The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  He turned, climbed aboard the Kübelwagen and headed south at full speed, with Inge and Martha holding on for dear life in the back.

  49

  Inge sat with her suitcase between her knees, clinging to Martha’s arm. They rocketed headlong through empty streets, the crazy motion of the Kübelwagen throwing them from side to side.

  “Hold on tight back there!” Hans shouted.

  Inge thought he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “Slow down. You’re going to get us all killed!” Martha replied at the top of her voice.

  The Kübelwagen braked violently, then resumed its journey at a slower rate.

  Inge looked around. The signposts told her the Olympic Stadium and Potsdam were both straight ahead, but a fire tender tackling a huge blaze blocked their passage. Hans turned right, then left again down a narrow street strewn with fallen masonry and rubble populated by foraging citizens. He slowed right down to weave his way around the obstacles. The sun was high in the sky but shrouded by a layer of smoke that covered the entire city. Inge shivered from the cold and Martha wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

  Inge looked into Martha’s face for reassurance and caught a glimpse of something coming toward them from behind.

  Hans saw it too in his rear-view mirror. “Hold on tight!” he shouted.

  The Kübelwagen accelerated again, lurching forward.

  Inge looked back and saw a grey-green motorcycle bearing down on them. She watched in horror as the motorbike drew closer and closer. Then the driver fired at them with a pistol. Martha screamed and ducked her head. Inge did the same.

  The motorbike drew level with them. The driver signaled with his gun that Hans should pull over. Hans accelerated again.

  Again, the motorbike drew level. “Pull over!” shouted the driver, pointing his gun at Hans.

  Hans threw the Kübelwagen to the left. The motorbike wobbled, then fell back and followed them for a few hundred meters. More bullets whistled past. Inge and Martha kept their heads down.

  As they pulled onto a wider road, the motorbike rider drew alongside again, and again he pointed his gun at Hans. This time he fired – twice. Hans’s reaction was to wrench the steering wheel to the left again. Kübelwagen and motorbike came together with a screeching of tearing metal on metal. The rider was catapulted into the air. Inge screamed again and Martha screamed with her. The Kübelwagen went up on two wheels before landing back on all fours with a thump. Inge looked for the motorbike, but it had disappeared.

  A signpost indicated that Potsdam was 25 kilometers to the left at the next junction. Hans turned left before braking abruptly again, bringing their speed down.

  “Are you all right?” said Martha.

  Inge felt bruised all over her body, and she was terrified, but she’d had more excitement in the last hour than in the whole of her life.

  “Are you injured?” said Martha to Hans.

  “No, I’m fine. Next stop Potsdam,” he said. “If we don’t run out of fuel.”

  50

  It was 4:30 p.m. when they reached a checkpoint on the Glienicker Brücke, a bridge leading to the northern approaches of Potsdam. They joined a line of people waiting to cross.

  “We’ll be waiting here forever,” said Martha.

  “Not necessarily,” said Hans. He put the heel of his hand on the horn and kept it there.

  A figure in uniform emerged from the sentry hut and waved them forward. “Make way there. Make way for the Kübelwagen.”

  The crowds parted and the Kübelwagen jerked forward.

  As they approached the checkpoint, Hans knew they were in trouble. The reception committee consisted of an old man and a young boy, both in uniform, both armed with Volkssturm VG1-5 rifles.

  Hans recognized the youngster: Anton Tannhäuser, the fanatical Hitler Youth who had lived in Hans’s block, the young man who had fallen over his iron leg.

  Hans was a deserter, the Kübelwagen was stolen, and he was carrying a Jewish girl with no papers. They were in serious trouble.

  The old man directed them to park behind another Kübelwagen and asked for their papers. Martha handed over her identification and ration book.

  “This is my sister, Inge,” said Martha. “She lost her papers during the bombing.”

  The old guard lifted an eyebrow. He stared at Inge. “Don’t I know you?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Inge.

  “I’m engaged to be married to one of you soldiers,” said Martha to deflect his attention from Inge.

