The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  Martha’s face flushed red. “Nothing you say will make me change my mind. I will be here waiting for Paul when he returns.”

  Gretchen was astonished at her friend’s resolve. She was being stubborn and foolhardy. The rumors about Ivan were almost certainly true. By staying in the city, Martha would be putting herself in mortal danger.

  Martha said, “Why don’t you go, Gretchen?”

  “Because of Oskar,” said Gretchen.

  “What about Oskar?” Martha looked at him. He was in his chair, staring out the window, where a pigeon was strutting about on the sill.

  “I can’t leave him. I won’t abandon him.” Gretchen knew she sounded steadfast, but her inner feelings were conflicted. She was desperate to get out of Berlin. Not that she thought Dresden would be much better. The postwoman’s horror stories chilled her to the bone.

  “You mustn’t let your feelings for Oskar cloud your judgment,” said Martha. “His life is effectively over. You must take this opportunity yourself.”

  Gretchen shook her head.

  Martha waved a finger like a teacher admonishing a pupil. “Oskar’s not Oskar anymore. And he was never the ideal husband. You said so yourself. You owe him nothing.”

  Martha’s words echoed Gretchen’s own thoughts… thoughts that she had never allowed to form, although they had bubbled under the surface of her mind for a long, long time. Oskar was nothing but a husk, barely a shadow of the Oskar Schuster she had married.

  Would he even notice if I wasn’t here?

  Inge was listening behind the bedroom door. Once more, people were organizing her life without talking to her. Why did they think she needed a chaperone?

  I’m old enough to look after myself!

  Who was this Martha anyhow? How old was she? If they had to spend time together would they get on?

  She opened the bedroom door a crack and caught sight of Martha as she left the apartment. Dressed in a navy-blue shin-length overcoat, she looked younger than Gretchen, younger than Dora, even.

  “Who was that?” she asked Gretchen.

  “That was Martha. I’ve known her all her life. I went to school with her mother.”

  If Martha changed her mind, and decided to accompany her, thought Inge, maybe they would get on.

  32

  February 10, 1945

  Anton stood sentry duty at a roadblock on a bridge over the river Havel. His companion was an old man named Professor Hepple. Their job was to check the papers of everyone leaving the city, their instructions to stop and detain any able-bodied men or boys who could be put to the defense of the city.

  A member of the SS military police came visiting at 4:00 p.m. each day to gather up any that they had managed to recruit. During the second week on post, Anton and Hepple detained an old man called Braun. His claim was that he was a dentist and had been released from the Volkssturm so that he could continue to supply dental services to the troops and the citizens of Berlin. His story made no sense. If he had been released to supply dental services, why was he leaving the city?

  The SS-Feldjägerkorps man interrogated the detainee and quickly identified him as a Volkssturm deserter.

  Anton blamed himself for the subsequent tirade of abuse that Braun had to suffer. But when the SS-man took his pistol from its holster, placed the barrel on the deserter’s forehead and pulled the trigger, Anton’s legs collapsed from under him. He slumped against the Kübelwagen.

  The SS-man saw the look of shock on Anton’s face. “That man was a worm, a traitor to the Führer and the Reich,” he said.

  Anton couldn’t find words to respond.

  “Do you understand?” The SS-man stood squarely in front of the boy.

  Anton replied, “Yes,” in a weak voice.

  “On your feet, soldier.”

  Anton stood on shaky legs.

  The SS-man put his hands on Anton’s shoulders. “Look at me.”

  Anton looked up. The SS-man stared into his eyes. “Buck up your ideas, soldier. If everyone deserted, who would defend the city? Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Address me as Untersturmführer. Tell me you understand me.”

  “I understand you, Herr Untersturmführer,” said Anton.

  “What was Herr Braun?”

  “He was a dentist.”

  “I will ask you again. What was he?”

  “He was a worm and a traitor to the Führer, Herr Untersturmführer.”

  “That is correct, and don’t forget it.”

  As soon as the SS-Untersturmführer had driven off, Anton and Hepple moved Braun’s body, placing it 100 meters away in some shrubbery. Then Anton found a quiet corner behind the sentry box and threw up.

  Anton and Hepple discussed what they had witnessed. Anton asked whether Hepple considered the dentist’s fate justified.

  The old man said, “He was a deserter. He must have known the penalty for desertion.”

  “Yes, but do you think he deserved to be shot?”

  “What are you asking me?” said Hepple. “Don’t you believe in military discipline?”

  Anton changed the subject after that.

  Hepple was a retired university professor. He had served in the last war and had volunteered to serve in the Volkssturm. Anton was surprised to find a man of such obvious intellectual powers so wedded to the Nazi ideology that he could stomach what they’d witnessed. The old man seemed devoted to the Führer, prepared to do anything, to make any sacrifice, for the Third Reich.

  Hepple’s experiences of the Great Depression explained much about his attitude. He had lost a fortune on the stock exchanges that turned him into a penniless, homeless nomad. But when Anton asked him if he had a family, he discovered a man that knew how to hedge his bets. Hepple’s daughter, a widow, had been married to a Luftwaffe pilot. She had no children. Hepple had sent her to stay with relatives in Switzerland.

