Before the story begins, there are declarations, avowals, reminders of history to the readers, and more.
"Based on a True Story"
"I don’t want an intellectual education. Knowledge ruins our youth.” –Adolf Hitler"
"Until that fateful spring in 1945, I never realized what ‘home’ meant and what I’d do to keep it in my heart. How deep Hitler’s evil reached. How it changed the way I looked at the world and forced me to make an impossible choice.
"Anymore, my memory plays tricks. But though I struggle to keep my day-to-day life straight, I clearly remember the day everything started.
"I remember when we were ordered to die for the Fatherland."
................................................................................................
At the end, another declaration:-
"47 DAYS is an excerpt from the novel, SURVING THE FATHERLAND"
If it were part of information about this book on Amazon, one need not have bought this after the novel.
"I don’t want an intellectual education. Knowledge ruins our youth.” –Adolf Hitler"
"Until that fateful spring in 1945, I never realized what ‘home’ meant and what I’d do to keep it in my heart. How deep Hitler’s evil reached. How it changed the way I looked at the world and forced me to make an impossible choice.
"Anymore, my memory plays tricks. But though I struggle to keep my day-to-day life straight, I clearly remember the day everything started.
"I remember when we were ordered to die for the Fatherland."
................................................................................................
At the end, another declaration:-
"47 DAYS is an excerpt from the novel, SURVING THE FATHERLAND"
If it were part of information about this book on Amazon, one need not have bought this after the novel.
................................................................................................
The title, and the cover too, suggests, vaguely, survival of those that suffered the doings of the regime. But startlingly, as one realises somewhere along the line, one has been very cleverly, deliberately misled. It's not about the Jews or the resistance, only about the average citizens who weren't Nazi, and paid for the doings of those they never agreed with.
One has to agree they did suffer. And if one has visited Germany, met Germans in Germany, talked with them, one is all too familiar with several aspects of this - the allied bombings, the Czechoslovakia reprisals against Sudeten Germans post war (not surprisingly no nation East of Germany wanted to keep their ethnic Germans, who'd after all not only been the excuse for Nazi invasions but had often been proud of collaboration with the invaders), and more.
Except, they are usually vague, evasive, or worse, when it comes to talking about the holocaust victims. If they think you are of a certainty ignorant, which they assume if you're non'white', they lie blatantly, for example "Jews migrated" or "their confiscated properties were returned", and if they think they can get away with it, they tell you about Jews they meet in Paris who stop speaking with them when they find out you're German.
So one has come to harbour a growing suspicion that books like these are being written and published as a cloudy propaganda that frogs up the horrors of holocaust in pointing fingers at those that were supposed to be not victims of nazis and saying "oh but we too were victims, see, this is how we suffered". Such books are proliferating now that survivors of holocaust and their descendents are finally writing their memoirs, publishing them, and leaving records that are as undeniable as the Nuremburg archives.
A significant difference is that the memoirs are far more often just that, memoirs. Books such as these are on the other hand novels set in the era, and sometimes - like this one - based on true stories.
................................................................................................
"Author Note:-
"The Volkssturm or people’s storm was Hitler’s last propaganda command, not organized by the German military but the NSDAP, the Nazi party. All able-bodied men between 16 and 60 were classified into four groups from most usable to least usable. My father, Günter, born in December 1928, had just turned 16 and was in classification III. Military training was supposed to take place within the Hitler Youth (HJ) by the end of March 1945. At this point in the war, allied troops had been on German ground for months, German soldiers on the retreat. Weapons and equipment were almost impossible to find. It is reported that more than 1.3 million guns were needed, but only 18,000 available. Machine guns were even more rare: 75,000 were needed and 180 available. Originally, the Volkssturm was supposed to defend the home front. In the case of my father, the boys were ordered to find their way about 200 km south to Marburg. I assume this was done in an attempt to stop the advancing U.S. Armies who were already in Siegen, less than sixty miles from Marburg. One can only imagine what happened when these youngsters were confronted with fully equipped and trained U.S. troops. Did they even have guns or did they attempt to stop tanks with their bare hands?
