Jumping Off the Devil’s Shovel

Some moonlight lets us see enough to keep going and we rest only in short spurts. I am afraid to go to sleep. There now seems to be an even greater ruthlessness on the roads. The horses pulling the wagons are like skeletons. How they have kept going this far is a miracle. They are staggering along slowly, often on bleeding feet wrapped and tied with rags. Many have shoulders and withers rubbed into raw, open wounds that are padded with anything soft available. The sight of my fit and healthy mare causes nasty remarks and the threat of her being taken from me is constant. The people also look like skeletons. They drag themselves along like walking dead. I see no small children. Have they all died or are some still in the wagons? It is an eerie sight how quietly this great mass of people moves along. There is no banter or calling back and forth, but only angry curses, at the slightest provocation, and calls to urge the horses on. Early one day we see, two Soviet fighter planes suddenly appear out of nowhere. With fear we watch them. Suddenly they dive and come in low over the road. Even though the horses are half dead, this sudden screaming roar almost starts a panic. Even Tasha becomes afraid, and although I am riding well off the road in a field, she is clearly affected by this wave of fear. Just when we think that the planes are leaving, they bank sharply and dive right into the face of the column of refugees along the road. At just above tree level they open fire with their machine guns. Then they turn around and strafe the road again. Wagging their wings in a mock salute, they disappear. It is over in a few minutes. Hell has come and gone before anyone could even give a warning. What they leave behind is a pure bloodbath. Dead and dying people and horses cover the road everywhere, their screams going on and on. The mare and I were spared because we were so far off the road, but it takes all my strength to hold her. For the first time on this journey she is rearing and trying to run. Never have I heard horses scream in pain. When I finally have her back under control, she is shaking like a leaf. I have a difficult time turning her toward the road. I try not to fall apart seeing this immense carnage. Maybe I can help. Close to where I come to the roadside I see a man standing there by his wagon. He has only one arm, probably a veteran. His two horses are on the ground, heavily wounded. On the wagon seat his wife is slumped over dead. He stands there as if frozen. Tears are streaming down his craggy face as he looks at the remnants of his life. Slowly he removes his wool cap and reaches down and strokes each horse’s face. With his good right arm he pulls a pistol from his coat and calmly shoots the two horses in the forehead to end their misery. I want to call out to him but am paralyzed with horror. I can only watch as he walks with wooden steps to the wagon and climbs up to sit beside his wife. Lovingly he places the stump of his arm around her onto his shoulder, leaning her against him and then with great precision lifts the pistol to his head and pulls the trigger. In horror and panic I turn and let Tasha run. I am almost blinded with tears. There is nothing I can do back there. How can this happen? This is not war; this is pure and simple slaughter. Soon the ground gets too soft and she slows down. We walk on and on in a daze. Soon the sounds of horror fade and Tasha is so tired that she almost stumbles from exhaustion. I have no more tears left. I have no idea where we are or how far we have come. The only certainty is that somewhere ahead, to the north, is the coastline. Somewhere we join a road that ends at the beach. We spend the night in the lee of a small holiday house and fall asleep from exhaustion and without any food. The next morning I’m surprised to be alive. Moving on, we find a farmstead with hay for Tasha, and I seem to keep going just to keep moving. Later in the day we meet some troops, and their gift of some bread and sugar brings back some physical strength. Riding along these beaches reminds me of all those refugees who drowned in these cold waters, just when they thought they had finally found the way to freedom. I think not only of those in the Frische Haff, who broke through the ice, but also of those on the Red Cross ship Gustloff and on her sister-ships coming from Koenigsberg and filled with thousands of refugees. They were clearly marked with the Red Cross and were on their way to the western harbors on the Baltic Sea. They were torpedoed near Danzig by Soviet submarines and only a small number of people survived. Taking stock of my situation, I am thankful that I’m alive, that I have my Tasha, and I hope that, in a few days, I will, hopefully, meet up with my family - if they are still there.