Breadcrumbs and Bombs

by Susan Finlay

  Her eyes filled with tears. She’d heard stories, too, about people being dragged from their homes and shot. Not here in Altstadt, but in surrounding towns. Some Jewish families in Altstadt had disappeared, too. She’d seen with her own eyes soldiers taking a Jewish friend and her family away in a truck.

  “I will write home whenever I can. I will survive. I am young and strong and determined to come home. You two, as the oldest, will need to help your mother around the house and help her take care of the younger kids. Promise me you will.”

  “Of course, Vati,” they said in unison.

  Mutti said, “We do not want your brothers and sisters to know. They are too young to understand yet.”

  Christa glanced at her brother and then they both nodded.

  Their parents stood up in unison and announced that they all needed to get to sleep now. Vati had a long day ahead of him tomorrow and needed his rest.

  Lying in bed, Christa tossed and turned. How was she supposed to sleep when her father was about to go into battle? She glanced over at her two sisters, each sound asleep in her own bed and wished she hadn’t been old enough to understand what was happening in their lives. She lay there, trying to remember what she’d learned in school about Die Wehrmacht—the German military. It was comprised of Die Kriegsmarine (the navy), Die Luftwaffe (the air force), and Das Heer (the army). Which would Vati be in?

  Then she thought about what Vati had said, that he had no choice about whether to go or stay. Her teacher had told the class that every officer, soldier, sailor, and airman now owed his duty, honor, and loyalty to “Der Führer”, that nasty little man who had come through their town and others, in a parade last year. How could anyone pledge their loyalty to him? Even at her age she could tell he was terrible for her people. Poor Vati.

  The next morning, while Vati made final preparations for his departure, Mutti kept telling her, “Hold still. How do you expect me to braid your hair if you keep fidgeting?”

  “But why do you worry about my hair on such an important day? Should we not be helping Vati get ready?”

  “He does not need our help.”

  “What is he doing?” Ernst asked from his spot at the kitchen table.

  “He is dressing in his uniform that was delivered here yesterday while you were in school,” Mutti said, tying the first braid. “Now turn so I can fix the other braid.”

  Christa did as she was told. It was a ritual she was accustomed to but was harder to sit through this morning, because of her anxiety over her father. Normally, she enjoyed the feel of her mother’s hands on her head; she supposed that was because, being the oldest of six children, it was the one moment of each day that she received her mother’s individual attention. She sighed.

  “I suspect I will have to cut off your hair soon,” Mutti said. “It is getting dangerously long.”

  Christa closed her eyes. Here we go again. Her blonde plaits extended almost to her waist, and every week her mother told her that if it got long enough that she sat on the ends, she would chop it all off. She was afraid her hair would get caught in the washing machine wringer.

  When her mother finished, Christa asked, “Did you make the roll on top of my head?” The other girls in her class wore their hair parted on one side and braided, same as Christa did, but recently added something new called a Center roll or a Victory roll, depending on who she asked. Christa had watched her best friend’s mother do it. She took hold of a wedge of hair on the upper part of the longer side and wrapped it around a finger numerous times to form a roll, then pulled the finger out and pinned the hair in place on top of her daughter’s head with bobbie pins. Then she braided the rest of the hair into two plaits as usual.

  “Yes, I made it the way you wanted. Your father will be pleased with how nice you look when you see him off on his trip.”

  Christa didn’t respond. She didn’t want to say that it could be his last memory of her.

  Twenty minutes later, Mutti, Christa, and Ernst stood outside on the porch, waiting with Vati. He was dressed in a gray military uniform and shiny black boots. At nearly six feet tall he looked impressive.

  After five minutes of waiting, a large group of men from their village, all dressed the same and carrying one valise each, walked by their house, and Vati stepped in line with them. Most of the men’s faces showed no pride. Only a few of the men’s faces glowed with excitement. Christa’s father appeared to be trying to keep his face blank, but she knew him well enough to see the sorrow in his eyes.