"70% of these boys who’d grown up during the Nazi reign, volunteered. How many boys and men served during the Volkssturm is unknown. Their effect was negligible. They could not even protect single homes, not to mention a professional army.
"To some readers it may appear that this act of defiance, of not answering conscription is nothing special. My father didn’t shoot SS-men nor did he plan an assassination on Hitler. He was neither a killer nor was he in the resistance. But he did one important thing many much older and mature people neglect to do. He thought for himself. Then he took a gamble and followed through on his conviction. The way I see it, this was extremely difficult, considering how much pressure was put on the people to follow orders. In a dictatorship refusing to follow orders means certain punishment. In my father’s case, it would’ve meant certain death because even in the spring of 1945, cells of fanatical SS-men remained and many innocent people were shot.
"None of Günter’s classmates were ever heard of or seen again."
"Solingen, Germany, March 5, 1945"
"“Every man, born 1928 or 1929, must report for muster.” He paused, his breath loud in the stillness. “If found fit for battle, your orders are as follows: Travel to Marburg by next Monday, March 12 and find the office of the Hitler youth.” The paper sank. With it Leimer’s voice. “That gives you a week. But first you have to report for muster to update your papers. Everything else will be explained there.”"
The boys hiked in the forests, hiding from roads, and often procuring raw food from farms. One remote farmhouse had an old man who fed them. They returned home for a visit, and left again. It was still cold.
"I could never get used to the cold. No matter how fast we walked or how we wrapped ourselves in coat, hat and gloves, the wintry air crept into my bones. First, it sat on top, just a whiff as if somebody breathes on your wet skin. You shiver a bit, but get distracted and forget.
"But the cold doesn’t stop there. It is sneaky and mean as it knocks past the skin and climbs inside you. There it spreads with thousand tentacles until your insides freeze and your muscles stiffen and ache. Shivering is no longer an option, it’s a must. You have no choice. That’s when you get scared to fall asleep and die of hypothermia. When you jump up and windmill your arms to pump the slush in your blood."
Fair description of the cold that, in Europe, sneaks until suddenly one has a backache - unlike the brisk, bracing, freezing arctic air that sweeps through Northeast U.S., waking one into a new vigour, but never letting one imagine it's anything but cold.
The boys couldn't always depend on finding a farm, and once ate a dead bird in the forest.
"Oh, hunger, you nasty brother. Always present, always nagging. Didn’t we have enough worries already? Yet, Russians and Americans, the SS and assorted fanatics paled when it came to an empty stomach. In a way, hunger was a mightier enemy than people. Like the cold, it was sneaky and quiet. Always present, always on your mind. Causing pain in places you didn’t know you had. Hunger shoved aside logical thoughts, our prudence we so desperately needed. It would almost cost us our lives."
He was bitten by a wild sow and treated in the next village by a vet.
"We rested more, but the cold weather wasn’t finished and we soon had to move again. A few times we risked a fire, the damp wood smoldering and giving off little heat. I worried about the smoke being seen.
"More and more convoys clogged the roads. Plain soldiers snaked along in unending streams. I wasn’t as afraid of them now because I knew they had little to do with the SS and Gestapo.
"“Go home, boys,” they whispered when we watched from the side of the street. “We have no ammunition left. The Americans are close.”
"How close, I wanted to shout. How much longer? All I did was nod, afraid to get into a discussion about our wanderings, afraid of looking at Helmut’s face. We saw women pushing wheelbarrows with bedding, coffee grinders, pots and assorted suitcases, worn grandfathers with packs and children…small ones with thumbs in their mouths, some school age like my brother Siegfried. Everyone looked hungry and frightened."
................................................The title, and the cover too, suggests, vaguely, survival of those that suffered the doings of the regime. But startlingly, as one realises somewhere along the line, one has been very cleverly, deliberately misled. It's not about the Jews or the resistance, only about the average citizens who weren't Nazi, and paid for the doings of those they never agreed with.
