Katharsis – a Greek-German story

This is my grandfather Paul Georg Wierschke, born May, 21th, 1919 in Schoenwitz / district Falkenberg / Upper Silesia, today‘s Karców (Poland).
He worked as a gardener at the rose growing company Teschendorff in Cossebaude near Dresden when the war began. Like most young men of his generation he had to become part of the Wehrmacht to „lead the Fuehrer to victory“.
Gerhard died at the age of 25.

Some years ago I created a family tree. Gradually, this tree was filled with life – stories, anecdotes, smaller and greater adventures. One page had to be left empty. The field reserved for my grandfather contained just a big question mark.

No one in my family could tell anything about him. My grandmother, Gerhards wife, had passed away years before.
The only vague information I could get was that his military unit had been transferred to Greece. Since that transfer he had been considered as missed.

Through the confusion of the postwar period, emigration, and not least through the challenge to build an existence with to little daughters in the new home country, a search application at the Red Cross was initiated by my grandmother not till 1965.

Today I don‘t know anymore what moved me to investigate my grandfathers fate such intensive an determined. Maybe it‘s the fact that his life came to an unhappy end after just 25 years. Or the fact that he never took place in one of our family stories.

Finally I began to investigate, and this is the only thing that matters.

 

I contacted four institutions in order to get some information:

• the ‚Deutsche Dienstelle‘, Berlin
• the Red Cross tracing service, Munich
• the church tracing service, Passau
• the ‚Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgraeberfuersorge‘, Kassel

In addition I requested information about routes and destinations of German forces in Greece at the ‚Forum der Wehrmacht‘.

This was followed by a long, very long time of waiting. After a few weeks I got each a confirmation of receipt, including the note that ‘investigation will take a long time‘.

During the next two years I received reply letters with more or less useful information:

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Gerhard Wierschke, born May 21, 1919 also known as Paul Gerhard, born May 21, 1921, missing since July 01, 1944

We have no information about his fate. We‘re sorry for that.

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Gerhard Wierschke, * 21.05.1919 Alt-Driebitz Vorgangs-Nr. 933882

We have registered you as a relative. So we can inform you about the extensive work of the Volksbund in future.

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Wierschke, Gerhard, geb. 21.05.1919

We thank you for your inquiry. Our investigation produced the following:
Gerhard Wierschke, *21.05.1919 in Hammer, Bezirk Glogau/Schlesien;
Sergeant in II. Battalion Air Force Ranger Regiment 22, 7. Company; also 5./Ranger Regiment 22 (L)
Field post number: 44173 and 50118;
Missing persons picture list Red Cross Tracing Service Munich Volume LM 2. addendum page 337, 2-1;
last own message: May 1944, Greece;
as per message from unit field post number 44173 (not available at DRK Munich):
missed; Sergeant Schroeder with 28 men didn’t come back from mission.
Missed since 2 July  1944 Psari, Peloponnese (information Deutsche Dienststelle Berlin).

The search order exists since 1965 at the Red Cross Tracing Service. The first inquiry was sent by the wife Sophie Wierschke.

All previous efforts of the Tracing Service to clarify the fate of Gerhard Wierschke have been unsuccessful. Gerhard Wierschke still belongs to the humans who are missing. The inquiry will be held open until a possible clarification.

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We inform you that the personal files of your grandfather are not available here. Probably they got lost through war damage.

From different records we can confirm the following:

– Wierschke, Gerhard, geboren am 21.05.1919 in Alt-Driebitz

Identification tag: – 290 – Lw.Bau.Kp. 6

Rank: Sergeant

Units:
as per message from  8 December 1939 Luftwaffen-Bau-Kompanie 6/ IV (motorised)
Area of operations: Sorau, later Liegnitz
– until February 1944 no messages –
as per message from  10 February 1944 5. Kompanie Jäger-Regiment 22 (Air force)
(= field post no. 44 173 B)
Subordination: 11.Feld-Division (Luftwaffe)
Area of operations: Feb. 1944 – July 1944 = Greece

Missed: 02 July 1944 near Psari / Peloponnese
The missing person’s report contains the note:
‘Kidnapped by gangs, probably assassinated’

We don‘t know anything about your grandfathers fate.

