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STACKPOLE MILITARY HISTORY SERIES

SIGMUND HEINZ LANDAU

A Romanian Waffen-SS Soldier in WWII

COPYRIGHTED MATERIAL

GOODBYE,TRANSYLVANIA

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THE AMERICAN CIVIL WARCavalry Raids of the Civil WarGhost, Thunderbolt, and WizardIn the Lion’s MouthWitness to Gettysburg

WORLD WAR IDoughboy War

WORLD WAR IIAfter D-DayAirborne CombatArmor Battles of the Waffen-SS, 1943–45Armoured GuardsmenArmy of the WestArnhem 1944The B-24 in ChinaBackwater WarThe BattalionBattle of PaoliThe Battle of FranceThe Battle of SicilyBattle of the Bulge, Vol. 1Battle of the Bulge, Vol. 2Battle of the Bulge, Vol. 3Beyond the BeachheadBeyond StalingradThe Black BullBlitzkrieg UnleashedBlossoming Silk Against the Rising SunBodenplatteThe Breaking PointThe BrigadeThe Canadian Army and the Normandy

CampaignCoast Watching in World War IIColossal CracksCondorA Dangerous AssignmentD-Day BombersD-Day DeceptionD-Day to BerlinDecision in the UkraineThe Defense of Moscow 1941Destination NormandyDive Bomber!A Drop Too ManyEager EaglesEagles of the Third ReichThe Early Battles of Eighth ArmyEastern Front CombatEurope in FlamesExit RommelThe Face of CourageFatal DecisionsFist from the SkyFlying American Combat Aircraft of World

War II, Vol. 1Flying American Combat Aircraft of World

War II, Vol. 2For EuropeForging the ThunderboltFor the HomelandFortress France

The German Defeat in the East, 1944–45German Order of Battle, Vol. 1German Order of Battle, Vol. 2German Order of Battle, Vol. 3The Germans in NormandyGermany’s Panzer Arm in World War IIGI IngenuityGoodbye, TransylvaniaGoodwoodThe Great ShipsGrenadiersGuns Against the ReichHitler’s Final FortressHitler’s NemesisHitler’s Spanish LegionHold the WestwallInfantry AcesIn the Fire of the Eastern FrontIron ArmIron KnightsJapanese Army Fighter AcesJapanese Naval Fighter AcesJG 26 Luftwaffe Fighter Wing War Diary,

Vol. 1JG 26 Luftwaffe Fighter Wing War Diary,

Vol. 2Kampfgruppe Peiper at the Battle of

the BulgeThe Key to the BulgeKurskLuftwaffe AcesLuftwaffe Fighter AceLuftwaffe Fighter-Bombers over BritainLuftwaffe Fighters and BombersMassacre at TobrukMechanized Juggernaut or Military

Anachronism?Messerschmitts over SicilyMichael Wittmann, Vol. 1Michael Wittmann, Vol. 2Mission 85Mission 376Mountain WarriorsThe Nazi RocketeersNight Flyer / Mosquito PathfinderNo Holding BackOn the CanalOperation MercuryPanzer AcesPanzer Aces IIPanzer Commanders of the Western FrontPanzergrenadier AcesPanzer GunnerThe Panzer LegionsPanzers in NormandyPanzers in WinterPanzer Wedge, Vol. 1Panzer Wedge, Vol. 2The Path to BlitzkriegPenalty StrikePoland BetrayedPrince of AcesRed Road from StalingradRed Star Under the Baltic

Retreat to the ReichRommel ReconsideredRommel’s Desert CommandersRommel’s Desert WarRommel’s LieutenantsThe Savage SkyThe Seeds of DisasterShip-BustersThe Siege of Brest, 1941The Siege of KüstrinThe Siegfried LineA Soldier in the CockpitSoviet BlitzkriegSpitfires and Yellow Tail MustangsStalin’s Keys to VictorySurviving Bataan and BeyondT-34 in ActionTank TacticsTigers in the MudTriumphant FoxThe 12th SS, Vol. 1The 12th SS, Vol. 2Twilight of the GodsTyphoon AttackThe War Against Rommel’s Supply LinesWar in the AegeanWar of the White DeathWarsaw 1944Winter StormThe Winter WarWolfpack WarriorsZhukov at the Oder

THE COLD WAR / VIETNAMCyclops in the JungleExpendable WarriorsFighting in VietnamFlying American Combat Aircraft:

The Cold WarHere There Are TigersLand with No SunPhantom ReflectionsStreet without JoyThrough the ValleyTours of DutyTwo One Pony

WARS OF AFRICA AND THEMIDDLE EASTThe Rhodesian War

GENERAL MILITARY HISTORYCarriers in CombatCavalry from Hoof to TrackDesert BattlesGuerrilla WarfareThe Philadelphia Campaign, Vol. 1Ranger DawnSiegesThe Spartan Army

The Stackpole Military History SeriesCOPYRIGHTED MATERIAL

GOODBYE,TRANSYLVANIA

A Romanian Waffen-SS Soldier in WWII

Sigmund Heinz Landau

STACKPOLEBOOKS


Dedicated to my wife, Freda, and my daughter, Rosemary

Copyright © 1985 by JMD Media Ltd.

Published in 2015 bySTACKPOLE BOOKS5067 Ritter RoadMechanicsburg, PA 17055www.stackpolebooks.com

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof inany form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording or by anyinformation storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from thepublisher. All inquiries should be addressed to Stackpole Books, 5067 Ritter Road,Mechanicsburg, PA 17055.

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

STACKPOLE FIRST EDITION

Cover design by Wendy A. Reynolds

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Landau, Sigmund Heinz, 1920–Goodbye, Transylvania : a Romanian Waffen-SS soldier in WWII / Sigmund Heinz

Landau.pages cm. — (Stackpole military history series)

Originally published: Derby, England : Breedon Books Publishing Company Lim-ited, 1985.