One has to agree they did suffer. And if one has visited Germany, met Germans in Germany, talked with them, one is all too familiar with several aspects of this - the allied bombings, the Czechoslovakia reprisals against Sudeten Germans post war (not surprisingly no nation East of Germany wanted to keep their ethnic Germans, who'd after all not only been the excuse for Nazi invasions but had often been proud of collaboration with the invaders), and more.
Except, they are usually vague, evasive, or worse, when it comes to talking about the holocaust victims. If they think you are of a certainty ignorant, which they assume if you're non'white', they lie blatantly, for example "Jews migrated" or "their confiscated properties were returned", and if they think they can get away with it, they tell you about Jews they meet in Paris who stop speaking with them when they find out you're German.
So one has come to harbour a growing suspicion that books like these are being written and published as a cloudy propaganda that frogs up the horrors of holocaust in pointing fingers at those that were supposed to be not victims of nazis and saying "oh but we too were victims, see, this is how we suffered". Such books are proliferating now that survivors of holocaust and their descendents are finally writing their memoirs, publishing them, and leaving records that are as undeniable as the Nuremburg archives.
A significant difference is that the memoirs are far more often just that, memoirs. Books such as these are on the other hand novels set in the era, and sometimes - like this one - based on true stories.
................................................................................................
"Author Note:-
"The Volkssturm or people’s storm was Hitler’s last propaganda command, not organized by the German military but the NSDAP, the Nazi party. All able-bodied men between 16 and 60 were classified into four groups from most usable to least usable. My father, Günter, born in December 1928, had just turned 16 and was in classification III. Military training was supposed to take place within the Hitler Youth (HJ) by the end of March 1945. At this point in the war, allied troops had been on German ground for months, German soldiers on the retreat. Weapons and equipment were almost impossible to find. It is reported that more than 1.3 million guns were needed, but only 18,000 available. Machine guns were even more rare: 75,000 were needed and 180 available. Originally, the Volkssturm was supposed to defend the home front. In the case of my father, the boys were ordered to find their way about 200 km south to Marburg. I assume this was done in an attempt to stop the advancing U.S. Armies who were already in Siegen, less than sixty miles from Marburg. One can only imagine what happened when these youngsters were confronted with fully equipped and trained U.S. troops. Did they even have guns or did they attempt to stop tanks with their bare hands?
"70% of these boys who’d grown up during the Nazi reign, volunteered. How many boys and men served during the Volkssturm is unknown. Their effect was negligible. They could not even protect single homes, not to mention a professional army.
"To some readers it may appear that this act of defiance, of not answering conscription is nothing special. My father didn’t shoot SS-men nor did he plan an assassination on Hitler. He was neither a killer nor was he in the resistance. But he did one important thing many much older and mature people neglect to do. He thought for himself. Then he took a gamble and followed through on his conviction. The way I see it, this was extremely difficult, considering how much pressure was put on the people to follow orders. In a dictatorship refusing to follow orders means certain punishment. In my father’s case, it would’ve meant certain death because even in the spring of 1945, cells of fanatical SS-men remained and many innocent people were shot.
"None of Günter’s classmates were ever heard of or seen again."
................................................................................................
................................................................................................
"“Every man, born 1928 or 1929, must report for muster.” He paused, his breath loud in the stillness. “If found fit for battle, your orders are as follows: Travel to Marburg by next Monday, March 12 and find the office of the Hitler youth.” The paper sank. With it Leimer’s voice. “That gives you a week. But first you have to report for muster to update your papers. Everything else will be explained there.”"
................................................................................................
The boys hiked in the forests, hiding from roads, and often procuring raw food from farms. One remote farmhouse had an old man who fed them. They returned home for a visit, and left again. It was still cold.
"I could never get used to the cold. No matter how fast we walked or how we wrapped ourselves in coat, hat and gloves, the wintry air crept into my bones. First, it sat on top, just a whiff as if somebody breathes on your wet skin. You shiver a bit, but get distracted and forget.
