by Olga Chaplin
“Now! We go in now! All of us! Together!” their leader yelled, almost hysterically, his voice belying his bravado. He waved them on, stepping aside to ensure the dozen men under his control moved as one. They had stepped into a building that was now open to the skies, but only the billowing black fumes and fiendish licks of flames were visible. Peter, his legs astride for balance and directing the powerful water hose with both hands, twisted his head as best he could to avoid the hot-red ember feathers that floated like misspent atoms about them and realised that no water force or volume could save this building and its contents.
As he repositioned himself, closer to the flames, the water hose shuddered. He looked back through the blackened haze, uncertain what was causing it, dismayed. The heat of a molten metal machine had burnt the hose, rendering it useless. He took a gasping breath, was about to call out to his leader, Hermann, a few metres ahead of him, and closest to him. Suddenly, his senses were even further sharpened by a strange sensation, which he had never previously experienced. The flames, the billowing smoke were there … but the usual whooshing, crackling noise of the fire had subsided.
He could not explain it, had no logical reason for his reactions, felt the imminent danger. He sensed he had only split moments to run to safety. But he could still make out the shape of Hermann, the only man within reach. Already the deathly quiet was changing, about to expel its heated fury upon them. He instinctively grabbed his crew leader’s arm. “Danger! Danger! We must leave now!” But the man could not hear him: he was transfixed, as if mesmerised, awaiting his fate in vacuous heat, then collapsed as Peter pulled at his arm again.
The backdraft had begun. The weird sensation of skin, clothes reacting to meteoric temperature in seconds was excruciating. Peter used every muscle in his wilting body to haul his leader over his shoulder as he followed the melting threads of the fire hose towards safety. The heat was insufferable. The smell of flesh burning pulsed through his suffocating nostrils. He could not see the end of the hose, or the waiting scorched fire truck. He stumbled over the rubble, desperately hoping his sense of direction had not failed him. Lightheaded, unable to breathe, he willed himself to the hoped-for exit. His logic told him that, had he retreated at that crucial moment of inner sense, he would have reached safety by now. But his heart told him a different story. He had witnessed enough of life and death, and of sacrifice, of both sides of the ideological divide. In those last moments, of searching through the black haze for the rubble-strewn opening, he knew that in life, as in death, we are all equal, and that any life saved, whatever the cost, must count for something in humanity.
At that fraction of a moment, he could not look to the blackened skies for an answer. Hundreds of kilometres from Wilhelmshaven’s burning, in the safety of his Ziegenberg bunker, the Fuhrer could. Yet no re-reading of Hitler’s astrologers’ charts would help his Reich: the clash of empires had already rained down from the universe, the imminent result obvious even before the auspicious planets had aligned for him. If there needed to be proof of that, he needed only to leave his Ziegenberg den to witness the visitation of the heavens onto his cities. Those below, in those infernos, could scream the horrors out to him, even above the shrill sirens and earth-quaking bombs. Peter knew, if he and all others like him ever survived this madman’s totalitarian nightmare, those walls of flames of destruction would be etched for ever.
Chapter 31
A lone wolf’s howl, high-pitched like a misguided V1 flying bomb, pierced the temporary lull of night, sending a chill through the women’s dormitory. Evdokia, always only half-asleep these nights, shuddered. Comforted by the sleeping shapes of Nadia and Mykola crammed at her side on the rough timber bunk, she rose to check the pram at her bedside. The wailing wolf signalled again from its hidden vantage point across the forested gully.
She lifted the perena square she had hand-sewn in her last days of confinement, touched her baby Ola’s face and drew close to her. She was such a still infant, Evdokia was in constant fear for her baby’s survival, and even more so with each shrieking air raid. In the still and seeming calm of the night, she wanted to hold her close, as much for her own reassurance as to protect this new life, but resisted. There were too few hours, now, in any day in which children could rest unfrightened by the thunderous sound of bombers from the north-west and south-west of this small hidden camp that was too close to Wilhelmshaven.
