by Susan Finlay
Anna shook his hand, drawing him back to reality.
“Uh, no, I guess I’m really not. I wonder if I really knew my father. It’s sad, because I have so many questions for him and I’ll never get a chance to ask him. You know what I mean?”
“We do,” the aunts said in unison.
Anna said, “I sometimes wish I could go back in time to ask our parents and grandparents questions, too. We just don’t think about important questions and about heritage while our family is still around. Then later it is too late. We assume we have plenty of time. But we don’t.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Christa Nagel, April, 1945, Altstadt, Sudetenland—
UPSTAIRS IN THE attic of their farmhouse, Christa and Mutti stood looking out the uncovered window at the mountains in the distance. The boys, Ernst and Fritz, had removed the wood covers from the two attic windows—one east-facing and one west-facing—and put back up the blackout curtains that had been stuffed into a corner. This morning, shortly after breakfast, Christa had carefully pulled back one of the curtains so she and Mutti could get a birds-eye-view of the war scene. It had been a week since they’d last looked. The sky had a blue-gray-purple cast to it, somewhat hazy, that on a peaceful day, Christa might consider pretty. Where were the ant-size soldiers? They weren’t at the top of the hillside, anymore. She held her breath, praying. Please let them be gone from here. Slowly her gaze moved over the hill and mountain areas. She gasped, hearing her mother muffle a cry. Oh Gott! The soldiers weren’t gone. There they were, further down the hillside and distinctly larger now. The fighting was definitely getting closer to their home. “What are we going to do now, Mutti? They could be here in a matter of days.”
Mutti was visibly shaking, wringing her hands together in a way that she always did when she was extremely anxious. She turned and walked over to the west-facing window and pulled back the curtain.
Christa followed. Gott nein! Christa gasped again. Soldiers were fighting on the hills on this side, too. For the first time. Her family was surrounded, with no way out. They—her whole family—could be wiped out, as Frau Bauermann’s had. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. Christa had heard of people taking their own lives because of what was happening. Last week, she’d gone into town to get their rations and heard that the Meier family had all taken pills. Their elderly next door neighbor had gone to their house to check on them, and found all four bodies. Mutti would never do that. She wouldn’t commit suicide. It went against her religion. But Christa knew she could.
Mutti left the attic distraught, leaving Christa behind to feed the chickens and gather the eggs. The chickens seemed to have adjusted to indoor life and were producing their normal yield of eggs.
Last week, on her trip into town, Christa had managed to trade some eggs for a bag of flour. The week before that she’d traded for a bag of oats. She’d surprised herself that she was learning how to barter and concluded she wasn’t half bad at it.
When Christa came downstairs with the fresh eggs and put them away in the kitchen, Mutti gathered the older kids together, instructing them to pack some of their belongings into boxes or other small containers. When the task was completed, they buried some of them in the ground closest to the house, where the ground wasn’t frozen; others they hid in the root cellar or under floor boards. Money and jewels Mutti sewed into the lining of their coats and clothes, wherever possible.
“What do you think will happen?” Ernst asked.
“I have heard that Russian soldiers go into homes and take whatever they want. Sometimes, the soldiers confiscate the homes. I do not know what will happen, but we take what precautions we can. If we are lucky, we may not lose everything.”
The rest of the day, and the next day, the family stayed together in the living room, reading quietly, or playing games, or eating. They rarely even sat at the kitchen table anymore. They no longer listened to the radio. Christa had tried to turn it on once. Ernst had, too. But Mutti said no. She didn’t want to hear the news.
Baby Dirk let out a loud wail, waking up from his nap. Mutti picked him up and cooed to him. It was obvious from the way he moved his head and his little fists that he was hungry. Mutti pulled open the front of her dress and fed the one month old. Christa watched, feeling oddly tender toward him and her mother. She’d always felt jealous of the attention her siblings, especially the babies, got from Mutti. It was different now. Maybe because she’d helped with his birth, or maybe her family just felt a little more precious to her now.