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s a prisoner of war in France.”

  The guard handed Martha’s papers back. He turned his attention back to Inge. “Are you sure we haven’t met?”

  “Quite sure,” said Inge.

  He clicked his fingers at Hans and Hans handed him his identity card.

  “Hans Klein. Shouldn’t you be defending Berlin?”

  Hans lifted his iron leg and placed it on the door of the Kübelwagen. “As you can see, I have only one good leg. I would be useless in a trench.”

  “You could fire a weapon,” said the guard. “And who gave you permission to use a military vehicle?”

  “My Company commander, Hauptmann Engels. He asked me to take his children to safety.”

  “That is most irregular. You have paperwork authorizing this?”

  “I had, but I lost it along the way.”

  “Step out of the vehicle,” said the guard.

  Hans hauled his iron leg back into the vehicle and opened the door.

  Anton, who had been standing on the other side of the car, spoke up. “I know these people. We do not need to detain them.”

  The old man hesitated. “Their papers are not in order, Anton. We cannot let them go. Call the Untersturmführer.”

  Anton stuck out his chest. “Let them pass. I told you, I know them.”

  The old man shrugged a shoulder, stood back and waved them through. Hans slammed the door shut and attempted to restart the engine. It coughed but showed no other sign of life. He stared at the fuel gauge. It was showing empty. He swore and tried again, with the same result.

  He turned to his passengers. “I’m sorry, we’re out of diesel. We’ll have to walk from here.”

  At that point, a third man emerged from the hut. “What’s the hold-up?” he barked.

  This man was dressed in the uniform of the head-hunters.

  “We’ve told this group they may cross the bridge, but they’ve run out of fuel,” said the old man.

  The SS-man circled the vehicle, peering inside. By the time he’d completed the full circle, his pistol was in his hand, hanging down by his side. “Step out of the vehicle, all of you,” he said. “Be very careful not to make any sudden moves.”

  Inge and Martha stepped out. It took Hans a little longer to maneuver his iron leg through the open door.

  The SS-man waited patiently until they were all lined up at the side of the Kübelwagen. He began with Hans. “So tell me why you are not busy defending our city against the enemies of the Reich?”

  “I lost a leg in 1942, at the Siege of Leningrad.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” said the SS-man. “Where do you live?”

  “The Kaiser Wilhelm blocks, Westend,” said Hans.

  The SS-man waved his pistol. “You are clearly a deserter. Stand over there.”

  Hans moved to the front of the Kübelwagen and the SS-man turned his attention to Inge and Martha.

  He scrutinized Martha’s identity card. “You two claim to be sisters, unless my ears deceived me?”

  “Yes, we are sisters,” said Martha.

  “You don’t look like sisters. How many years are there between you?”

  “Ten,” said Martha.

  He fixed Inge with his gaze. “How old are you?”

  “I’m fourteen, sir.”

  “Your papers?”

  “I lost them during one of the bombing raids,” said Inge, her chin trembling.
>
  “Hmm. We have a report of a 14-year-old Jewish girl living in Kaiser Wilhelm block 2 at Westend. Your sister looks more Jewish than you do. Could you both be Jews on the run, I wonder?”

  Inge’s face turned white as a ghost. Hans’s blood turned to ice in his veins.

  “We are Christians,” said Martha, indignantly. “I am engaged to an army soldier.”

  “And where is he?”

  “He’s in a prisoner of war camp in France.”

  “Very well, Martha Engels, you may cross the bridge. Your sister will remain here with me.” He strode over and stood facing Hans.

  He raised his pistol.

  With every ounce of energy he had, Hans swung his leg in an attempt to do to the SS-man what he had done to the soldier guarding the Kübelwagen. But this man was too quick. He took a half-step backwards. Hans lost his balance and fell to the ground.

  The SS-man laughed. Then he cocked his pistol and pointed it down at Hans’s temple. “This is what we do to deserters.”

  Inge closed her eyes. A shot rang out.

