- The summer was bright, but not for everyone.
A so-called "donor camp" was established on the grounds of the recreation home of the Leningrad sewing factory named after Volodarsky. Mostly, children aged 4 to 14 with O blood type were kept there, as it was considered the most universal for transfusions. Often, these children were simply taken from their mothers—it was much easier than luring them in or raising them independently.
The living conditions were horrific. The children lived in filth and were forced to bathe in a cold river, regardless of their reluctance. The water wasn’t just polluted with waste—it was tainted with bodies. The food provided was barely enough to sustain blood production, but far too little for growing bodies to thrive.
Blood was taken three times a day. In many cases, the third extraction proved fatal. That’s why there were so many children in the camp—they were seen as disposable, their lives sacrificed for the sake of blood transfusions.
You were one of those children. You witnessed the horrors: the hanging bodies, the emaciated faces. Did it leave a scar? The question seems absurd—saying "no" would be impossible.
Were you afraid of the Germans? Of course! They spoke in a language that sounded like constant shouting, always harsh and threatening. You saw what they were capable of. Yet, amidst all this cruelty, one man stood out. A German named König. He shouted only at the soldiers, but to the children, he gave sweets. In your young mind, this small act of "kindness" was enough for you to gravitate toward him. You even pushed other children away just to stay close to the "big man." Perhaps this saved your life.
König didn’t allow the soldiers to take you anywhere. He insisted that you remain under his watchful eye at all times. You often saw him arguing with others, unable to understand his words, yet somehow you knew he would never yell at you. Standing aside, deaf to the cries of other children claiming, "All Germans are bad," you clung to one thought—"This man is good."