"But the cold doesn’t stop there. It is sneaky and mean as it knocks past the skin and climbs inside you. There it spreads with thousand tentacles until your insides freeze and your muscles stiffen and ache. Shivering is no longer an option, it’s a must. You have no choice. That’s when you get scared to fall asleep and die of hypothermia. When you jump up and windmill your arms to pump the slush in your blood."
Fair description of the cold that, in Europe, sneaks until suddenly one has a backache - unlike the brisk, bracing, freezing arctic air that sweeps through Northeast U.S., waking one into a new vigour, but never letting one imagine it's anything but cold.
The boys couldn't always depend on finding a farm, and once ate a dead bird in the forest.
"Oh, hunger, you nasty brother. Always present, always nagging. Didn’t we have enough worries already? Yet, Russians and Americans, the SS and assorted fanatics paled when it came to an empty stomach. In a way, hunger was a mightier enemy than people. Like the cold, it was sneaky and quiet. Always present, always on your mind. Causing pain in places you didn’t know you had. Hunger shoved aside logical thoughts, our prudence we so desperately needed. It would almost cost us our lives."
He was bitten by a wild sow and treated in the next village by a vet.
"We rested more, but the cold weather wasn’t finished and we soon had to move again. A few times we risked a fire, the damp wood smoldering and giving off little heat. I worried about the smoke being seen.
"More and more convoys clogged the roads. Plain soldiers snaked along in unending streams. I wasn’t as afraid of them now because I knew they had little to do with the SS and Gestapo.
"“Go home, boys,” they whispered when we watched from the side of the street. “We have no ammunition left. The Americans are close.”
"How close, I wanted to shout. How much longer? All I did was nod, afraid to get into a discussion about our wanderings, afraid of looking at Helmut’s face. We saw women pushing wheelbarrows with bedding, coffee grinders, pots and assorted suitcases, worn grandfathers with packs and children…small ones with thumbs in their mouths, some school age like my brother Siegfried. Everyone looked hungry and frightened."
................................................................................................
"At last, we got brave enough to hitch a ride on one of the military trucks of a German convoy. Well, that is, I moved out into the line, hoping that Helmut would follow.
"“Hop on up, boys,” said one of the soldiers walking past. He smiled grimly through the muck on his face, his uniform jacket splattered with dried dirt.
"So we scrambled onto one of the trucks, feet dangling over the edge.
"“Did you see the truck behind us?” I shouted over the engine noise, somehow emboldened by our ride.
"“No, why?” Helmut yelled back, his attention on one of the soldiers plopping down by the side of the road. The man’s boots were torn and he was in the process of taking one off. The sock underneath was dotted with holes.
"“They’re loaded with food, you know, military bread.”
"“Kommissbrot?”
"“We should ask for some.” Without waiting for an answer, I jumped off the platform, immediately regretting it as a dull ache shot up my right calf. After passing two vehicles, I noticed a soldier marching alongside with his hands on a rifle. That had to be it. Sure enough, the provisions truck was stacked to its tarped ceiling with dark square loaves like shoe cartons.
"“You think you could spare some bread?” I asked, thinking that it felt good to hear Helmut’s voice.
"The soldier, not much older than I, shot me an appraising look. “Two loaves. We aren’t going to slow down for you.”
"I glanced at the tall truck and the broad tires ready to squash me. I’d wait. “No problem, thanks.” Then I yelled over at Helmut, “We can get some, but I’ll have to wait to climb up till they stop or slow down enough.”
"He made a face and kept silent. Stubborn idiot.
"When the road turned steep, the caravan decelerated to a crawl. The guard winked as I took hold of the back ramp and pulled myself up. I carefully selected two loaves and stuffed them in my shirt, making sure not to upset the load. Though the Kommissbrot was dry and hard, the whole rye, wheat and molasses would fill our stomachs like a real meal. I wondered if the rumors were true that they contained sawdust.
"A shout made me look up. Like in a movie, the soldiers a few hundred yards back were jumping into ditches and running for the trees.