Summary: “Rare memoir of a foreigner serving with the Germans on the EasternFront. Firsthand descriptions of combat at the siege of Budapest and the final battlefor Berlin in 1945. Insights into what motivated soldiers to fight for Nazi Ger-many”—From publisher’s website.

ISBN 978-0-8117-1582-91. Landau, Sigmund Heinz, 1920– 2. Waffen-SS—Biography. 3. World War,1939–1945—Personal narratives, Romanian. 4. Soldiers—Romania—Transylvania—Biography. 5. Soldiers—Germany—Biography. 6. World War, 1939–1945—Cam-paigns—Eastern Front. 7. Budapest (Hungary)—History—Siege, 1945—Personalnarratives, Romanian. 8. Berlin, Battle of, Berlin, Germany, 1945—Personal narra-tives, Romanian. 9. Brasov (Romania)—Biography. I. Title.

D757.85.L3536 2015940.54'1343092—dc23[B]

2014048768


Contents

Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii

Chapter 1: My Beloved Kronstadt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1Chapter 2: My Youth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7Chapter 3: Indoctrination on the Eastern Front . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19Chapter 4: Holland and the Gestapo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37Chapter 5: Russia Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51Chapter 6: Best Forgotten . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55Chapter 7: Rediscovering My Unit! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57Chapter 8: Leave! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63Chapter 9: Mission—Save or Destroy! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69Chapter 10: Treachery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73Chapter 11: Eastern Front Retreat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77Chapter 12: The Western Front . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89Chapter 13: Heading East Again! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95Chapter 14: “Last of the Mohicans?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105Chapter 15: Prisoner of War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129Chapter 16: Freedom! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153Chapter 17: “Goodbye, Transylvania” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177

Epilogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181

Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183


Transylvanian Hungarian saying: “The only virgin sheep and goats in theCarpathians are the ones that can outrun the Romanian shepherd.”


Foreword

The first 19 years of my life were spent as a tolerated foreigner in Transyl-vania, Romania, yet my ancestors had settled there 1,200 years before.

Romania on the other hand only exists since the later period of the nine-teenth century. Makes the 140 years of the Falklanders look rather insignifi-cant, don’t you think?

By the outbreak of World War II, millions of us Germans and Hungari-ans had spent twenty years under the Czechoslovaks, the Romanians,Yugoslavs, Poles, and Italians. At last, the young men could no longer put upwith it all and left their homes to volunteer for the German or Hungarianarmies. I was among these unfortunates.

I had lived through nearly six years of almost nonstop fighting, most ofit on the dreaded Eastern Front, fighting to regain my country, my freedom.Alas, freedom is for some but definitely not for others.

Forty years after the war, I am still a foreigner. I have now spent thirty-seven years among the English, have tried and I hope succeeded in becom-ing a model citizen. I am now sixty-five years old and have never known,never will know, what it is like to live in one’s own country. Not as an eternalforeigner in someone else’s land.

My past, and especially my war record, have been investigated time andagain by the authorities of three independent countries:

1. Interrogation by Austrian police (denazification), 1946–47.2. Investigations by British Field Security Service, 1947.3. Second British investigation, prior to engagement in the capacity of

draftsman with Zone HQ BTA Carinthia, Intelligence Service, 1947.4. Investigations by British government before entry into the UK, 1948.5. Final investigations in Britain in 1952, prior to naturalization.6. Investigations carried out at my request by the West German govern-

ment, 1970–72.As regards Romanian behavior? Just ask anyone from that part of the

world.

vii


The atrocities of the Red Army in Eastern Europe and especially in Ger-many? There are countless books on the market written by unbiased inter-national authors confirming every word.

Most of the names in this book are genuine, apart from a few which, forvery good reasons, I decided to change.

I criticize freely, whenever criticism is called for, regardless of the recipi-ent’s nationality, but I assure you I mean no offense, no harm to anyone.

SHORT INTRODUCTION TO TRANSYLVANIATransylvania, roughly the size of Switzerland, is inhabited by three ethnicgroups.

1. The Székely-Magyar (Transylvanian Hungarian) arrived at the Carpa-thians 1,000 years ago at the very spot where one century later theystarted to build my hometown, which they named Brassó and theRomanians eventually called Brașov. The only tribe of Attila’s Hun-Magyars to travel south of the Caspian Sea, the Széklers found them-selves subdued by the powerful Ottomans, and after endless trials andtribulations reached Transylvania under the leadership of Árpád andhis seven vezérs (leaders) circa 989 AD, one century after the Hun-Magyar invasion of Europe. Being natural horsemen, they chose to

viii GOODBYE, TRANSYLVANIA


settle in the less mountainous and flatter regions of the country,which were also more suitable for the black buffalo they brought withthem from the Ottoman Peninsula. Eventually they made quite aname for themselves with their Székely Hussars, who excelled in anumber of historical battles all over the world. Three hundred andfifty of them formed the bodyguard of Emperor Maximilian of Mex-ico. Deserted by their French and Mexican allies, they fought to thelast man and were buried by the Mexicans, under Benito Juárez, withfull military honors.

2. The Transylvanian-Saxons came to Transylvania circa 1100 AD at theinvitation of one of the first Christian kings of Hungary. Their ances-tors came mostly from various parts of the Rhineland, but werejoined by others along the endless trek. On arrival they swore alle-giance to the Hungarian crown. They renamed the country Sieben-bürgen according to the seven regions in which they settled. Theirvillages and towns were fortified by thick walls and towers, but shouldthese fall they could retreat to the church in the center of the settle-ment, built like a fort. Some of the towers contained huge stores ofsmoked hams, bacon, sausages, and other types of meat. Consideringthey were mostly peasants, their architecture was excellent and theirtalent for organization first class. Not very warlike, they fought verybravely in defense. They developed a sound educational system andwere for centuries the only literate community, as well as the bestfarmers, of Eastern Europe. From the days of Martin Luther andGutenberg on, every Saxon village had its own ever-increasing library.