  “Can we walk with them for a while?” Christa asked, turning to look at her mother.

  “I guess that would be all right. But do not leave the village, and come straight back home. Your brothers and sisters will awake soon and will want their breakfast. Remember, you are not to mention the uniforms or soldiers.”

  Christa and Ernst walked alongside the men, some who were smiling and laughing and obviously excited to be fighting for their country. But Vati wasn’t, and neither were some of the other men. When the group arrived at the next house to pick up another soldier, Vati waved at them to go home.

  How could Mutti and Vati think they would keep this a secret from the younger kids? Most of the village’s German men were leaving. Only the Czech men and the elderly men of both nationalities would stay. At least she figured the Czech men would stay, but she wasn’t sure. The Sudetenland was part of the Reich now, as Vati had said, which she supposed could mean the Wehrmacht would conscript them, too. She would have to ask Mutti later.

  How were the women supposed to take care of the farms, the stores, and their families? Life was hard enough for them already.

  After the other kids were up, breakfast finished and morning chores done, Mutti sent Christa off with a basket of eggs to take to the shops in town. She was supposed to ask them if they would buy them or allow her to trade for fresh meat, canned meat, or whatever she could get. That’s how it had to work right now. Mutti usually did the shopping, but with Vati gone, she couldn’t do everything. Mutti told her that in Germany, people were starving and were using food ration cards to get food. That might happen here soon, if the war continued much longer.

  She left the house carrying the basket and wearing a dark green dress, matching sweater, dark brown knee-high socks, and brown shoes.

  The air was brisk but the sky was clear blue, promising a warm afternoon, as she strolled down their paved street, Blumegasse Straβe, looking left and right at the rolling hills on either side of the town, nestled in the narrow valley. The hills were checkered with farm fields and woods. Now that the weather was changing, the fields were no longer green and lush. She hoped they would be able to grow vegetables in their garden for a few more weeks. Seemed like all she thought about lately was food.

  Passing several more houses like theirs, all three-stories tall and built around the same time as theirs, about a century ago, she arrived at the intersection where she turned onto Bahnhofstrasse. On the corner sat the tiny German school where she and forty-one other school children spent their weekdays. Next door was the Catholic Church, with its tall copper domed spire, where her school teacher, the church’s priest worked when he wasn’t teaching. The village’s cemetery sat nestled next door to the church.

  On those few days when the priest was needed at the church to hold a funeral service, the whole class went with him and sat quietly in the pews.

  The Czech school was bigger and was on the other end of Alstadt. Christa had never been inside it, but had heard from neighbors that two-thirds of the village’s fourteen hundred residents were Czech and that’s why their children had a bigger, nicer school.

  Christa didn’t mind, really. Her school was cozy and everyone knew everyone else, regardless what grade they were in.

  Past the cemetery was the heart of the town with buildings made of concrete and stucco, most of them painted white with red pitched roofs—the bakery where they got Black Forest cherry tarts and fresh bread and rolls, the grocery shop, the post office, a
Protestant church, the Metzgerei, or butcher shop, the bank, the Drogerie, or drugstore, and several other businesses that Christa had never been inside. All of the buildings butted up against each other. She liked to imagine them as tall Germans and Czechs standing together, arms linked at the elbow, and dancing a polka. When she thought about it for real, though, she figured they were butted against each other for support and to ward off the drafts during the cold and snowy winters.

  Halfway down the block, she entered the Metzgerei and talked to the apron-clad Pani Korbelová.

  “Guten morgen, Christa. Where is your mother today?”

  “She stayed home with the younger children. I brought eggs.” She held up her basket.

  “Are you here for wurst today?”

