As a history buff and a sentimentalist/romanticist, I have enjoyed accounts of times when the Christmas Spirit asserted itself in unlikely times and circumstances. One of my favorites is the anecdotal account of Yankee soldiers camped along the Rappahannock River on a Christmas Eve. They began singing Christmas songs, only to be joined by rebel soldiers across the river. For a time adversaries put aside their hostility and focused on a common ideal, 100,000 voices joined in literal and figurative harmony.
Another favorite is the Christmas Truce of 1914, when WWI British and German soldiers met between the trenches on Christmas Eve, talking and singing reasserting their humanity----much to the consternation of their officers.
In the mid-1970s political refugees were receiving a lot of attention: the Vietnamese who managed to escape to the U.S., as well as some lucky ones who slipped away from Communist oppression during the Cold War. At the time I was editor of company publications where I worked, a large manufacturer. I was told that one of our employees was a refugee, from somewhere, and there might be a story there. I assumed "the refugee" must be Vietnamese until I heard his name: it ended with “ski”. Okay, says I, he must have escaped from one of the Eastern Bloc countries---maybe even a better story. I set up an interview with the man at his home to see what his story might be.
I was greeted there by a man and his wife, both in their late 50s, who spoke heavily-accented English. As he answered my questions I was stunned to realize that this guy had been a prisoner of not the Commies but the Nazis in WWII, and that he (and his wife) had incredibly survived six years of hell.
"Jan" was a Polish national, but not Jewish. He had joined the Polish Resistance at the beginning of September, 1939, when the Nazis invaded, and had been captured by the Germans at the end of September. For the duration of the war he was imprisoned, enslaved, tortured and starved in numerous locations, including Dachau, Auschwitz and various slave labor camps, one of which was a Messerschmitt factory underneath a mountain. There he was accused of sabotage and was horsewhipped and put overnight in a water tank in which he could neither stand erect or sit.
His wife was also a prisoner, and they met at Dachau. He killed a Nazi guard who abused her, tricking him into taking and drinking a bottle of poisoned liquor.
The object of this narrative is his account of Christmas Eve in 1943. He and a couple of hundred other prisoners were housed in an unheated barracks in Oberndorf, Germany, the little town where “Silent Night” was first performed in 1841. I suppose they were slave laborers in the Mauser factory there.
He recalled that as midnight approached on Christmas Eve a carrilon in the town began to play the song that had had its origin there. As it played, the freezing, starved prisoners began to sing along, albeit in several different languages. For a moment there was peace, harmony and brotherhood. That is until the German guards burst into the barracks with their heavy rubber truncheons and beat everybody senseless. So much for peace on earth good will toward men.
Sorry this didn’t have a warm, fuzzy ending.
Footnote: I published a lengthy, illustrated article in the company magazine about this couple and their ordeal, and it drew much comment. I+- learned later that this man had never before told his story to anyone. Not even his own children knew. He simply decided it was time to speak, and I was honored to be the one he spoke to.
Another favorite is the Christmas Truce of 1914, when WWI British and German soldiers met between the trenches on Christmas Eve, talking and singing reasserting their humanity----much to the consternation of their officers.
In the mid-1970s political refugees were receiving a lot of attention: the Vietnamese who managed to escape to the U.S., as well as some lucky ones who slipped away from Communist oppression during the Cold War. At the time I was editor of company publications where I worked, a large manufacturer. I was told that one of our employees was a refugee, from somewhere, and there might be a story there. I assumed "the refugee" must be Vietnamese until I heard his name: it ended with “ski”. Okay, says I, he must have escaped from one of the Eastern Bloc countries---maybe even a better story. I set up an interview with the man at his home to see what his story might be.
I was greeted there by a man and his wife, both in their late 50s, who spoke heavily-accented English. As he answered my questions I was stunned to realize that this guy had been a prisoner of not the Commies but the Nazis in WWII, and that he (and his wife) had incredibly survived six years of hell.
"Jan" was a Polish national, but not Jewish. He had joined the Polish Resistance at the beginning of September, 1939, when the Nazis invaded, and had been captured by the Germans at the end of September. For the duration of the war he was imprisoned, enslaved, tortured and starved in numerous locations, including Dachau, Auschwitz and various slave labor camps, one of which was a Messerschmitt factory underneath a mountain. There he was accused of sabotage and was horsewhipped and put overnight in a water tank in which he could neither stand erect or sit.
His wife was also a prisoner, and they met at Dachau. He killed a Nazi guard who abused her, tricking him into taking and drinking a bottle of poisoned liquor.
The object of this narrative is his account of Christmas Eve in 1943. He and a couple of hundred other prisoners were housed in an unheated barracks in Oberndorf, Germany, the little town where “Silent Night” was first performed in 1841. I suppose they were slave laborers in the Mauser factory there.
He recalled that as midnight approached on Christmas Eve a carrilon in the town began to play the song that had had its origin there. As it played, the freezing, starved prisoners began to sing along, albeit in several different languages. For a moment there was peace, harmony and brotherhood. That is until the German guards burst into the barracks with their heavy rubber truncheons and beat everybody senseless. So much for peace on earth good will toward men.
Sorry this didn’t have a warm, fuzzy ending.
Footnote: I published a lengthy, illustrated article in the company magazine about this couple and their ordeal, and it drew much comment. I+- learned later that this man had never before told his story to anyone. Not even his own children knew. He simply decided it was time to speak, and I was honored to be the one he spoke to.
