by Derek Hansen
The rumble of the approaching RAF formations grew louder and louder. Surely it couldn’t be an air raid. Dresden was a refugee city, the whole world knew that. She wondered if her father had heard the aircraft and taken Helmuth down to the cellar. Helmuth! She thought of her little child and wanted desperately to run to him, to be with him, to shelter and protect him. But she had her duty and she couldn’t abandon all these other children in her care. ‘Dear God, dear God! Look after Helmuth. Please! Please!’ These were her thoughts. She was unaware that she was saying them out aloud. She turned and ran from carriage to carriage and ordered them to extinguish the lights. She thought she was doing the right thing but immediately she could see black-out curtains being pulled back and young faces appearing at the windows. The flares were clearly visible now and falling about a kilometre to the east.
She looked at her watch. It had just turned ten o’clock. She saw men racing through the strange orange light towards the engines. They were going to move the trains! Thank God! She climbed aboard the nearest carriage as they began to clank and creak. Slowly the wheels began to turn and carry their precious cargo back into the protection of the station.
The children had turned deathly quiet. In the orange glow she could see anxious eyes watching her.
‘There is no cause for alarm,’ she said. ‘It seems the RAF are going to bomb the marshalling yards at Dresden-Friedrichstadt. We’re going back into the station until it’s over. Come on! Let’s sing a song and show them we’re not scared.’ A couple of girls began to sing Bund Deutscher Mädchen—the Hitler Maids—and gradually the other children joined in. She wondered how they were coping in the other carriages. Maybe they’d hear their singing and join in. The night grew dark again as they entered the station.
The roar of the bombers swelled louder and louder until it drowned out the singing. Dear God! thought Christiane. They must be right above us. She heard another sound and recognised it instantly from Ulla’s description and the film footage she’d seen at the cinema of their own bombers.
‘Lie down!’ she ordered. ‘Everybody lie down on the floor!’
The children did exactly as they were told, pulling whatever cover they had over them. They heard the first bombs land but they were some distance away. Christiane’s spirits rose. Maybe they wouldn’t be bombed. Maybe they really were going to bomb the marshalling yards. Then another thought struck her. Maybe the bombs were landing in Prager Strasse. The explosions came closer and suddenly it appeared as if the whole station had exploded. The windows of the carriage blew in as she threw herself to the floor. The carriage rocked and threatened to leap off the rails. Everywhere she could hear children screaming in fear. Two floors above them the roof of the station collapsed in sheets of flame, clearing the way for a hail of incendiary bombs. They fell among refugees racing for shelter, they fell down the elevator shafts and made rivers of fire down the stairways, igniting piles of baggage and anything and anyone in their path.
The carriages rocked violently and endlessly as massive 8,000-pound and 4,000-pound blast bombs caved in walls and roofs, but they lacked the ability to penetrate the thick concrete through to the lower reaches of the station. But smoke and poisonous fumes did. Christiane felt the fumes sting her eyes and burn her throat and smoke began to catch in her lungs. She began to cough and gasp for breath. She buried her head in her coat and took a deep suck of clearer air to steady her breathing
‘Cover your faces! Cover your faces!’ She looked up to see frightened eyes running with tears staring back at her. ‘Cover your faces! You and you! Cover your faces!’ She realised they couldn’t hear a word above the noise of the bombs and so mimed what she wanted them to do. The effort took its toll. She gasped and coughed, each mouthful of air stinging and burning her lungs. Her eyes streamed and her temples felt like they were going to burst. But just as she was about to collapse from lack of oxygen she felt a gust of cold air on her face. The fires raging on the levels overhead had begun to suck air in through the tunnels and up the stairways. The wind roared past them taking away the smoke and fumes. Christiane sucked in the cold, clear air in great lungfuls.
‘Stay calm!’ she ordered but she knew it was as much for her sake as the children’s.
Suddenly the carriage jolted and began to move. Christiane began to panic. What were they doing? Why were they taking them out into the open to be killed? Light and smoke filled the carriages but still they continued up the grade into the open. Christiane climbed onto a seat and peered out through the shattered window. Houses blazed on both sides of the track and none were spared. But she made a discovery that overwhelmed her with relief. The bombing had stopped. They’d survived. Barely fifteen minutes had passed since the first bombs had fallen and the raid was over.
The train took them back to the siding and stopped. Christiane stood and began to move among the children.
‘Everybody sit up,’ she ordered. ‘The air raid is over and we are all safe. You can resume your seats. Is anyone hurt? If anyone is hurt please raise your hands.’ She had no trouble seeing. The flames from the burning buildings had turned night into day. Children were coughing and crying and holding onto one another fiercely, but it was clear that none had raised their hand. She moved on into the next carriage and the next. It was the same story in each. The children had been badly frightened but in the main had suffered only minor cuts from the flying glass. A few children, however, had deep cuts to the hands and faces that needed attending to. Christiane decided to go back into the station and see if she could coax some bandages and disinfectant from the Red Cross. Perhaps she could even get to a phone and call home.
