Ernst Winkler - Four Years of Nazi Torture

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Text originally published in 1942 under the same title.

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Although in most cases we have retained the Authors original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern readers benefit.

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FOUR YEARS OF NAZI TORTURE

BY

ERNST WINKLER

Contents

I want to express my gratitude to the editors of The American Magazine for allowing me to publish in this book those sections of my autobiography which originally appeared in its pages; and to the American people for providing my family with a refuge from Nazi oppression. To protect my friends and relatives still living in Germany, I have been obliged to change several names of persons and places. May the day soon come when such anonymity will no longer be necessary!

ERNST WINKLER

To conceal his true identity, the author has adopted a false name. His pseudonym of Ernst Winkler is purely fictitious, and no reference or allusion to any person by that or any similar name is intended. Likewise, except for prominent personalities in political, religious, military and economic life, all characters appearing in this book have been given fictitious names, and no reference or allusion to any living persons by those or similar names is intended.

The world is too small to provide adequate living space for both Hitler and God

FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT

Message to Congress, January 6, 1942

The author, his wife, and daughter in their New York apartment

Storm troopers mopping up after a street fight in Munich

Moabit Prison

Prisoners stare out of the windows of their cells at the concentration camp, Oranienburg

Nazi officials inspect newly arrived prisoners at Dachau

Prisoners at Dachau, most notorious of all German concentration camps

Cardinal Faulhaber

Letter from Sir Samuel Hoare

They came for me at four oclock in the morning, an hour when men of good conscience are asleep.

When I heard them hammering at the front door, I sat bolt upright in bed, every nerve taut.

Whos there? my father shouted.

The laconic answer set my heart thumping.

Gestapo .

I leaped to the window. Our whole front yard, like some unearthly stage, was ablaze with lights. In both directions, as far as I could see, stretched a cordon of Storm Troopers, their leaders barking crisp orders.

Escape was unthinkable.

Strangely, this wasnt a moment of terror, but rather of tension, almost of exhilaration. Now that the suspense was over, I seemed suddenly endowed with extrasensory capacities that enabled me to survey my crisis almost dispassionately.

My mind worked like lightning. The evidence against me lay in a corner drawer of my desk. It was the list of members of our Catholic Youth Movement. Months before, the Nazis had declared our organization illegal and branded us all as traitors to the German people. But we had carried on the fight under ground.

I was the local leaderhence this visit at the zero hour. The Gestapo generally chooses to whisk away its victims with a minimum of disturbance to the neighbors. They simply wake up in the morning and find that Paul or Ernst or Maria has disappeared, no one knows exactly whereuntil the relatives receive a curt note from the authorities, or perhaps a pathetically small box filled with ashes....

I seized the list and glanced around the room for a hiding-place. Bureau, bookcase, bedno, theyd be sure to search them all. Finally my eyes lit on a half-empty tea-pot on my desk. I slipped it inside, replaced the top, breathed a prayer.

Now there was nothing to do but wait for the inevitable knock on my door. When it came, a few seconds later, I opened promptly. Outside stood my father and mother, both in bathrobes, accompanied by four Storm Troopers in black uniforms and glistening boots.

A man in civilian clothes shouldered his way into the room. I recognized him instantlyAloys Lange, a thin-faced Bavarian agent of the Gestapo who had been sent into our province some time before to clean out treasonable elements. He smelled faintly of stale beer, and his jaw was covered with a fine gray stubble.

Herr Ernst Winkler?

Yes, what do you want?

Lange smiled apologetically. Its really nothing at all, he said smoothly. Nothing at all. Weve been ordered to search the house, but you can save us the trouble.

How? I asked.

By just handing over your list of members and your weapons.

This was the moment I had been steeling myself for. My own calmness amazed me. I dont believe there was a quaver in my voice as I replied:

If you are talking about the Catholic Youth Movement, I cant give you any list. You know that we were ordered to disband long ago. As for weapons, I dont know what you mean. The only weapons I have are the sword and revolver that I was allowed to keep after my service as an officer in the Reichswehr .

As you wish, Lange shrugged. You understand, of course, that you must bear the consequences of your refusal. Where are your Army weapons?

You will find the sword in my bureau, and the revolver and ammunition in my desk.

Lange nodded to one of the Storm Troopers, who found the weapons and took them out of the room. Once more, he said, evenly, I request you in the name of the Fhrer to hand over the list and the hidden weapons.

I have none.

He turned on his heel and ordered my father and mother to leave the room. My mother left quietly, but I noticed that the corners of her mouth were trembling. When my father protested that he had a natural desire to be present if his son were to be questioned, or his home to be searched, he was unceremoniously shoved out into the hall. He was, I might add, seventy-one years old at the time, had served Germany on the Western Front throughout the World War, and retired afterwards with the rank of Major-General.

When the door was shut, Lange seated himself languidly at my desk. Now, my young friend, well get down to business. Ill give you just three minutes to hand over that list of black swine.

(In Nazi nomenclature, Catholics are black swine, in contrast to the Communists, who are red swine.)

If you dont turn it over, along with your weapons, he continued, well find them anyway, and then what will happen to you will make your worst nightmare seem delightful by comparison. Besides, if we dont find them, youll have plenty of time to remember where you hid them while youre rotting in a concentration camp.