That evening, as the family gathered around a small oak table, Irmigard’s father said a prayer—not for Germany or Hitler, but for peace. We sat in dim candlelight because the electricity was out. Inga cooked over the woodstove using the meager kindling for heat. We dined from chipped bowls and cracked plates that had been washed with rainwater. The meal consisted of two scrawny carrots, divided among the five of us, and a weak soup made with a ham bone. I felt guilty taking this small amount of food from their mouths, and I vowed that I wouldn’t stay long under their roof. As scant as the meal was, I felt fortunate I didn’t have to worry about being poisoned.
“The Nazis will come for me soon,” Frederick said during dinner. “They will put a rifle in my hand and expect me to shoot the enemy. Soon there will be nothing but old men like me and the Hitler Youth defending the streets. The Führer is only prolonging our agony.”
Inga put her hands to her face and shook her head. “My God, surely they wouldn’t ask you to fight. You—who can barely walk up a flight of stairs! They will kill you!”
“Mamma, don’t say such things,” Irmigard said.
Her father lifted his spoon and tapped it against his temple. “I’ve been thinking. I doubt the war will carry on for much longer. But if it does, I’m not going to kill another man. I’ll surrender and that will be that.”
“How did this happen?” her mother asked. “The Führer brought us prosperity, order and respect and now the world is falling apart. We can’t go on like this for much longer or . . .” Her voice trailed off and she looked down at the watery soup in front of her. Her words were strangled by her sobs.
The rest of us sat quietly pondering our fate as Frederick talked about the end of the war and of the “good days” to come. Inga wanted to be cheered by her husband’s words, but she would melt into melancholy when she looked at her sad children.
We didn’t stay up long after dinner because there was nothing to do and barely enough light to see in front of our faces. Two mattresses were stacked against the wall. When the dishes had been soaked in the rain bucket and dried, Irmigard’s mother pulled the bedding down from the wall and placed it in front of the stove. No wood was left to heat the apartment, but the French doors were closed and the temperature was tolerable. We gathered as a family on the tattered mattresses. Fortunately, we had plenty of blankets. Mother, father and daughter shared one mattress while Irmigard and I took the one farthest from the stove. Frederick gave us an extra blanket and wished us good night. Soon we were all huddled together for warmth as the November chill enveloped the room. Irmigard and I talked in whispers until we could go on no longer and we both fell asleep.
Several hours later, I was startled awake by bombs shattering another neighborhood in Berlin. I looked around, but I was the only one aware of the blasts. I listened for an air-raid siren, but heard none. The building trembled slightly and through the cracks in the French doors I saw flashes of light. I shook Irmigard awake.
She flinched and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s an air raid,” I said. “We need to get out of the building.”
She sighed and lowered her head back on the dingy mattress. My eyes had adjusted enough that I could see the outline of her face. “This happens most nights and nearly every day. We have nothing to worry about.”
“How can you be sure?” My stomach turned over when another bomb struck nearby.
“There are no citywide defenses now. If the raid was targeting us, we would have heard the little siren on our block. That’s all we have. Mr. Schiff, down the street, sounds the alarm. Go back to sleep.” She turned away and pulled the blankets over her head.
Irmigard’s nonchalance shocked me. I couldn’t believe she was so accustomed to the bombings that she could sleep through them. I tried to fall asleep, but the rumbles reminded me of my mother’s death and the shelling at the farmhouse, and I could think of nothing but the bodies lined up in the snow. When I would drift off, my eyes would snap open with the image of blood frozen on the icy ground.
I thought of the question Irmigard’s mother had asked at dinner: “How did this happen?” I knew the answer, but I didn’t have the courage to say it to her family. Not yet. With the world exploding around us, I felt every German would know the answer soon enough if they didn’t already.
* * *
I stayed with Irmigard and her family longer than I had intended. We celebrated Christmas and New Year’s together, although there was not much joy to go around in early 1945. We were thankful to be alive. When the snows fell, Irmigard discontinued her hunt for bricks. Any meager income for the family came from her father.
For Christmas, we clipped a small branch off an evergreen and decorated it with bits of glass and paper—the only ornaments we had. Frederick had finished some clock work and earned extra food and candles as payment. We lit them and stood around our tiny tree and sang carols. I found myself looking down at my wedding ring, glinting in the candlelight. A lump rose in my throat. I was beginning to accept Karl’s death. That thought was shocking, yet comforting at the same time. I wanted to give up my dream of seeing him alive.
New Year’s Day promised to be dreary and dull, with all of us enclosed in the room trying to warm ourselves by the tepid stove. However, Frederick revived our spirits when he pulled a bottle of champagne from behind the legless chair in the front room. The bottle was already chilled by the air. We all questioned how he had come by the champagne, but he wouldn’t tell us. He said it was a gift from God. We celebrated our good fortune with a toast in our chipped porcelain cups. Even Helga drank with us.
In mid-January, Helga caught a bad cold, which we first thought was influenza. We found wooden slats and a small mattress and dragged them up the stairs because her father felt it would be best for her to sleep apart from the family. We placed the mattress in front of the stove. A kind neighbor down the street gave us a few aspirin, which we administered to her. Fortunately, Helga’s fever broke after a few days and she recovered despite the frigid weather.
