The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  “Danke,” Dora replied. If Inge had sneezed two seconds earlier…

  7

  Inge pinched her nose to smother another sneeze. The book she was reading was incredibly boring. She was tempted to pick up Adam Kuckhoff’s book about the clown again. It wasn’t wonderful, and she’d read it twice already… She swallowed a scream.

  How have I ended up hiding in this horrid, dusty attic? My parents must be out of their minds with worry – if they’re still alive.

  If only I’d gone with them.

  She tried to remain positive, but there were times when she found that impossible. Her mind drifted back to the day, three years ago, when she was kicked out of school. Her secret ambition had been to study medicine. That had gone the way of all her dreams. She was a smart student, smarter than almost everyone at the school, and yet the principal did nothing. She enrolled in a Jewish school, miles away from their house. Jews were excluded from public transport, and she had to use her bicycle to get there. That was difficult enough, but then Jews were forbidden from using bicycles, and it became impossible.

  It wasn’t long before her father’s business was taken away from him. And one horrible day she came home to find her whole family were gone. Both parents had been taken. No one knew what had happened to her two sisters. Dora said they were sent to a labor camp somewhere in the north. The whole thing made no sense. It was like one of Franz Kafka’s horror stories. What harm could a tailor, his wife and their three daughters do to the mighty Third Reich?

  Dora was convinced the camps were unsafe, and there had been alarming rumors in the early years when the government first started stamping the identity cards of Jews and making them wear yellow stars.

  Inge’s life was on hold.

  I’m a prisoner here, she thought gloomily. There are no guards and no bars, but it’s still a prison. In a normal prison you get to walk around. I can’t even do that.

  Her leg started to cramp. She stood up and applied weight to it. The pain eased. She remained on her feet for a while, going through her calisthenics exercises, making as little noise as possible and trying not to disturb the bats in the rafters above her head.

  Her hair was greasy and she was sure it had bat droppings in it. She shuddered. She would have to wait three more days before Dora would allow her to wash it.

  In a normal prison you can keep clean, and there are other prisoners to speak with. Here, there is nothing; just blank walls, a single lightbulb, boring books and bats. And my toilet is a bucket.

  She shuddered again.

  What sort of life is this? It’s too hot in the summer and freezing in winter. I have no one to talk to apart from Dora. And I have no friends. I think I’m losing my mind. How much longer must I stay here?

  8

  One day, shortly after sunrise, Hans made his way to his allotment. He planned to harvest what he could from his meagre crop to replenish his stores. He had had to contribute a significant proportion of his produce to the war effort, and the sacks in his cabin were almost empty.

  By mid-morning he had three half sacks full, but his vegetable crop was sorely ravaged. He resolved to spend more time tending to the soil. He would need to dig over and fertilize the ground for replanting in the autumn.

  The physical effort of the work he’d done had tired him out. It was impossible to work the land encumbered as he was by a heavy, unbending leg. He had removed the false limb and sat on the ground while he worked. It was humiliating, made him look like one of the common limbless beggars that shuffled about the street of the Mitte, but he didn’t care. He owed nobody anything. The youngsters could gawk and snigger all they liked; he had done his duty for the Fatherland; nobody could fault him or mock him for what he had become.

  He struggled to an upright position, and, using his hoe as a crutch, hobbled across the soft soil to the cabin. Once inside, he collapsed into his chair, switched on the radio, and fell asleep.

  He was awoken by a loud hammering on the wall. At first, he thought some of the youngsters were taunting him again, but a familiar figure appeared silhouetted in the sunlight streaming through the open doorway.

  Max Jungblutt, from the Gauleiter’s office, raised a hand in greeting, “Heil Hitler.”

  Hans returned the greeting.

  “I see you’ve been busy, my friend,” said Jungblutt. “You have some produce for me?”

  Hans was shocked by the question. “I have nothing more for you. You were here just a few days ago.”

  “It’s been three weeks, Herr Klein,” said Jungblutt, frowning.