"That’s when I grew aware of a buzzing sound, growing rapidly louder as if someone had unleashed a giant nest of hornets. Gray specks appeared in the sky. They grew larger quickly—a squadron of low-flying enemy planes. Before I had time to act, machine gun fire exploded and the back of the convoy dissolved into a cloud of dust.
"Terror crept up my legs. The shooting sensation of adrenalin hit my gut like a fist. I was in the open, ten feet above the road, a perfect target. There was no time to climb down and find Helmut on the other truck.
"I jumped…flew…
"Rat-a-tat-tat-tat…The ground rushed up to me. I rolled into the ditch as the sky darkened above me. Bullets shredded the bread truck, pierced tarps and metal with ease. I covered my head and lay still. My right calf throbbed—the noise was deafening. All I could do was lie there and wait and hope that none of the bullets or shrapnel found me.
"When the blasts subsided, I sat up, noticing with relief that I was unhurt. Many others hadn’t been so lucky. The sounds of human suffering drilled into my brain—men moaning and crying. My first impulse was to run. Run as far as my legs would carry me.
"That’s when I remembered Helmut, and cold panic seized me. What if Helmut had been shot? Unable to control my shaking hands, I scanned the road. Soldiers lay strewn between broken-down trucks like throwaway dolls. Most lay still.
"I recognized the friendly guard from the bread truck a few feet away. He was on his back, eyes wide open, staring into the sky. His helmet had flown off, and the top of his skull was gone, reddish gray oozing onto the pavement.
"Another man lay on his side near the ditch crying softly, “Help me.” The front of his army coat had blown to shreds, his intestines visible. I tried to look away, but the man stared straight at me. Since I was still in the ditch we were at eye level.
"The man had blond hair, shaven around the ears, his eyebrows brownish caterpillars that didn’t match the reddish tinge of stubble on his chin. Blood gurgled from his mouth, and he sputtered as if he were under water. At last, he stopped moving, his gaze frozen.
"I climbed out of the ditch. I had to find Helmut. In my confusion, I couldn’t remember where I’d left him. My heart raced worse than when I’d run sprints in school. I hurried along the road, turned this way and that. I recognized the truck we’d been on, now broken down, shot to pieces. The wooden bed had splintered, its tires flat. Helmut wasn’t there.
"“Helmut?” I cried, voice high in my throat.
"Men were running and shouting orders, checking for wounded and dead. I dashed around the broken-down truck. I checked the ditch. No Helmut.
"With every step I grew more convinced that Helmut was dead and that I was alone, an island among the frantic activity around me. Until I couldn’t walk any farther. I stood amidst the chaos, my mind blank, my body paralyzed.
"“Günter?” Helmut’s voice drifted through the fog. “Over here.”
"I turned on my heels, watching uncomprehendingly as Helmut rushed up to me. Mud stuck to his right cheek and temple, but he looked whole.
"“I went to look for you,” Helmut panted, his eyes huge in his face.
"I searched for my voice. “I couldn’t find you,” I croaked. “I thought you were…”
"Helmut patted me on the back, a grim smile on his lips. It was the first I’d seen since the pigeon roast.
"“I’m all right.” I grinned back, then glanced at the sky. “Let’s go. They may return.”"
"Nearly six weeks into our journey and after finding nothing but rotten potatoes in a deserted field, we reached a small village about sixty kilometers from home. A pub was the only official building. No matter how small a village, every place had at least one tavern."
Still true. Even the large cities, it's not easy to find medical or pharmaceutical help on weekends and holidays in Germany or Austria and nor is it easy to buy milk for a baby, but pubs are everywhere and definitely open.
They met SS soldiers in the tavern, one of them known who recognised them, and were trapped, but escaped into the forest a little before dawn.
"At last, we got brave enough to hitch a ride on one of the military trucks of a German convoy. Well, that is, I moved out into the line, hoping that Helmut would follow.