3. In pre–Roman days, Transylvania was inhabited by a small swarthyrace known as the Dacs. They were almost wiped out by the Romans,the survivors intermarrying with Roman and Byzantine convicts ban-ished to the, for them, harsh climate of Transylvania as slave labor.They were joined by an increasing number of deserters from thelegions, and a new nation emerged out of these ingredients, known asthe Wallachs. Century after century these people kept crossing overthe borders and, left by the Hungarian authorities to settle, mostly asshepherds and laborers, proceeded to multiply at an alarming rate. Bythe turn of the century, the Wallachian countries of Oltenia, Munte-nia, and Moldova united and assumed the proud name of Romania.

Romania, as it is now known, entered into a nonaggression pact with theAustro-Hungarian monarchy, yet in 1916 invaded Transylvania without a

Foreword ix


declaration of war, looting and raping. Some Austro-Hungarian and Germanunits were hastily transferred from Italy and Russia, and the Romanianswere speedily dispatched back to Romania. A peace treaty was signed atBucharest, but the Romanians renewed their undeclared war in 1918 only tobe routed, this time clear across their own country into the Russian provinceof Bessarabia.

In 1919, however, due to treacherous cooperation of some bribed Saxonpoliticians, French and British politicians handed Transylvania to the Roma-nians. The Treaty of Trianon was signed and overnight some 3 million Hun-garians and 800,000 Saxons became somewhat dazed and bewilderedRomanian citizens.

x GOODBYE, TRANSYLVANIA


CHAPTER 1

My Beloved Kronstadt

The airplane was slowly descending toward the airport, now clearly visible inthe bright Romanian sunshine. My heart was beating like mad, my duodenalulcer hurting. I looked at my wife and daughter. My God, I was only twenty-two years old when I last saw Bucharest. Now here I was, back after thirtyyears in exile, with an English wife and a daughter of twenty.

The sergeant was studying my passport. “Ești român?” (Are you Roman-ian?)

“Da, sûnt un sas ardelean.” (Yes, I am a Transylvanian Saxon.)“Are your parents in Brașov still alive?”“Yes, they are.”“Is this your English family?”“My wife and daughter.”He continued to study my passport, then without looking up, sotto voce:

“Have you any English cigarettes?”“Some.” One packet changed hands.“Drum bun.” (Pleasant journey.)“Mulțumesc.” (Thank you.)I gathered my worried little flock, used a soggy handkerchief to wipe my

brow, and boarded the tourist bus for the three-and-a-half-hour journey toBrașov, my hometown.

After a pleasant ride through some beautiful scenery and one stop forrefreshments—peasant bread, cheese (no butter), wine, and beer—wearrived at Brașov at about five thirty in the afternoon.

My heart leapt with joy, but then my eyes could not believe what theysaw. Was this my beloved hometown, my Kronstadt, as it was known for 800years? The once-sparkling little Hungarian-Saxon town, high in the Carpathi-ans, had turned into a nightmare of dull, untidy neglect.

Half an hour later, we arrived at the mountain resort Pojana-Brașov andalighted at the Brad, a large, modern dormitory hotel. After a shower and achange of clothes, I went to the change desk, manned by a well-dressed,

1


graying gentleman who visibly thawed when I addressed him in Romanian.He told me that he had a Saxon mother, studied at a Hamburg university,and was an officer in the German army during the war.

After dinner in a typically Romanian country inn, we sat carefully sam-pling the Romanian national drink, the Tuica—a type of plum brandy with aunique flavor. It was far too late to go visiting my elderly parents, and in anycase, we were rather tired. We went to bed quite early, but I was unable torelax and soon realized that there would be no sleep for me that night. ASaxon wedding was in progress at a neighboring hotel, and I listened withgrowing incredulity to all the old, so well-remembered German songs.

Meanwhile, my nervous system went on the warpath and five o’clock inthe morning found me kneeling in front of the toilet, hugging my stomachand bringing up blood. Was this to be the end, after all I had been through,only a couple of miles from my poor parents? And what about my wife anddaughter? It must have been sheer willpower that got me on my feet andunder the shower. I felt better by breakfast time, but looked rather worn.

“You didn’t get much sleep, did you? Those bloody Germans.” The manat the next table gave me an understanding smile, not realizing how wronghe was.

We caught a bus to town. We had to stand all the way, getting jostled andpushed by these “new locals,” the reek of garlic and other “spices of the East”nearly suffocating us. Having survived the journey to town, we resolved neverto use another bus, unless it was for tourists only.

We got lost. I had to pocket my pride and ask for directions. Completestreets, parks, and fields, so clear and alive in my memory, had vanished. Theoriginal town, nestling among the hills and mountains, was badly neglected.In fact, absolutely nothing had been done in the way of maintenance. Everyempty space, no matter how unsuitable, had been used to put up new blocksof flats, completely at odds with their environment.

The gate was locked. I knocked on the window, feeling rather sick again.I heard my mother’s never-forgotten voice. “Coming. Just one moment.”

A trembling hand could be heard trying to insert an outsize key into asuddenly shrinking keyhole. At last the gate opened and a terribly lined,shriveled old lady emerged rather timidly. We took turns hugging and kissingher, taking great care not to damage this delicate little Dresden china figure.

Mother was attempting to speak, but could not manage one single word.I was desperately holding myself under control. The last time I saw mymother, she was still a beautiful woman.

