“Do you have enough food for Oskar and yourself?”
Gretchen shook her head. “My larder is empty.”
Dora gave her two potatoes.
“I’ll contact the Gauleiter’s office and tell them we need our master baker. Perhaps they’ll listen,” said Dora.
The following day Hans was back in his apartment, looking grim. “I went to the allotment, but I couldn’t get into the cabin. The lock has been changed.”
“I’m sorry,” said Gretchen.
“That’s not the worst of it,” said Hans. “The neighbors tell me that Jungblutt has taken it for his personal use.”
Winter started late that year – it was November before Gretchen had to take her overcoat from the wardrobe – but the temperature fell quickly after that.
Frau Niedermeyer continued her rounds on her bicycle, wearing heavy mittens. With little incoming mail, she spent most of her time spreading news and rumors. People welcomed her information about the progress of the war; the news on the radio was increasingly unreliable.
Gretchen was shocked by how the war had aged the postwoman, turning her hair grey. Frau Niedermeyer had always taken pride in her personal appearance. Now thin as a blade, in her shabby overcoat and dirty shoes, she was not the woman she used to be.
On November 10, she brought news that the American General Patton had crossed the Moselle and was moving his armored forces toward the city of Metz.
On November 15, she provided the sobering news that the battleship Tirpitz, the pride of the Kriegsmarine, had been attacked and sunk with all hands in a Norwegian fjord.
The Soviets were still moving west, while the Westwall was holding out against the Anglo-American invasion force.
On November 20, Adolf Hitler arrived from the north in an unmarked car. He took up residence in his bunker. Anton, who had been appointed leader of his reduced troop, led them around the streets in celebration. The Führer would solve all the city’s problems.
On Sunday, November 26, the rain started, a heavy, unrelenting downpour that turned the building rubble to grey mush.
Looking through the window, Gretchen felt she was witnessing the death of the city. Like Oskar’s, it was slow and obscene. It would be kinder if they were given a quick, sudden death. A massive bombing raid could do it. She smiled grimly. Where was the RAF when you needed them?
21
By the end of November Herr Korn, the master baker, had been discharged from the Volkssturm. He sent word to Gretchen and she turned up for work.
One look in the storeroom told her that their plain flour reserves were severely depleted.
“The delivery was down again this week,” he said. “The French reserves are no longer available to us.”
They produced enough dough for half of their usual output, using a rye-rich mixture and a new ingredient that Gretchen was unfamiliar with. When she asked Herr Korn what it was, he handed her a letter to read.
It was from the Gauleiter’s office, ordering the addition to the dough of a three per cent ‘filler’.
“What is this filler?” she said.
“Sawdust,” Korn replied, with desperation in his eyes.
“How can we add sawdust? It’s indigestible.”
“Three per cent won’t do any harm,” he said. “But I wouldn’t like to add any more.”
The bread ration had been cut in proportion to the reduced flour supplies; the scramble of the people for their half rations was even more frantic than usual.
“Until tomorrow,” said Gretchen as she left.
“See you then,” said the baker.
At half-production, Gretchen knew she was not needed; Herr Korn could have done the work on his own. Keeping her on was a kindness.
When she got home, she cut a piece from her half-loaf and tasted it. It was disgusting. The taste of the sawdust was masked by the extra rye in the mixture. She doubted that many people would notice any difference. But could she give it to Oskar? It would play havoc with his digestion. She had little choice. He had to eat something.
The following day, there was a general power failure that affected half the city. There was no electricity in the bakery. The ovens were heated by gas, but the controls couldn’t operate without electricity. Herr Korn placed a notice in the window. There was uproar in the line outside the shop.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” he said, splaying his palms. “There’s nothing I can do without power.”
Gretchen went home early, empty-handed.
By midday it was still raining, not so heavily now, but the deluge had turned into icy sheets. Frau Niedermeyer ducked into Kaiser Wilhelm block 2 and made her way upstairs. “I’m sorry Frau Schuster.” She handed a damp letter to Gretchen and hurried away.
The envelope was addressed to Oskar Schuster, sergeant. She opened it with trembling hands. It couldn’t be anything but bad news.
The water had seeped through the envelope to the letter, but it was still legible. An official notice from OKW Headquarters, Bendlerblock, it ordered Sergeant Oskar Schuster to report to the Volkssturm registration office on Johannisstrasse near Friedrichstrasse Station, at 0900 hr. Wednesday, December 6.
Gretchen removed Oskar’s army discharge letter from her tin box and set out immediately through the icy rain. The trams weren’t running – the tracks were no longer serviceable – so she took the U-Bahn to Friedrichstrasse and located the busy Wehrmacht office. The room was full of old men and teenage boys in rows of seats. A sergeant behind a desk was recording the details of an elderly recruit. All eyes turned to Gretchen as she waved the letter and demanded in a loud voice to speak to someone in charge.
“Take a seat, madam,” said a man in a strange uniform, pointing to an empty seat. “You will be attended to in due course.”