The lone wolf cried its final siren-like warning, sending another shiver down Evdokia’s spine. “At least we know the ways of the wolf, its territory,” she thought, her mind drifting in half-sleep, “but who can understand all this other horror around us?” She trusted Peter’s observation that the bombers seemed to approach Wilhelmshaven from the west and north-west, from England and the North Sea or, more recently, from some safe south-western airstrip in France, now that Paris was liberated from Nazi control. This last camp, strategically located on the south-eastern periphery of Wilhelmshaven, and at the end of a small gully covered by a thick forest of firs, gave them protection from the carpet-bombing as the planes targeted the city’s vital port and industrial heart.
Evdokia sighed. The commandant of Federwader camp had been right, in that regard. This camp was so close to Wilhelmshaven that just one well-placed, if misdirected, bomb would wipe out its dormitories, its hidden fire engines, and its small underground munitions factory. This reality numbed her, each waking moment of every passing day in the camp, consumed any creative energy, or joy, that she had hoped would return, with the birth of her child.
* * *
The November dawn was crisp, its black-grey cloak seeming to protect her as she and the children walked the short distance to the crèche building. She stoked the iron stove’s ash, prepared the twigs for the morning’s cooking, checked the chimney’s funnel that ran alongside the building to an underground dispersion point. Within minutes the small building, within sight of the dormitories and of the metal door leading to the underground munitions workshop, came alive with the warmth of the fire and smell of Evdokia’s platske as the other women brought their children and hurried to the workshop. Evdokia counted the dozen or so children as she prepared their early morning meal. By now she knew each child well and watched with satisfaction as they sat at the table: some, like Mykola, so hungry, other infants, playful with their platske and chattering.
She looked up as the door opened. A boy-soldier stumbled in with a large bucket of chopped wood.
“Guten Morgen, Karl. Danke schon,” she nodded to him and removed several logs as he staggered to the stove. The young soldier tipped his hat, more to steady it, nodded silently. His eyes flicked across the room, observing this scene of apparent normality, paused as he noticed the pram in a corner. He lowered the bucket near the stove and stacked the wood to pyramid perfection and stood back, still eyeing the pram, then tiptoed closer and gazed at the sleeping baby. He seemed puzzled and shook his head, then, noticing Evdokia observing him, he blushed. She could not surmise what this young man was thinking: whether he was in awe of such a young infant in this makeshift camp, or curious of its ancestry, its white hair and pale, almost translucent skin giving it a doll-like appearance. He shuffled his feet, appeared to clear his throat, pushed his oversized hat back as he made for the door.
She hesitated, distracted by the needs of the children. “Danke, Karl,” she nodded as she closed the door after him, felt emotions of empathy sweep through her as she tried to understand his situation.
“He is just fifteen, and is already in this army … yet he is only a little taller than my Mykola …” She looked across to Mykola. Her heart skipped a beat. “He is also trapped … not permitted to step outside this room all day …” Already he tried to fill his day: working out incomprehensible words in a German grammar book left mysteriously in this room weeks ago, playing games made up with other children, from new Ukrainian words she taught each day, and even attempting crude whittling of broken twigs with blunt utensils, to make figurines of make-bel
ieve horses and soldiers and aircraft, in games that kept the children amused for hours.
He had become her companion, her assistant, in these past three months. Though still a child, he was being forced too soon to become a man of ten tender years, with responsibilities placed on him by the war’s circumstances as Peter and the other men were pushed to greater and greater risks of exhausting fire brigade work. Her Mykola attended to the fire at the stove, even helped in preparing the evening meal in the large pots as the women returned at twilight to eat with their children before taking them back to their dormitory.
“It is just as well the commandant lets our men visit us here,” she thought, relieved at this concession by the soldiers. “He knows our men risk their lives for us as well … It gives us hope we could survive to the end of the war … God only knows when that will be.”
