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Diary of Deportation
by Andreas Toth
A Portion of the
Diary of Andreas Toth [Heimatortsgemeinschaft Semlak Heimatbrief - February 1995,
Vol. 12, Pages 21-29].
Many thanks for Henry Fischer for his translation from
German to English.
(Andreas Toth was born in
Semlak, Romania on September 16, 1928, the only child of
Andreas Toth and his wife the former Julianna Bartolf.
Following his completion of Public School in Semlak, he went
to the Trade School in Temesvar and High School in Detta.
He died in the deportation to Russia on September 13, 1946,
three days before his eighteenth birthday.)
Thursday, September 14,
1944:
Hungarian soldiers appeared in
the village in the forenoon…a patrol. In the afternoon
the Hungarian soldiers (border guards) came to the market
place along with four German soldiers with the terrifying
order: Take flight immediately! I was just
having an afternoon nap and it was around 2 o’clock. I
rushed out to our fields, later went to the druggist, but he
was closed, and then went and took a look at the soldiers.
They had set up artillery piece in front of our Lutheran
Church pointing towards the west.
At our place out in the yard:
We were just separating the sunflower seeds from the large
pods. The wagon came and I helped unload it and we
continued to work and then Aunt Kathi came. She shared
the news of the coming threat and the happenings that had
taken place in the forenoon and then we went out to the
fields in our wagon again. Later I had to hurry and
call her parents. Our old Aunt Susi did not want to go
back home and she would hear nothing about fleeing.
She stubbornly refused to change her mind. The
wagon drove into our yard and Mari immediately came for her
child.
While we unloaded the wagon my
father told them that in the meantime he had heard
information to the effect that it was not really that bad
after all. We believed that the Russians would soon be
here and would have a free hand and massacre all of us.
That is why every ethnic German person would soon be
evacuated to the Reich in the soon to be arriving German
army trucks that would be sent for us. But in reality
it was not really that bad, even though the outlook was not
that good! It was all probably just an exaggeration,
the kind that happens in a situation like this.
We were to hear the official
word in the evening at the local dance hall and we went
there, but the military officers were late in arriving.
Have patience! Soon a Storm Trooper arrived and gave
the word. With a few short sentences he declared that
this was an emergency situation---flee---the rules to follow
on the journey ahead and well as the route that would be
taken were given. I went to bed at about two in the
morning.
Friday, September 15, 1944:
Packing. Rushing around.
Everything: bedding and food. The journey by
wagon ahead of us was estimated to last three weeks.
Father went to look for a wagon. After he found one,
he had to give it to another man. In the meanwhile, I
was promised one, but it was taken from me on my way home.
We heard the noise of moving wagons from inside of our house
and went outside to the street to watch. There were
several Romanians on the wagon with a Hungarian solider and
they were heading home. Our Hungarian brothers!
All of our efforts were in vain. Only those that had
their own horses and wagons were allowed to set out.
We had a lightweight carriage and if I remember rightly we
had a rocking horse somewhere. If that is all one had,
one could easily become discouraged.
The wagons were set out at
five o’clock. The column of wagons as one would expect
started out punctually. It upset me and I did not want
to be there to see them start out. Did I have to see
all of the crying and weeping, and listen to the complaining
and whining, lamenting and swearing, and witness the misery
and sorrow?
It was estimated that there
were ninety wagons. They could travel at night and in
the twilight hours and dawn. A three-week long
journey! Every hour the rain threatened under a dark
sky. Most of the wagons had a roof covering of some
kind or an enclosed roof for the driver. According to
what we heard from others, the soldiers were rather rough
with the people. They tried to force the onlookers to
go with them.
Father encouraged us:
“Not all could be accommodated in one transport, other wagon
columns will be set up and who knows we might not have to
leave at all.” This is what my father thought, but I
did not agree. Did I suddenly have the right to say
something about such life wrenching questions and the
possible consequences? Am I of age? Independent?
The head of a family? But I began to notice that what
my father thought and what he actually did become more and
more obvious.
While the others were busy
packing, I took the time to speak to some Hungarian
soldiers. What the net result of that was, I can leave
to your imagination. It is clear that a soldier simply
thinks and acts like a soldier. Who would protect us
after the Hungarians left? Perhaps the rumor that the
Hungarians were still here was supposed to do that? Or
was it the flowers that they wore one their chests and would
leave behind?
Saturday, September 16,
1944:
The calm before the storm:
that is a fitting description for what is happening.