“Mutti,” Giselle said, “can we go outside and play tomorrow. Ernst said it is getting warmer out, and it has been too long since we got to play outdoors. Please. Can we?”
“Nein! You are not to go outside, except to go to the outhouse.”
Giselle’s eyes filled with tears and her mouth wobbled.
“Come, Giselle,” Christa said. “Mutti is right. It is not safe out there, but we can play inside. How about a game of hide-and-go-seek? Are you up for that?”
Giselle’s mouth curved up, and she nodded, brushing away her tears with the back of her hand.
“Me, too,” Andreas chimed in. “I can hide good.”
“All right. We can all play. Except for Mutti and Dirk, of course.”
Mutti smiled and nodded, then slightly mouthed, “Danke.”
Christa felt a wave of love wash over her.
That evening, loud blasts and the roar of heavy equipment woke the baby, making him cry. Mutti woke and tried to quiet him.
Christa took her flashlight and ran up the two flights of stairs and into the attic. She closed the door to the attic, turned off her flashlight, and peeked between the curtain panels.
Tanks. Army trucks. Bright lights. Blinding lights. Soldiers and guns. The street in front of their house, and the neighboring streets were cluttered with military. Russians! The Red Army had taken their town.
Christa felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She grabbed hold of the window ledge to keep herself from collapsing. Oh, Gott! She had to go warn Mutti and the kids.
She turned away from the window and found her way in the dark to the door without tripping over a chicken, not wanting to turn on the flashlight and risk someone on the ground seeing it.
Downstairs, she rushed to her family and whispered, “Mutti, they are here. The Russians.”
Mutti let out a quiet moan. Ernst’s face blanched in the pale light from the fireplace and the lamp.
The fire.
Christa rushed to the fireplace and threw water from the bucket beside it onto the fire to put it out. She remembered her conversation with Mutti from more than a month ago. What if someone sees the smoke from our chimney?
Maybe Mutti had been right about soldiers thinking the house had been abandoned. Maybe they would leave their house alone.
When the fire was out, Ernst switched off the lamp. Everyone stayed quiet, huddling together in their blankets, some crying quietly.
Eventually, they fell asleep, Christa could tell, because she heard snoring. Lots of snoring. Somehow she managed to sleep a bit, too. She must have, because she felt someone kick her mildly in the stomach, waking her up. She rubbed her eyes, wondering what time it was.
A flashlight lay on top of a cabinet in the foyer, shining a small amount of light in the kitchen. From that light, Christa could see Mutti pacing across the open space between the living room and kitchen, carrying baby Dirk and bouncing him ever so slightly.
Christa carefully inched her way out of the tangle of blankets and legs, and walked over to Mutti. “What time is it?” she asked.
Mutti said, “I think it is early morning. I heard noises outside. Engines and voices.”
Christa shivered. “Do you want me to hold the baby for a while?”
Mutti handed him over to Christa. “Thank you, meine liebling. My arms were getting sore.”
A few minutes later, someone pounded hard on the front door. Then shouted in Russian.
The children all woke up and Mutti rush
ed over to them and whispered, begging them to keep quiet.
Pounding again. More shouting.
And then the baby started crying—more like screaming. Christa desperately tried to quiet him. She put her hand over his mouth. Nothing worked.
Mutti ran over and took him from Christa. She couldn’t quiet him, either.
Then something hard hit the door. Not someone’s hands. It sounded like a bulldozer. Or an ax.
The wooden door cracked. Cracked again. And again. Three big Russian soldiers burst through the door.
Mutti handed the baby back to Christa, and said, “Go to the children. Try to calm them.”
The soldiers grabbed Mutti and threw her to the floor. One of them ripped her dress and then undid his pants, while the other soldiers held her pinned down.
Mutti screamed and screamed as the men assaulted her, one by one.
Christa felt her chest would burst, shaking, raging inside, but all she could do was hug the children tightly to her as they all cried and watched, helpless to do anything to protect Mutti.
Finally, the Russians left and Christa handed the baby to Ernst and then rushed over to Mutti, laying still, curled in a pile.
