[Cold washing possibility under British administration - coats, blankets, caps]

Under British rule the prisoners had the daily possibility of washing, all the body, they could not wash with heated water but they could use soap and they could rinse profoundly. Wearing a cleaned shirt after about eight weeks of dirt was really an event which had a better effect than most other events of world history. The English let distribute also coats, blankets and caps in bigger quantities. Only shoes were missing. Our ones were emaciated as we were ourselves, there was mold, the shoes were in rags as we were ourselves. As long as they were not put out they were holding together in some way - this seemed strange.

[Preparation for winter - or dismissal or another mass murder - registration and lining up for hours]

Anyhow - there had to be an action soon. It was July now. In the military bureaucracy one had to take the decision to treat us like prisoners of war, to install barracks for the autumn, to supply the camp with heating material, and there should be straw at least for sleeping, bedclothes were not so important. When one did not want this, then one had to decide to reject us like bothering but surviving rabble. Four months after the captivity had begun one could not expect to "American" or British soldiers to be witness of another mass murder again [p.197] by hunger, cold and epidemics. The authorities were coming to the conclusion that it would be better to send us home. And thus one day we were registered a second time getting one more time the question forms. But this time we had not such an enthusiasm. Where had gone the first registration? Had it been scattered to the four winds or had it been used for heating the kitchen? We had forgotten already how many question form we had filled as civilists and soldiers in the Third Reich. We did not have any idea that Hitler's statal and party bureaucracy would be only a little wind compared with the hurricane of inquiry sheets of the allies and later of the German bureaucracy. Additionally we did not know in those times that it was a principle of any bureaucracy to rejuvenate their documents constantly, and that every real bureaucrat would like more to give ten times the same question sheet for being filled out than he will take the question sheet out of his registration.

But - this time the matter was an earnest one. Some days after the desk work we had to line up. We were waiting from the morning until the evening for what would happen with us. There was no action. Some days later we had to line up one more time, one more time many hours, in a patient way like - just like prisoners of war. The sheep could learn something from us yet. But now something happened. Around lunchtime [p.198] we were marching in another camp, not at all in a military formation. As we had always presented and had marched in rows of three lines during Hitler's times we were marching now in a democratic way in four lines. In front of one tent - it was so big like a local circus - we had to stop. It was a hot day in July. We were not pleading for this hot force. We all had a skin color already similar to etched cherry wood. It was 1 pm, it was 2pm. Nobody came. In the tent should be a commission analyzing us with their x-ray beams of their political inerrant eyes testing our hearts and brains. For every prisoner a rigid interrogation was foreseen. Where remained the mighties? Probably they had lunch yet. It was 3pm. Probably they were drinking coffee now.

[Singing torture by criminal British]

And now at last one came to an entrance of the tent. He was not presenting himself in a friendly way. He was short and fat. His German could have the standard of Berlin of Kurfürsten Dam (Electoral Prince Dam). He noticed that we were very annoyed and bored. Oh, this was just something wrong for him!

-- Sing! he was shouting. A song!

But there was only a stubborn enemy silence around. The man was unfriendly for us since the first moment. His belly was so fat and could hardly be hold by his leather things, and this belly he had never had because of a fight on the front. Our silence was making him aggressive.

-- Sing! he shouted. We have time until tomorrow [p.199], until next week, even until next month. Sing! The song of Angel Land (Engelland)!

We were squinting to him in the sun as if he would not be normal. But he was absolutely normal. We had liked rather to knock out this thick and dreadful louse. But was there any sense with it? Here nothing would be that day when we did not sing. This was clear. The faces remained hard, the lips were firm and shut. We wanted to see what he could do. We had not lost all our self esteem yet. Additionally this boy was manifesting a courage which can only be performed when there is a big stupidity. He had no instinct to feel that it could be the end for him at any moment. When he was believing in God that firmly as in the power of machine guns, then Paradise would be safe for him.

-- When you don't want - - -

The round mighty at the tent's entrance made a turn on his heel going back to the cool shadowy tent. Now some typical representatives of wet trousers became weak already and they were intoning something with husky tenors, with rusty basses, and they found followers enough fast, excuse me, other singers.

-- Give me your hand - your white hand. Bye bye my darling, bye bye my darling, bye bye! Because we are heading, because we are heading to Angel Land (Engelland)!

The broad and grinning visage was coming again to the tent's entrance [p.200]. It seemed he was content with this success.

-- And now Horst Wessel Song! Come on! Go!

If this guy will have this book one time then this has to be said: Just as many other Germans in Rheinberg I was singing this day the first and the only time in my life this Horst Wessel song. He, he alone was ordering that this poor Cantus was elevated to be a hymn of devaluated and insulted people this day. And when there should be a an award for political psychology in the British Empire thus one should give the highest award to this man.

[Interrogation by British officers in the tent - a red stamp of the Church saving Nowak from the penal camp - many are dying as innocents in British penal camps]

The overture had passed. Now the farce began. We were precisely instructed. In the tent - as we were taught - British officers would be at the tables, or at least men in British officer's uniforms. Anyone of us who was permitted to enter had to come to a free table on the double (!). There he had to give the filled out question form in an erect position (!) and had to keep this erect position for giving the indications and answers. After the end of the interrogation the prisoner had to leave the tent again on the double. Persons not being quick enough would be kicked out of the tent without any treatment, as also anyone who did not keep the erect position. We were noticing, democracy was coming on the double [p.201]. Frederick William (Friedrich Wilhelm) - the Prussian Soldier king, had had his joy having welcomed these emigrants and returnees. Only one thing we did not conceive. When they wanted us to sing the Horst Wessel song, why did they not order to make the German Hitler salute because we had the force for doing so.

