auf Wiedersehen

auf Wiedersehen

WWII Through the Eyes of a German Girl

Christa Holder Ocker

Published by Rogue Phoenix Press

Copyright © 2014

ISBN: 978-1-62420-116-5

Electronic rights reserved by Rogue Phoenix Press, all other rights reserved by the author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law. Characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's personal knowledge, experiences, and memories.

Dedication

For my son Peter Wolfgang Ocker

1965 – 2003

In Remembrance

Acknowledgments

To the Silk Purse Writer’s Group - Laura Pelner McCarthy, Judy Reene Singer, Maria Gil, Laura Liller, Linda Gould, Lynn Hoines, and Debra Scacciaferro – many thanks for your passionate attention and diagnostic advice. Special thanks to Arlene Mandell, dear friend.

1

When will we come back? my sister asked, an edge of desperation in her voice.

Mutti stopped in the open doorway, turned around, and as if to avoid the question, she pointed to the distant wall. "Look Kinder," she whispered.

A shaft of sun found its way through the ice-laced window, spilling its silvery light on the painting above the couch, illuminating the wake on a river flowing still.

Sadness crept into my heart as my eyes returned to my mother, so tall, so graceful, her ash-blond hair knotted in a bun at the nape of her neck. A tear rolled down her high cheekbone. She wiped it away with her fingertips, then closed the door with a decisive click.

~ * ~

For as long as I could remember, this had been our home, a happy home filled with laughter and song. The apartment, gracious and inviting, furnished with unassuming elegance, was located on the first floor of a new apartment building on the outskirts of Görlitz, in the eastern part of Germany. The luscious aroma from Frau Ömichen's kitchen on the second floor still lingered in the stairway, and her deep foghorn voice resounded off the granite walls, Komm rauf, Christa, wir haben Kartoffel Plinse…Günter warted auf Dich. Come upstairs, Christa, we're having potato pancakes. Günter is waiting for you. Günter, at six, one year younger than I, was her only son and my friend and playmate.

A while back, wanting a baby brother, Günter convinced me, although I already had an older sister, I should have a little brother too. So we left cottage cheese sandwiches on our windowsills. Everyone knew, of course, the stork brought a baby if you left him a cottage cheese sandwich on the windowsill, at least in our part of Germany. One day, soon after, Günter came skipping downstairs. Guess what... his voice danced ahead of him. I'm going to get a little baby brother.

I looked at Mutti, anticipation rising to explosion force, but she shook her head from side to side.

I knew it, I stamped my foot, both hands on my hips. You didn't put enough cottage cheese on the bread. I was upset. "Frau Ömichen put on a lot more."

"Well, that's because Günter's Vati was on furlough, you know, and they got extra rations," she sputtered through giggles. Both our fathers were off, fighting Hitler's war.

Yes, it had been a happy home and I, wrapped in a silken cocoon of a child's ignorance, was oblivious to the evil and destruction all around us. Still, there were scenes that penetrated the walls of my cocoon and I could not deny the dull ache of foreboding, as on one cold glacial day...

~ * ~

A truculent wind blew across the land and covered the streets in white. Tugging at my arm, my mother urged, "Komm, lauf schneller. Come, walk faster. Hunched against winter's wrath, weighted down with Christmas gifts, we pushed on toward my grandmother's house when, through the silence of the snow, a scream split early dusk. A clock from a nearby steeple struck five. Through curtains of flurries people, like phantoms, approached. Their eyes to the ground, they passed us by without a sound. Soldiers herded the group along with rifles and whips shouting, Weiter Jude, los, mach schnell. Move on, Jew, get going, quick." And the wind shoved and slashed against the damned, singing a sorrowful song. Barely a shadow away, caught in the shaft of light falling from a street lamp, one of them not much older than I raised her head and looked my way, eyes dark and deep alive with fear held on to mine. Suspended in a surreal nightmare, I willed her to come with us…

~ * ~

"When will we come back, Mutti?" My sister's question, more persistent this time, cut through the fog.