“Mutti, are you . . . can you hear me?” Christa wasn’t sure if Mutti was alive. Oh Gott, please let her be alive. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she bent down and listened for any sign of life. There, she was breathing, wasn’t she? Christa gently shook Mutti’s shoulder, not wanting to hurt her any more than she’d already been hurt, but wanting to shake her to get her to open her eyes. “Can you talk? What can I do to help?”
Julia ran over and said, “I will get a bowl and some water and towels. We can clean her up.”
Fritz said, “We should move her onto the sofa.”
Christa grabbed Mutti by the arms. Fritz took her feet.
“Let me help,” Ernst said. “I am the strongest.”
“Where is the baby?” Christa said.
“In his cradle.”
Together, the three of them got Mutti to the sofa. Christa carefully rubbed a damp cloth over her forehead, cleaned her as best she could, and covered her with several blankets. Christa was terrified. Over all their ministrations, Mutti remained mute, unmoving. There was nothing more she knew to do.
Christa added dry wood to the fireplace and got another fire started. No need to keep the fire low now.
Over the next few days, Mutti slowly animated and began to recover, seeming more embarrassed and ashamed than anything else.
Ernst and Fritz rebuilt the front door as well as they could. They had used some of the wood they’d nailed to the upstairs window to do it.
Christa left the house only once, to get food. She heard from shopkeepers that women all over town—the German women, not the Czech women, had been raped by the Russians. Elderly men were beaten. So far, only the children had escaped attack.
Two days later, the Russians pulled out of town.
Everyone gingerly breathed a sigh of relief, that is until the Czech army and paramilitary pulled into town on a surprisingly warm spring day.
Within an hour of their arrival, a loud knock came again. Mutti started toward the door, but Ernst nudged her away. “I’ll get it.”
The Czech soldier at the door spoke loudly enough that the whole family could hear him. “Every German in town must meet in front of the town hall in fifteen minutes. Pack only what you can carry. If you don’t show up, we will drag you out and shoot you.”
He walked away and Ernst slammed the door shut.
The family ran around, frantically trying to decide what to take. As they carried their suitcases down the stairs, Christa remembered the chickens in the attic. She turned and looked up to the door leading to the attic. Mutti saw her.
“We have to take the chickens,” Christa said.
“Nein. Leave them,” Mutti said.
“But what will become of them? No one knows they are in the attic. They will starve. We should at least set them free. Give them a chance to survive.”
“Or to be eaten,” Mutti said. “I am sorry, Christa, they do not stand a chance, and we both know it. It does not matter.”
Christa’s eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t make a big fuss, because that would upset the other children.
Mutti relented. “All right. We carry them outside and let them go. Maybe they get away and find a way to survive. That is the best we can do for them.”
“Danke, Mutti.”
They carried their suitcases to the foyer, then went back upstairs to the attic. Fritz went with them, and each carried down two chickens and set them free in the backyard.
“Goodbye. Take care of yourselves,” Christa said.
Fritz and Mutti stood nearby, both with tears in their eyes.
Ilse Seidel, March 1945, Memmingen, Germany—
ILSE PULLED VATER’S bicycle up the cellar stairs and brushed off layers of dust. Why hadn’t anyone used it all this time? She checked it over. Everything seemed in working order, except the tires were low. She went back down to the cellar and grabbed her father’s air-pump, filling the limp tires with air. Leaving the bicycle and pump in the foyer, she went upstairs to her room and packed a few clothes and toiletries in a knapsack. Downstairs she pulled on her coat, affixed the pump to her knapsack, then strapped the affair over her back.
When she turned to go, Mutter, Oma, and Opa were standing near the foyer, watching her.
Mutter said, “Take care of yourself and watch out for soldiers who may mean you harm. If you cannot do it—cannot make the long ride—come back home. We will find another way to get a message to your Aunt Karolina. Curriers deliver messages all the time.”