  33

  February 12, 1945

  Hans paid a visit to Franz, the black marketeer, in Christstrasse. Reaching his apartment was a struggle. Hans thanked his stars that the black marketeer was there when he arrived; he dreaded the prospect of climbing those six flights of stairs a second time.

  When he said he was looking for papers, Franz scanned the area and the staircase before hustling Hans inside.

  Hans handed over Inge’s identity card. “This young lady needs new papers.”

  Franz ran his eyes over the document. “What makes you think I can help?”

  “I’m told you can work miracles.”

  “You do realize what you’re asking me to do? This girl is Jewish. Falsifying papers for someone like this carries an instant death sentence. They’d hang me up by my thumbs if I got caught.”

  “You’ll be well paid,” said Hans.

  Franz ran a hand over his bald head. “How do I know you’re not working with the Gestapo?”

  “Do I look like a Gestapo man?” said Hans, knocking his knuckles on his false leg.

  Franz handed the identity card back. “I can’t do this. I’m no forger.”

  Hans refused to take it. “But I’m betting you know someone who can.”

  “I might. If I could get this done – and I’m not saying I can – how soon would you want it?”

  “By the end of the month.”

  “That’s very tight.”

  “As soon as possible, so. We want to get her out of the city before it’s too late.”

  “It’s probably already too late, my friend.”

  “Will you try? And can you get it done by the end of the month?”

  “It’ll cost you.”

  “How much?”

  Franz gave a thin smile. “You have an allotment…” He tapped his teeth with the edge of Inge’s card.

  He knows exactly who I am! thought Hans.

  “I used to have. The Gauleiter’s agent took it.”

  “Jungblutt’s dead. You can claim it back.”

  “When did he die?”

 
“A couple of days ago. You have your rental documents still?”

  “I have.”

  “Just take possession. Then sign it over to me.”

  “All right, you have a deal.”

  “What name do you want on the card?”

  “Inge Pitt.”

  “Leave it with me,” said Franz.

  “How will I know when it’s ready?”

  “I know where you live,” said Franz with a smile.

  “He’s a creepy old man.” Inge crossed her arms and pouted.

  “What did he do?” said Gretchen.

  What could Oskar have done? She thought. I’ve only been out for two hours.

  “He looks at me all the time. His eyes follow me everywhere I go.”

  “Is that so bad? He hasn’t tried to do anything, has he?”

  “No, he just sits there. Never takes his eyes off me. It’s creepy.” She tucked her legs under her on the chair.

  “Has he said anything to you?”

  “Not a word. I spoke to him, but he said nothing back.”

  “That’s Oskar.” Gretchen laughed. “He doesn’t say much. He won’t harm you, Inge. Just ignore him. Read your book.”

  At Hans’s request, Gretchen walked to the hospital and asked to see Max Jungblutt.

  “Are you a relative of his?” said the nurse.

  “We’re cousins on my mother’s side,” said Gretchen.

  “I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your cousin is not with us anymore.”

  “You mean he’s been moved to another hospital?”

  The nurse shook her head, gravely. “No, I mean he died from his injuries about a week ago.”

  “Oh dear,” said Gretchen, solemnly, “my mother will be most upset.”

  Gretchen reported back to Hans and he set out for the allotment with a light heart. The plot was useless as an allotment, and the cabin was barely standing, but Hans didn’t care. This was home. This was where he was happiest, where he’d spent most of his time since his discharge from the army in 1942.

  First, he broke the lock on the door. The front wall shook when he opened it, but the cabin remained more or less upright. He set about getting it back into shape. By the end of the day, he had the four corner stanchions and the horizontal spars in place, making a sturdy rectangular frame. All he had to do now was to reattach the vertical slats that would make the four walls whole.

  Before leaving for the night, he hauled Max Jungblutt’s walnut cabinet onto its feet and checked its contents. It was full of books, works by Nazi followers mostly, including Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf. He found a couple of dogeared novels by Franz Kafka and took them with him to give to Gretchen for her 14-year-old guest.

  34

  On February 13, Dora called to Gretchen’s apartment with the news that she hadn’t been able to find anywhere for Inge to live. She would have to stay with Gretchen for another while.

  Gretchen became anxious at the news. Inge was furious. She stamped her foot. “I hate it here.”

  “I’m sorry, Inge,” said Dora. “It won’t be for very much longer.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Gretchen took Dora to Hans’s apartment on the ground floor.

  He told them what he’d done. “Inge’s new identity card has been ordered and will be delivered by the end of February.”

  “How much did that cost?” said Dora.

  “Nothing. I’ve agreed to surrender the rights to my allotment.”

  Gretchen was shocked. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “It’s not important.”

  “You’re planning to travel with us?” said Dora.

  “I have an agreement with a drayman to take you and your guest south to Dresden. The dray couldn’t take my weight.”

  Gretchen pressed a hand on his arm. “You must insist that the forger takes money. Your allotment is too important to you.”