2 GOODBYE, TRANSYLVANIA


At last, Mother put a trembling finger to her lips: “Father is in bed. He’scompletely blind now. His mind wanders sometimes. Up to three weeks agohe could see rather dimly out of one eye. But not anymore.”

“Hello, Dad.”“My son, my son, my only child.” He was struggling to sit up, staring,

unseeing eyes wide open, trying to speak, choking on his emotions.“Lie back, Dad, please. Calm yourself. Everything is all right.”Father settled down. Presents were unwrapped and admired. Our flight

from London to Bucharest on a British Comet jet had to be told again andagain.

“Only three and a half hours, and over 100 passengers? Sehr interessant,sehr interessant.”

We had a cold lunch at about one o’clock, and I mentioned to Motherthat we had also brought a large bottle of wine. At this there came a flurry ofmovement from Father’s bed and we all jumped up in alarm, thinking thathe was having a heart attack. We found him sitting bolt upright. “Did I hearsomeone mention the word ‘wine?’”

“Yes, Dad, would you like some?”“Yes please,” came the very definite answer.Mother handed me a glass.“About half, Dad?”“Just keep pouring, son.”At a later visit one afternoon, Father fell asleep and Mother had the

opportunity to tell us a few things that they could never write about in allthese years. One day in March 1944, Father was arrested and accused ofbeing a Soviet spy. It took the help of the local Wehrmacht Kommandant andthe SS welfare officer to have him cleared of this malicious accusation.

In August 1944 the Romanians did what I always predicted they would—changed sides. Hundreds, possibly thousands of German soldiers were mur-dered in their beds by their brave allies. The Dnestr and Prut front, held nowby only a few regiments of Germans—who were not only deserted by their“comrades at arms” but actually attacked by them in the usual Romanian pat-tern with no declaration of war—collapsed. Kronstadt was approached by theSoviet hordes like a gigantic flood.

My parents were frantically destroying my Hitler Youth and SS uniformsas well as all my photographs, including some irreplaceable action pictures.They need not have bothered. The Romanian police and population will-ingly supplied the Russians with all they wanted to know, and a lot more

My Beloved Kronstadt 3


besides. On the third night of Russian occupation, my parents were awak-ened by the sound of loud knocking and shouting, followed by several shots.Father opened the gate and was immediately knocked cold. Mother ranscreaming to Father’s side and was also knocked unconscious. When shecame to, she was propped up on a kitchen stool; a huge, young Russian cor-poral, Tommy gun in hand, was towering over her.

“Where is my husband?”“He’s in bed. A couple of your friends are keeping him there.”“If you mean the Romanians, they aren’t our friends.”“Where is your son?”“I don’t know. Fighting somewhere.”“You are lying, babushka. He’s hiding.”“If my son were here, you and your Romanian friends would not be so

brave.”The interrogation went on, but the blows and brutal behavior died

down. “How come you speak Russian?”“I speak nine languages. All Slav languages are very similar.”“Tell me about your son, babushka.”“What do you want to know?”“How did he grow up? Are there any brothers or sisters?”While my mother was wondering where all this was leading, the Russian

burst into tears, sobbing gently (one really has to be familiar with the Russ-ian character to believe this behavior). He unexpectedly turned on theRomanians.

“Get out, you scum,” he yelled, ushering the terrified police out of thedoor with some well-aimed kicks and blows. Father, who was now free, camedown into the kitchen and put his arm around Mother’s shoulder.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the Russian. “You’ll not be molested as long asI’m in this town.”

“May I ask what brought on this sudden change?” asked Mother.“I, babushka, am an orphan. A son of the Soviet state. But from now on,

the words ‘mother’ and ‘family’ will have a new meaning.”Months later, my father was once again arrested. This time he was

charged with being a Nazi spy. The accusations were made by the same peo-ple who, a few months previously, had claimed that he was a Soviet spy. For-tunately, some of the old police officers were still in charge and, knowing myfather personally and remembering the previous unfounded allegations,managed to free him after two weeks in police custody.



✠My wife and I sat in a quiet corner of the Hotel Brad one evening when

our dining room neighbors came over.“Do you mind if we join you?”“Not at all. Please sit down.”They were Londoners and were both employed by the Greater London

Education Authority.“This country has more than its fair share of foreigners.”“You mean tourists, surely?” I asked, somewhat puzzled.“No. Haven’t you noticed? Nothing but Indians and Pakistanis.”My wife and I exchanged puzzled glances.“Mr. Smith, please allow me to say that there aren’t any coloreds in this

country, except a few university students from leftist African and Asian coun-tries. As to foreigners, the Romanians are the foreigners; they don’t belonghere. The Hungarians and Saxons, now minorities, are the rightful owners,or if you like, inhabitants.”

“You mean all these very dark people are the Romanians?”“Yes, Mr. Smith. A mixture of Gipsy and Romanian.”Mrs. Smith laughed. “How do you know all this, Mr. Lander?”“I was born and raised in this town. I am a Saxon, and my name is Lan-

dau.”There followed a moment’s silence. I could see the surprise in their eyes.“This is fantastic. No offense meant about the foreigner bit. I can assure

you, I had no idea.”Mrs. Smith warmed to the subject: “Please Mr. Landau, why don’t you

tell us your story. It’s only eight o’clock, and it’s raining cats and dogs.”“Well, I don’t know.”“Oh, go on,” said my wife.“Well, let me order some wine. We’ll be here till midnight, but don’t be

unnecessarily polite. If you feel tired, just say so, and we’ll continue someother time.”

