The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII
Page 50
Berlin insisted that the Germans hold Litoměřice. It was the last bridge to the west. As the Germans fled from the Red Tide, they hoped to land in American zones, where they knew they would be treated better, especially the officers. Litoměřice presented their last chance, and it is one theory that some merciful soul—perhaps the concentration camp commander—released the inmates on the bridge before fleeing themselves.
The Jewish Situations
There are a few things that I want to point out regarding the research conducted on the Jewish aspects in this book. I knew from the offset that I would not be focusing on the family or the Holocaust when I began creating Magda’s character. She would be separated from the Jewish family, and all that she could possibly know about them was what might have been filtered in from the Underground. It was one reason I brought Karol into the story. However, there were other aspects I needed to make sure I had correct before this story could come together.
The Taubers Not Being Deported until Spring of 1942
When I read a study about how quite a number of Jews were able to avoid deportation based on their influential status or good connections to Gentiles, the Taubers’ story finally had some credence.
Magda as a Sandek
I’m very happy to say that I had several Jewish people read through the first story I’d written about Magda. It was quickly clear that not only was the situation plausible, but the ceremony was accurately depicted. I’m grateful for the feedback and the kind, encouraging words.
Karol’s Escape from the Cattle Train
This escape is based on a hodgepodge of different accounts by Jewish eyewitnesses and escapees.
The Locations
Villa Liška is based on Villa Pfaffenhof, located near the Richard I and Richard II tunnels on the mountain of Radobýl. It was the home of the commander of the Litoměřice concentration camp and not the district’s Obersturmbannführer.
The abandoned village behind the villa is wholly fictional. There is a village there called Michalovice. I have no idea whether it existed in WWII, whether it was abandoned or occupied by Germans, but in this book I needed it to be abandoned.
St. Stephen’s cathedral in Litoměřice has catacombs, but the layout and the church’s role in this story was wholly fictionalized, as were all the characters. Also, it was nearly impossible to hide in Litoměřice. Most of the Czechs and Slovaks fled the city after it was annexed in 1938. Very few local residents remained, and those that did? They have their own stories.
Though I placed Magda’s family in a completely invented rural village of Voštiny, Lidice did exist. The story of that Nazi reprisal is devastating, and the memorial—an entire area of beautiful fields and hills, and a lake and a willow and a running stream—is one of the most heartbreaking I have ever experienced. I felt moved to at least mention this tragic story, and thus placed Magda’s family at a distant relative’s after their farm was requisitioned by Germans. This decision was solely based on wanting the reader to be aware of this event and means no disrespect to those families who were murdered at the hands of Nazis.
The Napola (the elite Nazi school) in Ploskovice also existed.
The End of the War in Litoměřice
The meeting in the nonspecified Polish guesthouse is loosely based on the Ukrainian research I have done with members of my family. It was of great advantage to have that perspective and to be able to build it into Magda’s story.
On May 10, 1945, the Thirty-Third Rifle Guards and the Fifty Guards Army occupied Litoměřice. The locals raided the armories and took some “matters” into their own hands. The National Revolutionary Committee was quickly formed. Whether collaborators were shot on any roads on the Litoměřice outskirts, I cannot say. The scene with Aleš and Renata on the road on this day was, however, based on recently discovered films of reprisals conducted on collaborators. The Czech Republic’s media released these to the public recently in a concerted effort for the country to come to terms in its role in the aftermath.
Thank you so much for choosing this book to read. Your reviews on all relevant platforms are most welcome and most appreciated. If they’re positive, we celebrate. If you have suggestions on how we might do better, we welcome it so that we can better develop our craft. Thank you!
Greetings from Austria,
Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger
May 2020
Acknowledgments
I am exceptionally grateful to Dr. Iva Rapavá and Mag. Tomáš Gol from the Department of History at Terezín Memorial (Theresienstadt). I am also grateful to the warm welcome and coordination at both the Litoměřice District Archives and especially at the Litoměřice Municipal Archives in Lovosice. The staff was incredibly well organized, helpful, and gracious. Our stay in Litoměřice overall was exceptional. Warm, friendly people and a great atmosphere that, considering the episodes of dark history that occurred there, is quite remarkable and inspiring.