She climbed down from the train and hurried back along the track. A gust of wind hit and nearly lifted her into the air. She staggered, trying to regain her footing and fell. Incredibly, she felt herself being dragged along the ground into the tunnel. She grabbed hold of the rail and hung on for dear life. The station was ablaze. What about all the people inside, she wondered? They couldn’t all have been killed or she and the children would have been killed too. She waited for the wind to subside then dashed into the tunnel. She ran blindly, hoping there wasn’t a train moving towards her. She knew she wouldn’t have a hope of hearing it before it knocked her down. The roaring of the fires and the wind, mingled with the crash of falling masonry, obliterated everything. She saw a light up ahead and ran towards it. She climbed up onto the platform and stood uncomprehending.
Sicherheits und Hilfsdienst crews—the rescue and repair service—moved among the refugees, rolling them over, checking them, then moving on. Every now and then they’d call for a stretcher. Were they the only ones hurt? Or were they the only survivors? She looked at the grim faces of the rescue workers and knew the answer. Hundreds—no thousands!—of refugees had suffocated or been asphyxiated by carbon monoxide fumes as they lay huddled together. The same people she’d walked among spreading her cheer, telling them they were the lucky ones. They were all dead.
As she reached the stairs, the corpses took on a different look altogether. Here were the victims of the blast bombs and incendiaries. Some were limbless or headless, others so badly charred they were barely recognisable as human corpses. Christiane was stunned by the magnitude of the horror that confronted her. It exemplified how unprepared Dresden was for a bombing attack. The refugees had been sheltered in the vaulted basements but the authorities hadn’t thought to protect them with blast-proof doors.
She looked to where the Red Cross post had been but it had been obliterated along with everyone close by. As she climbed the stairs the horror increased. The floors were covered in dead and wounded. Some people cried out in pain but, for the most part, those who had survived just sat looking blank as their minds struggled to cope with the terror and horror they’d witnessed. The fire roared on the level above them and she dared go no further. She realised that there was no help for her there. They had greater problems than a few children with deep cuts. She turned and made her way back down to
the platform.
The wind had intensified. It was unlike any she’d ever known before. As she watched, it picked up bodies and threw them onto the railway lines. She felt it lick around her and try to drag her back up the stairs. She crouched down and held onto the rails. But as quickly as it had swept in it eased and she was caught in a backdraught. As it lifted her, she swung onto the platform and raced back to the tunnel. Someone called out to her but she ignored him and kept running. She jumped down onto the rails and ran. She could see the glow of the fires up ahead and ran for it. Please God! Don’t let the wind come now! As she burst into the open, she saw the telltale swirl of smoke and dust rush towards her and threw herself onto the ground. The wind rushed over her, hurling burning debris and roof tiles like missiles. As she hugged the rail line, she made a startling discovery. The rail was warm. She could feel it on her cheek. She hung on and hung on, waiting for the gust to subside, then made a dash for the nearest carriage.
She burst through the door gasping for breath.
‘Ah … there you are! Did you get any bandages?’
Christiane looked up into the eyes of an SS-Sturmbannführer. She noticed he only had one arm. He caught her glance and shrugged.
‘I left it behind in Russia. Perhaps one of the Ivans has kept it for a souvenir.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Sturmbannführer Georg Hoffmann. And you are the woman from the Frauenschaften who is supposed to be in charge of these children. I have been entertaining them in your absence.’
Christiane wasn’t deaf to the officer’s implied criticism and couldn’t ignore it. ‘Thank you for standing in for me. I would have thought, however, that your services might be better employed helping the injured and dying inside the station.’
‘What use is a one-armed man?’
Christiane bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I thought about helping in there but what could I do? I could hardly carry a stretcher. Besides, someone has to look after the living.’ He looked around at the wide-eyed children inside the carriage watching their exchange. ‘Our future.’
‘Then please continue. Don’t let anyone outside and keep them away from the windows. Better still keep them all on the floor. That wind could carry a child off into the flames.’
‘As you wish.’
Christiane picked her way down through the children and crossed into the next carriage. She found a labour force girl calmly bandaging a little girl’s head with strips of material she’d torn from the lining of her coat. She couldn’t have been much older than fifteen herself.
‘Do you need any help?’
‘No, Frau Eigenwill.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I was ordered here, Frau Eigenwill, along with some other girls and some old men from a labour force. I think they are Poles.’
‘Is there someone in each carriage?’
‘Yes, meine Frau, I think so.’
‘Thank you.’ Christiane turned and gradually worked her way along the length of the train, stopping to help where needed. She gave each supervisor the same instructions she’d given the SS officer and turned back. Time and time again she heard the clanking and felt the thump that suggested the trains were going to be moved off somewhere else. But it was only the buffeting of the wind. She was exhausted by the time she’d made her way back to the Sturmbannführer. She collapsed onto the first seat where the carriage wall offered some protection from the wind. She looked at her watch. It was twelve thirty, barely two hours since the raid had finished.