What were the people supposed to do? The people who
had fled out of fear with their horses and wagons on
Thursday and Friday came back home because the German army
escort troops had actually gone before they arrived at their
meeting place. Some of them rested up while others
went back to work to kill the time and to forget the whole
thing.
I began to write and got
nowhere. I began to read and that didn’t work either.
I went for a walk but that did nothing for me. It
appeared to me that I would simply do what I always did and
just leave it at that. Even eating and sleeping fell
into that category.
The events of yesterday had no
impact upon us.
Sunday, September 17, 1944:
Only the morning of this day
was peaceful. The Hungarians soldiers left yesterday.
The Germans had left with the first columns in flight.
Later, still before noon, the Storm Trooper or an officer
along with five men returned to the village. Like a
grass fire the news spread all around: They wanted to
assemble a second wagon transport. Everyone fled out
to their fields with their horses and wagons or went into
hiding.
Sunday, September 25, 1944:
It’s all over! The
Russians are here.
September 26, 1944:
My birthday? The cannons
are speaking. Their sound gets louder and louder and
we work at the river building a bridge. It rains, we
work in mud and water and we do forced labour. What
does “Dawaii” mean in Russian? I am forced to learn
much more Russian.
September 30, 1944:
Forced labour every day.
We alternate, one day we work at the river and then a day on
the roadway. And how much longer is this going to
last?
October 10, 1944:
The two week long sound of
cannon fire is over. The windows shook day and night.
The frontlines have moved further west and we have been left
behind here in the east.
November 1, 1944:
Underground rumors. Verschleppung? (Translator’s note:
the word means to be dragged off to slavery by force against
your will. The word “deportation” is not an accurate
description of the word’s full intention.)
November 30, 1944:
There is a sinister calm.
Every day there is forced labour. And just when is
Sunday? I am completely unable to write a single
understandable sentence. I feel like I’ve been beaten
to death.
December 25, 1944:
Christmas. Silent night,
holy night! What will the New Year, 1945 bring with
it? What can I wish for my parents today? My
throat feels like I’ve been choked. Just thoughts…I
wish you a happy New Year!
January 6, 1945:
It is really not true, there
won’t be a Verschleppung, and it is all simply propaganda.
We are now allies of Russia…There have been so many rumors
about locked railway cattle cars filled with people who
speak Hungarian and German. But they come from the
west, from across the border in Hungary and the trains are
rolling towards the east.
January 9, 1945:
It is true after all.
Our attempt to escape is successful and we are fortunately
here. Had it not been better to flee the previous
September after all? Now we sit here in hiding like a
mouse in its hole. But no one knows except for mother.
January 25, 1944:
It’s all over! All over!
The Russians have arrested my mother in place of me.
Father isn’t here and I don’t know what to do, but one thing
I know, that I cannot let my mother take my place in the
Verschleppung. I will report voluntarily so that they
will release my mother. I do so in the Name of God.
And now onward, come what may.
The train wheels roll on
relentlessly towards the east. Donbas in Russia.
Woroschilowgradskoe Oblasty, Woroschilowki Rayon, Parkomuna
vis-à-vis from Zsiladel.
Hard labour. Cold.
Hunger.
September 1, 1946:
“Janosch” has not let my
father in to see me here in the hospital for a few days and
I have such a great longing to see him. Anything, just
anything, as long as I am spared from scrubbing the floors.
In fact he doesn’t let anyone in. But father still
managed to sneak in. But what can one say to one
another in a few seconds. Just shake hands…I will
write a note and maybe “Joschka” will be kind enough to give
it to my father. He is a rather brave guy.
The fever has gone down and
it’s about time. For two weeks I did not get anything
to eat because I did not work and I received 200 g of water
daily along with two cups of coffee or tea. I
really can’t tell which this reddish brown brew is.
September 2, 1946:
“Janosch” promised me that if
my fever did not return I could go out into the sun early
tomorrow morning. O dear sun, I have only been able to
see you through the window in the evening for a few minutes
before you disappear.
How clever “Janosch” really
is. He turned around the number 13 on the door to my
room so that it cannot be read, but he will not be able to
fool me. Why have I been put in this room number 13?
I’m not happy with that.
September 4, 1946:
Yesterday I was so fortunate.
I sat out in the sun for a few minutes. My father saw
me right away and came to me. We sat together on the
bench and he had sent me a cup of milk for breakfast.