  “It can’t be. I don’t have anything more for you. Come back in a month.”

  Jungblutt’s frown turned into a look of mild amusement. “We are fighting a war, have you forgotten? The Führer needs everyone to step up their efforts. The final victory will be ours, but only if every man pulls his weight.”

  “I’ve made my contribution to the war effort,” said Hans.

  “We all know what you sacrificed.” Jungblutt waved at the iron leg propped up against the wall. “But you mustn’t think that your role has ended. With diligent work here in this allotment you can still make a valuable contribution. Think of your comrades in the Heer, still fighting for victory on three fronts. They must be fed.”

  Hans shook his head. “There’s only so much I can do. This is a small plot.”

  Jungblutt’s amused expression morphed back into a scowl. “If you are not able to manage this plot, perhaps you should surrender it to someone who can.”

  Hans shuffled forward on his chair, dropped his trousers and reached for his iron leg.

  Jungblutt waved a hand at him. “I’ll leave you. No need to get up. Heil Hitler.” And he stepped out through the doorway and was gone.

  Hans strapped on his leg and maneuvered his trousers on. He tied the cord around his waist and switched the radio off. Jungblutt had made snide remarks on previous visits and he’d always cast aspersions at the quality and quantity of vegetables that Hans contributed to the war effort. But he’d never made such a clear threat before. And it was never so clear as it was now that Jungblutt had his beady eyes on Hans’s allotment. Hans had security of tenure for another two years. In theory, nobody could take the allotment from him against his will. Those were the rules of the Schrebergärten. In theory. But of course the war changed everything. The Gauleiter, Dr Joseph Goebbels, a man of unlimited power, could do anything he chose, and Max Jungblutt was one of his most senior officers.

  9

  Anton Tannhäuser was in a hurry. His troop leader, Ludwig, had sent him back to the hall to fetch the troop flag. Dressed in the black shorts and tan shirt of his Deutsches Jungvolk uniform, he charged down Spandauer Chaussee, weaving his way around and between the women and children on the footpath.

  Without warning, an old man appeared from the crowd swinging a stiff leg right in Anton’s path. There was nothing he could do to avoid the collision, which seemed to happen in slow motion. His shins hit the old man’s leg and he shot forward, striking his knees and shoulder on the concrete slabs.

  Even as he fell, Anton was aware that the old man’s leg was not made of flesh and bone. It was false, and hard as rock. His only thought as he fell was for the safety of the troop flag, which he released from his grasp.

  Anton looked back in time to see the old man with the false leg spinning like a top onto the road into the path of a black police car. The car swerved and braked and screeched to a halt, inches from the man’s head. He had been carrying a bag of vegetables and these were now scattered and flying across the road.

  Anton struggled to his feet, waving off the efforts of a couple of women trying to give him a helping hand. The pains in his knees and shoulder were excruciating, but he refused to cry. Both knees were red and bleeding.

  The car doors flew open. Two policemen in green Schupo uniforms jumped out. One of them bent down to haul the man to his feet. The other man glowered down at him, shouting, “What are you doing? Do you want to g
et yourself killed? You could have caused an accident.”

  The old man was clearly dazed. Weighed down by his false leg, his first attempt to get to his feet failed. The first policeman hauled him up, while the man braced his false leg against a tram rail to provide leverage. The second policeman made no move to help, standing back with one hand on the butt of the pistol on his hip.

  Once the old man was upright again, he swung his leg onto the pavement. The policemen got back into their car, the doors slammed, and they continued on their way.

  The women and children collected the scattered vegetables and put them into the old man’s bag.

  Anton glared at him. “Dummkopf! Why don’t you watch where you’re going, old man?”

  “I’m sorry, Herr Tannhäuser.” The man pointed to his leg. “I can’t move as fast as I used to.”

  He knows my name!

  “That leg is a danger to the public. You need to be more careful where you put it.” Anton snarled at him. “And how do you know my name?”

  “You live in Kaiser Wilhelm 2,” said the old man. “I live in the same block.”