  He patted her hand. “Leave it, Gretchen. It’s not important. Really.”

  “You have a date?” said Dora.

  “Sunday March eleventh.”

  “That’s weeks away!” said Dora.

  “I’m sorry,” said Hans. “It’s the earliest the drayman can leave his depot.”

  Dora turned to Gretchen. “I can’t leave the city. I have important work to do. But we can’t let Inge go with a strange man, unaccompanied.”

  “What are you suggesting?” said Gretchen.

  “I thought you could go.”

  “Me?”

  “Who else?” said Dora.

  “I can’t leave Oskar. He needs someone to mind him, someone to feed him and make sure he eats.”

  “Maybe you could ask one of your neighbors to look after him.”

  Gretchen shook her head. “I wouldn’t trust any of them.”

  “You can leave him with me,” said Hans.

  “Are you sure you can’t go, Dora?” Gretchen looked pained.

  “I’m certain.”

  “That’s settled, then, Gretchen will travel with Inge,” Hans said. “Oskar will live with me.”

  What just happened? thought Gretchen. Have I agreed to leave my husband in the care of an old soldier with only one leg?

  They set about planning the escape in detail. Pitt would arrive at the apartment on his dray before first light. Gretchen and Inge would have to be ready, carrying as little as possible.

  “Inge will have a small suitcase,” said Dora. “Just a change of clothes.”

  Hans pulled out a map of the city and they traced the route south. “Once you cross the River Havel it should be plain sailing.”

  As they were leaving, Hans handed Gretchen two books. “I salvaged these from the cabin for your young U-Boat,” he said.

  The following morning, February 14, returning from the fire hydrant with a bucket of water, Gretchen found the postwoman surrounded by a small crowd. Breathlessly, she announced news about a huge bombing raid in Dresden. The Allied bombers had dropped thousands of tons of incendiaries that caused a firestorm in the city, ten times worse than the one in Berlin. Dresden was in ruins. Tens of thousands had died, many of them killed by noxious gases in underground shelters and basements.

  Part V

  35

  February 14, 1945

  Dora returned that morning for a crisis meeting with Gretchen and Hans. Gretchen insisted that they meet in her apartment so that Inge could listen in. Dora agreed, and Hans made the painful journey up the stairs to the second floor.

  Dora opened the meeting with a blunt statement: “Dresden is no longer a viable destination. I’m open to suggestions.”

  Hans spread his map out on the table.

  “Why is Dresden not a viable destination?” said Inge. “That’s where my friends live.”

  “The city has been completely destroyed,” said Hans. “Your friends are probably dead.”

  “You can’t know that,” said Inge, her moist eyes flashing.

  Gretchen said, “Keep your voice down, Inge. The walls are thin.”

  “How can you be sure that my friends are dead?” the girl hissed.

  “We can’t be sure,” said Dora. “But even if they are alive, they are probably without a roof over their heads.”

  “That’s not certain, either. They could be safe and well and untouched by the bombs.”

  “We can’t send you to a bombed-out city, and that’s final,” said Dora. “Where else could you go?”

  Inge crossed her skinny arms across her chest. “I don’t know. There is nowhere else.”

  “We’ll have to call off the whole thing,” said Hans. “I’ll speak to the drayman.”

  Gretchen said, “That’s the last thing we should do. We have to get Inge out of Berlin while we can.”

  “Agreed,” said Dora, grimly.

  “Why?” said Inge. “Why can’t I stay where I am until the war ends?”

  “Trust us,” said Gretchen. “You don’t want to be here when the Russians ar
rive.”

  “You’re keeping something from me,” said Inge. “Tell me why I should be afraid of the Russians.”

  No one replied.

  Gretchen imagined that the young girl had been isolated for so long she hadn’t heard anything about the unspeakable behavior of the Red Army. She was sure it had never been mentioned on the radio, and Dora must have shielded her from the truth. Gretchen baulked at the prospect of telling her any of those stories.

  “Wherever we send her, it has to be to the south,” said Hans.

  The three adults pored over the map, each making suggestions about potential destinations. Some were too close to the capital, some too far. Others were too small to hide in unnoticed. Inge stood back with a sullen look on her face, taking no part in the discussion. After a lively debate, they settled on Luckenwalde, a small town 60 kilometers to the southwest of Berlin.

  Hans traced the journey with his finger. ““We’ll probably get there in a day. Our first target will be Potsdam. It’s a straight run south from there.”

  “I never heard of Luckenwalde,” said Inge. “What am I supposed to do when we get there?”

  “Live your life,” said Gretchen.

  “You’ll be using a new name,” said Hans.

  “Why? What’s wrong with my name?” she replied.

  “You’ll be traveling with the drayman, Karl Pitt, as his daughter. Your name will be Inge Pitt. Remember it.”

  “Well I think it’s a horrible name,” said Inge.

  Hans made the painful trip to Siemensstrasse again to tell the drayman about the change of plan.

  Pitt was content that the journey would be significantly shorter. “Dresden was probably an unrealistic target,” he said. “I hope you won’t ask for a refund.”