My Beloved Kronstadt 5



tracypatterson

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CHAPTER 2

My Youth

I was born on 13 September 1920, a foreigner in the land of my ancestors.My documents, such as birth certificate, etc., were made out on official Austro-Hungarian papers, complete with the coat of arms of Saint Stephen,but, thanks to foreign politicians like Mr. Lloyd George and M. Poincarée, Iwas born a Romanian.

As soon as the new “masters” began to find their feet, they made quitesure that we so-called minorities never forgot this unpalatable fact, thus sow-ing the seeds of discontent and fanatical hatred. Signs were appearing wher-ever we went, especially in all government offices, post offices, railways, etc.“Speak only Romanian.” “You eat Romanian bread.” “Be thankful for theprivilege of being a citizen of Great Romania.”

As far as business and industry were concerned, however, we were doingvery well indeed, as we now formed the heart of the country, whereas underthe Austro-Hungarians Transylvania was an outpost of the Empire. The Roma-nians lacked the education and skills necessary to keep abreast of this suddengrowth, and by 1925–26 Kronstadt became more of a German town than everbefore, our Saxons growing wealthy beyond their wildest dreams. The Hun-garians, understandably still smarting, now came a comfortable second-best,the “ruling” Romanians supplying hardly more than the labor force.

One day, when I was about five or six years old, we were strollingthrough the town center. Father had just presented me with a toy sword andbelt, which I was proudly carrying on my sailor’s uniform. Suddenly wefound ourselves surrounded by a crowd of Romanian university studentsyelling at my parents to speak Romanian. To my horror, I saw both my par-ents being attacked by these foreign thugs. I drew my sword and, withoutrealizing it, commenced my first charge. The Romanian police came, blow-ing their whistles, and arrested . . . us! But, of course, it was for our owngood. So, now we had to be rescued by an alien police force from theclutches of alien university hooligans in our own hometown.

7


I grew up with an increasing impotent rage in my heart, a wild desire forrevenge. God have mercy on Misters Lloyd George and Poincarée if I evergot my hands on them.

American president Woodrow Wilson later fully realized the extent ofthe crime committed against the German and especially the Hungarian peo-ple. Some 8 million Hungarians became unwilling, unhappy citizens ofRomania, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, and even Austria, the Burgenland. Wesoon realized there was no hope of any help from poor little Hungary. Shewas too crippled to help herself, but Germany was a rather different story.

By 1932–33 I was a member of the newly formed and as yet clandestineGerman Youth Movement, which grew rapidly out of the ranks of the oldWandervogel, the worldwide German Scout Organization. By 1935 weappeared on the streets, marching and singing in impeccably trained Ger-man army style. All of us dressed in our new uniforms of black shorts, whiteshirts, white knee-length cable-knit socks, black neckerchief, black leatherbelt, and cross-strap with Bowie-style hunting knife. Sturdy black Haferlshoes completed the outfit. On the whole, it is safe to say we were, in fact,only different from youth organizations of other countries by being bettertrained, dedicated, and politically oriented.

It was then, and is now, stupidly irresponsible for people who have neverlived under the thumb of a usurper themselves to criticize. We did not ask tobecome Romanians, Poles, Czechs, Yugoslavs, etc. But enough—even aftermore than fifty years, I still tend to burst a blood vessel on the subject. Wehelped on the land at harvest time or whenever necessary and soon estab-lished excellent relations with the farming communities. By 1937–38 webecame practically a state within a state. The Romanians were now treatedwith utter contempt and soon boiled with impotent rage and hatred.

My hometown, Kronstadt, was a small place, surrounded on three sidesby the Carpathians. The elongated valley thus formed opened up toward thenorthwest into a miniature Puszta, the Székler region of Székelyföld, 100 per-cent Hungarian. The town itself stood on hilly ground, and wherever youturned you came, sooner or later, to some forest or other. The favorites withus children were the Schneckenberg and the Schlossberg. The Schlossberg,situated more or less in the middle of the town, derived its name from thehuge ancient fort on the top, now serving as barracks. Here, as very youngboys, we practiced what we read in our most popular books, such as JamesFenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans and, like German boys through-out the world, the books of Karl May.



By the age of ten we knew every tree, bush, or stone; had several reallygood hiding places; and had acquired quite incredible skill at stalking ourquarry, more often than not unwittingly played by courting couples. One daysome boys were playing around the old fort on top of the Schlossberg whenone of them came upon a human hand sticking out of the soil. Their par-ents reported the incident to the Romanian authorities, some excavatingtook place, and, in due course, we heard that 120 German prisoners of warwere deliberately entombed and left to starve; they had attempted to digthemselves out with their bare hands.

Some prominent Saxons and Hungarians tried to attract the attention ofthe world press, but had little or no success. An atrocity, apparently, was onlyan atrocity when committed by a German or Hungarian. These men wereentombed by the First Romanian Company of the old fort before leaving fora new post.

✠Father and I used to go off into the mountains at every opportunity we

had, either for a weekend or sometimes for weeks on end. During these end-less rambles we encountered brown bears, huge, placid animals, often feed-ing on raspberries; the very rare and by now probably extinct lynx; wild boarin large numbers; various types of deer, fox, and the lone timber wolf, adeadly but beautiful creature; and, just below the peaks, some of the now-extinct wild goat; not to mention a profusion of huge hare, rabbit, squirrel,weasel, marten, and a host of others I can no longer remember. The air rangwith the song of countless birds, buzzards, falcons, and huge eagles soaringin the blue, cloudless sky. I used to spend hours watching the squirrels atplay, chasing up and down tree trunks, peering at us now this side, now that,of a branch, hurtling through the air with incredible grace and ease. Crackof dawn usually found me hiding among the undergrowth, camouflagedwith twigs and leaves, watching all the animals coming to the brook, spring,or waterhole as the case may be, then quietly slipping away again until theywould return at dusk.