Gretchen sat. As the soldier at the desk worked his way through the recruits, and each man or boy was called to the desk, those waiting shuffled along. By the time Gretchen reached the first seat, two hours had passed. She was worried about leaving Oskar alone for so long, but she gritted her teeth. She wouldn’t leave until she’d sorted this out.
She was called to the desk.
“Name?” said the soldier, without looking up.
Gretchen handed over Oskar’s. “I’m here for my husband. You cannot enlist him in your Volkssturm.”
The soldier looked up, frowning at her. “Is he dead?”
“No, but he’s incapacitated.”
“Incapacitated in what way?”
“His mind is gone.”
He gave her a grim smile. “Many have used that as an excuse to avoid conscription. He has served before?”
“Yes, he was a private soldier in the Reichswehr and a sergeant in the Wehrmacht, but he has lost his mind.”
“Do you have his discharge papers?”
Gretchen slapped the discharge letter on the desk. The soldier read it quickly and passed it to a sergeant sitting at a desk behind him.
“Hmm,” said the sergeant. “This is dated 1943. A lot has changed since then. If your husband is able-bodied and can hold a rifle, he must report to this office.”
Gretchen’s felt her face flush. “He wouldn’t know what to do with a rifle. His mind is gone, I tell you. He might shoot anyone. He might shoot his commanding officer. He requires constant care.”
The sergeant passed the discharge notice back to the soldier and the soldier handed it back to Gretchen.
She glared at the sergeant. “I’m not going to allow you to take him from me.”
The sergeant’s expression hardened. “That is not your decision to make. Please ensure that your husband presents himself here by the date specified.”
“Next!” said the soldier.
Gretchen got to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster. All eyes followed her as she left the recruiting office.
Part III
22
Early the following Tuesday, December 12, a Kübelwagen drew up in an icy puddle at the entrance to the a
partment block and two uniformed officers jumped out. The rain had turned to sleet. Gretchen was preparing to leave for the bakery when there was a loud banging on her door. She opened it, and the two officers, dripping wet, barged past her, lifted Oskar from his chair and manhandled him down the stairs.
A shocked and disturbed Gretchen shouted after them, “You can’t take my husband. Look at him, he’s not well. Where are you taking him?”
She got no answer. They bundled him down the stairs, put him in the back of the Kübelwagen, and drove away through the rain.
Frau Tannhäuser had witnessed the whole thing. “SS-Feldjägerkorps,” she said, shaking her head.
Feldjägerkorps – the dreaded military police of the SS. People called them ‘head-hunters’ for the dogged way they hunted down Wehrmacht deserters, shooting them out of hand in the street.
She was 15 minutes late arriving at the bakery.
“I’m sorry, Herr Korn,” she said, shaking the rainwater from her coat. She told him what had happened.
“I’m sure they’ll realize their mistake and return Oskar to you,” he said. “Sometimes they recognize their mistakes. They let me go.”
Gretchen thanked Herr Korn for his reassuring words. It was the first time he’d called Oskar by his first name.
The dough mixture included five per cent sawdust. Gretchen objected. “Three per cent filler tasted terrible,” she said.
Herr Korn bent his head in shame. “I know, but what can I do? We need to add bulk to the mixture to meet the demand.”
She got home by midday to an empty apartment. She was hungry, but had lost her appetite, somehow. She knocked on Hans’s door.
He invited her in. “What’s the matter? Is it Oskar? Is he ill?”
She shook her head. “He’s been taken away by the Feldjägerkorps. They want to conscript him into the Volkssturm.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said.
“I know. I tried to tell them, but they wouldn’t listen.” She dabbed at her eyes to stop the tears.
He reached out and closed the door. Then he pulled her into an embrace. “Don’t worry, Gretchen, I’m sure they’ll discover their mistake and bring him back.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes, I’m certain. Sit down, I’ll make you some tea.”
She spent the afternoon with Hans. He lit a fire and they had a meal together. He told her how he lost his leg at the Siege of Leningrad. A Russian mortar round demolished the building where he was sheltering. He was trapped under falling masonry. His troop pulled him out and got him to a field hospital in time to save his life, but his leg was crushed beyond repair.
As the evening drew in, she confessed that she didn’t want to leave. “I can’t face the empty apartment.” She faced him, put her hands on his chest.
Hans took her hand in both of his. “You could spend the night here if you like.”
Circumstances overcame her natural reserve, and she gave in to insidious temptation. It was the one and only time she had ever broken her marriage vows. She returned to her own apartment in the dead of night, riddled with guilt, her mind full of memories of new and delicious experiences that she would cherish for the rest of her life.
Two days later, Gretchen’s young friend, Martha, came calling, looking for bread.
Gretchen asked if she’d received any news from her fiancé.
“Nothing since that last letter,” said Martha. “How’s Oskar?”
Gretchen told her what had happened. “I’m very much afraid. If they conscript him, he could get shot for disobeying orders. If they decide he’s unfit to serve, they might shoot him. There’s no mercy nowadays for anyone judged to be a burden on the Reich.”
“Your husband has served the Fatherland well. Didn’t you say he has an Iron Cross?”
Gretchen nodded. “Yes, from the last war.”