I, who had been fed so well during my days with Hitler, found myself growing cold and tired from hunger. In three months, I lost about ten pounds, maybe more, and developed the gaunt look in my face displayed by all of Irmigard’s family.
Irmigard and I asked everyone on the street if they had seen my father, Hermann Ritter. A few knew his name and pointed in the direction of our old house, but most shook their heads and continued on in their shell-shocked way. I ventured to the neighborhood where he had last lived. Even there my inquiries were met with vacant looks. Finding a working telephone was nearly impossible, but a friend of Irmigard’s knew where there was one. She led me to a printing business that had somehow escaped major damage from the bombings. I gave the gruff owner a few Reichsmark for a call, in the optimistic hope of finding my father. I dialed Aunt Reina and Uncle Willy in Berchtesgaden, but the line was disconnected. After the call, I realized how difficult it must be to maintain telephone service between northern and southern Germany as the infrastructure crumbled under the crushing weight of the conflict.
The monotonous days, long nights and the tedious burden of coping with the war dragged on through the winter. No one seemed to know what was going on, although there were rumors that the Reds had broken through the Eastern Front in mid-January and were advancing through Poland toward Berlin. All we heard was the occasional radio broadcast about how the German people should resist the “Red Horde,” and fight to the death in the streets. Death would be preferable, the Propaganda Minister said, to the rape and murderous torture perpetrated by the enemy. I wondered whether the Wolf’s Lair was still standing or lay in ruins, either by the Red Army advance or on Hitler’s orders. I suspected the latter.
In mid-March, we were all at the apartment one late afternoon. The days were growing longer and the barest hint of spring was in the air, enough so that we could open the French doors on the few warm days. We heard the tramping of feet up the stair
s and then a rough knock on the door. Frederick answered it, but before he did, he hid the gun behind a loose wall panel.
He opened the door to find several Wehrmacht soldiers in the hall. One of them thrust a rifle in his face and said, “The Red Army is on the way. Be prepared. If you are called, you will train with us in the streets. You and your family will help put up barricades and dig trenches if they are needed.” The soldier saluted and the group rushed down the hall, presumably on to the next family they could find.
Frederick turned to us. “I told you this would happen.” He smiled and then sighed. “There’s nothing to do but give in. We have no other choice. If we resist, we’ll be shot as traitors.”
We all looked at one another sadly and realized how dire circumstances had become in the city. Three days later, another group of soldiers knocked on the door. We watched from one of the broken windows as Irmigard’s father stood in the rain with his rifle and the soldiers barked orders at him and a bedraggled crew of men and boys. He looked up at us once and waved. The Wehrmacht officer struck his arm with the butt of his rifle. He never looked at us again.
The women were asked to haul water and rations for the men digging the trenches. We did so and even lifted shovels full of dirt. We all came back to the apartment exhausted. Helga, because she was young and pretty, was able to collect a few extra rations from the soldiers. We were grateful to have the additional food.
One night as we were all sleeping, a different sound crept into our ears. It was not the drone of Allied bombers high overhead. This time, unlike past nights, everyone woke up, the sounds were so unfamiliar. These were faster, smaller jets and they roared over the city. In the distance, to the east, shelling broke out. I recognized the sound from the farmhouse. The Red Army was on Berlin’s doorstep.
The Wehrmacht could not stop them. Soon they would be at our door.
CHAPTER 19
The bombings continued night and day. Many times we thought we’d have to evacuate the humble home Irmigard’s family had made. We were jolted awake in our beds or forced to take cover during the day. Protecting ourselves was not an easy task because most buildings around us were already destroyed. At night, we would flee down the stairs to a clearing decimated by bombs and hope the devastated area wasn’t in the line of fire.
According to spotty radio reports from the Reich, the attacks came from all the Allied forces, including the Red Army. Rumors spread that the Allies were racing toward Berlin in a rush to capture the city. Frederick participated in mock drills on the street as the Reds approached. These exercises, conducted by Wehrmacht and SS officers, became increasingly frequent and militaristic as conditions around the city worsened.
“Such nonsense,” he told us one evening at supper. “As if a bunch of amateur street fighters can hold off a well-trained army.”
We, the women, were forced to build barricades with our bare hands. The material was easy to come by: Burned timbers, broken bricks and stones, carts and destroyed car parts were plentiful. However, the work was backbreaking and lasted until our fingers bled and our arms quivered with exhaustion. The army constructed one barricade down the street from our building. It was piled high with building debris and scrap metal. Irmigard even contributed the last of her bricks because she could no longer sell them. Any notion the city could be reconstructed by the Reich faded under the reality of our harsh existence.
On Hitler’s birthday in April, the bombings ceased, creating an eerie calm in the skies. Our respite was short-lived, however, for the heavens opened up with a rain of rockets launched from the outskirts of Berlin. These weapons were more terrifying than bombs because there was little advance warning as the missile screamed toward you. The Red Army was relentless in its shelling. What little was left was blasted to pieces as we prayed for our safety and covered our ears against the thunderous explosions.