  Anton took a moment to absorb that information. He had no recollection of a man with a wooden leg living in the block. Surely, he would have noticed. “Where in the block?”

  “I live on the ground floor,” said the man. “I’m sorry about what happened. Will you be all right?”

  Someone handed Anton his flagpole.

  “People like you are a menace,” he said. “Don’t you know that every citizen of the Fatherland must make a positive contribution? What value are you to the Reich?”

  Several of the women blanched at these words, as they should. He may have been only twelve years old, but, as a member of the Hitler Youth, he held power and influence well above his years.

  The old man’s face flushed red. “I served my country for three years in the Low Countries, in France, and at the Eastern front.” He pointed to his leg. “I sacrificed more than most for my country.”

  “Many sacrificed more,” Anton shouted back.

  “What are you saying?”

  “You survived. Many good Germans lost their lives.”

  “Better not let the Gestapo hear you say that.” The old man turned his back and continued on his way, swinging his leg in that strange rhythm of his.

  That riposte worried Anton. Had he said something the Gestapo would disapprove of? No one could deny that many Germans had been killed, but was it treasonous to say so in public? He wasn’t sure.

  Anton shouted after him, “Yes, limp away, old man. And keep that leg out of public places where it can’t cause any more damage.”

  10

  While Frau Tannhäuser tended to Anton’s injured knee, he told her what had happened. “He stuck his wooden leg out in front of me, tripped me up. I could have been seriously injured…”

  His mother made sympathetic clucking sounds.

  “… I can’t understand why the Wehrmacht would consider it a good idea to prop up an old soldier like that, give him a false leg and send him home. What good is he to anyone with only one leg?”

  Anton’s father sucked on his empty pipe. “That’s Hans Klein. He has an iron leg. He keeps a plot in the Schrebergärten, I believe. Grows vegetables.”

  “Are there no able-bodied people to do that?” said Anton, snorting. “Some woman, perhaps?”

  The two adults exchanged a despairing glance, but said nothing.

  “I’m going to have to report the incident to Ludwig. Look at my uniform. He has ruined it. I will be required to explain that.”

  “It’s nothing but a little dirt from the ground. Take off your shirt and I’ll wash it for you,” said his mother. “I wouldn’t say anything. You fell—”

  “I didn’t fall, Mutter. I told you, the old man tripped me with his iron leg.” He took off his shirt and handed it to her.

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean to,” she said.

  “It was a deliberate act. I believe he may be an enemy of the Reich, a member of the subversive resistance.”

  “I don’t think so,” said his father. “An old decommissioned soldier with only one leg working for the Resistance? How likely is that? You must have been running.”

  “I was on an important errand.”

  “Well there you are, then. You were rushing to complete your important work and you fell. No need to mention what you fell over.”

  “It’s my duty to put in a full report. He could be a communist.”

  His father shrugged, sucking hard on his dry pipe. “So you’ll say you fell over an old communist’s peg-leg? How do you think Ludwig and the troop will react to that?”

  Anton shrugged.

  “They will laugh at you.” His father shook spittle from his pipe into the fireplace.

  His mother made more clucking sounds. “Do you have to do that?”

  Anton thought about what his father had said for a few moments. “What about the damage to my knee? I will have to explain that.”

  “You were running. You fell. You hurt your knee—”

  “And my elbow.”

  “And your elbow. No need to say anything about the old man or his leg.”

  Later that night, Anton’s parents lay in bed in the dark.

  “He used to be such a nice child,” she whispered. “Remember how he loved animals? How many sick birds did he rescue? And that squirrel…”

  “He’s still the same boy.”

  “You really think so? His whole world is filled with führer worship, now. I wish he’d never joined the Jungvolk. They have turned his mind. I’m afraid we’ve lost him.”

  Herr Tannhäuser was silent for a long time. Then he said, “He will come back to us after…”

  “After the war, you mean? Do you really think so?”