  “Yes. Do you have any left, Pani Korbelová?” Many of the locals would have called her Frau Korbelová even though she was Czech, since she was a married woman and they were called Frau in German. But Christa had been taught in school to be respectful of the Czechs and address them in their own language. That’s why her teacher taught them the Czech language, as well as German. Some German parents didn’t like that, especially now that the Sudetenland was part of Germany. Some had gone as far as to withdraw their children from the school. The teacher, distraught over the withdrawals, had told the class that it was even more important now to learn the Czech language and respect the people who lived around them. Wartime was a time when people found it hard to know who they could trust, and people needed to know they could count on their neighbors for help. It’s a time to come together, he’d said.

  “No, but I have Braten?” Pani Korbelová said. “Will that do?”

  Christa smiled and nodded. “Do you need eggs? I can make a trade.”

  “I will give you eight Braten,” Pani Korbelová said, eying Christa.

  Christa bit her lip, wishing she’d paid more attention when she’d come here with Mutti a few times. “I . . . I guess that is all right.”

  After Pani Korbelová wrapped up eight Braten in paper and handed them to her, Christa handed over the basket of eggs and exited the shop. She had more than enough Braten for the whole family. Mutti would be happy.

  She hurried home and burst into the house, handing her mother the paper wrapped package and telling her about the trade. “Pani Korbelová offered me eight Braten for the eggs. That is wonderful, is it not?”

  “That is all you got? Eight Braten for two dozen eggs?”

  “There were that many eggs? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am sure.”

  “But I got enough for all of us. Is that not good?”

  “Nein, nein. Frau Korbelová,” and she stressed the Frau, as if she was trying to insult the woman, “took you for a fool.”

  Christa felt her cheeks grow warm. “I . . . I am sorry. I thought it was a fair trade. I will do better next time.”

  “I will have to do the shopping myself. You will stay home and take care of your brothers and sisters next Saturday.”

  Christa groaned inside. More time with her brothers and sisters was not what she wanted. Somehow she would have to show Mutti that she was responsible and could perform the shopping; anything to get outdoors and away from her rambunctious siblings. She loved them. But she had her limits.

  Ilse Seidel, September 5, 1943, Memmingen, Germany—

  ILSE SEIDEL EXITED the French doors at the back of her family’s townhouse, a tall narrow house connected to others just like it, within the heart of the town’s center, and walked along the paved walkway for a few feet to the edge of the Stadtbach, or town brook. Grabbing hold of the metal railing, she swung herself down to a sitting position, leaned forward and dangled her feet over the edge toward the water the way she always did, her hands and elbows resting on the railing for support. How peaceful it felt here, with tall half-timbered houses and businesses on either side of the narrow canal, shading the water from the sun and blocking out all signs of war. She could almost forget the closed up shops in the Markplatz, the damaged houses and businesses, and the rubble scattered everywhere. She could almost forget, but not really. Would the bombing ever stop? Would it stop before it destroyed their city? Memmingen was her city, the place where she was born. Would she die here, too? With each passing day it seemed more likely.

  She crossed her legs and moved one hand to rest on her throat, swallowing the sadness. Her grandmother, Oma Seidel—her father’s mother—was killed in a bombing a week ago in the nearby town of Biberach where she’d lived with her daughter’s family. Oma’s son-in-law, Markus, was fighting in the Wehrmacht’s army, as was her oldest grandson, Matthias. Only Oma’s daughter, Karolina, and Karolina and Markus’s youngest son, Hermann, remained in the house now.

  Ilse’s family only knew of her passing because Hermann, the same age as Ilse, had ridden his bicycle to Memmingen to tell them. Ilse hadn’t spent a lot of time with Oma Seidel, but she loved her and missed her all the same.

  Ilse’s best friend was killed, too, right here in their town two days ago, her friend that she’d gone to school with since kindergarten. Fifteen years old is too young to die. She swiped at the tears accumulating in her eyes.

  Death. No one should die from bombs. Certainly not civilians. What had they done to deserve getting their limbs torn from their bodies?

  She’d heard that one of her neighbors had grieved over his wife’s death from one of the bombings and, unable to deal with his grief, had thrown himself into the river further downstream from here and drowned.