How wonderful it was! But the devil sent
“Janosch” to drive my father away because he was sitting
next to me. Do I have some kind of communicable
disease? Why can he not sit beside me? Why did
my fever rise to 40.5 yesterday around noon? Today it
is a normal 37.5. It must be a result of the milk.
Milk is like poison for me.
September 5, 1946:
I don’t trust the whole thing.
Suddenly there in 15 minutes they wrote up a list of names
of all of those to be sent home. The transport could
leave at any hour. They only do that, so that my
roommates and I keep up our courage. “Janosch” let
them put my name on the list.
September 6, 1946:
Father has given up on his
plan to have me transferred to the city hospital, even
though I had been lying here in bed for a half a day in my
clothes, ready to leave. I really don’t want to leave
here, because the kind of treatment there in the large
hospital is miserable and father would not have been able to
come and see me because he cannot leave the camp.
I don’t know what’s wrong with
me; I am just losing all of my strength. This
morning when I stood up and took a few steps I collapsed.
“Joschka” picked me up. Obviously the few spoonfuls of
soup I get have too few calories.
September 7, 1946:
Father told me that the tall
lieutenant assured him that it was certain that a transport
would be leaving for home. Oh, to be home again!
Perhaps I will still have enough strength to survive the
journey. If only I had some sugar water it would help
and at home I know I would get better. That is where
the famous woman physician, Dr. Moga is. If anyone can
help me, it could only be her.
September 8, 1946:
I always hope that I am
getting better, but the few spoonfuls of soup I am able to
swallow, half of it comes back through my nose into the
bowl. I told father not to send me any more small
green branches to swat all of these flies. I can no
longer hold them; they are too heavy for me now. He
should also not bring me the Bible that he borrowed from the
professor. I can no longer hold it. It is too
heavy for me. I have no more strength. I will
try to write another poem…
September 9, 1946:
Everything is too much for me
to bear, except to keep my eyes open. Nothing came of
my going home. Yesterday I promised father I would not
leave him. He knows the way I think…Tonight when he
comes I will give him all of my papers because my room-mates
take everything they can lay their hands on and I can’t keep
watch all of the time. They even take the green
branches when I sleep.
I was often sick at home!
But in comparison to here it is a matter of heaven and hell.
At home mother looked after me…home...Oh Mother
September 10, 1946:
I no longer have the
strength to walk. Oh the pain. The Pain.
Going home. Going home. Mother my dearest I am
coming. I will soon be there…and everywhere.
Just a few days, but these minutes last an eternity.
September 11, 1946:
Forenoon. Father
understands my speech with great difficulty. Soon, soon,
just to hold his hand, what good fortune that would be…
September 12, 1946:
(Whatever
Andreas tried to write is not legible.)
Andras Toth died in the night
of the 12th and 13th of September,
1946. His father, Andreas Toth, who was also in the
same camp wrote the following:
September 10, 1946:
Until New Years in 1946 Andreas worked
alongside of me in this camp and then as a wagon builder in
the Konyuscha Kolchose (Translator’s
note:
Collective Farm) about
500 meters distant from the camp. He had a good job
and foreman and was never sick, except in the months of
March to May in 1945 because the rations here were so bad.
Then, like all of us, he became very weak, but slowly
recovered much better than most. We finally had enough
to eat or all of us would have died and been of no use to
them.
September 11, 1946:
The pain! The pain!
He said that at least ten times today when I was with him at
eleven o’clock. On August 15th he came down
with a terrible illness and for several days before he
complained of being constantly tired and experiencing pain
in the area around his kidneys. But now he no longer
has any pain and for two days he has had no fever. He
was allowed to go out into the sun for half an hour.
With the permission of the doctor I gave him a half-liter of
milk this morning, and since he enjoyed it, I gave him
another half liter in the afternoon. A high fever
developed by evening and all they did for him was cold
compresses and quinine. Later, he received other
powders and injections of grape sugar. Then he could
no longer eat anything and drank just water and coffee or
took a few spoonfuls of soup. For several days we
noticed that he spoke with great difficulty. His
tongue and mouth were dry and cracked from fever.
Because of dysentery he received less and less water and
became thinner. The day before yesterday he complained
that he was losing his strength and had to sit to urinate.
I spoke to him and challenged him to eat and drink, which he
promised he would do. I said: One word, one
man?” He answered, “One man, but one who is
weak.”
