Episodes of War: “Weihnachten 1945” (“Christmas 1945”) by M. Scheibenzuber (Published on 14/11/2025)
from: Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge e.V., Weihnachtsgeschichten aus schwerer Zeit (“Christmas stories from difficult times”), 8th ed., 2017, p. 75 ff. (translation from German language):
“There we were, sitting in the long rows of tents at Camp 214 in Grottagglia near Taranto in southern Italy. A merciless summer of intense heat and dreaded sandstorms was over. There were no letters to read and none to write. I had wisely kept only the last ones from the war days and already knew them by heart. Hunger, homesickness and barbed wire, oppressive days and endless nights without sleep, that was the fate of the 50,000. According to the calendar, winter had to come. What would it look like? Rain, nothing but rain on the two-man tents, which were so low that you could only crawl. When you sat down, your legs got in the way of your neighbor, and if you put your head against the wall, the water ran down incessantly. The pegs, as the small stakes that were supposed to hold the tent cords were called, gave way and the tents began to bend and fall over. The neighboring camp was equipped with large tents, the comrades were supposed to be better off.
Comrades – that was almost forgotten, a hard fight for what little life there was had long since swept away bonds.
I got on quite well with my buddy, Sepp [‘Joseph’] by name. We had also been together in the war, but we weren’t quite the same. While I was busy studying most of the time, Sepp didn’t let himself get that far. He was a realist and got oil at night so that our home could be lit and warmed up a little. I wanted to fill my imprisonment with spirit and took part in poetry readings, which were a ray of hope for a tortured heart.
There was a large tent, a table, perhaps a Hindenburg candle, someone was reading. A group of soldiers sat on the ground and they listened in order to escape a little, to get away from the crowd, to be close to Peter Rosegger or Marc Twain. Listening was exhausting, the reading lasted only an hour and went on without additional words. Hans Genähr, the poet of the camp, turned out the light. Everyone walked silently towards their tents with a little food, food for the heart and mind. An excursion into a world that wasn’t called calories and slogans. Calories that we only calculated and didn’t get, and slogans that came from somewhere and disappeared into nothingness to create new space. I understood that not many people wanted to or could choose this form of refueling. There were enough people who spent the whole day sitting at the barbed wire, counting points, who could never cope. That was tantrum, barbed wire fever, I didn’t want to get that far.
And yet, I also had to deal with the treachery of the camp. The nights were too long. It was impossible to fill them with sleep, so it was only ever an attempt.
Dreams about everything that was so far away crept into the heart, and again and again the same, almost utopian image of returning home, of the home fields, of family, of freedom. These and similar thoughts naturally accumulated as Christmas approached. What would it be like? No snow-covered village, no dogs barking on Christmas night from a one-shift farm. No going to mass. No Christmas tree. No Christmas cookies. No warm farmhouse parlor. No sign of anything anywhere. Just barbed wire, wetness around and around, an angry mood among many who would have preferred to curse Christmas. Hopelessness and desolation.
Then the day arrived, differing only in that a small celebration was organized in the barracks, which was supposed to be reminiscent of Christmas. A crooked tree, it may have been a pine, a few lights were all the decoration, and the camp choir sang a few carols. A poem by Hans Genähr and the speech by the camp leader, the German one in this case, were necessary. The speech was at least as strenuous for the otherwise confident man as a daring front-line undertaking, because the atmosphere was too tense, every word too dangerous in exuberance. But during the following ‘Silent Night’, even I lost the strength to resist: before I lost myself in singing the second verse, my tears had run free, and I was already behind schedule. Because a sob went through the rows, no one was ashamed of their neighbor.
What good was the Iron Cross, the Wounded Badge, the NCO? It was simply too much for a young farmer’s boy to bear, I cried! Suddenly someone held my hand, wrapped his arm around my neck and gave me strength to hold on until the last verse was over. It was no longer singing. A few very stable people did it for all those who could no longer because they had other things to do.
Christmas, probably with a large number of the same people, but in the end, everyone on their own.
When the party ended the way it had to, I looked around to the side from which I had received help, and I looked into a pair of glasses that shone a little in the pale light. They belonged to a man I had known for a long time. Tall and handsome even as a prisoner, almost three times my age, distinguished and confident in appearance, that’s how I knew the gentleman, I call him that, only I had never spoken to him before because it just didn’t come up. Among the 1,000 people in the single camp, many faces were familiar, just not the names. The roll call was an opportunity to see everyone, almost everyone. It wasn’t always enough for a conversation.
This gesture on Christmas Eve took place without words. We shook hands. I bowed politely to express my thanks, we looked at each other and walked towards the tents. I often met the man in the camp and always greeted him politely. And it was this custom that bonded us. Any words would have been useless. Nevertheless, this experience of such a simple event was an impressive one that I will never forget, reminding me every year of a distinguished man who stood faithfully by my side in a crucial hour.
One out of 50,000 told me that the ups and downs of human life can be mastered if you are not completely alone. For that, today as then: thank you, you unknown older man!”
(Head picture: Barbed wire on a pasture near Düsseldorf,
October 2022)
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