This is the first chapter of my forthcoming novel, The Willow Wren, which will be published by ECW Press on March 23 of this year.
February
20, 1944
This memory stands out above many others. A glinting
nickel in a fistful of pennies. I can feel my mother’s hand gripping mine, a
thin leather glove squeezing my thick woolen mitten, squeezing it maybe a
little too tightly. And I can smell the smoke - sharp and somehow metallic -
mixed with the dry smell of powdery cement dust and the tang of brown coal
fires, and perhaps something else that I didn’t recognize at that age,
something charred. I did not like the smells.
But
this is principally a visual memory. The picture is detailed and clear in my
mind’s eye, like a large format photograph taken by an expensive camera. The
front of our three-story building had been neatly peeled off, as if by an
enormous can opener wielded by a fairy-tale giant. The only evidence that there
had ever been an outside wall was the still lightly smoking pile of debris on
the street out front. But then debris was everywhere in the city, so it was
difficult to connect this particular debris to the wall that had once defined
the outer limit of our domestic life. It was more as if the wall had magically vanished
or had been excised and carried off.
We
stood and stared, wordlessly, just staring. Bomb damage was not surprising
given the air raid the night before - we saw plenty enough of it as we hurried
from the train station – but what was surprising was the precision. The wall
was gone, but just a meter beyond it the interior was absolutely intact.
Nothing was out of place. No chairs had been knocked over. Even the paintings
on the walls still hung straight. We were looking into our living room as if
into a life-sized doll’s house.
This
doll’s house impression was so strong that it distorted my sense of
perspective. I remember suddenly feeling very small, as if my mother and I had
been shrunk to doll size. I longed to grow to my full ten-year-old boy size
again so that I could reach into the living room and delicately pick up a
wooden chair between my thumb and forefinger. I even made the pinching motion
inside my mitten with my free hand.
“Where
is Papa going to sleep now?” I asked, when I finally found a way to make words.
“Don’t
worry. The Party will find something for him.”
I
nodded solemnly in response, trying to visualize Papa sleeping on top of his
desk, papers pushed aside, a blanket and pillow brought by an aide. He had one
rigid leg, the result of tuberculosis in his knee when he was a child, so my
mental picture showed that leg sticking out from the end of the desk while the
other one was tucked up.
“He’s
an important man, your Papa.” She said this flatly.
“Shall
we go to his office now Mama? Is that where he is?”
“Yes,
I suppose that makes sense. I’m sure he’s very busy dealing with this, but
since we’ve come all this way.”
Just
then an older teenager came rapidly peddling up the street on a bicycle,
weaving amongst the piles of rubble. He was tall and very pale, with black hair
slicked back to reveal a high acne pockmarked forehead. His dark grey uniform
was slightly too small for his long thin arms and legs. I recognized him from
Papa’s Ortsgruppe office (local Nazi headquarters), although I did not have
reason to know his name yet. Later I would find out it was Erich. I remember
being envious of his bicycle as it was a relatively new dark red Kalkhoff. But
honestly, I would have been happy with any bicycle.
Erich
waved to us frantically when he spotted us.
“Heil
Hitler Frau Schott!” Erich’s right arm shot up as he rolled to a stop.
“Yes?”
Mama’s arms remained at her side. My mother was a solid and serious looking
woman. She was not large, but with her strong voice and her ability to wield an
unblinking stare she certainly could be intimidating. That day she wore a very
businesslike tan-coloured suit and had her hair pulled back severely into a
tight bun.
Erich
swallowed and blinked several times before continuing. “Ortsgruppenleiter
Schott sends his regards and he also sends his regrets that he was unable to
meet you at the train station or here at your home.” He paused for a response,
but as there was none he went on, “As you can see the enemy attacked again with
many bombers. It began at 3:15 this morning. Leipzig Connewitz was especially
heavily hit. There are hundreds dead. Killed where they slept.” He stopped
again, perhaps realizing that he was striking the wrong note. “But of course,
our Luftwaffe shot most of them down before they could do even more damage. So,
I am sure they have learned their lesson.”
“I’m
sure they have,” Mama said dryly. “I suppose this means that Herr
Ortsgruppenleiter will not be available to see his wife and son at any point
today?”
“You
are correct Frau Schott. I’m afraid that will not be possible. He has arranged
train tickets for you on the 13:20. He is concerned there will be another
attack. Please stay away from the city until you hear from him.” Erich reached
into his satchel and pulled out two brown cardboard tickets that had red swastika
priority stamps on them.
This
was of course a disappointment. This was to be a special treat to mark my tenth
birthday a few weeks prior. For the first time I was traveling without my
irritating siblings. And for the first time Papa was going to spend time with
me alone and show me some interesting things. I had obtained special leave from
camp to do this. I was still going to have a day with Mama in Mellingen, but
that was more afterthought than main event. Feeling only disappointment and not
horror or sadness in the midst of all this destruction and apparent death may
seem odd, but that is honestly all that I felt then. Sometimes small boys have
small concerns.
And
as it happened, Papa was right. The train was only a few minutes out of the
station when the air raid sirens began to scream. I put my hands over my ears
and began to rock as I could not tolerate loud noises. I squeezed my eyes shut
as well. When I opened them again, I saw that Mama looked very upset. She was
looking down at her lap, frowning, and her eyes were moist. She clutched an
elaborately embroidered white handkerchief. The transformation to this from the
tough woman who had spoken to Erich was unsettling. I remember wishing I could
comfort her, but I had no idea how to go about it.
She
noticed me looking at her. “I’m sorry Ludwig.”
“No,
it’s okay Mama. I am scared of the bombs too.” I felt brave and grown-up
admitting this.
“It’s
not that. But I shouldn’t make you worry. We’ll be fine.” She wiped her eyes
and nose and turned to the window. I had some inkling as to why she spoke that
way but pushed it out of my mind. I was just happy that she looked a little
less upset now.
The
train began to accelerate. I wondered whether the speed of the train affected
the chance that it would be hit by a bomb. I surmised that it probably would
and willed the train to go even faster, but then I saw smoke rising far in the
northeast. We were heading in the exact opposite direction, so I felt better
and smiled at Mama, but she did not seem to notice.
I
never saw our beautiful doll’s house home again.
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