There are pessimists who do not always say what they are fearing from future, but they have the feeling that one had to be prepared for all possible catastrophes when it's possible. I was one of these pessimistic alarmists. In this way it can be explained that the secret state's policemen never found anything during their frequent visits in my workroom. They always wanted to find a pretext for sending me to Dachau or to another place. When I had separated from my battery then I used the only day of freedom - before the Americans were deporting me to the west - to supply myself with a certificate of my boss, the Bishop's office, that I had been just a general editor in the Third Reich, but after all it had been a catholic daily of the Church (diocesan magazine). This certificate had a red stamp so big like a fried egg. I had it in my wallet with me.

[And now the interrogation came to me]: The Tommy [English name is often "Tom"] who was presumably of German nation had my question sheet in his hand. He was checking the profession and detected the word of [p.202] "executive editor" ("Hauptschriftleiter") then he became cynical and brutal remarking: "Penal camp!" And without the confirmation with the red fried egg I really would have been given to the group with all state's leaders, district leaders (Gauleiter), local leaders (Kreisleiter), local group leaders (Ortsgruppenleiter), Gestapo chiefs and so on, in short words I would have been taken to all these people who had harassed me during ten years to the bitter end! This had been a confrontation with my local district leader for example who had forbidden to my flak group sending me to an officer's course blaming me a political not loyal person, or there could have been a confrontation with my local group leader who was bothering for anything to provoke that I would be sent to a concentration camp. This man had died by his joy suffering a heart attack when he had seen that the English had achieved what he had fought for during years in vain. When I see the well warded shoulders and chests of the mighties I always have the idea to state that such a Grand Cross should also be created for awarding honoring stupidities. There had been many candidates among us indeed.

This red stamp was working now. Mr. Emigrant as I was listening to his German which was without any accent had heard about catholic bishops already - and this was my luck. Now he became more friendly, and then he was appealing to my Christian feeling and was suggesting to me to do everything to bring many former national socialists to the penal camps instead of me. I confess that [p.203] I did not behave well in this situation. I did not spit into his face, I did not even spit on his feet. But I wanted really to go home. And this guy had a power over me deciding for life and death. Therefore I beg for pardon for these three weak minutes. Holy Hieronymus suggested the Christians how the behavior should be in such cases: folding hands, see to the sky and swallow your saliva!

Some men without any political charge were going to the penal camp for months or even for years or were even dying there only because they did not have this red stamp - - -

[Leaving the camp without anything - Nowak giving his pocket knife away]

One day later the camp policeman came. He swung a long list in his hand and was reading names in a torturing slow pace. My name was also on the list. The next morning we had to line in at the entrance gate, without wood and without sheet, thus without fire wood and without tins which were our tableware. A little bit of wood - a little bit of sheet, these were the only belongings we had. Now we could distribute these poor possessions to the remaining people. The man who got my pocket knife had tears in his eyes.

[Nowak's final walk in "Camp E" remembering to the many dead people - British soldier with a machine gun]

But is was almost a wonder that I could live on coming home. The evening before the last day in the camp of Rheinberg I made a silent walk in Camp E. It was half empty already [p.204]. Only the front half was settled. A long wooden barrier was separating the back space. I was scrawling under the fence. I was visiting all empty locations one more time where I had had such a bitter experience with torture, and others too. I was remembering the dead people having died by hunger or dysentery or decay or they had committed suicide or they had suffocated in the hole when the cave had collapsed. I was remembering to all this loosing myself approaching to the fence where was Camp C. I was reconsidering again this most horrible part of my life until this day, and suddenly I heard rattle a lock of a rifle.

I was not alone any more. Behind the fence was an allied soldier with a shooting gun ready for shooting. He had a face like Edgar Wallace [crime writer] who had to know it, writing about criminals in Soho [district in New York] and in Whitechapel [district in London]. There was no doubt, this guy meant me. Murder was in his eyes. I tried to make him clear with my broken English that I was allowed to go home tomorrow and that I was making my farewell walk passing the camp. I don't know if my English was so bad or his will to understand me was even worse. Probably this primitive warrior had never heard something about the detailed life of a writer. He was shouting like a mentally ill Devil  moving in a dangerous way with his gun. There was nothing else than being confronted with this mentally ill person [p.205]. I took the flight and hoped that he would not hit me when he shot. And he also missed the mark, perhaps with the same will, perhaps with the order of a higher will. I reached the barrier and could only gasp yet. Now all my joy had passed to have a last look to this field of tears, of the cried ones and the not cried ones.

We had lost the war.

Nothing was allowed any more, not even one minute of remembrance to the victims of this winner's demonstration without any sense.

We had been herded like cattle to this place.

We should be herded like cattle leaving this place.

In this way the last days in the Rheinberg camp ended in honor of all passed days [p.206].

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