Martha put a comforting arm around Gretchen’s shoulders. “Oskar’s a hero. How can they mistreat a national hero? Wait and see, they’ll send him home again soon.”
Mid-afternoon on the following Monday, December 18, Martha Engels’s prediction came true. The Kübelwagen drew up outside Kaiser Wilhelm apartment block 2. Oskar was bundled out and dumped at the side of the road. The neighbors quickly alerted Gretchen and she took him upstairs to their apartment.
He seemed unharmed. She asked him what happened.
Oskar looked at her blankly.
“You’ve been gone a week. Don’t you remember anything?”
He bared his teeth and snarled at her, a flash of anger in his eyes. “Leave me be.”
Gretchen was taken aback. “Oh, Oskar, did they hurt you? Show me where it hurts.”
The light of anger in his eyes faded as quickly as it had flared. “I’m hungry.”
She hugged him. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
She made him a small meal. He devoured it. When he’d finished, they fed the pigeon.
23
Operation ‘Watch on the Rhine’ began on December 16 with the deployment of a large detachment of Panzer tanks and infantry through the Ardennes. The counteroffensive took the Allies by surprise, and the German army made significant progress, creating a breech in the Allied lines and splitting parts of the Western Allied force in two.
For the first five days, radio accounts of the operation were triumphant and optimistic. Anton was ecstatic. He could see how a decisive surgical strike through the western front could enable the Wehrmacht to split the Allies’ forces in two. The peace settlement that would inevitably follow would allow a diplomatic entente in the west and halt the advance of the Red Army in the east. The war could still be won.
By the second week, the radio reports were less effusive; it seemed the offensive was running out of steam. In the days that followed, the German advances dwindled. Even given the limited information available on the radio, the truth of what was happening was obvious. Anton, who prided himself on his understanding of matters military, had to admit that the offensive was heading toward a spectacular failure.
If only the army had the good sense to recruit him, he told his troop, he might still be able to turn the battle in favor of the Reich; the battle could still be won, and with it the war. None but the youngest members of his troop believed him.
Christmas 1944 was looking grim for Frau Tannhäuser and her family. They had no goose to grace their table, and the Christkind would have no gift for young Anton. On Christmas Eve, a letter was hand-delivered to the Tannhäuser household, addressed to the boy. He tore it open and read the contents.
“This is the best Christmas present, ever,” he said, handing the letter to his mother.
She shook her head in disbelief as she read the letter. “There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake, Mutter.” He pointed to the top of the letter. “It’s addressed to me by name. I am to be conscripted into the Volkssturm.”
“But you’re too young,” she wailed.
Anton grabbed the letter. He straightened his back. “Listen to what our leader, Artur Axmann, says: ‘This is your clarion call, your call to action! The opportunity you have yearned for has arrived. Soon, you will join your fellow troop members in defense of the Fatherland. The time has come to take up arms and face the enemies of our beloved Führer. I know you will fight bravely, to the last bullet, to the last man, to your last breath, if that’s what it takes for glorious victory. Heil Hitler!’” Anton’s face was aglow with happiness. “At last, I will join Ludwig and Father at the battlefront. It will be an honor to take up arms for the Führer!”
Frau Tannhäuser was distracted with anxiety. Was she to lose both her husband and her only son to this awful war?
On Christmas day, Dora made her way through a frosty city to Gretchen’s apartment. Gretchen had no bread to give her, but she knew someone who had some vegetables to trade.
“He can help. He’s a friend. He has no love for the Nazis. He lost a leg at the Eastern Front.”
; The two women went down to the ground floor where Gretchen introduced Dora to Hans. He invited them inside and offered them tea. Dora bought a couple of potatoes and an onion from Hans at black market prices. Then they sat around Hans’s table making small talk for a while, before Gretchen edged the conversation around to the Nazis.
“Hans has no love for the Führer. He lost a leg fighting a hopeless war in the East.”
“Hopeless and senseless,” said Hans. “I hate the Nazis and everything they’ve done to our country.”
Dora nodded her agreement.
“When the Allies get here, they will all be destroyed,” Gretchen said, with feeling.
“The sooner the better,” said Hans.
“You don’t think the Führer has done some good things for the country?”
Hans snorted. “Like what?”
“He lifted us out of the depression, stabilized the currency, created employment for millions…”
“By putting them in the army?”
“And he rid the country of our worst enemies, the communists…”
“How are the communists our enemies, or the homosexuals, the Roma, the Sinti, the disabled, and all those political opponents?”
“I agree,” said Dora.
“And what terrible sin did the Jews commit against us?”
“Go ahead, tell him your story,” said Gretchen.
Dora hesitated.
Gretchen put a hand on her shoulder. “Go on, tell him.”
“I have a guest living with me…” said Dora, quietly.
“A U-boat?”
She nodded.
Gretchen hadn’t heard the term before. She threw a questioning look at Dora.
“That’s the way we refer to people in hiding from the SS,” said Hans. To Dora, he said, “How many?”
“Just one. She’s fourteen.”
“Her parents are gone?”
“Both parents and two sisters. It’s a miracle that she’s still free.”
The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII Page 55