Father used to talk on these hikes for hours about German, Austrian,and Hungarian history, subjects which in Romania were twisted into incredi-ble lies in order to suit the Romanian taste rather than the truth. Father alsotalked about geography, botany, zoology, and ethnology, and I learned, with-out even realizing it, far more than any school could ever have achieved. He

My Youth 9


also taught me to ride at a very early age, saber fence, and shoot. Poor dad,he was the best friend I ever had, and I have had and still have some out-standing ones. Inevitably, there was also the odd warped-minded one who,driven by God only knows what motive but mainly I think by jealousy, actu-ally tried to have me put up in front of a firing squad through cowardly,anonymous reports to the Gestapo. However, we will come to this unsavorypart of my story later.

In later years, summer or winter, when I sat on some mountain top orother, surrounded by my friends, looking at the endless vista of peaks,forests, valleys, and rivers, I would suddenly feel an indescribable surge oflove for my parents, my friends, my Transylvanian mountains, the very airsurrounding me, and a terrible fear, no, foreboding, would come over me,telling me that I should lose all of this forever.

✠The Court of Arbitration in Vienna under Misters von Ribbentrop and

Count Ciano decided that Transylvania should be divided into two parts. TheNorth was to return to the Motherland, Hungary, but the rich, densely pop-ulated South, containing the bulk of the Saxons as well as the fanaticallyHungarian Széklers, should remain Romanian. Most of us were bitterly dis-appointed.

Thousands of Hungarian families packed their belongings on hastilyacquired carts and lorries, and the roads to the west and northwest werechoked for weeks on end by these unfortunate people who just could notface another day under Romanian rule.

My friends and I witnessed several brutal murders in broad daylight. Onone such occasion, a young Hungarian was attacked by a howling mob of sev-eral hundred Romanians, mostly peasants specially brought into town by uni-versity students and lecturers. The poor man, like a true Székler, went downwith his fists flying and was literally ripped to pieces, the blood-maddenedcrowd surging forward and backward, using his dead, still warm and pro-fusely bleeding body as a football. The Romanian police refused to comeanywhere near the scene, and within half an hour another two lads lay deadin the gutter: one, again, Hungarian, the other his Saxon friend.

Events now developed fast. The Soviets had invaded Bessarabia, thusreclaiming their rightful property. Once again, Romanian mobs were out on



the streets, howling with rage. They had lost north Transylvania, Bessarabia,and now the Bulgarians were demanding the return of southern Dobruja, soall the so-easily acquired regions which made the dream of “Great Romania”a reality now melted away without a shot being fired.

When Czechoslovakia was occupied by the Nazis, some units of the Czechforces fled to Romania, bringing large quantities of material with them. Thiswas again repeated at the outbreak of hostilities with Poland, and soon theRomanian forces found themselves unexpectedly very well equipped. Therewere endless military parades and demonstrations, the crowds yelling “WremRăzboi!” (We want war!)

Who exactly they wanted to fight no one seemed to know or care.

✠In the early autumn of 1940, German and Hungarian units were massing

on the Hungarian-Romanian border, and we were hoping soon to be liber-ated from this Romanian nightmare which we had had to endure for all themany years since 1919.

We soon learned that in politics no one is to be trusted. Hitler, it wouldappear, threatened the Romanians with a German-Hungarian invasion unlessthe Romanians would allow German troops, and German only, to enterRomania as allies. The Romanians, threatened on all sides, showed no signsof a fight, despite all their earlier bragging, and let the Germans in. The Ger-mans were pleased. They now possessed the Romanian oil fields.

The Romanians, now under German protection, had nothing to fear any-more from the Russians, Hungarians, or Bulgarians. They passionately hatedthe Germans, who were too blind to see it. I personally had many argumentson this subject.

The Hungarians, faithful comrades of World War I, were told, “Gohome, you are no longer required.” Hungarian officers drew their swords inthe presence of their German Kameraden and broke them over their knees.The Germans for once employed tactful common sense and occupied Roma-nia very quietly indeed.

Two young soldiers turned up in Kronstadt one late September eveningin a sidecar combination. My best friend, Egon, and I happened to be on thespot and took them to Egon’s house (a centuries-old German custom whereGerman soldiers are always taken in by the German population; woe betide

My Youth 11


the trooper who ever abuses this hospitality). After a hectic night on thetown with the whole of Kronstadt gone mad, they spent what was left of thenight sharing our beds, and carried on the next day to the oil fields atPloiești. Two days later, a small army unit installed itself unobtrusively, fol-lowed by some air force units, then more army units, and eventually we real-ized there were more German soldiers in Kronstadt than Romanians. Theselads, when compared to our nose-picking, spitting, foul-smelling Romaniantroopers, were incredibly well-disciplined when on duty, jolly and friendlywhen off duty. Their uniforms were smart and always spotless and, to thedelight of our tradesmen, they absolutely rolled in money. A German privatesoldier’s income compared favorably with a Romanian bank clerk’s. Tradewas never so good.

Off duty there existed, between officers and men, an easy camaraderiewhich shook the Romanian officer corps to its foundations. In the Romanianforces, the men were frequently beaten and even kicked by their officers andNCOs. The Romanian soldier, barred by law from any halfway-decent estab-lishment, with hardly enough money in his pocket for a few cigarettes andtwo or three glasses of wine per week, was consumed by raging jealousy,which soon deteriorated into towering hatred.

Understandably, every Saxon, boy, and man, as well as many Hungari-ans, was now determined to evade service in the Romanian forces by eitherjoining the German army, at this time as yet very difficult, or, at least,attaining employment as an army/air force employee. Our little group ofvery close-knit friends also decided to join the Germans and, realizing wecould only achieve our objective individually, we arranged a sort of farewellparty. First, up among our beloved mountains, followed by a last gemütlicherAbend (jolly comfortable evening) at our Stamm Lokal (regular inn), theGambrinus.