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Because of the slyghtly martial design I was a little bit prejudiced against the web community ‘Forum der Wehrmacht‘. Totally baseless, as I should learn. The members possess a broad knowledge, own awesome private archives, and last but not least they call their own an unrestricted helpfulness. The conversation is friendly and objective.
Here I could get some valuable information like these two posts:

From Roland:

…25.06.1944
Beginn des Bandenunternehmen “Adler“, als größtes Unternehmen, welches je auf dem Peloponnes durchgeführt wurde, mit etwa 4 000 Soldaten, geplant für einen Zeitraum von 6 – 8 Wochen, zur Säuberung des Parnon-Gebirges und im allgemeinen Raum Sparta – Leonidion – Astros – Tripolis. Das Unternehmen musste auf Grund der Gesamtkriegslage Anfang Juli 1944 bereits abgebrochen werden
(Hermann F.Meyer, Von Wien nach Kalavryta – Die blutige Spur der 117.Jg.Div durch Serbien und Griechenland, Bibliopolis, Möhnesee-Wameln, 2001, S. 402, 407)

03.07.1944
Kurz vor Beendigung des Unternehmens “Adler“ wurden am 3.7.44 Teile des II. Bataillons, Lw.JgRgt 22 am Stymfalia-See, unweit von Nemea, von starken Bandenkräften, dem 6.ELAS-Regiment, eingeschlossen und hatte dabei empfindliche Verluste von 18 Toten, 29 Verwundeten und 23 Vermissten.
In der griechischen Nachkriegsliteratur vervielfältigte sich jedoch die Anzahl der deutschen Toten erheblich! (HF. Meyer, 117.Jg, S. 407) …

From Byron:

Hallo Tom,
01-03 Juli 1944: Roland hat das Geschehen richtig beschrieben.
Bei der Durchführung des Unternehmens „Adler“ haben die Deutschen im Sommer 1944 versucht die Partisanen auf dem Peloponnes zu vernichten. Psari (bedeutet Fisch), ist ein Bergdorf auf einer Höhe von etwa 750 m liegend in der Nähe der Stymfalia-See in Arkadien, dort wo Herkules die stymphalischen Vögel tötete. Dort hat das Btl.II des 22. Lw.Feldregiments einen Zug der 5. Kp. von 32 Mann gelassen. Diese behandelten die Dorfeinwohner sehr grob und lagerten an der Strasse nach Siouri auf dem Berg Brekos. Der Rest des Bataillons marschierte weiter zu anderen Dörfern des Stymphalia. Der Notar des Dorfes Giorgos Ikonomopoulos (ein Soldat hatte seine Frau vergewaltigt) schickte eine Nachricht zu den Partisanen der Umgebung die am Abend den Zug angriffen. 16 Soldaten fielen, die restlichen 16 wurden gefangen und am nächsten Tag im Nachbarort Skotini exekutiert.Das Bataillon kehrte zurück und fand im Dorf nur 5 Greise, die Bevölkerung war in die Berge geflohen. Psari wurde verbrant, die Greise erschossen.Der deutsche Schriftsteller und mein unvergesslicher Freund Hermann-Frank Mayer hatte im Jahre 1975 als junger Bursche das Dorf Psari besucht und versuchte von einem Bewohner zu erfahren wie die 16 gefangene Soldaten umgebracht wurden. Er erhielt die Antwort: „Warum willst Du die unangenehme Vergangenheit erwecken. Das waren alles böse Sachen. Setz Dich, trink ein Glas Wein mit mir und gehe Deinen guten Weg“.
Besuche Arkadien, ist eine wunderschöne Gegend, da wo der Gott Pan und Nymphen hausten.

Fast and uncomplicated I received also a copy of the relevant war diaries page from the Federal Archive in Germany:

‘During reconnaissance mission in W Nemea ( 20 NNW Argos ) Combat squad II./Jg.Rgt. 22 ( L ) surrounded by strong gang forces, could escape to E. Large own losses ( 18 dead, 29 wounded, 23 missed ).’

Now I had at least a place: Psari / Peloponnes.

The research for Psari on the web got difficult. ‘Psari’ means ‘fish’ in Greek, so my first results consisted of all kinds of delicous fish recipes and a lot of travelling tips to the wonderful Hellenic coasts. Further tries led to different towns in Greece called Psari.

After attempting some more combinations of search terms it was clear, that ‘my’ Psari could only be Psari / Stymfalia, 30 kilometres south from Corinthia.
Indeed there existed an extensive website about this town: psarikorinthias.gr.

My heart beat faster when I discovered a detailed report about the fights of the Greek partisan army ELAS against Wehrmacht soldiers. All given data reflected exactly the results of my previous investigation.

As the responsible person for the site a Giannis Skourtis was mentioned.

What does one as a German write to a Greek whose ancestors and hometown had been maltreated in such a brutal way by the Wehrmacht, specifically by the own grandfather? How well-disposed can this Greek be to thewards this German, particularly when the current German government acts up arrogant and smart-alec in the Greek debt crisis?

For a long time I didn’t do anything to establish a contact. Too little prospect, too risqué, wrong time – there were always excuses. In the beginnging of march 2017 I screwed up my courage and wrote Giannis Skourtis in English. Assuring him that I was very sorry for the atrocities committed by the Germans in former times, I told him that I was the grandson of one of the involved Wehrmacht soldiers. I asked carefully if he had any information about his fate or if he could tell me a contact person to ask.
I didn’t expect some kind of reaction.