Special thanks to Ursula Hechenberger-Schwärzler for accompanying me on one of the most enriching road trips of my life. Dori Harrell, who once again, has made it much better with her edits. Thanks to my writing colleagues on Facebook and my friends and my family who have volunteered to read so many of the earlier versions and parts of this book, and most-most-most especially to my husband, who during the incredibly intensive time it took me to complete this novel, really did everything to assure I had no distractions and released me from as many burdens as possible.
To all my friends who felt forsaken during this time: I shall make it up to you.
About the Author
Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger is a Ukrainian American who lives in Austria and writes historical fiction. Her award-winning Reschen Valley series was inspired by a trip to northern Italy. You can find her on www.inktreks.com as well as on Facebook, Twitter, Bookbub, and Goodreads. She loves connecting with her readers. You can email her at inktreks@cec-world.at. She lives in a Grizzly Adams hut in the Alps with her husband, cat, and dog, and moonlights as a communications coach and corporate training game developer.
Read More from Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger
www.inktreks.com
Liberation Berlin
JJ Toner
Contents
Synopsis
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part II
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part III
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part IV
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Part V
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Part VI
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
About the Author
Synopsis
In 1945, when the Red Army overran Berlin, they liberated the Germ
an people from the tyranny of the Nazis, but was life under the Soviets any better?
Berlin 1944. Inge, a 14-year-old Jewish girl is in hiding. She fears the Gestapo more than she fears the advancing Soviet troops.
As the Red Army encircles the city, the remains of a defeated German army face overwhelming odds. But the fanatical SS refuse to give up, recruiting boys and old men to man the trenches.
Led by a baker’s assistant and a one-legged ex-soldier, a ragtag collection of friends makes desperate plans to help Inge escape.
They are up against a continuous day-and-night Allied bombing campaign and Anton, a 12-year-old Hitler Youth, who can’t wait to join the battle and have his moment of glory.
Part I
1
Berlin, June 1957
Berlin was a city reborn. Military vehicles buzzed around streets populated with earnest young people, and construction cranes dominated the skyline.
The sun beamed down on a couple tending their crops on an allotment in Westend. A tall man in an ill-fitting suit approached. He had a paunch and walked with a slight limp.
The woman drew her husband’s attention to the stranger.
“Can I help you?” said the young man, brushing soil from his hands.
“This used to be my plot, before the war,” said the stranger.
“You left before the war?”
“I got out just before the end.”
“You were lucky, so,” said the young man. “What did you grow here?”
The older man smiled. “Potatoes, carrots and cabbages. And onions. Lots of onions. I had a cabin at the back, there.”
“There was no cabin when we took it,” said the woman.
The young man pointed to the lopsided shed. “I built that.”
The older man held out his hand. “My name is Hans Klein.”
The men shook hands.
“I’m Hermann Hübner. This is my wife, Carla.”
“We have carrots and onions,” said Frau Hübner. “And we thought we’d try peas.”
“And we have this.” Hübner pointed with pride to a marrow under a cloche.
Frau Hübner stepped forward. “What did you say your name was?”
“Hans Klein.”
She and her husband exchanged a quick glance.
“We have something of yours,” he said.
She hurried into the shed and re-emerged with a tin box. She handed it to Klein. “This was buried in the plot. We found it when we started to dig.”
Klein took the box. He looked at it and frowned. “This is not mine.”
“Look inside,” said the woman.
2
Berlin, early July 1944
Gretchen settled Oskar in his chair, wrapping a light blanket around his legs.
“I’ll be home by one o’clock. There’s water on the table beside you, and I’ve left some food in the kitchen in case you feel hungry.”
He smiled his vacant smile at her.
Suppressing a tear, she kissed him on the forehead, picked up her bag, and left the apartment.
She had always loved the early mornings. Even now, with destroyed buildings everywhere and mountains of rubble in the streets, the birds sang. There was a time when Oskar would have shared her joy in the birdsong. That was before the war took his mind. She clung to her memories of those good times as if they were the crown jewels.
Yesterday’s warmth radiated from the ground. Above the towering apartment blocks, the sunrise painted the clouds red in the eastern sky. She shivered. The magnificent sight was tinged with menace; the Red Army was advancing through Poland…
The walk to the bakery took twenty minutes. A couple of early delivery drays rattled past, but otherwise the streets were deserted. When she arrived, a queue of five women was already waiting at the bakery door. They greeted Gretchen as she entered. She knew all their names.