  51

  When Inge opened her eyes, a thin plume of smoke was drifting from the barrel of Anton’s rifle, the head-hunter was lying in a heap on the ground, and Hans was struggling to his feet.

  “What happened?” she said.

  Martha answered her. “The youngster shot the SS-man.”

  Inge was confused. “Why?”

  “You may go,” said Anton.

  Hans shook the boy’s hand. “That was a brave thing you did. Thank you.”

  Anton pointed to the Feldjägerkorps Kübelwagen. “Better take that one. Where are you headed?”

  “Luckenwalde. It’s about forty kilometers south of here.”

  Anton shook his head. “Not a good idea. The Russians are advancing from the south. They have encircled the city on three sides. West is the only way out now.”

  Inge drew in a sharp breath. “The English and Americans are waiting in the west. No direction is safe.”

  Hans searched the SS-man’s pockets and found the key. He climbed into the Kübelwagen.

  Martha said, “The Russians are animals. We can expect better treatment from the Americans.”

  “Come on.” Hans starting the engine. “Everybody on board.”

  Martha got into the rear seat and Inge joined her. “Aren’t you coming with us?” she called out to Anton.

  Martha said, “You can’t stay here after what you did.”

  Anton took a moment to think about it, then he jumped in beside Hans, holding his rifle between his knees.

  “You too, old man,” said Hans.

  The old man hesitated.

  Anton climbed into the back seat beside Inge to make room for his companion. “Come on, Professor,” he said. “What’s to think about?”

  “How can you drive with that leg?” said Hepple, opening the driver’s door. “Move over. Let me drive.”

  Hans slid over onto the front passenger seat, the old man threw his rifle into the shrubbery and got behind the wheel.

  They headed west.

  The road west was cratered, but they were soon outside the city limits, passing a stream of refugees heading for the Elbe river. The Kübelwagen jounced along, and Martha dozed off.

  Anton was a bit young, but Inge enjoyed the delicious sensation of hip to hip contact with a boy.

  As the sun dipped toward the horizon dead ahead, Inge could see that Hepple was finding it increasingly difficult to see where he was going. She begged him to slow down for fear of running someone over, and he slowed to a crawl, little more than walking pace.

  The wheels hit the edge of a crater jolting Martha awake.

  “Where are we?” she said. “Are we nearly there?”

  “We’re about half-way to Tangermünde,” said Hepple. “We should arrive in about an hour.”

  “Can’t we go any faster? We could walk faster than this,” she said.

  “Be patient,” Hans replied. “We will get there soon enough.”

  Thirty minutes later they had to abandon the Kübelwagen. The road ahead was full of refugees, blocking the way. They climbed out and joined the throng, shuffling forward, meter by meter, toward the river.

  Two hours later, as darkness fell, lights appeared in the distance ahead.

  “That’s the Tangermünde bridge,” said the woman in line ahead of them. “Once we cross that we should be safe.”

  As they got closer to the river, the outline of the bridge came into view.

  “The bridge is destroyed!” said Inge, feeling very much like the little boy who’d shouted that the emperor had no clothes.

  She was right. The woman explained that the retreating German troops had blown up the bridge, but enough of it had survived to allow the refugees to cross.

  And so it was. When they reached the American checkpoint, several guns were pointed at them. Hans, Anton and Hepple were all in uniform and Anton still carried his rifle.

  “We need something white,” said Hans.

  Martha pulled her wedding dress from her suitcase, Anton tied it to his rifle and held it as high as he could. A soldier waved them on, and they crossed the remnants of the rickety bridge.

  52

  On Seelow Heights, the Red Army continued to attack night and day through April 17 and 18. The city defenders lost hundreds of men. The Russians lost countless more, but great hordes of them kept coming. The fields were littered with broken and burnt-out Russian tanks, but still they had more and more and more.

  With two warheads left for his Panzerfaust, Ludwig realized the hopelessness of their situation. Nothing the defenders did would stop the advance of the Red Army. When Artur Axmann had said they must be prepared to fight to the last bullet, to the last man, he had meant it. They would be overrun soon – that night or the day following.