Two days later I was taught of a better one. The answer to my mail was full of understanding, amicability and warmth. Giannis wrote that ‘he wished he could turn back time in order to make those horrible incidents unhappen’. He deeply regretted the fate of my grandfathers and the other soldiers fate. Then, like an advance notice and a promise to future encounters:

‘I hope that through our communication we will have the chance to know each other better and one day that you will have the chance to come to Greece and visit Psari.’

From this day on our contact got more intensive. Giannis did all to dig up details about the incidents in Psari at that time. He talked to contemporary witnesses, investigated sources in Greek literature, sent photos and reports. Thanks to him there arose an almost complete journal about the first days in July ’44. It was more than fortune that with him I just had contacted the villages passionate Historian.

I had been looking for a chance to reciprocate. One source of Giannis’ sympathy may have been the fact that also his uncle is an MIA of the Second World War. His mortal remains are supposed in the mountains of Albania. I tried to help Giannis with his search but unfortunately could not accomplish much.

During our correspondence we incidentally began to talk about private things. Family photos were sent from the Northern Sea to the Aegean and back, we wrote about our children’s aims in life and their dreams. In course of time a friendship was built between us. Its basis included more than the common interest in the past.

When we were planning our summer holidays for 2018 with my mother-in-law and our children (14 and 15) in late 2017 an agreement about the destination was quickly found: Greece. As a compromise for all we selected a hotel near Ermioni at the southern coast of the Peloponnese. From this location we wanted to visit Psari for a weekend to meet our Greek friends.

16 July 2018
After a three-hour flight from Bremen we landed in Athens in the late morning. At the airport we’re welcomed by the complete family Skourtis who drives us to the ferry in Piraeus. The ice is broken quickly, we’re talking about politics, trivial things and the upcoming common weekend.

A temporary goodbye with several embraces, then with the ferry to Ermioni and from there with a taxi to the hotel in Thermisia. Astonishing, how the taxi driver manages to get five persons with luggage into a Mercedes. ‘No problem, no problem’ is the multiple reply to our doubts. I never knew what can be attached to a car with a good cord …

 

21 July 2018, Saturday morning
A distance of 135 kilometres in north-westerly direction lies ahead when we leave our hotel in Thermisia. The rough wildness of the mountain landscape seems like a different  world after the tight embrace of the holiday resort. Our way leads us through picturesque villages snoozing in the intense heat. Well constructed roads become adventurous gravel tracks behind the next curve. They remind us not to forget the travel sickness pills next time. On both sides of the road high mountains again and again, in the distance glistening marble surface mining.

A short break at one of the numerous small fruit and vegetable stands where we try with hands and feet to find out the price for half a kilogram of fresh figs. Until the saleswoman gives it up, takes the offered money and additionally presents us with two big tomatoes.

Two hours later a larger city: Nemea, where the pillars of the ancient temple of Zeus welcomes us impressively.

A short call to our friends – we’ll be there in half an hour.

They want to meet us at the village entry and take us to the house of Giannis’ mother to welcome us extensively.

The moment has come. I’m standing on a mountain south of Psari and suddenly realize that this is the area my grandfather marched through 74 years ago with rifle and backpack, also in July. I had followed his steps in thought on the map during the last months so many times. Again and again I had envisioned the first personal contact with family Skourtis.
Now I’m feeling some kind of fear.

Giorgio, Giannis’ oldest son welcomes us at the entrance to Psari. Giorgio, a student at Piraeus University, had done the translation work of our correspondence for his father. He guides us to his grandmothers house, where the others are waiting for us in the shady courtyard. It is an illustrious society:
Giannis and his family, travelled from New York his childhood friend Elsa with her husband Bruce and her daughter Sophia.

The atmosphere is relaxed and friendly. We talk about travelling, politics, Psari, and the planning for the next day. Afterwards a first common meal outside the village, followed by an extended coffee time.

The rest of the day we visit the surrounding area while we enjoy the sometimes rough, sometimes charming character of the argolic landscape. It gets already dark when we get back to Psari. We let the day end in a phantastic mood in a tavern.

22 July 2018, Sunday morning
The beginning of a time travel back to the year 1944. Our first station is a large rock, the ‘Makri Lithari’. Behind this stone the 32 german soldiers hid from the partisans on the road below, among them my grandfather. It didn’t help – another ELAS unit came down  the mountainside, shot half of the soldiers and captured the remaining 16.

Giannis and I stand on the rock, looking around. I ask myself what the Germans could have wanted here. No location of strategic importance, no war essential resources. Just rocky landscape, meager grass, a few goats.

We’re on our way back to the road when the owner of the territory approaches us with fresh goat cheese and a bottle of the local grappa. Giannis explains to me that it is custom to serve the strangers when they cross the own land. Not for the first time I’m impressed by the greek hospitality.