Bäckermeister Korn, the master baker, had fired up the ovens and was measuring out the ingredients into the hoppers.
“You’ve increased the rye?” she said, putting on her apron.
He ran a hand across his face, leaving a smudge of flour on his bulbous nose. “Our store of wheat flour is getting low. I’m not sure when we might expect the next delivery.”
She could remember when they’d first started increasing the quantities of rye in the mixture, in the winter of 1942. The levels were strictly controlled by the Gauleiter’s office.
“How much?”
“Don’t concern yourself, Gretchen.” He turned his back. “A little more than last month, that’s all.”
She let the subject drop, but she was concerned. The levels of rye affected her digestion. She had to eat the bread like everyone else, and she had to feed it to her sick husband.
By the time the oven doors were open and the four trays of Kommissbrot lay shimmering on the benches, Gretchen’s dress was stuck to her body and sweat was pouring down her legs. Outside, it was a hot day; inside the shop, the heat was unbearable. She ran her eyes over the bread. Did it look a little darker than usual or was that her imagination?
“Are you ready, Gretchen?” said the baker.
She gritted her teeth, running her hands down the creases in her dress. “Ready, Herr Korn.”
He opened the doors and the women flooded in waving their money and their ration books. Each person was entitled to 500 grams of bread, but not everyone would receive their allowance; there simply wasn’t enough for everybody. The scene quickly descended into chaos. The noise was deafening. Korn and Gretchen struggled to keep order. As the bread supply began to dwindle, the women fought more and more fiercely to get served. There were indignant shouts, cries of pain and anger as the women elbowed one another out of the way in frustration, pushing and shoving, using their handbags as weapons.
Those with the sharpest elbows, the most body weight or the loudest voices got to the front and were served; those at the back went away empty-handed.
Within 15 minutes all the bread was gone, apart from four loaves hidden in an oven – two Herr Korn had set aside for himself and two for Gretchen.
Herr Korn ushered the last disappointed customers out of the shop. “I’m sorry, ladies. That’s all we have today. Come early on Wednesday.” He locked the door.
Gretchen glanced at the large clock above the bakery door. It was after ten o’clock. If she didn’t leave soon, she would be late getting home. Oskar would start to fret.
“You’re free to go. I’ll tidy up,” said Korn. “How is Herr Schuster?”
“He’s much the same, Herr Korn.” She removed her apron, dusted the flour from her hands, and ran her fingers through her hair.
“Take the foal and give it to your husband with my blessing,” he said. The ‘foal’ was the wizened half-loaf made from the last few grams of dough.
She thanked him and placed the extra small loaf in her bag.
He unlocked the door. She stepped outside and he locked it again behind her. Shielding her eyes against the blinding light, she set off across the street.
A grey-green Kübelwagen shot past, forcing Gretchen to jump back onto the footpath. Stumbling to her knees, she bumped into a young woman pushing a pram and dropped her bag.
“I beg your pardon,” she said.
The young woman rolled her eyes. “Did you see who was in that car?”
Gretchen shook her head, picking herself off her knees.
“Two of the Gauleiter’s officers. I saw his crest on the door. They were going much too fast for safety—” The woman glanced down at Gretchen’s bag. “What do you have there?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Gretchen picked up her bag.
The young woman’s eyes lit up. “You have fresh bread. I can smell it.”
Gretchen hurried away to cries of “Wait! Come back!” from the young woman.
A line of women waiting at a bus stop turned to watch as Gretchen hurried onward, her bag clutched tightly to her chest. The smell of fresh bread was enough to start a riot
on the streets these days!
3
Gretchen’s first call on the way home was to an apartment block on Christstrasse. She knocked on the door and Franz opened it.
Gretchen was sure it wasn’t his real name, but if you needed anything from the black market, Franz was the man to see. He could work miracles and get anything you wanted – for a price. Gretchen couldn’t understand how he did it, but the real mystery was why this bald, 40-year-old, able-bodied man wasn’t in the Wehrmacht fighting the Soviets or helping to hold back the English and American Allies advancing across France.