A Stranger to Myself: The Inhumanity of War: Russia, 1941-1944

January 18, 2017 @ 2:38 pm

A Stranger to Myself: The Inhumanity of War: Russia, 1941-1944

Willy Peter Reese

Language: English

Pages: 208

ISBN: 0374139784

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


A Stranger to Myself: The Inhumanity of War, Russia 1941-44 is the haunting memoir of a young German soldier on the Russian front during World War II. Willy Peter Reese was only twenty years old when he found himself marching through Russia with orders to take no prisoners. Three years later he was dead. Bearing witness to--and participating in--the atrocities of war, Reese recorded his reflections in his diary, leaving behind an intelligent, touching, and illuminating perspective on life on the eastern front. He documented the carnage perpetrated by both sides, the destruction which was exacerbated by the young soldiers' hunger, frostbite, exhaustion, and their daily struggle to survive. And he wrestled with his own sins, with the realization that what he and his fellow soldiers had done to civilians and enemies alike was unforgivable, with his growing awareness of the Nazi policies toward Jews, and with his deep disillusionment with himself and his fellow men.

An international sensation, A Stranger to Myself is an unforgettable account of men at war.

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Easter morning, a sad soldier with my wrecked life, I wandered among the crocuses, columbines, rain smell, and thrush song of the park. Later I gave myself up to my memories. Scenes of youth, friendship, love, and wanderings by the sea slipped by me, a beautiful and painful film on the canvas of the soul. I embarked on long vinous conversations. I wrote a lot, read, and yet was unable to find any way into myself. When I got home,22 the sense of an intermission between wanderings wouldn’t let go

pain, alarmed by shots, shouts, and cries for help. Our rear guard appeared at the edge of the wood, fled across the swamp, pursued by the Russians, until they found shelter next to us among the trees. We lobbed out some shells. Laid down a machine-gun barrage. For all their superior numbers, the enemy withdrew. In the gray, icy winter, we lived in the open air. In the pinewood, we were out of sight of the Russians, a bit of frozen snow still lay in the hollows, and we easily bore the cold. No

around his altar like will-o’-the wisps: the killer, the doomed man, and the victim. We yearned to know his secrets, the purpose of his riddies, and the meaning of his games with masks and disguises. We talked in our sleep like dreamers, and such things as hope, faith, and love acquired weight once more. From the hell of storms of steel, faith in destiny, astral solitude, and out of readiness to die, we plunged into the abyss of eternity, and at the bottom we found God’s face among the wreckage

masks we had worn in the early light, draped the mirrors of our being and of our vanity, renounced happiness and the growth of the soul, and took on the features of anonymity. We had the feeling: It had to be this way. We had a lot of past history to atone for; now fate made us acquainted with the form of our repentance. We accepted it, like a monk the scourge. Under the mask of a soldier, we settled our debt, and to atone for past lives of deception, frivolity, and illusion, we consecrated

my destiny. Life would be lived whether I wanted or no. I just had to live it, to be it. I ate a piece of bread and lit a candle. In its flame, I burned the pages I had covered that night; then I opened the window and scattered the ashes outside. Dawn dimmed the stars. Day broke, and life went on. It came over me like an awakening. Dreams and images blew away. I looked to the light. Solitude was at an end. Numberless companions were on their way to me from all over the world. They were bearing

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