  Ilse would never do that. A bomb might get her, too. Who could say? But she would not willingly let the war destroy her or take her away from her family. Not unless her dying meant saving their lives. Sure, there were days when she wanted it all to end, but not that way.

  “There you are,” Johann said, causing her to jump, not hearing his approach. “Mutter told me to find you. She needs you to take our ration cards to the market before the lines get too long.”

  “Ja. I am coming.” She grabbed hold of the railing with both hands and pulled herself upright.

  She knew better than to ask why Johann couldn’t go to the market. He was thirteen and had been recruited to join the junior branch of the Jungvolk, the youth program for ten-to-fourteen year olds. Mutter and Oma and Opa Fischer, Mutter’s parents, had been discussing it for days, with Johann called into the parlor regularly to join in the discussions. He didn’t want to join the program. Oma didn’t want him to join, either. Opa thought he should go, because he’d heard that parents who refused to allow their children to join were subject to investigation by authorities. Mutter objected because she disagreed with Nazi ideologies, but she was torn because she’d also heard that students who didn’t join were subjected to frequent taunts from teachers and fellow student, and could even be refused apprenticeships.

  Ilse decided she wouldn’t join the girls’ version of the program. If they tried to recruit her, she would flat out refuse. Her brother had to make his own decision. With their father already fighting in the army, how could the authorities find fault if the children didn’t want to join their youth programs? They couldn’t.

  “Mutter, I am ready to go to get our rations,” Ilse said when she found her mother in the parlor.

  “Gut. Danke. The ration cards are on the kitchen counter. Try to get something. It is still early enough that you might get a good place in line. Hurry, though.”

  “I will.” She grabbed the ration cards and rushed out the front down and down the cobbled street to the Markplatz, a huge cobbled town square, onto which shops of all kinds and the town hall building faced. Already she saw the lines forming in front of the bakery, the butcher shop, and the other food shops. Which line should she start with?

  The line for the butcher shop was longest, but still not too long. She might have a chance of getting a smoked ham before the shop ran out of meat. She took her spot in the line and gazed around her as she waited her turn, studying the people, the damaged buildings, and the soot co
vered walls.

  Everyone she saw looked thin, way too thin, the same way her family did. An elderly woman was half bent over, her bones protruding, making her look like a hunchback.

  A propaganda poster emphasizing the interdependence of German military and industrial capabilities caught Ilse’s attention. Then, another poster with a young boy about Johann’s age and a military officer, with the words ‘Offiziere von morgen’ that made it appear Hitler Jugend could be easily transformed into army officers, jumped out at her, reminding her again of the Nazis’ attempt to recruit her brother and other children.

  Although it wasn’t meant to, the second poster also reminded her of the people who had worn yellow stars on their clothing five years ago. The Wehrmacht soldiers had forced all of the Jews all over Europe to wear the yellow stars. Within a few months, those Jews had disappeared from Memmingen. She’d heard rumors that most Jews had disappeared from everywhere during the early part of the war. They’d been rounded up and put into trucks and taken away to ghettos or concentration camps.

  Some of her classmates from primary school had been among those who were taken away. Five years ago their teacher had told the class that Jews were no longer allowed in their schools.

  Johann had been especially upset one day when he’d tried to take some books to his best friend’s house, since the friend couldn’t come to school. Several scary soldiers had stopped him, all pointing rifles directly at him and telling him that he couldn’t do that.

  They were going to shoot her little brother. For taking books to a Jewish boy! How crazy was that!

  Two days later, in the Markplatz in front of the Renaissance town hall building in the early evening, Nazi soldiers had built a big bonfire and were tossing books—hundreds of books—into the fire. Why? No one would tell her why?

  Johann had begged his mother and grandparents to take his friend, Isaak, and his mother and sister in and hide them from the Nazis. They told him they couldn’t do it. Said it was too dangerous. A few days later the three of them were gone.