Where Hitler Has Incarcerated His Regime’s Foes

Behind the grim walls of the Zuchthaus at Sonnenburg, Germany’s largest political prison, eight hundred men await their fate.

They have not the faintest notion of what the future holds in store for them. They were driven to this one-time prison camp b# members of the Nazi Party and its affiliate organizations. They have had no trial. None has received a sentence. And most of them do not know why they are in prison.

Whether they will be released next week, next year, ten years hence, or whether they will spend the rest of their days behind the bars is something no one can tell them. Arrangements are being made for the care of a large number of “permanent” prisoners. When asked what the word “permanent’ means in this case, one Nazi officia’ said, “Well, it means—permanent.”

How did these men come to the zuchthaus? Well, now, Baumer was sitting with some friends in a Berlin cafe. The men were so engrossed in their conversation that they did not notice the approach of eight young fellows in the brown uniforms of the “S. A.”, or lower grade storm troopers. It was all over before they knew it. Without resistance the civilians were brought to a Nazi brown house party headquarters. What happened there neither Baumer nor his comrades will tell. After four days of grilling by Nazis they were piled into trucks along with a number of other prisoners and carted off to Sonnenburg, approximately seventy miles from Berlin.

THEY CALL FOR COHEN

They came for Cohen at night He was aroused by a terrific pounding on the door. For months he as well as every other Jew in the country, had fearfully looked for ward to this Nazi call. He soothed the mother of the four Cohen children, and warned her that this hysterical weeping would awaken the children. But the children had already crept out of bed; and with terror in their hearts and choking sobs in their throats they came stealing into their parents’ room Cohen went to open the door There was a scuffle, screams, weeping—and the door was closed and Cohen carried out.

Sonnenburg is a quiet little town not far from the Polish frontier. A# this time of year caravans of hay wagons rumble over the cobble stone pavement with huge loads of produce. Old men and old women as well as stalwart younger folk work steadily in the fields.

Three of us were escorted through the zuchthaus. Of the others one was a member of the British Labor Party and former member of Parliament, Mr. Ben Riley, and the other was an American propagandist. We saw approximately 200 of the 800 prisoners in the camp, and talked with eight or ten. The guides were frank and obliging. One was a pudgy, double-necked fellow who had lived for many years in Chicago. The other was an admirable specimen of German manhood, tall, broad-shouldered, monocled, alert, and gracious without effort. He was better than von Stroheim.

EMPTY TILL HITLER CAME

The zuchthaus, we were told, was originally a state prison which was converted during the war into a prison camp, and which had been unused since the war until the day after Hitler assumed power. From the time of the Nazi ascension into office the number of political prisoners has gradually been swollen to its present size.

Two heavy iron gates lead to the first building of the zuchthaus. There is a small court between the gates and a tailor laboring under the weight of a large ring of heavy iron keys is the only occupant of the courtyard. He swings open one of the ponderous inner doors of the prison, and we are escorted into the first building.

In a dingy office four civilian officials are grouped at one of the tables. They spring to attention and salute our secret police escort in the Nazi fashion as we enter. And it is clear by their attitude that our escort holds higher office than any member of the prison staff.

We pass down the first long corridor of cells, each with a huge wooden and steel door that resembles those of large American refrigerators.

OLD MILITARY SALUTE

The secret police suddenly throws open one of the doors. There is the sound of feet scraping; and we see eight men in gray prison garb spring to their feet. They salute—not the Nazi salute, but the old military salute with hand to the forehead. We see the floor littered with shoes, which they had been mending. Shoemaker’s lasts had been toppled over in the workers’ haste to come to attention; the prisoners stare straight ahead with blazing, unmoving blue eyes, their heads thrown far back, chests out, heels together. At a word from the police they relax to their former positions, take up their lasts, and resume their sewing and hammering.

We pass into the next room where some two hundred pairs of shoes are neatly arranged on the floor. On our way out, again the workers rise to attention. One of the men is questioned by the secret police official. Without turning his eyes, without blinking, he gives the answers in terse tones. They are not forced to work, he says. He and his comrades prefer to work. The shoes belong to the prisoners: the workers have three periods of recreation each day, from eight to ten mornings, from two to four afternoons, and from seven to eight evening, he relates. They salute as we leave.

PRISONERS SHAMEFACED

A few cells farther down the corridor a door is again suddenly opened; and we burst in on six men who have been sitting around a large wooden table. As they spring to attention their chairs clatter to the floor. Their eyes are transfixed as they stand at attention. At a word from the secret police these men resume their attitude of ease—standing, however.