Our next station is a little chapel at the opposing flank of the valley. Stony serpentine roads let us feel that a Fiat Punto is not a off-road vehicle.  A  worrying noise level from the cars underbody is drowned by the high-speed driven motor. I have to ask my family to leave the car at some inclines. It is reassuring that we are able to swerve at this speed when turtles are crossing.

We reach the chapel several minutes after our companions. From here a pathway leads to a large cave in the mountain, the ‘Spilia tou Godzi’ (Gotzis cave).

To hide from following german troops the ELAS partisans went to this cave with their prisoners. They stayed for the night.

The place couldn’t have been chosen better. The cave is hardly visible from the valley. From the inside the viewer is able to control the whole landscape. It’s an incredible sight for me on that day, and I ask myself what my grandfather could have thought 74 years before when he saw this. Maybe he assumed this picture would be the last beautiful in his life. Or he felt new hope in light of this view.

I catch myself secretly looking for traces from the past. Without success.

When we leave the cave Giannis holds me back. We look at each other and he hands me something. It’s a broad nail covered with rust. A nail like it was used to stud soldiers’ boots.

We walk back to the chapel. I feel depressed, sorrowing for the grandpa I’d never known. Giannis is also quiet in this moment. It seems to me I can read similar emotions in his face. But there’s no refusal, hostility or even hate noticeable. Neither by him nor by me.

The roads get better again when we reach the last point of our time travel. The family Gatsiopoulos lives far outside from Psari. As one of the last they sell their own cheese and yoghurt independent.

We’re on a covered terrace. On the wall of the house hangs a rusty ammunition chain. The caliber seems to be the one from a german machine gun.

Giannis introduces me to Mr. Gatsiopoulos, son of an ELAS member. We shake hands, he doesn’t look into my eyes but gazes down. What appears to me like aversion at the first moment is a deep shame, actually. Giannis explains to me that the inhabitants of Psari and the surrounding area are not willing to judge the Germans and their atrocities during the war. They’re rather ashamed of the brutal handling by the ELAS with their German prisoners.

I am stunned at this moment. At the beginning of the journey I had been prepared for a range between refusal and goodwill. Now this man stands in front of me and feels ashamed before a descendent of an invader. I want to embrace him, telling him that the guilt is on my nations side; but I’m not sure if this gesture would be adequate. So I carefully touch his shoulder, also lower my eyes, and hope he would interpret this as a gesture of reconciliation.

There’s a sinkhole amidst the surrounding fields (Katavothra in Greek) leading down to a subterranean river. The edges have been concreted in the 70s. Neighbouring is a small lake encircled by trees and high grass. An idyll.

On 3 July 1994 the life of Paul Gerhard Wierschke ended here. The ELAS partisans pushed the 16 Wehrmacht soldiers down the sinkhole. In light of the depth there was no chance of survival.

We stand at the edge of the Katavothra. Mr. Gatsiopoulos quietly says something. Giannis translates into English: ‘Your grandfather is now looking at you from above and he’s happy not to be forgotten.’

Giannis and I keep standing there for a while, arm in arm. Looking down the hole. We both have tears in our eyes. It is one of the most moving moments in my life.

We left Psari in the afternoon. Not before having thanked our hosts several times during the last dinner. All bills for the previous meals had been paid by our Greek friends – any contradiction had been pointless. This time we forestalled them and paid secretly during the dessert. When Giannis recognized this, he grinned and said: ‘This is the Greek way’.

I had rarely met such friendly, helpful and hospitable people like our new Greek friends. Their attitude towards us made a journey, begun against a very serious background and pervaded by a moral burden on both sides, to an unforgettable experience. Our friendship got stronger again during those days. Actually it is unnecesary to mention that we will get back to Psari as soon as possible. Or that the Greeks invade us for a change.

I’d like to fully recommend Psari as a destination for a short trip or a longer stay. The ‘Paths Of Culture – Psari’, an overwhelming landscape, courteous people, historic places are just some examples for this worthwhile destination.

I’d also like to mention the tireless work Giannis is doing for his hometown such as the care for his excellent website psarikorinthias.gr, the construction of a wonderful chapel in the village, his work as the town’s chronicler, or his promotion of the local tourism. There is much more to enumerate what he’s doing on his own or in cooperation with Elsa Stamatopoulou.

I’d like to thank the whole family Skourtis, Elsa and Sophia Stamatopoulou as well as Bruce Robbins for his witty and smart company, helpful translating, and last but not least for his inimitable sense of humour.

This blog’s name is inspired by Elsa. When asked for my emotions regarding our encounter I could hardly describe. So she suggested the term of ‘Katharsis’ (cleansing). The term is defined as a mental cleaning at the end of terror and sorrow in the ancient Greek tragedy.