"“Hop on up, boys,” said one of the soldiers walking past. He smiled grimly through the muck on his face, his uniform jacket splattered with dried dirt.
"So we scrambled onto one of the trucks, feet dangling over the edge.
"“Did you see the truck behind us?” I shouted over the engine noise, somehow emboldened by our ride.
"“No, why?” Helmut yelled back, his attention on one of the soldiers plopping down by the side of the road. The man’s boots were torn and he was in the process of taking one off. The sock underneath was dotted with holes.
"“They’re loaded with food, you know, military bread.”
"“Kommissbrot?”
"“We should ask for some.” Without waiting for an answer, I jumped off the platform, immediately regretting it as a dull ache shot up my right calf. After passing two vehicles, I noticed a soldier marching alongside with his hands on a rifle. That had to be it. Sure enough, the provisions truck was stacked to its tarped ceiling with dark square loaves like shoe cartons.
"“You think you could spare some bread?” I asked, thinking that it felt good to hear Helmut’s voice.
"The soldier, not much older than I, shot me an appraising look. “Two loaves. We aren’t going to slow down for you.”
"I glanced at the tall truck and the broad tires ready to squash me. I’d wait. “No problem, thanks.” Then I yelled over at Helmut, “We can get some, but I’ll have to wait to climb up till they stop or slow down enough.”
"He made a face and kept silent. Stubborn idiot.
"When the road turned steep, the caravan decelerated to a crawl. The guard winked as I took hold of the back ramp and pulled myself up. I carefully selected two loaves and stuffed them in my shirt, making sure not to upset the load. Though the Kommissbrot was dry and hard, the whole rye, wheat and molasses would fill our stomachs like a real meal. I wondered if the rumors were true that they contained sawdust.
"A shout made me look up. Like in a movie, the soldiers a few hundred yards back were jumping into ditches and running for the trees.
"That’s when I grew aware of a buzzing sound, growing rapidly louder as if someone had unleashed a giant nest of hornets. Gray specks appeared in the sky. They grew larger quickly—a squadron of low-flying enemy planes. Before I had time to act, machine gun fire exploded and the back of the convoy dissolved into a cloud of dust.
"Terror crept up my legs. The shooting sensation of adrenalin hit my gut like a fist. I was in the open, ten feet above the road, a perfect target. There was no time to climb down and find Helmut on the other truck.
"I jumped…flew…
"Rat-a-tat-tat-tat…The ground rushed up to me. I rolled into the ditch as the sky darkened above me. Bullets shredded the bread truck, pierced tarps and metal with ease. I covered my head and lay still. My right calf throbbed—the noise was deafening. All I could do was lie there and wait and hope that none of the bullets or shrapnel found me.
"When the blasts subsided, I sat up, noticing with relief that I was unhurt. Many others hadn’t been so lucky. The sounds of human suffering drilled into my brain—men moaning and crying. My first impulse was to run. Run as far as my legs would carry me.
"That’s when I remembered Helmut, and cold panic seized me. What if Helmut had been shot? Unable to control my shaking hands, I scanned the road. Soldiers lay strewn between broken-down trucks like throwaway dolls. Most lay still.
"I recognized the friendly guard from the bread truck a few feet away. He was on his back, eyes wide open, staring into the sky. His helmet had flown off, and the top of his skull was gone, reddish gray oozing onto the pavement.
"Another man lay on his side near the ditch crying softly, “Help me.” The front of his army coat had blown to shreds, his intestines visible. I tried to look away, but the man stared straight at me. Since I was still in the ditch we were at eye level.
"The man had blond hair, shaven around the ears, his eyebrows brownish caterpillars that didn’t match the reddish tinge of stubble on his chin. Blood gurgled from his mouth, and he sputtered as if he were under water. At last, he stopped moving, his gaze frozen.
"I climbed out of the ditch. I had to find Helmut. In my confusion, I couldn’t remember where I’d left him. My heart raced worse than when I’d run sprints in school. I hurried along the road, turned this way and that. I recognized the truck we’d been on, now broken down, shot to pieces. The wooden bed had splintered, its tires flat. Helmut wasn’t there.
