Canned Meat

Towards night, one would wake up feeling unwell. The stomach churned, and nausea set in. In a half-awake state, one could hear moaning and restless sleeping bags all around the tent. Suddenly, someone would fling themselves out of their sleeping bag and through the tent opening, shortly followed by another, and in the next moment, it was your turn. Out like a shot, pants down, crouching by the nearest tree or any other suitable—or unsuitable—object.

Alternately, one would sit down and let the meat cans go out the back way, or stand up and let them go out the same way they had come in. In this forest, complete equality prevailed; there was no talk of rank, gender, or anything like that. Everyone was mixed together, side by side—bus drivers, officers, Gestapo men, cooks, Red Cross nurses, Obersturmführers, and others. And no one thought it was improper to appear with their backside exposed. After several rounds, alternating between the sleeping bag and the suitable tree, the night was finally endured.

In the morning, as we prepared to depart, one had to watch carefully where to place their feet. I can’t recall being exposed to anything similar on other occasions, but perhaps it was some old leftover batch that they wanted to get rid of first.