The SS officer was telling a story and made it just rude enough to delight his listeners and make them forget the flames and collapsing buildings on either side of them. He saw Christiane, frowned, and began to wind up his story. She suddenly felt overwhelmingly ill. She leaned out of the carriage and vomited. She continued to retch long after her stomach had emptied itself of its contents. Her head pounded and sweat poured from every pore in her body. She tried to undo the buttons of her coat but her hands lacked both strength and dexterity. Her arms fell helplessly to her sides and she began to weep silently. She felt more than saw the officer sit beside her. He put his hand to her forehead.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Drink this.’ He handed her a small hip flask. She looked up in gratitude. The heat and her exertions had caused her to dehydrate and she craved a drink. She unscrewed the top and took a sip. She was expecting water and instead swallowed a mouthful of brandy. The fiery liquid sapped her breath and made her gag. She doubled over, tears streaming from her eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Gnädige Frau, I thought you realised. I wish I had some water for you but there is no water left on this train. I’m sorry. This is the best I can do.’
Christiane handed back the flask and nodded her thanks.
He took a sip, placed the bottle between his knees and screwed the top tight. ‘You must be strong, Frau. Relief services will be coming here from all over Saxony and even further. No matter what else, you can always rely on German organisation. That is our strength.’ He put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed gently. ‘Come now, Gnädige Frau. You have been so brave. You must be brave for a little while longer. For the children.’
She dried her eyes. The carriage suddenly shook violently and everything loose in the carriage was sent flying. A couple of children screamed in fright. Instinctively she grabbed on to the man alongside her, and held on until the wind once more abated.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked. ‘Why is the wind like this?’
‘Firestorm.’
‘No … no!’ Christiane tried to get to her feet but the officer held on to her firmly. Christiane had heard about firestorms and knew how severe the bombing had to be to begin one. She’d heard the stories from the refugees who had earlier come from the west. Surely it couldn’t happen in Dresden? That’s what happened in the industrial towns and the ports. Why would the Allies firebomb a city like Dresden that had so few factories? The officer had to be wrong! But another gust rocked the carriage and she couldn’t deny the evidence of her own eyes. She tried to peer through the fires raging all around her towards her home in Prager Strasse. It was no use. Dresden was ablaze.
‘Helmuth!’ She tried once more to stand, her fears restoring her strength, but the officer still held firm. ‘Let me go! I must go to my son!’
‘Calm down, Gnädige Frau. You are no use to him dead. You wouldn’t last a minute out there. The raid finished two hours ago. Either your son is safe in a cellar somewhere or he is dead already. I’m sorry, there is nothing you can do about it except pray that he is safe in a cellar. In the meantime, your duty is here, with these children.’ He spoke firmly but not unsympathetically. Christiane collapsed back on the seat and fought back her tears. She knew that what he’d said was true. Either Helmuth was alive in a cellar somewhere or he was already dead. She thought of the dead children she’d seen in the station huddled up to their parents. She thought of Helmuth dying alone without her and of life without him.
‘Oh Helmuth …’ she sobbed, and the words came in a groan filled with pain and despair, straight from the heart. Why shouldn’t a mother cry? She buried her head against the Sturmbannführer’s chest to drown out her sobbing and hide her tears. He let her stay that way for some time, patting her back as a father would a distraught child. But they had their duty to perform and children to care for. Duty took priority. He shook her gently.
‘Gnädige Frau, it is time to tend to the children. You are needed here.’
‘Yes.’ Her answer was mechanical. She had her duty. She was needed. She stood and began to thread her way through the children. She glanced outside the window at the inferno that raged around them. But once more the world around her changed colour and seemed artificial. She risked putting her head out of the window and saw flares hanging in the sky directly above them.
‘God in heaven!’ she heard the Sturmbannführer say. ‘They’re coming back!’
Chapter Forty
‘Friedrich! What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
He handed Cecilia the message.
‘Friedrich, it’s in German!’
He looked at her, barely comprehending.
‘Come!’ ordered Cecilia. ‘Come and sit down.’ She took his hand and guided him to the little table. He sat down. He wanted time—time to digest the full import of the message, but Cecilia was insistent. ‘Read the message to me! What does it say?’
He took the radio message back from her and began to read. ‘Dresden bombed. Two raids approx. 2210 and 0120. Dresden centre and Altstadt destroyed. Firestorm in progress. Heavy casualties reported. Have tried to contact Carl Christiane. Unsuccessful. Phones electricity ARP control destroyed. Communication not yet possible. Any news will advise. Take heart. Gottfried.’ He could see the horror in her eyes and it cut through the numbness that had encased him.
‘Oh dear Mother of God! Your wife … your son …!’
He slumped back in his chair, his mind trying to add flesh to the terse message, trying to imagine where Christiane and Helmuth might have been when the raid began and what might have happened to them. Clearly the house on Prager Strasse would not have survived, but had they? He thought back to Ulla’s story of the bombing of Wuppertal-Barmen and tried to imagine what it would have been like in Dresden. In his mind he saw Christiane running through flames clutching their precious little Helmuth to her chest like the maid Käte had. Dear God! Don’t let them burn to death! Not burn! His control began to wilt as the old horror took hold of him. He began to shake.
Cecilia slapped his face. When that didn’t work she hit him again with all her force. ‘Friedrich! Friedrich! Stop it!’