
ck are very different to the huge Tannenberg Memorial that was only a few miles across the fields. In 1918, there was respect for a defeated enemy, with the Russians given similar burials to the Germans; at the cemetery at Olsztyn (then Allenstein) an inscription reads:
ck are very different to the huge Tannenberg Memorial that was only a few miles across the fields. In 1918, there was respect for a defeated enemy, with the Russians given similar burials to the Germans; at the cemetery at Olsztyn (then Allenstein) an inscription reads:Here rest Russian soldiers
Who following the command of their leaders
In battle against the liberators of East Prussia
Met death and
Lie far from their homeland.
Who following the command of their leaders
In battle against the liberators of East Prussia
Met death and
Lie far from their homeland.
But at the end of the 1920s, many of these cemeteries began to be embellished with tall crosses or monuments representing national pride, similar in atmosphere to what the Krügers did at
Hohenstein. To a later generation, this old work was seen as arrogant and a dark memory. In the late 1990s, a German student involved in the restoration of the cemetery in Drw
ck asked in his diary: why not let nature take over? ‘I ask myself about my connection to the First World War and believe there is none. I feel no aggression against a country or any people as a result of this war … Why am I in this little Polish village cleaning up a cemetery?’ Wouldn’t it be better to be doing something linked to the future? The old lady – the last Masurian in Drw
ck, who had moved to Olstynek – expressed herself more trenchantly. ‘The Poles must renovate the soldiers’ cemetery. That is the rule. After all, the Poles destroyed it.’
Hohenstein. To a later generation, this old work was seen as arrogant and a dark memory. In the late 1990s, a German student involved in the restoration of the cemetery in Drw
ck asked in his diary: why not let nature take over? ‘I ask myself about my connection to the First World War and believe there is none. I feel no aggression against a country or any people as a result of this war … Why am I in this little Polish village cleaning up a cemetery?’ Wouldn’t it be better to be doing something linked to the future? The old lady – the last Masurian in Drwck, who had moved to Olstynek – expressed herself more trenchantly. ‘The Poles must renovate the soldiers’ cemetery. That is the rule. After all, the Poles destroyed it.’Two weeks later, the German felt differently. It
had
been strange to have Germans, Poles and representatives of the expelled East Prussians working together. The descendants of former East Prussians knew much more about the region’s history and still showed signs of resentment at the loss. But out of this had come a sense of the land’s past, of colours coalescing. To work among the dead, shifting what had been a shared earth, had reconciled the past of these Germans and Poles.
had
been strange to have Germans, Poles and representatives of the expelled East Prussians working together. The descendants of former East Prussians knew much more about the region’s history and still showed signs of resentment at the loss. But out of this had come a sense of the land’s past, of colours coalescing. To work among the dead, shifting what had been a shared earth, had reconciled the past of these Germans and Poles.
But the old lady, Drw
ck’s last Masurian, had lived through a time that the students could only imagine. In her German childhood – when Drw
ck was Dröbnitz – people had spoken Polish (or Masurisch), talking easily to the Polish prisoners of war who had come as forced labourers, and ethnic divisions were fluid, in spite of Hitler. In November 1945, most of the inhabitants had been told to leave, taking only what they could carry in their carts. Very few of the men had survived the war. The old lady’s husband had been shot by the Red Army and the new settlers – from the former Polish east – threw stones at her windows, hoping to drive her out. But she had stayed, with her two daughters, and had been able to work part of a field and get a job at the post office. She’d been worried for her girls, both of whom became teachers, one going to Germany, the other finding a place in a Polish school. The old lady now had no hope of
Polish-German understanding. She couldn’t think what these young people were doing in Drw
ck.
ck’s last Masurian, had lived through a time that the students could only imagine. In her German childhood – when Drwck was Dröbnitz – people had spoken Polish (or Masurisch), talking easily to the Polish prisoners of war who had come as forced labourers, and ethnic divisions were fluid, in spite of Hitler. In November 1945, most of the inhabitants had been told to leave, taking only what they could carry in their carts. Very few of the men had survived the war. The old lady’s husband had been shot by the Red Army and the new settlers – from the former Polish east – threw stones at her windows, hoping to drive her out. But she had stayed, with her two daughters, and had been able to work part of a field and get a job at the post office. She’d been worried for her girls, both of whom became teachers, one going to Germany, the other finding a place in a Polish school. The old lady now had no hope ofPolish-German understanding. She couldn’t think what these young people were doing in Drw
ck.Her world had gone long ago. Is the new one any better? she asks. Tourists who come to Drw
ck would probably think so. The cemetery has become an attraction, not as colourful as the mock ancient battles with people dressed in lightweight armour or the medieval feasts laid on in some of the castles – but useful enough. Often flowers are left on the graves; not long ago there was even talk of rebuilding the Tannenberg Memorial to draw in more visitors and help the region’s economy. Not all of the Krügers’ stone had gone in the destruction; some was in the rebuilt Olsztyn and Warsaw, even, ironically, in the Olsztyn memorial built ostensibly from gratitude to the Red Army. Today part of this unloved symbol is a car park.
ck would probably think so. The cemetery has become an attraction, not as colourful as the mock ancient battles with people dressed in lightweight armour or the medieval feasts laid on in some of the castles – but useful enough. Often flowers are left on the graves; not long ago there was even talk of rebuilding the Tannenberg Memorial to draw in more visitors and help the region’s economy. Not all of the Krügers’ stone had gone in the destruction; some was in the rebuilt Olsztyn and Warsaw, even, ironically, in the Olsztyn memorial built ostensibly from gratitude to the Red Army. Today part of this unloved symbol is a car park.A street in the Polish town of Lidzbark Warmi
ski – formerly the German Heilsberg and still dominated by a castle of the Teutonic Knights – has had several names. Until the late 1930s, it was Bartenstein Street (to show that it led to nearby Bartenstein), then Adolf Hitler Street, then Lenin Street and now the Polish Bartoszycka Street – a hopeful circle perhaps, for it’s now again called after a place rather than a dictator. In March 1946, the last Germans were evicted and the new settlers arrived. The lucky ones came on goods trains with their cows and pigs, others having struggled there on foot or in carts, from the east that Stalin had taken over – now Lithuania or Belarus or Ukraine. They were astonished to find running water in the farm buildings and the solid brick houses, even if some of these had been burned.
ski – formerly the German Heilsberg and still dominated by a castle of the Teutonic Knights – has had several names. Until the late 1930s, it was Bartenstein Street (to show that it led to nearby Bartenstein), then Adolf Hitler Street, then Lenin Street and now the Polish Bartoszycka Street – a hopeful circle perhaps, for it’s now again called after a place rather than a dictator. In March 1946, the last Germans were evicted and the new settlers arrived. The lucky ones came on goods trains with their cows and pigs, others having struggled there on foot or in carts, from the east that Stalin had taken over – now Lithuania or Belarus or Ukraine. They were astonished to find running water in the farm buildings and the solid brick houses, even if some of these had been burned.Other books
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