  “Yes. Once the Nazis have been defeated, he will see how wrong they were. We will get our son back. I’m certain of it.”

  She lay silent for a while. Then she whispered, “He frightens me.”

  “There’s nothing to be frightened about.”

  “You hear terrible stories. Other parents have been betrayed by their sons.”

  “He would never betray us. Not Anton.”

  “You don’t know that. His mind is full of crazy Nazi ideas.”

  “Yes, but what have we ever said against the Reich or the Führer?”

  She turned onto her side, facing away from her husband. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  11

  Gretchen kept a tidy house. The war had cost her everything: her husband, her love of life, her spirit, her hope for a future – even her figure – but still she prided herself on her housekeeping. Other women had given up under the Englishman’s endless bombing raids, allowing the dust and rubble and dirt and broken glass to encroach on their homes. Many shared their living space with the rats. Not Gretchen. She brushed and cleaned and polished every day. It was her way of fighting back. It was all she could do.

  Hunger gnawed at her innards, and her husband’s too, she had no doubt, although he never complained. Still, she was luckier than most of the women that she knew; she always had bread. Food had been rationed since the start of the war. These days, as it drew toward the final chapter, people were finding it hard to get enough to eat. The ration book was little more than a reminder of times past. She could see the day coming when even the bread would run out. When that day came, there would be riots in the streets.

  And then one day in mid-July, Herr Korn dropped a bombshell. He told her that the Gauleiter’s office had sent a man to the shop. Some ‘concerned citizen’ had been spying on the bakery. They knew that he had been giving an extra allowance to Gretchen.

  “I’m sorry, but from now on all I can give you is your normal daily ration.”

  “But you agreed to give me extra rations in place of wages. Did you explain that to the Gauleiter’s man?”

  “He wasn’t interested.” The baker pursed his lips. “The same rule applies to me. The Gauleit
er’s office is insisting that we take no more than our daily ration.”

  “What will become of us? Oskar needs his food. I’m certain he needs protein for his brain.”

  “I’m sorry, Gretchen. I’ll understand if you want to quit the job.”

  Gretchen shook her head. “I need this job, Herr Korn.” She couldn’t quit the bakery. If she did, she would have to take her place in the queue and fight for her daily bread like everyone else. And who would look after her husband while she was stuck in a line for hours on end?

  She went straight home to the apartment with a single loaf in her bag. She had nothing to give Franz in exchange for meat or to Hans in exchange for vegetables. She had a few potatoes and some beans in the larder that she could use to feed Oskar today. As for tomorrow… she would think of something.

  Oskar wasn’t in his chair. She called his name and checked the other rooms. He wasn’t anywhere in the apartment. She needed to get out there and find him, right away, but she had to sit down for a minute first, to clear her head.

  Where could he have gone? And when did he leave?

  If he followed me out in the morning, he could be miles away by now!

  She stood up, immediately felt lightheaded, and had to sit down again. Finding an empty chair had been a surprise. Her own physical reaction to his absence was a shock. It was like losing a child.

  He’s probably still in the building somewhere.

  She gathered herself and searched the building, floor by floor, knocking on neighbors’ doors. No one had seen him.

  It took her 20 minutes to find him on Adolf-Hitler-Platz, about 200 meters south of the Kaiser Wilhelm complex, looking dazed and confused. Linking arms with him, she led him home.

  She helped him into his spare pajamas; the ones he was wearing were wet and muddy. And there was a button missing. Once she’d fed him and put him to bed, she reached for her needle and thread. She kept them on a shelf above the kitchen sink in a small tin box with a picture of Charlottenburg Castle on the lid. Inside the box were all her personal treasures: Three photographs, a bundle of Oskar’s letters, a banknote from the 1930s with a value of one hundred million marks, Oskar’s Iron Cross, and the official letter discharging him from the army. The bedroom key was in there too. She had put it in there a year earlier when Oskar had accidentally locked himself in the bedroom. There was a linen bag full of buttons, some spools of thread, needles and scissors. She selected a button and set to work.