“Do not worry, Mutter. I will be fine. I have ridden to Biberach before. Vater loaned me his bicycle and I rode there with my best friend.” Her voice caught unexpectedly. Her father and her best friend were both gone now. “I am strong. I have survived more than five years of war. I can do this.”
Oma and Opa walked over and hugged Ilse, one on either side of her, and kissed her on the cheeks. Opa handed her a cloth bag and whispered, “Snacks for your trip.”
Mutter seemed to grow rigid, her face stern. Had she seen him give her the bag with food? Mutter was always strict with her food portions, trying to stretch their rations as much as possible.
Ilse walked over to her and gave her a quick hug, careful to keep her protruding stomach away. Should she give the bag to Mutter? Would Opa be upset if she did? The baby kicked ever so slightly. No, she would keep the extra food. She and the baby needed it.
“How long will you be gone?” Mutter asked.
“I was thinking about that last night,” Ilse said. “Perhaps a week. I guess it depends on Aunt Karolina. If Uncle Markus and the boys are still away, fighting, she might need some help around the house. I assume that Hermann is a soldier, too. He is my age.”
Mutter nodded, probably thinking about Vater and Johann.
“You are lucky you have Oma, Opa, Ursula, and Robert to help you. Can you imagine trying to do everything yourself? And would you not be frightened?”
“Ja. You are right. Maybe time with your aunt will be good for both of you.”
Ilse turned away and grabbed hold of the bicycle before she changed her mind—or more likely Mutter changed her mind about letting her go.
Oma handed her a knit hat, which Ilse slipped on. “Thank you, Oma.”
“I made it for you last night with yarn from an old sweater. I hope it keeps you warm on that long ride, dear.”
“It is lovely. And I am sure it will.” She opened the front door and rolled the bicycle out and down the four concrete steps to the sidewalk.
“Goodbye, Ilse,” Oma said.
Ilse looked over her shoulder and waved at all three of them. While they watched, she mounted the bicycle and began pedaling toward the town square, then rode through the Ulmer Tor, the north gate leading out of Memmingen. She was finally on her way. The cool wind in her face felt fresh an
d invigorating. For the first time since the war began, she felt free.
Several military trucks passed by, most going south towards Memmingen, or more likely to the air base outside of town. A few traveled north. Some of the soldiers waved at her or whistled.
She stopped a couple of times on her way, once to rest and check her directions and another time to rest again and eat an apple and a chunk of bread, the snacks Opa had packed for her. She ate every last bite, thankful for the nourishment for herself and the baby, but also felt guilty for the food she had, in effect, taken from the mouths of her siblings.
At last, in late afternoon, she arrived in Biberach and had to weave her way through a line of military vehicles. There weren’t as many here as in Memmingen, as far as she could tell, but they were grouped together more.
Finding her aunt’s house turned out to be much harder and took much longer than expected. It had been a long time since she had been to visit and her parents always knew the way. She couldn’t remember precisely how to get to her street and, unfortunately, landmarks she’d expected to use were gone or unrecognizable, having been damaged or destroyed in the war.
Finally arriving, she walked her bicycle up the steps of the porch to the front door, leaned it against the wall, and rang the doorbell.
No answer.
The sun was beginning to set. Looking around the neighborhood, Ilse realized that the street seemed completely deserted. She felt a wave of panic rise up in her throat. Aunt Karolina didn’t know she was coming. The family hadn’t heard from her, not since the bombing that had killed Vater’s mother.
What if Aunt Karolina wasn’t here? Maybe she moved away. Or was taken away, or she could be dead. If no one was here, Ilse would be stranded in a strange town alone—at night.
She pushed the doorbell again. And again. Please be home. Please.
“Are you looking for someone?”
Ilse swung around to see who was talking. An elderly man with a cane stood on the sidewalk a few feet away. “Uh, ja, I am looking for my aunt. She lives here.”
“She is in a poor way,” he said. “I live over there, two houses down. Frau Wagner got word three days ago that her husband and oldest son were killed in action. Her younger son, Hermann, was home with her, on leave, at the time, but then he got recalled.”