We climbed up to our favorite peak, the Königstein, and spent somehours in the bitterly cold wind. The weather, fortunately, was very good forlate October, and the view of our beloved Carpathians was breathtakinglybeautiful. For once, every one of us was unusually subdued. I grabbed myaccordion and we all burst into song:

Siebenbürgen, Land des Segens, Land der Fulle und der Kraft,Mit dem Gürtel der Karpathen um das grüne Kleid der Saaten,Land voll Gold und Rebensaft, Land voll Gold und Rebensaft . . .



(Transylvania, land of bliss, land of plenty and of power,With the belt of the Carpathians round the green cloak of crops,Land full of gold and wine, land full of gold and wine . . .)

After some noisy and somewhat furtive nose-blowing, we climbed downto our camp, a deserted shepherd’s block hut, where we quickly cheered upagain with the unfailing help of some of our excellent Transylvanian Rieslingand a drop or two of our Saxon home-distilled Pali, a schnapps with a kicklike a mule. Some of us got busy cooking supper, others prepared our palletsof grass and fragrant pine, and later we sat into the night round the camp-fire, drinking and singing:

’Muss i’ denn, muss i’ denn, zum Städtle hinaus, Städtle hinaus,Und Du mein Schatz bleibst hier,Wenn i’ komm, wenn i’ komm, wenn i’ wieder wieder komm,Kehr i’ ein mein Schatz bei Dir.

(Must I then, must I then, leave our little town,And you, my love, remain here,When I come, when I come, when I return,I’ll come straight to you, my love.)

Early next morning we were on our way down, meeting other groups ofor individual Saxons and Hungarians; Romanians preferred spending theirleisure time hanging around cheap and disreputable places of dubiousentertainment. At seven o’clock the same evening, we met for the last time atour reserved table at the Gambrinus, ordered our Wiener Schnitzel, Gulyás,Flecken, Paprikás, or Hétvezértokány, and drank and sang late into the night,deep down under all the merriment dreading the inevitable parting of ourso-far inseparable ways. After exchanging personal souvenirs, we promisedsolemnly to meet at the Gambrinus in ten years’ time, God willing, richlytipped our favorite waiter, Fritz, and quietly trooped out into the night. Wedared not linger in case our emotions got the better of us. We shook hands,saying “Hals und Beinbruch alter Freund,” and went home.

By some miracle, we all survived the war, but ten years later only onebadly wounded trooper sat in the Gambrinus, desperately wishing to knowwhat had happened to all the others. Poor Ernst, I met him twice during thewar, and then again, after thirty-four years, in West Germany. Egon and I met

My Youth 13


once during the war, and again in Austria after the war. I also met Ludwig inAustria, where to my dismay Egon did not recognize him and could notremember him. The others are all scattered all over the globe, out of touchforever with their old friends and, I suspect, the world at large.

The die was cast and we knew that for us it was definitely goodbye Tran-sylvania, goodbye Kronstadt, goodbye parents, girlfriends, friends, and rela-tives, as well as our beloved mountains, not to forget our villages where wespent our childhood and later, as Deutsche Jugend (German Youth), helpedthe farmers at harvest time.

This tacitly accepted knowledge filled us with wild anticipation on theone hand, and yet most, if not all of us, quietly felt some chilling foreboding.However, to actually mention this in so many words would have appeareddefeatist, so each of us kept his little secret fears well under control. Weenjoyed the warmth of loving companionship and home life, the company ofour girlfriends, friends, or, just simply, the delights of our lovely town andthe countryside, more than ever before. We felt so alive we were afraid wemight burst our seams.

We looked upon everyday spots with new eyes, knowing we might neveragain see them: the mountain towering above the town like a giant henabove her chicks; the Zinne, where long ago the Hungarians built a memo-rial to Árpád and his seven captains, looking down into the narrow valley asthey arrived from the east 1,000 years ago, which our cultured Romanianshad tried to blow up in 1920—but did not quite succeed. Opposite stood theHohe Warthe, a great favorite with courting couples.

Farther afield, a couple of hours’ climb, was the Schullerau, its hills andforests stretching as far as the eye could see. If you still had the energy toclimb another two or three hours—no cable cars in those days—you reachedthe peaks, at any rate one of the more accessible ones, the Schuller. Hereyou could climb the highest spot, if you had the head for it, look around,and suddenly believe in God like you never had before in your young life.Looking down there was the river Temesch, like a silver band winding its waythrough a fairyland of tall pines, the scent of which was intoxicating. Acrossthe Temesch valley, even taller than the Schuller, was the unforgettableHohenstein. Even farther afield, but visible on a clear day, were the peaks ofthe Königstein and the Czukás, veritable giants, and to the southeast themassive Bucegi Mountains.

It was here in these surroundings that we spent an awful lot of ourleisure time, occasionally skylarking as boys all over the world would do.



None of your mountaineering for us; rope and pickax, and all that stuff didnothing for us. Just being there, being part of those breathtaking surround-ings, was enough for us. But in the winter months all of us went mad withour Brettern (skis), doing our best to break our necks and a few of us cer-tainly managing to break our legs. Having grown up in these conditions nodoubt helped us through the terrible times we were to encounter in yearsto come.

