Tuesday 16th July 2024  

German magazine, Quorn POW Camp, edition 2, late August 1947

During 2021 three magazines turned up on a flea market stall in Germany which were produced by German prisoners of war at Quorn POW camp in 1947. The magazine was called ‘Keibitz’ which although translates literally in German as ‘Lapwing’, also has figurative meanings originating in German/Romany, such as ‘onlooker’, ‘lookout’ or someone who imposes themselves or their opinions whether or not they are wanted. It is thought, possibly somewhat speculatively, that the men writing the magazine used the term in its ‘onlooker’ or ‘bystander’ connotation, as they may have felt that they were living a bystander life until they were finally sent back to Germany.

At this stage the prisoners were waiting to be repatriated, but it was a slow process as Germany was not in a position to take them back. The magazines cover many topics, including the boredom, frustration, wondering what the future holds, poems book reviews, notes about local villages etc.

These are an amazing find as it wasn’t known such a magazine was produced or existed. Despite the limited amount of translation carried out so far, it is fascinating to get an insight into the lives of the prisoners and how they were feeling. It is hoped that to get full translations of some of the articles at a later date.

Attached is a scan of the second edition of the magazine from late August 1947. Using the contents page as a guide this magazine covers the following:

Page 1 – ‘R.A.F. Repatriation Arrival Formalities’ An article about their future repatriation, when are we going home? Frustration with the endless delays and pointless questions. It says that a few new faces appear every few weeks, which is because Quorn was one of the later camps to close.

R.A.F - Repatriation Arrival Formalities
Ideal of the German - to sit behind the counter.
Fate of the German - to stand in front of the counter.
Kurt Tucholsky
In Front of the Counter
Well, we have arrived. At the POW sluice gate, the POW waiting room, or whatever you want to call the repat camp.

Does the luggage have to be dropped? “Over here!” We hear from the German camp police (being the German camp police they are wearing armbands with “Camp Police” on them). “No, no, it will be checked” someone says. - Ah! Checked? Or not checked? Why can’t the luggage stay outside? Actually later on it did indeed stay outside (as someone who in the meantime became wiser, observed).

Prisoner number? How often did someone want to know this and for what cunning reason? Name? - It’s written on the kit bag, on the accompanying documents, on the list in the main camp and here. Rank? That was removed from us with meticulous efficiency. Profession? That is understandable. If you’re a piano player you end up on latrine duty.(*1) And then you are out of the hall again, a step closer to the fatherland. Admittedly: these obstacles do not seem insurmountable.
“Anyone with anything to trade, through here!”
“Only what you have! - We haven’t got anything” - “Where are my shabby socks? Right at the bottom of the duffel bag. - There once again a blue sky, thank God, outside again. Trading - ok, that’s over.”

And then you are inside. A barracks, dusty straw and heat. Now it starts again, as always. The straw mattress has to be filled. The first rumours are coming from the other end of the barracks, whispered, dispersed. There is time for them to come around again. Again a straw filled mattress to lie on. Anyway, later on, things might get worse. “Fritz is 16. He is double the age of Otto when Fritz was as old as Otto is now. How old is Otto now?” By the time everyone has solved it, a bit more time has passed.

The camp? Not so bad after all, perhaps. Worries are centred, we think, around someone else getting bigger rations. Any advice? To be organised is to be foolproof! These idiots, in order to check this organisation, are always happy to ask the repats. They are secretly hoping that for them, this present state will be temporary, like hanging around in the camp where we repats, relatively speaking, get off lightly.

Behind the Counter
We have been sitting in the camp for months. Every three weeks we see 2 or 3 new faces. The three additional ones belong to the unregistered repats. Every 3 weeks 2 or 3. We shall take you home. The 3 unregistered ones go with them, most of the time. We stay. It gets more and more boring as time goes on. So we started the questions card game.

For sheer entertainment, for no useful reason. So if there is a new consignment (before it was called human cargo, today we are consignments) we get up at 3 in the morning. Because we want to enjoy the entertainment to the full. Most of the time we are allowed to play the question card game uninterrupted until the following night. But as we said, we do it “Just for fun” [“Just for fun” written in English]

We barricade ourselves behind our tables and we love it when you people [new prisoners] drag yourselves, sweaty, hungry and tired into the hall, expecting the worst, anticipating the worst, because interrogations used to start with “Prisoner Number, Rank, Name” (Please note this sentence: nowadays, the name comes last). But your fear is totally unjustified: we do not take the interrogation seriously, but we fill in the cards, just for our entertainment. Some (thank God, only a few) show no understanding for us. They are spoilsports, they report their personal details very clearly, so that we understand them instantly. No, my dear chap, that’s not how it works. First, like with Skat [German three handed card game] it goes “Number?” “Whaaaat?” “Prisoner number!” “Oh, you want to know my number? - Yes, that was camp 187, 1-8-7” - “No, not the camp number your prisoner number!” “Oh, I see - well you could have said that in the first place - yes, prisoner number is 871 613”. I write. “No, not 7-1, 1-7, yes, 817 and a D in front. No, not that kind of D, a hard D like Berta”. - You see, that’s how it should be. Well, thank goodness, most of you knew about the card completion routine already when it came to it. One cooperated quite well with the game: “Home address?” - “Neuhidden - no, with a hard D, with two hard Ds and hidden not with i, with ui.” “With what?” - “With ui” - “With ue?” – “Yes -, with ui! (it’s near Stuttgart)”. (*2)

Well, what do you know, this card game is fantastic fun. Before you can shut the front door behind you (good for you, if you can!), you will play this game a lot. And next time you have to stand in front of a form filling table, then you can stand there and say, with your pen in your hand “No, don’t bother with that for me, I know you’re only messing around.”

