‘What is her name, Wolfgang?’
I had no idea of her name. But there was an address on the back of the photo, in a town not far from the Elbe, and the more I thought about that girl, the more I thought that I should go and visit her. And so it was, at the beginning of August 1945, that I left the hospital in a civilian suit and tie, with a backpack and a small bunch of flowers that the nurses made for me, because they knew where I was going and why.
I found a lift on a postal truck, and then a farm cart – both driven by men my age who must surely have been in the war. We didn’t ask each other for details, watching the streets full of people at work, clearing the mounds of rubble and putting their homes back together for the future. People stood in lines, passing bricks from hand to hand, while American bulldozers cleared whole blocks and American trucks brought in whole loads of timber and concrete to build everything again.
Had the Americans forgiven us, then? It seemed that they had, and it felt to me that the Halbe Kessel was now in the distant past, and that its secrets would be locked for all time in the forests East of the Elbe, and in the minds of those who had witnessed those events. America was our future now – America, where anything could be forgiven, forgotten and lost. As the cart halted outside the address, I felt that this was my future too, this new world of building and forgetting the past.
The house was shuttered, and the doors were locked.
My heart was pounding with apprehension, as it used to do before combat. Getting no answer from the silent house, I asked a neighbour if they knew of the girl, showing the photo in its frame. The old lady took me into her own house next door, and sat me at a table in a darkened kitchen.
‘Is she still living there?’ I asked. ‘Where is she?’
The neighbour woman wrung a cloth in her hands.
‘The Americans have been very good to us,’ she said.
‘Yes, yes. I see that. But this young lady?’
‘The Americans have been generous, and have restored order. We are very lucky here, compared to those in the East under the Reds. What the women have suffered over there, it is indescribable.’
‘Yes, we are lucky. I myself made great efforts to reach the West, to escape the Reds,’ I told her. ‘Now I see that the journey was worthwhile. But this girl, where is she?’
‘We have no complaints against the Americans, young man. It is to be expected that in any army there will be one or two bad apples, a small number of problem soldiers. I am sorry, young man, but the girl in your photo is no longer with us.’
‘She has left?’
‘She is dead. It is very regrettable. In any army, there will be one or two who do not obey the law. We are lucky that the Americans have so few of these, compared to the Russians. You must not be angry, and you must not look for revenge, please. The fact is that the young lady was killed by an American soldier some weeks ago. If you must know the details, he was drunk and forced himself on her, and then he strangled her. But the law has been applied, you see. The man himself is in their military prison, and it is said that he will hang for the crime. Our mayor is very close to the Americans, and he says that the man will surely be hanged. But such events are rare, they are almost unheard of in the American sector, as you can imagine. We must all try to forget this event now, because it is not good to remember these things for long.’
I nodded, in the darkened kitchen, listening to the sounds of the reconstruction outside.
I walked away from the house in the sunset, through the summer fields, not knowing where I was going next. In these meadows, there were junkyards of armoured vehicles, where long rows of our panzers were lined up in the grass: rusting, abandoned and silent. The little Hetzers, the Stugs, the great Tigers, the great Panthers; all waiting in the sunset, empty, row upon row, leaking oil, with birds making nests in their turrets. It seems that when a war ends, there is too much metal left over, too much steel, and all the panzers lose their value.
Truly, the neighbour lady was correct.
It is not good to remember these things for long.
***
The publisher wishes to highlight that the text of this book contains opinions which originated in the German experience of the Second World War. These opinions are not shared by the current publisher, and the publisher does not condone or promote such views. They are presented in the interests of historical understanding only.
***
Also by Wolfgang Faust, the classic panzer memoir
‘Tiger Tracks’
‘Tiger Tracks’ was Faust’s brutal portrait of the Russian Front’s mesmerising violence and cruelty.
“Among the most impressive narratives of the Eastern Front that I have read. The pages are alive with characters - their machines, their struggles, their decisions and their pain. Readers will finish the book haunted and truly moved, the mark of a great story.”
- Chris Ziedler, the translator of ‘The Last Panther.’
The Last Panther - Slaughter of the Reich - The Halbe Kessel 1945 Page 15
