Gunther Nitsch's Letter
Gunther Nitsch's Letter
Gunther Nitsch's Letter
I am 78 years old and live in the United States. Seventy years ago, when I
was 8 years old like you, I was also a refugee. I'm writing to share my story
with you to let you know that, no matter how bad things may seem, there
are good people in this world who can make everything better.
From 1939 until January 1945 I had lived a rather comfortable life with my
mother, my little brother, and my German Shepherd dog, Senta, on my
grandfathers farm in Langendorf in East Prussia, the most eastern
province of Germany. Although World War II was raging in Europe, we had
plenty of bread, potatoes, milk, eggs and meat. In the autumn of 1944, I
had just started the second grade at school.
All of this came to an abrupt end when the Russian army swept into East
Prussia forcing us to try to escape to the West in a horse-drawn wagon
with only a few possessions. When my mother told me that we had to
leave Senta behind, I sobbed for hours. The Russians caught us on April
15, 1945, trapping us for the next 3-1/2 years in Russian-controlled
territory.
During that time everyone twelve years old and older, including my mother,
had to work twelve-hour days on a "Kolkhoz" (a Russian state-run farm).
The daily wage was 300 grams of bread. For the German children, like me,
there was no school. Instead, I spent all my time with my 9-year-old
cousin searching for firewood, which we sawed and chopped up for heat
and cooking. We also collected nettle leaves (which my grandmother
cooked like spinach) and went into the forest to gather acorns, berries, and
mushrooms. In the fall we found potatoes left on harvested potato fields.
When I dared, I also sneaked onto the fields to steal potatoes.
The winters, when nothing grew and everything was covered with snow
and ice, were the worst time for all of us. Not a single day went by when I
wasn't hungry. To help my family I went begging for bread at Russianoccupied houses. During that terrible time, many German refugees died of
starvation.
Finally, in September 1948, my family, together with 900 other Germans,
was brought by freight train to East Berlin. The trip, which normally took ten
hours, lasted two weeks. After ten weeks in Communist East Germany my
mother, my brother and I crossed the border illegally to West Germany
where we spent almost two years in a crowded refugee camp, a former
ammunition dump. There were only a few fathers in the camp. Most of the