Yet with all these activities and our love of the great outdoors, we stillmanaged by the age of seventeen and eighteen to become “highly esteemed”patrons of practically every decent Saxon inn and restaurant in town. Hereagain, how does one describe something that just simply does not exist any-more? I still remember every place and every single one of our hosts, theGewerbeverein, the Rosenauer Burg, our favorite, the Gambrinus, the HotelKrone, Miess and Liess in the Langgasse, modest but unforgettable withtheir unequaled Holzfleish or Flecken (highly seasoned beef and mutton,served on a large wooden tray, rapidly chopped to small pieces by the hoston your table, and eaten very hot with paprika, pepper, onions, horseradishand/or mustard, and lots of home-baked bread). During those last fewmonths at home, it became quite a regular occurrence for fathers and sonsto totter home arm-in-arm as happy as a couple of larks, but never drunk.

“Oh alte Burschen Herrlichkeit, wo bist du hin verschwunden?”How do you translate some of our old, old German songs? Come to that,

how do you translate the word Gemütlichkeit? The foreigners just have not gotthem, either in words or feelings.

The town itself? Well, once again, unforgettable. But then, I suppose allour hometowns are unforgettable. It was nestling in a narrow but long val-ley, hemmed in from three sides by the forest on the gently rising foothills,opening into the Székler region. The original part of the town, the Altstadtand Innere Stadt, is still partially surrounded by the several-meters-thickwall, as well as some of the towers, which gave us boys marvelous opportuni-ties for our games. The black church, die Schwarze Kirche, towers above thetown as though still defending it from some enemy without; only today’senemy is firmly entrenched within, simply by sheer trickery rather thanheroic conquest. All of these buildings carry the unmistakable mark of theTransylvanian Saxon, and it is difficult to believe that today’s tourists fromthe West are so incredibly poorly educated as to believe all the tall storiesconcocted by the Romanians once they realized this unbelievable Achilles’heel of the westerners.

My Youth 15


One can instantly spot the completely different architecture of the Hun-garian buildings, like the Council House in the Market Square, the Hungar-ian churches of different denominations, the GPO building, the Ministry ofFinance, and the state penitentiary. All of these are really fine buildings, hav-ing weathered centuries of harsh climate, earthquakes, endless wars, andfire. The Schwarze Kirche was, for instance, burnt on several occasions bythe Turks, thus the name “black church.” Anything bearing the hallmark ofRomanian architecture dates from 1920 onward.

The two high streets, Purzengasse and Klostergasse, and the marketplacewere lined with elegant stores and shops, 95 percent Saxon with the odd Jew,Hungarian, or Romanian thrown in. The evenings were brightly but not gar-ishly lit. There were more neon lights about then than the whole of Romaniacan boast of today. One side of the marketplace was the Corso. Here, theyoung people and, indeed, the whole town could promenade up and downin the evenings, either courting or, just simply, meeting friends or discussingbusiness or politics.

A twenty-minute walk away from the Corso was the Park, and next to itthe Promenade with its rows of trees, forms, and benches. Here, again, thecrowds would walk up and down or just sit and listen to the music from therestaurant Gewerbeverein, or some 300 to 400 meters away the restaurantRedoute. You could really and truly enjoy yourself without having to spendany money.

It was in this atmosphere that early childhood friendships ripened intounforgettable comradeships which survived war, imprisonment, in somecases treachery, as in mine, and torture, and, finally, a lifetime of exile, scat-tered all over the globe.

Our close circle of friends:Egon Hans Makkay (Butzi)—became a pilot in the Luftwaffe; now in theUSA.Ernst Welkens (Meki)—served with the Waffen-SS; lived for sixteen yearsafter the war in Romania; now in Western Germany.Peter Szakatsch (Pietz)—cook sergeant, first in the Luftwaffe (likemyself), then in the Waffen-SS; now in West Germany.Kurt Lang—disabled through a skiing accident in childhood (onewooden leg); nevertheless, joined the Volkssturm toward the end; now inCanada.Julius Prohaska (Titi)—left Romania with me and joined the Waffen-SS,where we were separated due to different height; now in Australia.



Ludwig Kettenhoffer—joined the Hungarian Hussars; now in the USA.The following were also very good friends but not members of our circle:Karl and Horst Welkens—brothers of Ernst. Horst in Austria; Karl killedin car crash in 1985.Kurt Welkens—cousin of the above; also in Austria.Karl Dressnandt—unknown.Günther Schmidt—now in Germany.Walter Artz—unknown.Hermann Schussler—Germany.Carl Einschenk—killed, Russian Front 1942.Hans Elges—killed, Russia 1942.Hans Binder—unknown.Kurt Bonim—unknown.Otto Bonim—killed, Russia 1943.Georg Preidt—unknown.Walther Primus—killed, Russia 1943.Berci Magyarosy—Hungarian Hussars; killed, Russia 1943.Árpád Hunyady—Hungarian assault pioneers; killed, Eastern Front1944.Ferenc Nagy—Hungarian Air Force; unknown.God be with you, wherever you may be.

My Youth 17


Real Battles. Real Soldiers. Real Stories.

HISTORY/World War II

STACKPOLEBOOKS

www.stackpolebooks.com

$19.95 U.S.Higher in CanadaPrinted in U.S.A.

ISBN 978-0-8117-1582-9

9 78081 1 71 5 829

5 1 9 9 5>

German by ancestry, born andraised in the ethnic welter

of post–World War I Romania,Sigmund Heinz Landau left hishome to volunteer for the ThirdReich during World War II.Serving on the Eastern Front, hesaw nearly six years of continuousfighting with a Luftwaffe Flakunit and eventually in the Waffen-SS, from sentry duty to desperateattacks against Soviet T-34s, fromthe siege of Budapest to the finalcampaign for Berlin in 1945.Landau’s memoir, written from aunique perspective, offers rareinsight into what motivatedsoldiers to fight—and die—forNazi Germany.

SIGMUND HEINZ LANDAU was born inTransylvania in 1920. After the war,Landau moved to England, where hedied in 1998.


tracypatterson

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