On the evening of the twenty-third, Inga called us to the front windows. She wore a housecoat and her hair was drawn back in a ponytail. Although it was near seven and growing dark, I cautioned her against standing in the open. The sky was inky blue in the east while streaks of pink painted the western clouds. Frederick was at the barricade below with several soldiers and an SS officer. The officer barked orders and the soldiers fired at an unseen assailant to the northeast. I sensed something was about to go terribly wrong.
Suddenly, several grenades landed in front of the barricade. They exploded in powerful blasts, throwing shattered rocks, metal and dirt high into the air. We watched as the shrapnel fell, the smoke cleared and our soldiers peered cautiously over the top of the barricade.
“Look,” Inga said. She pointed out the window toward the next street. Five Wehrmacht soldiers were running toward the barricade. As they neared the corner, they were cut down by machine-gun fire. They fell in the street like limp dolls, their weapons flying into the air. Several soldiers in uniforms I didn’t recognize raced around the corner toward the barricade. The men were ragged looking and dressed in gray, with rifles slung in front of them. I assumed they were Reds.
“My God, he’ll be killed,” Inga screamed. “Freddy, Freddy, look out!”
Bullets spattered above our heads, filling the air with dust. We dropped to the floor. “Are you all right?” I asked Inga.
She nodded and shook the dust from her head. “What’s going on? Can you see anything?”
I told the others to remain on the floor while I peered over the top of the casement. Another round of gunfire broke out. The Reds had made it to the front of the barricade and were crawling up it. One was about to throw a grenade when a Wehrmacht soldier scampered up the pile of rubble and started firing. He was cut down, but not before he had killed his opponent. The German fell atop the barricade while the enemy fled from their dead comrade. I ducked, closed my eyes and listened for the explosion. The blast shook our building and Irmigard and her sister began to cry.
“Be quiet,” I said. “We don’t want the Reds to know we are here.”
Again, I peered out the window. The advancing soldiers had retreated for a moment. Only the bottom half of the dead Russian’s body remained on the street. The SS officer shouted orders at Irmigard’s father. The officer wanted him to top the barricade as the soldier had done. Frederick shook his head, threw down his rifle and ran toward the apartment building.
The SS officer ordered him to stop, but Frederick ran on. The officer aimed his pistol and fired twice.
The bullets struck Frederick in the back. He stumbled down the street and then collapsed on the sidewalk. His head smashed against the curb. I knew he was dead.
“What’s going on?” Inga asked. She reared up as if to look below.
I pulled her back. “It’s too dangerous here,” I said. “We have to get out of the building.”
“Why?” Irmigard asked.
“The Reds are on our doorstep. We only have a few minutes.” I crawled toward the other room, encouraging the others to follow.
Another explosion shook the building. Then gunfire rang out, followed by hideous moans of pain.
Irmigard, her mother and sister collapsed on the floor. Inga wept, for she knew her husband was dead. The soldiers below cheered and shouted in Russian. Their cries echoed through the broken windows.
When we got to the room, I closed the French doors and cradled Inga in my arms. She pushed me away.
“I want them dead,” she said in an angry whisper. “I want them all dead. The Germans, the Reds, the Americans . . .” She sank against my shoulder and cried out, “My husband is gone.”
I had no time to console her. “Don’t look down the street,” I said. “Grab your coats and head for the stairs.”
For a moment, everyone realized the seriousness of our situation and that mourning would have to wait. We gathered our coats and were about to go down the dark hallway when we heard voices below. The Reds were climbing the stairs.
I pushed them back into the room and quietly closed the door. “Get under the blankets a
nd don’t make a sound,” I ordered. They scurried to the bed as I stood near the door.
The soldiers made no attempt to knock. One kicked the door open and shined his torch into the room. I stared back through the blinding glare. The disheveled appearance of the beds was not enough to fool the soldiers. Five of them burst into the room. They were hardened men, two of mixed descent with Asian eyes. The torches gave them a ghostly look, adding to the horror I already felt. One of them poked the bed with his rifle and Helga screamed. He ripped off the blankets, exposing the women.
I could not understand what they were saying, but they made it clear what they wanted by their gestures. Four of them spread out through the apartment while one stood guard with us, his rifle aimed and ready. There was not much to see or find in the three rooms, so soon they were back.
The soldier holding the rifle on us lit a cigarette and pointed to the front room beyond the French doors. He seemed to be in command of the others. He talked to the men and they laughed. One of them took a swig from a flask he carried in his pocket. The other four men walked to the front of the apartment and extinguished their torches. They were silhouetted against the windows that allowed a dim light to seep in. Rockets would sometimes hit many blocks away and their flashes exploded through the room like lightning. Slowly, the soldiers took off their breeches, leaving only their shirts on. Their hands moved below their waists, massaging themselves, as they waited for us.
The men wanted Helga first. They made that clear with their calls. Inga grabbed her daughter and wouldn’t let go. She screamed for mercy as the man with the rifle attacked her. The commander struck Inga in the back with his rifle and sent her plummeting to the bed. Irmigard and I attempted to hold him off, but it was no use. He swung his rifle in a deadly arc that would have killed us had we not jumped out of the way.
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