The Willow Wren Philipp Schott (best free e book reader TXT) 📖

“Otto said that some KLV camps are run by the military, and some even by the SS.” Otto was a friend of Theodor’s and the source of all manner of interesting and occasionally alarming information.

The SS. Some KLV camps were run by the SS? I did not know much about the SS, but what I had heard made me suddenly feel ill. If the regular military already threatened too much shouting and marching and manly athleticism for my liking, then the SS, by reputation, threatened tenfold more! I glanced at the farmyards and small woodlots alongside the road and contemplated escape, but it was of course a ridiculous idea as it was December and I was not quite ten years old yet. Also, despite my terror at what awaited, I had too much pride to let it show quite so obviously. It was startlingly cold, and nightfall came quickly. For the last half of the two-hour march we only had faint moonlight to guide us, which was eventually supplemented by the growing lights of the camp in the distance straight ahead.

As it happened our camp was indeed operated by the military, but not by the SS. We learned later that it had been an SS-run camp, but the situation in Russia had deteriorated to the extent that all SS personnel were required on the front, so the running of KLV camps was left to a second string of very young or very old or somehow disabled regular Wehrmacht personnel, assisted by a civilian corps of teachers, cooks, cleaners and so on. The camp appeared to be a repurposed tourist resort, possibly having served hikers in the Mulde valley in happier times. Theodor and I were assigned to a makeshift dormitory in an old dancehall with about twenty other boys and were told that we were too late for dinner but could get a bread roll and a small ration of milk before turning in. We were to be in bed by 21:00 and lights would be out at 21:30. As it was winter, the wake-up call would come at 06:30 sharp. In summer it was earlier.

I slept terribly that first night. The so-called mattresses were lumpy sacks of straw, there were too many strange noises and it was cold. Also it was the first time I had ever slept away from my mother. As I lay there, I wondered who among these boys would be the bears, wolves and foxes and who would be the wrens, gnats and hornets.

As promised, at precisely 06:30 the next morning the lights were turned on to the shout of “Wake up, boys! The day begins!” The tone was not harsh or unfriendly, but it was certainly firm and did not invite debate. This was okay, as I was always an early riser anyway and, despite my deep misgivings, was at least a little bit curious about the camp and its routines. Theodor and I shared a bunk, with him above and me below. The two boys in the next bunk, also brothers, explained that we would now have an hour to wash and get ourselves ready before the flag raising and breakfast. This was the first problem. I was very self-conscious about taking all my clothes off in the communal bathroom and washing in front of all these strange boys. I just took my nightshirt off and dabbed some of the icy water in my armpits. The head boy, a short round dark-complexioned boy with a bristly crewcut, spotted this and shouted at me, “You, new boy, what is your name?”

“Ludwig, Ludwig Schott.” I stared at the floor, fully aware that twenty pairs of eyes were on me now.

“What you are doing is not washing, Schott! You must take everything off and wash all of yourself! To be a good German you must have good hygiene! Hygiene is the foundation of good health!”

I nodded but did not look up. I waited for the sniggering and guffaws that I felt certain were coming from the others, but there was just silence. Theodor was either braver or more astute as he had reluctantly already followed the lead of the others. When the head boy walked away to address a minor infraction of some sort elsewhere in the bathroom, Theodor whispered, “It’s not so bad, Ludwig. We’re all the same here. Nobody will laugh or tease.” And he was right. At least in our dormitory there appeared to be a kind of solidarity borne out of shared trauma. Even so, stripping right down in front of everyone was humiliating and then scrubbing myself with a rough washcloth and cold water was unpleasant, to say the least. I was, however, relieved not to feel any eyes on me as the other boys were all intent on their own ablutions and even the head boy did not seem interested in me anymore.

Once the washing was done but before we could get dressed, there was an additional indignity. The head boy, whose name turned out to be Reinhard, ordered us to line up in front of him, which we did with our hands folded in front of our private parts.

“As per KLV-Lager protocol, you must now declare any health issues such as parasites, rashes, loose bowels or anything else that might present a threat to your fellows!”

There was silence for a moment and then a small blond boy stepped forward to say in very quiet voice that he had a rash on his arm. Reinhard directed him to see the camp nurse immediately after breakfast. I had a blister on the side of my left big toe, but I reasoned that it was due to the long walk yesterday and was not contagious. Moreover, I was keen to avoid a visit to the nurse. I adjusted my stance slightly so that that side of my toe was out of Reinhard’s view. Thankfully, no close inspection followed the health question and Reinhard left the bathroom immediately