Andreas did not believe he
would return home, but once he discovered I wanted him to be
transferred to the city hospital he begged me to leave him
here. When I asked him the question about going home,
he said, “Yes. Going home. Yes.”
Today in the forenoon when I
was with him, he was often unconscious for short periods of
time, but never more than a few minutes. We prayed
together, which appeared to make him feel better. At
five o’clock in the afternoon I was with him until seven.
When I entered his room he was conscious, but he did not
know me. After a few minutes he asked me who I was and
who was in charge here and when he got up he would go to
Africa. Then the attack was over. After this he
drank some coffee and sat up. We talked about some things.
He complained again that he felt so weak and whereupon I
encouraged him that he had been weak most of his life to
which he admitted had been true. To the question as to
whether he would have another injection in the morning, he
answered that the one he had received that day was the last,
because by tomorrow it would be over. He told me that
he lay there without his underpants, had no shirt, was naked
just like when he entered this world and he would leave it
in the same way. He told me that he had to die and
knew what he was saying. Then he suggested I leave and
we said farewell to one another. I winked at him and
he winked back just like we did before we went on a long
journey together.
Around nine o’clock in the
evening I visited Andreas again. He was lucid and knew
me but asked the same thing ten times. I did not know
if he was unable to hear or whether he was just depressed.
Then we prayed the Lord’s
Prayer and Andreas asked me to pray for him that he might
have a restful night.
September 12, 1946:
I went to see Andreas at nine
o’clock in the morning. He seemed quite lively, but
had not left his bed for two days now. I asked him if
he had eaten breakfast and how he responded indicated he had
not understood me. With regard to the question of
whether he wanted coffee or water, he made a sign that he
did not want to go down from the bed. I moistened his
lips and tongue that were cracked and dry.
When a truck suddenly arrived
to pick up some of the patients, he became very upset.
As a sick Polish patient left the floor, Andreas pointed in
the direction of the door indicating he wanted to go home as
well. In response to my question of whether he would
rather stay here with me until he felt better before he set
out on such a long journey, in which he could easily die, he
answered, that he would rather go to see his mother one more
time. Then I told him that today the Polish inmates
were leaving and the Hungarians and the Romanians would
leave a day later on another transport. But
because the sick Hungarians in his room remained and the
Polish patient was brought back, he became upset again…
While he moistened his lips
himself, I said to him that this was a good sign and that he
was getting better and that he should keep it up. He
was visibly relieved and no longer had a fever, but his
pulse was weak. I remained until 12:30. He had
not eaten anything nor did he want anything.
In the afternoon around two
o’clock I returned again. Andreas was cheerful but not
as lively. I moistened his lisp and then he told me he
would like to rest. At 4:30 I returned to be with him
and stayed until it was almost eight o’clock. He was
becoming more and more weak and around evening became
unconscious. When he regained consciousness I took his
two hands and placed them over one another on his chest and
spoke to him that he had to be strong and steadfast now.
I spoke to him of God the Father, and his Son Jesus Christ,
about eternal life, the forgiveness of sins and the
resurrection and that God the Father had cared for him to
this day and that all things happened according to His will.
After a few seconds he spoke so clearly and loudly, in a way
we head not heard him speak for days, “Amen”. It was
his last word. He closed his eyes and lay still.
His pulse beat, but it was weak. I had to go, the
others had eaten and the hospital closed.
Andreas died in the night of
12th and 13th of September.
Shortly after midnight he was restless for a short time and
the nurse gave him some water. Then he fell into
eternal sleep.
(The following poem was
written by Andreas on September 8, 1946)
Donbas
In Dombas life is so difficult
and hard
Father come home, I won’t leave you here any longer.
I will be your shield and protector
As we walk in God’s appointed way.
I have always obeyed my
father,
Do the same and provide for yourself.
I will never abandon you, I have promised you that,
Believe me, I have never broken my word to you.
And even if I am
tired and weak
And am lying here in misery!
Soon I will be the Victor!
My Victory: Death will never come again.
Life on earth was like a
dream.
Soon my life will begin in eternity,
The Lord Himself provided for my new beginning,
Have I done anything to deserve it with my life?
The Lord takes His own to
Himself,
Whatever is left over is what I am!
My body is weak and wants to go to rest
And I close my eyes.
Father, Mother, I will smooth
your way,
And lead you to everlasting life,
In God’s beautiful garden in heaven,
Where we will see each other, just have faith.
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