"“Helmut?” I cried, voice high in my throat.
"Men were running and shouting orders, checking for wounded and dead. I dashed around the broken-down truck. I checked the ditch. No Helmut.
"With every step I grew more convinced that Helmut was dead and that I was alone, an island among the frantic activity around me. Until I couldn’t walk any farther. I stood amidst the chaos, my mind blank, my body paralyzed.
"“Günter?” Helmut’s voice drifted through the fog. “Over here.”
"I turned on my heels, watching uncomprehendingly as Helmut rushed up to me. Mud stuck to his right cheek and temple, but he looked whole.
"“I went to look for you,” Helmut panted, his eyes huge in his face.
"I searched for my voice. “I couldn’t find you,” I croaked. “I thought you were…”
"Helmut patted me on the back, a grim smile on his lips. It was the first I’d seen since the pigeon roast.
"“I’m all right.” I grinned back, then glanced at the sky. “Let’s go. They may return.”"
................................................................................................
"Nearly six weeks into our journey and after finding nothing but rotten potatoes in a deserted field, we reached a small village about sixty kilometers from home. A pub was the only official building. No matter how small a village, every place had at least one tavern."
Still true. Even the large cities, it's not easy to find medical or pharmaceutical help on weekends and holidays in Germany or Austria and nor is it easy to buy milk for a baby, but pubs are everywhere and definitely open.
They met SS soldiers in the tavern, one of them known who recognised them, and were trapped, but escaped into the forest a little before dawn.
................................................................................................
They were homesick and decided to visit home, even if for a few hours. There were white bedsheets hanging from homes including his, and he couldn't find his mom. He sat and wept.
"“Günter?” Mother plunked down her water buckets and rushed to my side.
"I looked up, taking in Mother’s slight figure, the patched coat and the scarf wrapped around her head. Was I dreaming? Only one way to find out. I jumped up and threw myself into Mother’s arms.
"“Am I glad to see you,” I choked.
"“Are you all right?” Mother held me tightly. “What happened?”
"“I thought you… the sheets in the window.”
"“Oh you thought…” Mother shook her head. “This time it’s not a sign of dead people. You didn’t hear?”
"I stared. What was she talking about?
"“It’s over. The Americans are in town. Solingen has surrendered. That’s why we have the sheets out.” Mother touched my cheek.
"“The war is over.”"
"I was finally free.
"Of course, that moment didn’t last. Happiness is but a fleeting emotion. Like a blast of hot air in a cold room, it tends to vanish. As postwar Germany began, it ushered in new pressing questions. How would we survive in the rubble when there was no food, no work and no money? But most of all, what had happened to Father and Hans?"
They were homesick and decided to visit home, even if for a few hours. There were white bedsheets hanging from homes including his, and he couldn't find his mom. He sat and wept.
"“Günter?” Mother plunked down her water buckets and rushed to my side.
"I looked up, taking in Mother’s slight figure, the patched coat and the scarf wrapped around her head. Was I dreaming? Only one way to find out. I jumped up and threw myself into Mother’s arms.
"“Am I glad to see you,” I choked.
"“Are you all right?” Mother held me tightly. “What happened?”
"“I thought you… the sheets in the window.”
"“Oh you thought…” Mother shook her head. “This time it’s not a sign of dead people. You didn’t hear?”
"I stared. What was she talking about?
"“It’s over. The Americans are in town. Solingen has surrendered. That’s why we have the sheets out.” Mother touched my cheek.
"“The war is over.”"
"I was finally free.
"Of course, that moment didn’t last. Happiness is but a fleeting emotion. Like a blast of hot air in a cold room, it tends to vanish. As postwar Germany began, it ushered in new pressing questions. How would we survive in the rubble when there was no food, no work and no money? But most of all, what had happened to Father and Hans?"
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January 27, 2020 - February 04, 2020. .
ISBN: 978-0-9977800-5-5
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