Practically all the prisoners are shamefaced; and the color mounts to their cheeks. They have been having a birthday party for Fritz Kleinholtz, 26. Neatly pencilled letters on a huge cardboard pinned to the wall spell out Fritz’ name, and the word “Gesundheit” appears above it. In the center of the poster a picture of Fritz and his wife has been pasted. And on the wall are pinned six miniature goblets made of tinfoil.

On the table are remnants of black bread and the remains of an unpalatable stew, both of which undoubtedly were held over from the lunch table. Despite their confusion, Fritz and his friends are proud of their decorations and the success of their party. They appear to be a well bred group; and under less severe circumstances they would, no doubt, be toasting Fritz’ health with champagne.

CELLS SPACIOUS, CLEAN

We continue down the corridor, stopping here and there to peer into the cells. They are all pleasant, fairly spacious, and spotlessly clean. Some are occupied. Accommodations are for two, three, four, and six men. “We make an effort to allow our prisoners to choose their cell-mates or give them single cells if they desire them,” the guide explains.

As we leave the building there is movement behind the barred windows that are even with the ground. These cells are below ground. We had not been shown these.

A group of thirty men move listlessly about the yard like a small flock of browsing sheep. The ill-fitting gray jackets and shapeless gray trousers are not in tune with the facial characteristics of the prisoners. A large number of them are distinguished in appearance. It is impossible to avoid thinking that they might easily change places with their jailors and present a more convincing picture.

Four or five brownshirts stand about the yard with rifles slung over their shoulders as the prisoners move slowly in a body from place to place, smoking and talking dispiritedly.

DEPUTIES IN PRISON GARB

“You are looking at one of the most prominent groups of prisoners in the world,” says the secret police. “Among those in the ward are many burgomeisters, members of town councils, and even a few former members of the Reichstag.”

As we approach the group, they snap to attention and are immediately ordered to stand at ease. While we interview a number of them we become objects of baleful glares. A few of them show some respect. Most of them are impassive.

One of the prisoners—a stalwart, impressive individual, who has not been imprisoned long enough for his mustasche to lose all its wax—confesses that he had asked to be placed in the zuchthaus. He had been a Communist Party leader in a certain section of Prussia, and he feared that stormtroopers might attack him.

The guard tells us there are many others who entered under similar conditions. The police, he says, are frequently unable to control the administration’s troops; and a number of formerly anti-Nazi leaders have been killed while hundreds more have been injured by violence.

For the most part, however, the prisoners seem to be very discontented. Most of them have left comfortable homes and better than middle class social circles. They have not grown used to living in prison. And on their faces is a look of anxiety, which is many times multiplied by uncertainty. If they had been sentenced – to definite terms on definite charges they might be able to reconcile themselves. But there is no way of knowing who will be the “permanent” prisoners. The word has gone round that the state is purchasing land which will be developed by the “permanent” ones.

“Eventually,” the escort says, “we plan to take all permanent prisoners from the concentration camps throughout Germany and keep them here. This is really a wonderful prison; and we believe that our political adversaries will be much more comfortable here than in camps.”

The British member of the party asks to see a certain prisoner, whose name has been given him by someone in England. A short, stocky fellow is ushered in by a guard. He is in his undershirt. He announces that he is sixty-four years old, suffers from hardening of the arteries, and wouldn’t mind it so much in prison but for the fact that his wife and seven children need his help. As he speaks of home his lips quiver; and this is odd for he has a strong face and fierce, blue eyes. He says that he does not know why he was put here, because he had not opposed the Nazi party. He suspects business rivals of having spread lies about him, he says. And the secret police sympathetically agrees that many men are in this prison merely because their neighbors spread lies about them. When it comes to giving a message to his wife, he says, “Tell Mama I am well; tell Abraham I shall be home soon; tell Isadore—” and here he breaks off in grief.

STOCKADE OF BUILDINGS

Four or five large buildings form a stockade around the “recreation ground.” The prisoners said they have “sport” occasionally. The only great exertion seen during our stay there is when a prisoner runs stiff-leggedly a few dozen steps across the field into one of the buildings.

A request to see the “hole” or “dungeon” where bad prisoners are disciplined is readily granted. We are led into the largest building of all. A door is thrown open to reveal a cell quite as comfortable as