Some day, perhaps…. Mutti's smile transformed her face into thought as she glanced at my sister. Or maybe we'll go to America. She turned the brass key in the lock, and then buried it in the bottom of her knapsack. I have a friend in America, she continued, pulling us toward the old Wehrmacht truck parked in front of our building. Maybe I can locate him…maybe he'll help us…

America? The soldier, a willowy figure in splendid boots, carrying our two bags, all the belongings we could manage, looked over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows in question. Can I come along? He hauled the bags into the truck and, not waiting for an answer, he retreated to the front. We struggled to climb aboard, hindered by the layers and layers of clothes we wore that had not fit into the bags. It was a day near the beginning of February of 1945, World War II was drawing to an end, and we were fleeing westward before the onrushing Red Army. The request 'All mothers and children go west' had come several days earlier, but I had been in bed with a fever, developed from a festering wound. A wound sustained, one day, from a fall after playing with Günter upstairs. Almost every day I went upstairs to play with my friend. Frau Ömichen, his mother, didn't mind so much when we messed up their place. Their place was, more often than not, a bit untidy anyway, with all the artifacts scattered about, collecting dust. At the end of a play date when Mutti called, I always went home by schussing down the banister. On that fateful day, however, I had leaned over too far and, instead of sliding, went flying head first, cracking my chin wide open. When the army trucks arrived for the transport west, my fever had climbed to 105º. Luckily, Günter's mother was also my mother's best friend, and they stayed with us until the fever broke, and another truck came for us.

~ * ~

Over here, Frau Ömichen now called as we climbed in. Just then the streetcar came clanking by. I squinted my eyes to see if I could recognize the conductor, to see if he was the same conductor who scolded Günter and me one day last summer, when we placed some stones on the rails. The streetcar stopped, and the conductor came rushing at us waving his index finger shouting "Verdammte Kinder, I'll have your hide." Our mothers gave us 'room arrest' for one whole week. It was still a puzzle to me, for all we wanted to do was flatten a few stones. A few flat stones so we could make them skip in the rainwater puddles behind our home. Of course, I knew we weren't supposed to go into the street, but...

Over here, Frau Ömichen called again over the noise of the streetcar passing by, and waved her big pudgy hand.

The truck was filled with people, mostly older folks, a few other mothers and kids, all strangers. Günter came scrambling toward us and took my hand, leading us to their corner.

"Pass auf, Watch out," an old man grumbled when I accidentally stepped on his outstretched legs.

Rosel, my sister, sniveled as we huddled close in the shadows of the truck, trying to keep warm. I was okay, though. Hearing Günter's whisper in my ear You're my bestest friend, helped a lot. Besides, we were going to America, the place of milk and honey. My stomach grumbled. I'm hungry, I said. Just then, the soldier approached the back of the truck and pulled the canopy down. We sat in silence and in darkness, until the engine sputtered to life and the truck started to roll over snow-powdered cobblestone streets, farther and farther west, farther and farther away from home.

2

Someone was playing the harmonica. My consciousness clouded in half-sleep, I listened and recognized the familiar tune. The player skipped a note or two, whenever the driver hit a pothole. There was no mistaking, it was a tune my father had often played, a tune he had taught me how to play. I started to hum along. Soon someone else joined in. Then someone else, and still someone else, until all the people in the truck joined in either humming or singing the words, muß i' denn, muß i' denn zum Städtele hinaus, Städtele hinaus und Du mein Schatz bleibst hier. Got to go, got to go, got to leave this town, leave this town and you, my dear, stay here.

A feeling of happiness arose inside me with the memory of Vati, my father, closing in. I shut my eyes, trying to remember his face. His face was lost, no longer in focus. When was the last time I had seen Vati? I tried to force his likeness on my mind, but could not. Weary, I dreamed of a man in a sailor's suit, with a shock of wavy black hair, playing the harmonica. A faceless man, except for the mouth blowing into a harmonica, and then he disappeared altogether.

Wake up, wake up. Rosel pulled on my coat sleeve, We have to go.

Go where? I rubbed my eyes and looked at Mutti, my mother, who was already picking up our two bags.

Don't ask holes in your stomach. She smiled. Just follow us.

Not yet adjusted to wakefulness, I scrambled up and stumbled behind her. Günter and his mother were already climbing off the truck with the help of the soldier. The soldier, in his splendid boots, pointed into the distance, to a warehouse next to a railroad station. With darkness pressing down on us, we staggered toward our stay for the night.

~ * ~

Tomorrow, Mutti ran the bristle brush through my sister's long golden Hair, we'll get on a train that will take us to Apolda...

Where? Ouch. Rosel winced in pain as the brush got caught on a tangle.

Apolda…it's a lovely town. Mutti tried to disentangle the brush from my sister's hair. Having succeeded, she paused for a moment then added in a voice that seemed to come from a long way off, You'll like it there. With her fingers tightening on the grip of the brush, she continued with her long, decisive