  By April 19, the battle of Seelow Heights was over. The Volkssturm retreated to the city streets with the Red Army in pursuit.

  The sergeant issued each man with 12 rounds. “Make them count, lads,” he said. “And good luck.”

  Ludwig and Korn stayed together. Taking defensive positions among the ruins, they were driven steadily toward the center of the city, picking off a Russian soldier here and there, beating a hasty retreat every time they were confronted by a Russian tank.

  On April 20, they found themselves sheltering behind the Dom cathedral, when an unexpected lull in the fighting gave them a chance to catch their breath.

  “How many rounds do you have?” said Korn.

  “Three.”

  “I have four.”

  “It’s the Führer’s birthday,” said Ludwig.

  “Happy birthday Adolf,” said Korn.

  Ludwig lit a cigarette. He grinned at Korn. “I know, I know, it’s not good for my health. What did you do before the war?”

  “I was a master baker,” said Korn. “What about you?”

  “I was a schoolboy,” said Ludwig.

  53

  The Americans relieved Anton of his rifle and let him go. They had no place for a 13-year-old in their pow camps. Inge and he joined a stream of refugees heading north to a resettlement camp at Osterburg.

  Hans was escorted to a tent where he was interrogated by a young German-speaking American soldier.

  “How did you lose the leg?”

  “At the Siege of Leningrad in 1942.”

  “And they had you defending Berlin?”

  “No, I got out as soon as I could. I needed to evacuate the two women I was with.”

  “And the other two? The old man and the youngster?”

  “They helped us to escape. We wouldn’t have made it without them.”

  The soldier stamped a card and handed it to Hans. “You’ll be checked over by a medic. After that you’ll be moved out to a camp on the Rhine. They may release you early on account of your medical condition, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  “I need to get back into the city. I made a promise.”

  “How
are you going to manage that with only one leg?”

  “I left a Kübelwagen back there not far from the bridgehead.”

  “Forget it, soldier. Enjoy your stay on the Rhine.”

  Two American GIs marched him away. Allowing time and space for his leg-swinging gait, they led him to a compound surrounded in barbed wire, and left him there.

  Built on rising ground, the camp was awash with thousands of Wehrmacht soldiers. Many wore bandages or walked on crutches; some had limbs or eyes missing. All bore downcast looks and unkempt, filthy uniforms – the unmistakable signs of a defeated army.

  Hans wandered about among the rows and rows of wooden barracks until he found a quiet spot to rest. He lowered himself to the ground within sight of the boundary fence and the heavily guarded entrance and considered his position. Gretchen and the Kübelwagen were calling to him like sirens in his mind. Could he escape from the camp? If he managed that, maybe under cover of darkness, could he make it across the bridge and find the Kübelwagen?

  Another prisoner sat down beside him. “Thinking about escape?” He grinned and offered Hans a cigarette.

  Hans took the cigarette. The soldier struck a match and they both lit up.

  “How did you know what I was thinking?” said Hans.

  “Forget about it, friend,” said the soldier. “What chance would you have?”

  “I left a Kübelwagen on the other side of the bridge. If I could reach that, I might make it back to Berlin.”

  “Why would you want to go back there?”

  Hans shrugged.

  “Forget her, whoever she is.” The soldier’s salacious smile told Hans what he was thinking. He pointed his cigarette at Hans’s false leg. “I wouldn’t make it as far as the bridge, and I’ve got all my limbs.”

  An immovable rock settled in Hans’s stomach then. This is where my journey ends? He thought. I will never see Gretchen again.

  54

  Dressed in his pajamas, Oskar sat in Hans’s armchair outside the cabin on the allotment. Gretchen sat beside him on the wooden kitchen chair. It was early evening. The temperature was cool, but pleasant. Low clouds of smoke hung overhead reflecting red from the fires burning all over the city. The guns were silent.