The Willow Wren by Philipp Schott (free ebook reader for iphone txt) 📕

sure they have,” Mama said dryly. “I suppose this means that Herr Ortsgruppenleiter will not be available to see his wife and son at any point today?”

“You are correct, Frau Schott. I’m afraid that will not be possible. He has arranged train tickets for you on the 13:20. He is concerned there will be another attack. Please stay away from the city until you hear from him.” Erich reached into his satchel and pulled out two brown cardboard tickets that had red swastika priority stamps on them.

This was of course a disappointment. This visit was to be a special treat to mark my tenth birthday a few weeks prior. For the first time I was travelling without my irritating siblings. And for the first time Papa was going to spend time with me alone and show me some interesting things. I had obtained special leave from camp to do this. I was still going to have a day with Mama in Mellingen, but that was more afterthought than main event. Feeling only disappointment and not horror or sadness in the midst of all this destruction and apparent death may seem odd, but that is honestly all that I felt then. Sometimes small boys have small concerns.

And as it happened, Papa was right. The train was only a few minutes out of the station when the air raid sirens began to scream. I put my hands over my ears and began to rock as I could not tolerate loud noises. I squeezed my eyes shut as well. When I opened them again, I saw that Mama looked very upset. She was looking down at her lap, frowning, and her eyes were moist. She clutched an elaborately embroidered white handkerchief. The transformation to this from the tough woman who had spoken to Erich was unsettling. I remember wishing I could comfort her, but I had no idea how to go about it.

She noticed me looking at her. “I’m sorry, Ludwig.”

“No, it’s okay, Mama. I am scared of the bombs too.” I felt brave and grown-up admitting this.

“It’s not that. But I shouldn’t make you worry. We’ll be fine.” She wiped her eyes and nose and turned to the window. I had some inkling as to why she spoke that way but pushed it out of my mind. I was just happy that she looked a little less upset now.

The train began to accelerate. I wondered whether the speed of the train affected the chance that it would be hit by a bomb. I surmised that it probably would and willed the train to go even faster, but then I saw smoke rising far in the northeast. We were heading in the exact opposite direction, so I felt better and smiled at Mama, but she did not seem to notice.

How could I know I would never see our beautiful doll’s house again?

Chapter Two

1934–1936

That may be the specific memory that is currently sharpest and uppermost in my mind as I embark on telling this story, but it is not the most important one, not nearly, nor is it the first one. I should begin with the first memory, or even just a little before it.

I was born on a Sunday in our house at 21 Mozartstrasse in Leipzig, Germany. It was the 21st of January in 1934. Shortly after that I was baptized at the Thomaskirche, which was less than a kilometre from our house and was where Johann Sebastian Bach worked as choir director from 1723 to 1750. I have heard that his bones are interred there now, although they were not at that time. I like the fact that Mozart and Bach were there at the very beginning of my life.

My mother said that I was a delicate, sensitive and nervous baby — that this was especially true of my stomach and that I would spit up constantly, so I was thin and weak for a long time. She also said that a particularly good children’s doctor helped resolve this, and that thanks to his expertise I eventually became a much happier and chubbier baby. This is, in any case, what she has written in her own memoirs. But I beg to differ. Of course in fairness I do not remember this doctor, but I am sure that it was my grandmother who made the difference.

My mother’s mother, Sara Flintzer (born Sara Hörschelmann), moved in with us in January of 1935. She would have been sixty-nine years old then. She had been a widow since 1917 when her husband, Hugo, died of typhoid fever. A well-known painter and art professor in Weimar, he had also volunteered to work as a medical assistant in a prisoner of war camp during the First World War. That is where he contracted typhoid. My mother worshipped his memory. Oma Flintzer was my favourite grandmother, and I like to think that I was her favourite grandchild. The experts say that very few children can form a long-term memory before the age of three, and none before the age of two. I do not know why this is, but I am an exception. My first clear memory is from right around the age of one and a half. I know the age because it happened while Oma Flintzer was living with us and while I was just learning to walk.

Oma had a large antique wardrobe in a corner of her room. I can picture that particular corner clearly as it was the furthest one from the door, and I can picture the wardrobe clearly as it was very fancy with carved flowers in the corners and darker wood inlayed in a pattern on the doors. One of the doors did not close properly. At some point I found out that Oma kept sweets in there. I was just beginning to learn to walk then by holding onto the walls and furniture and shuffling along. I think people now call it cruising. With this mobility I