At last she made her mug of tea, poured in a few drops of milk she had saved from the platske mix, sat at her chair within sight of baby Ola’s face. Constantly tired, over-awed by the threatening air raids that, like clockwork, would begin again as soon as the fog cleared on the northern coastline, she allowed herself some contemplative moments, to try to regain her sense of balance in this unending way of life. She watched as Nadia and the other infants gazed over a child’s picture book someone had left on another night, watched as they interpreted the German fairytale, excitedly giving their version in hand gestures and explanations, acting out the roles of princes and princesses, and dancing to the final happy ending. She smiled, warmed by their spontaneity and innocence, in the midst of the inexplicable that surrounded them.
She closed her eyes for a few moments. “Thank you, God,” she prayed, in acknowledgement of her good fortune, thankful that Ola’s birth those three months ago had concluded well, despite the trauma of that day. She sighed, relieved, yet her emotions were mixed with sadness as she remembered her own fortuitous circumstance of giving birth to her child in a dark corridor of the hospital, within hours of arrival, as traumatised nurses ran to save the lives of yet more bomb victims rushed to the overcrowded hospital, which also was constantly under attack from the mighty bombs.
Evdokia turned again to observe her baby, and waited for her next waking time. She was grateful that here, at least, there seemed to be sufficient food for them to survive on, whatever came in the supply truck, and however sporadic its delivery.
* * *
Another mid-morning air raid on the northern port-side of the city had passed. Evdokia prepared the children for their rest. She spread the mats on the floor and allocated the children their rest corners. She had more kasha to prepare, cut the dark brown bread into small pieces to avoid wastage. The next onslaught would be upon them before the children were fully rested. She shuddered as she thought of this carpet-bombing strategy the Allied powers now used relentlessly in the hope that Hitler and his regime would sue for peace. She could not repeat to others the rumours Peter had heard whispered, for fear of reprisal, even at this extreme time of Germany’s shortage of workers: of the Hitler regime’s having just pulled together another half-million soldiers from its male workforce, to replace all those millions lost on the eastern and western fronts.
“And the Russian army gets closer and closer,” she murmured to herself. “Peter hears they are at Germany’s eastern border.” With Hitler’s satellite states in the east falling, one after another, as if in a badly-played child’s board game, some even suing for peace with the Allies, the atmosphere within the German army, including its High Command, was becoming desperate. Yet not only did the July attempt on Hitler’s life fail; somehow, it had reinvigorated the tyrant to try again, for ever more ambitious campaigns of assault.
Evdokia shook her head, could not contemplate what else this total war would lead to. Even though she had had little education, her own life’s experience told her that to be fighting an ever-stronger Soviet military machine on the one side, and ever-stronger united Allied forces on the other, could only lead to a disastrous conclusion for Germany and its people. Yet its leader refused to surrender. And so the bombs kept coming, the cities permanently damaged, scorched, even almost wiped out … and Hitler’s soldiers, and the overworked Albert Speer, had to devise ingenious ways of continuing production, such as this makeshift munitions workshop underground, which only housed a few dozen prisoner women in this temporary camp.
She bent down to the bucket that held the water for the lunchtime meal, paused for a moment. It was almost negligible, but she could hear the droning, yet it was not following its usual path. She straightened, metal mug in hand, trying to work out the drone’s direction. The hum seemed to be fading. She heaved a sigh of relief, bent again for the water. Then suddenly, the shuddering drone was above her. She gasped, ran to the door, could not see anyone running to warn her. The munitions workshop was buffeted by the many metres of walkway down a long-unused shaft, and the metal door, when shut, would not be opened from the outside. The other women would either be safe, in their natural bunker, or incinerated if the mine-shaft took a direct hit.