The LAPWING has already seen in loads of camps; the journey will only end when the camp itself is on its way. To me, that would seem to be the best solution. You can count on that, also the KIEBITZ is looking forward to that moment!
The sixty four thousand dollar question is : Where is the last Camp transport to be from? Self-repatriation has not yet been invented.

Notes:
Much of the German was written in very colloquial language and was extremely hard to translate and get the correct meaning and subtilties. Thanks to Jacqui Newcombe for overseeing the translation and her friend Ute Foggensteiner for an awful lot of the hard work. This was not easy!
(*1) This sentence was hard to understand and translate. It sounds that the more artistic or intellectual your profession, the more likely you were to be given a lowly job within the camp, but this wasn’t necessarily trying to imply that the guards were vindictive, probably more that they were just struggling to fit ‘square pegs into round holes.
(*2) Again this paragraph was written in very colloquial language and was extremely hard to translate and get the correct meaning and subtilties.

Page 4 – ‘The Red Thread: In the same boat’ Discussions about what is happening in Europe and America now the war is over.

Page 6 – Extract from Menschliche Betrachtungen zur Politik (Human Considerations of Politics) by Franz Blei.

Page 8 – This is an article called ‘I Met Germans’ by Dennis Brighouse. It is written in both English and German in the magazine. Dennis was born in 1903 and lived with his wife Mary and their children on Chaveney Road. He tells how German prisoners came initially to help with their garden and how they became great friends.

Page 12 – A short story, Das Kapital

Page 15 - ‘Horizon 5 miles’ A description of Swithland and Woodhouse. How picturesque the area is, like a postcard. Mentions Beacon Hill and the military at Beaumanor Hall.

5 Mile limit: Swithland Park
There will be a reward for anyone who has enough porridge in them for a 3-hour March; he will take in some of the nicest corners and a few villages the county of Leicestershire, for which its reputation in England is well-deserved.

So let’s go! Turn right out of the camp gates, and keep on going right! Follow a signpost down on the right towards Swithland. The quiet reservoirs supplying Leicester support a lot of birds, including swans. Swithland is a centuries-old village. But the fortress-like walls with their corner towers do not lead to conclusions about the warlike nature of the villagers; these defiant towers with their fitted oak gates were installed merely to preserve the blessed nightly rest against the drunks who would sleep off their revelries here. At the present time this gate is out of use, although the fine inn still displays an inviting sign outside. The picturesque old church has its building origins back in the 11th century, and its organ is one of the oldest in England (built in 1765 by Snetzler, who was from a famous continental organ-building family). Then just spend a while in the cemetery, under the old trees. It really is a peaceful place, yet even here there was a dispute; Sir Joseph Danvers(?) whose family had ruled Swithland since William the Conqueror, always wanted to be buried with his dog; he must have been a real pet-lover. Of course that was against every convention, here in England an especially serious breach. But a famous compromise was found; the grave was built with the feet end over consecrated ground, built into the wall, and that is where the dog was buried. (A more indulgent interpretation has the assertive Sir wanting to be buried with his feet on his own soil). Anyway you should take a look at the finely carved old gravestones. They are made from the green Swithland slate, mined nearby, which gives the area its distinctiveness, (window frames, walls, wells etc). Its hardness makes it especially weather-resistant, something you can see from the inscriptions on gravestones, still easily readable after two centuries.

Just after this place is the beginning of the so-called Swithland Park with its former slate-works. Today they look like miniature mountain scenery, with their steep rocky walls. Close by the red hard Mountsorrel granite can be found. This natural mix is evidence of a volcanic origin, an exception in the otherwise gentle Leicestershire countryside. The inhabitants of the next place, Woodhouse Eaves, are understandably proud of their extinct volcano, Beacon Hill ( nearly 1000 feet high).

Bear with this trek, comrades, it’s worth it! A picture postcard landscape rises before you to one of the most famous park and hunt areas of England, and very memorable.

Keep going right to get back home; you’ll reach the quiet village of Woodhouse with the elegant country house “Beaumanor”, which like many similar places nowadays are state-run by the military. More attractive, however, are the old stone-built cottages, painted in appealing matt green and pink. The signposted little church contains a carved chancel. This is all concealed under ancient park trees, which, as a thoughtful person observed, are a reflection of the English character; individual and immovable.

In the village centre of Woodhouse a path to the right leads to Quorn. Here are lots of threatening signboards which express the strict German “Verboten” (forbidden) in a variety of adaptations; from the genteel “Private” via a threat of prosecution to the unbelievable claim that a perfectly good motor road is not actually a road at all. You get used to threats. The local population, at least, does not let itself be prevented from enjoying the beauty of this landscape.

Page 17 – ‘To Late’ A story by Anneliese Steinhoff

Page 18 – A poem by Hermann Hesse, a famous German-Swiss poet, novelist, and painter.

Page 19 – ‘Ein Wort zu Goethe (A Word about Goethe)’ by Guenter Casper. A literary piece about Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, a German poet, playwright, novelist, scientist, statesman, theatre director, and critic, born in 1749.

Page 21 – ‘On the Bookboard’ Book reviews

Page 24 – ‘On the Edge’ A few comments and continuations of articles from previous pages.

This artefact is a PDF document download in new browser tab

Missing information: Could you translate either of the articles on page 1 or page 15? Please email us at: team2024@quornmuseum.com Submitted on: 2021-10-01 Submitted by: Sue Templeman, translation assistance from Dave Collier Artefact ID: 2467 Artefact URL: www.quornmuseum.com/display.php?id=2467