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

It occurred to me that we had stayed inside, in our cellar. I suppose only the city centre was considered a worthy target for firebombs, or perhaps we were just lucky. Probably the latter.

When Papa eventually showed up, he was almost unrecognizable. He had lost his glasses and his face was streaked with soot. He was clearly exhausted and seemed irritated to see us waiting for him at the office. I am sure that he was pleased that we were all right, but he did not make that obvious.

“Yes, go to Karoline. That is a good idea. It’s no longer sensible to stay in the city” was all he said. That he would stay behind in Leipzig was unspoken and unquestioned. I waited for one of the pithy Latin quotes he usually proffered at times like these, but none was forthcoming.

It turned out that there would be no way to cable Tante Karoline, so we would just have to show up there. A train was leaving in half an hour, so an aide bundled the smaller kids into a three-wheeled cargo bicycle, while I rode sidesaddle with Mama on another bicycle and Theodor took up the rear on a third bike. A taxi was out of the question as almost all cars had been requisitioned by the Party for civil defence purposes. We were unable to take the direct route to the train station because the bombing had caused buildings to collapse into some streets. Also, as mentioned before, active firefighting and rescue operations were still underway, and this blocked several other streets. The city was essentially unrecognizable. Yes, the streets still ran at their customary angles, but there were so many gaps in the buildings that lined them that I was unable to locate my usual landmarks and quickly became disoriented. Fortunately, the aide and Mama navigated using some deeper sense of the geography that did not depend on where a particular bookstore or bakery was located.

The train station was a scene of bedlam, with pockets of outright panic, and the train ride, first to Weimar and then on to Mellingen on the Jena line, was horrible. Normally going on the train was a rare and exciting treat, but not on this day. There was nowhere to sit as every car was crammed with people doing exactly what we were doing — fleeing the big city for the country or smaller towns that would not be bombing targets. We all stood there, shoulder to shoulder, swaying as the train bumped over provisionally repaired sections of track. A young woman near me had half her face covered with a blood-stained bandage. She was carrying a baby that would not stop howling. A boy my age was slumped in one of the seats, apparently unconscious rather than sleeping and was attended to by a nun. An old man behind me groaned continuously. But other than the baby and the old man, people were quiet. There was no conversation. I suppose that there was so much to say that it seemed pointless to begin. Also nobody had slept enough, nobody had washed, and few had eaten much. Exhaustion hung like a thick fog over the entire train.

Tante Karoline was not pleased to see us. This was not a surprise, but at this point in what felt like the longest day of my life, I had hoped for some sort of a break. Mama accurately described her attitude as sweet and sour, like a piquant Gypsy sauce. The superficial sweetness, the smile, could not disguise the sourness that had great depth beneath it and played on all her other facial features, aside from the upturned corners of her mouth. To be fair, to suddenly have your little sister appear with five dishevelled, dirty children would be a strain on just about anyone. Her husband, Onkel Peter, who was at home as it was a Sunday evening, was much friendlier. Tante Karoline shot him a dark look as he distributed Advent cookies to us and asked us whether we would like some water or milk.

“They all cannot stay here. It is simply impossible, Luise,” she said once we had all squeezed into their foyer. We were pointedly not invited further into the house. It did not immediately register with me that by saying “they all” Tante Karoline was implying that we would have to be split up, with some of us children sent away.

“I understand, Karoline. This is an unpleasant shock for all of us. Let us all stay tonight. The older boys can sleep here and then I just need one bed for Oskar, Clara and me. We’ll make the necessary arrangements in the morning.”

And again I maintained a blissful ignorance as to what “necessary arrangements” might entail. We were eventually ushered into the house itself, which was really quite grand and spacious. Our cousins, whom I barely knew, stared at us from a safe distance while we were fed dinner. Afterwards, Johann, Theodor and I were shown to a side room which seemed to be some sort of extra sitting room and piles of blankets and pillows were provided for us. So, not the foyer after all. In fact, this accommodation was quite cozy, and we would have played “Indian Frontier Camp” if we had not been so exhausted. As it was, we had barely made it through dinner without our faces splashing into our soups.

Chapter Eleven

December 5, 1943

It happened so quickly. There were phone calls made the next morning and then Mama went to the local Ortsgruppe and came back a couple of hours later with bundles of documents. We were still oblivious to what was happening, but I do recall a dull feeling of unfocused dread, deep inside of me, that I kept pushing down by distracting myself with everything new there was to see in Tante Karoline and Onkel Peter’s house, or at least in the parts we were permitted to