She screamed to Mykola and the children. She could not run with them to the dormitory: it had even less protection than this building, which was located closer to the commandant and soldiers’ quarters, with their underground bunker beside their building. Only the soldiers were permitted to use the bunker. But the bombers were risking all, had not taken their usual course: had veered from the south-east, swooping along the narrow forested gully.
Already the fire trucks were leaving for Wilhelmshaven, anticipating the bombs and had just left, on a side escape, as a bomb blasted at their holding bay.
“Oh, Boje!” Evdokia heard herself scream as shrapnel and gunfire cracked on the old roof, singeing timber, scattering debris around her. Their men were gone, the women trapped underground.
“Kola!” she shouted. “Quickly! Take the little ones now! You and Ivor—take the children’s hands … Run! Run to the bunker! We must all hide there! Quick! Quick, Kola!” She pushed them all towards the door, pointing them to the bunker, the older infants running after Mykola and Ivor as they carried several of the weaker children.
Another blast sent window glass scattering into the room. She rushed to the corner, Nadia still in her arms, threw a pillow into the pram over baby Ola, then Nadia on top, placed another pillow over her to protect her from the flying glass and pushed the pram as fast as she could, leaning over it to protect the children, towards the concrete underground bunker. She could just make out the shapes of soldiers diving into it through its small opening, could not see the children, but prayed they had reached this safety.
“Dear God, please let them find room for us!” she pleaded, grabbed Nadia and Ola at the doorway and hurled herself into the bunker, just as a soldier was about to close its metal door. “Oh, danke, danke!” she tried to gasp for air, winded. Someone in the near-pitch dark steadied her, made room at a pew along the wall. She clutched Nadia on her lap, Ola in her arm as she tried to acclimatise her eyes to the dark to seek out Mykola and the other children. The bunker was airless; she felt suffocated. But she was grateful she and the children were not refused a place.
Someone moved close to her. At first, she thought it must be Mykola, but after a moment or two, she sensed otherwise. The boy-soldier, Karl, was trembling violently, almost convulsing, the shock of the near-fatal blast too much for his inexperienced mind. She leaned across and touched his arm, patted it, tried to reassure him, her Ukrainian words lost in meaning, yet she hoped they could in some way soothe him.
A flickering kerosene lamp in a corner revealed the pale frightened faces of Mykola and the other children. She sighed in relief as she tried to regain her composure, to hold back her tears in the dark. It was a tragic reality that her son, who also felt traumatised, at his tender age, had by now witnessed enough bombings and hardship, to somehow be able to distract himself, hold in his emotions, and to calm the younger children around him.
At last, they were given the order to
leave the bunker. Evdokia waited at the opening, as each child appeared. They were all accounted for. She hugged Mykola, relieved they were safe now. She nodded respectfully to the soldiers, thanked them for the bunker. Some nodded as they passed, eyes averted from her and the group of children as they returned to the soldiers’ barracks. “I wonder … were they also thinking of their loved ones … their own wives and children … wherever they are, now?”
She followed the children back to the crèche building, then, puzzled at what one child had clung to throughout this ordeal, stooped and checked, and smiled. It was the children’s story book, with its fairytale, which had besotted the children, its happy ending locked in their innocent imagination despite all the threatening bombs.
A long way from this camp, in his deep underground Ziegenberg bunker near Frankfurt, Hitler, in a highly agitated state, was still living out his fantasy fairytale of out-manoeuvring Stalin in the east and the Allied coalition in the west; was still imagining that, despite all the crushing defeats of the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe, as evidence to the contrary, he would bring Germany to victory. The ‘Wolf’ who had hunted the Soviet Union and western Europe had, yet again, changed his lair, from the Wolfsschanze, in east Prussia, and had reached almost his last lair: was soon to leave Ziegenberg for the Berlin Chancellery bunker, his final hiding place, from which he would not return. His false howl had had the following of a nation for a dozen years. His fairytale would soon be over. The reality for Germany and its citizens, for all the people of Europe, and beyond, involved in this human tragedy, was almost too much to comprehend, to bear.