Page 60 of Hell to Pay
I said, “I find myself less enthusiastic about that than I’d imagined I would be. We traveled like that for a month, trying to find a place we could stay. From town to town through Saxony and then on to Bavaria, which the Americans must surely reach before the Russians did. Walking sometimes, getting a lift on a farm wagon, a train ticket to someplace else with no room at the inn. Permission to travel from a Party official, a bed for a night or two arranged by the mayor. Buying a bowl of soup here—how I came to despise potatoes!—an ersatz coffee there, a piece of bread somewhere else, as our stomachs shrank and our waistbands gapped, as more andmore refugees clogged the roads and the war went on and on. As people dared to say they were tired of Hitler, exchanged the latest war news, and asked, again and again, ‘Where are the Americans? What can be taking them so long? The war must be over in a day—a week—a fortnight.’ Longing for Germany’s defeat as they’d once longed for its victory. We were never permitted to stay more than a night or two, for everywhere we went, people had enough problems of their own.”
“That sounds horrible,” Ben said. “I hated moving even one time.”
“Yes,” I said, “when you had to come to live with Sebastian. I heard about that. The most important thing to know about refugees is that they’re tired. So very tired. Their feet hurt, their shoes wear out, they huddle under trees for protection from rain, and their winter coat becomes heavy over their arm, for now it’s spring. They have no routine and no knowledge of what the day will bring for themselves and, worse, for their children. Life or death? Food or starvation? Safety, or exposure to the Gestapo? That alone is exhausting. How they wish for a place to unpack their few belongings, to get up in the morning and have a job to go to, something to do besides move on! To be able to put their children to bed and have a book to read to them. To know they’ll be sleeping in the same place all week, even if it’s a barn.”
“I thought you went to Bayreuth,” Alix said. “To Frau Heffinger’s sister.”
“Yes,” I said. “But that’s not for today. I’ll tell you about that tomorrow.”
28
ON THE ROAD
By the time we returned to Dresden, I was more than happy to rest in my suite with a cup of tea andA Tale of Two Cities.I found, though, that the book couldn’t hold my attention. (Poor Mr. Dickens; I really wasn’t doing him credit.) Traveling the roads again, even in such different fashion, had stirred up too much. Finally, I set the book aside and went to get the packet of Joe’s letters. And my diary. I’d never read them together like this. How different our experiences had been, and how difficult!
Here, for example, is what was happening to me in March:
2 March 1945
It’s been a pleasant billet these last three days, our most comfortable yet, and I regret that we must move on tomorrow. We met two schoolteachers tonight who came to share a meal at the inn where we’ve been staying. After dinner, they invited Dr. Becker and me most cordially to their house to listen to the wireless bulletin. I said—rashly!—that I wasn’t particularly interested in hearing the propaganda, and one of them, a Fräulein Hess, said, “Oh, not THAT bulletin,” with a knowing sort of smile. People in the countryside, I’mfinding, are more cheerful and also more outspoken than in the cities, I suppose because they eat better! And also because there are no Gestapo and SS here, only those one has known one’s entire life, even if they’ve joined the Party. Some are sour and unpleasant, but those, one soon hears, have always been so, and now simply have more license—and give a better excuse to avoid them. When the mayor is a jolly fellow, as here, the whole town feels different.
Dr. Becker and I argued later, though, about going to the teachers’ house (very quietly, of course). He said, “How do you know they’re not informers?” I said, “Well, we just won’t say anything, then. If we don’t volunteer our opinion, how can they inform on us? Besides, how do they knowwearen’t informers? Aren’t they the ones more at risk?” I thought that was quite clever. “Besides,” I said, feeling a bit ashamed of my impatience, “it will probably just be Dr. Goebbels again. What else could they really be listening to?” He said, “It’s too risky. You know that listening to enemy broadcasts carries the death sentence.” I’m afraid I lost my temper a bit—it’s been raining today, and the thought of walking in the rain tomorrow has us both on edge—and said, “Well, don’t come if you don’t want to, but I’m going,” and left to find the teachers, full of impatience for his timidity.
I planned to be very careful, very cautious, but I’m afraid I didn’t do as well as I’d hoped. First on the menu was Dr. Goebbels—how prescient I am!—giving us a long spiel, comparing us to marathon runners exhausted by the race, tired and thirsty, battered and bruised, powered only by will now, but determined to finish the race at any cost. “We must stay the course,” he said, “and victory will be ours. The tide has turned in our favor before, and it’s turning again now. Our brave troops are regrouping for fresh assaults even now. Anyone saying otherwise is lying, trying to weaken our indomitable spirit, and must be immediately reported as a defeatist. Why, tonight, as I speak, our V-2 rockets are wreaking terrible havoc on Britain, and morale among the enemy is falling fast.”
I didn’t meanto say anything, but when Fräulein Hess said, “The enemy seem to be managing quite well considering their low morale, I must say,” I couldn’t help but laugh. I went further, too, by saying, “I’m not sure it’s as good for morale as he thinks, either, telling us that we’re battered and bloody and about to drop!” They laughed, and I felt witty and clever, but afterwards—how careless a thing to say! I mustn’t let myself be lulled into sharing my thoughts with people I don’t know well. It’s too dangerous a habit.
Of course, then Fräulein Hess, who is the livelier of the two, said, “Now for therealnews,” and began to tune the wireless, and I forgot once again to be cautious.
The voice was very crackly and faded in and out, but it was the BBC! I’ve barely heard English spoken since Nanny and Miss Franklin left, except for those few times in Father’s dressing-room with the wireless, and hearing it again gave me a sort of cozy feeling. Very confusing, as of course they are trying to kill us! How many bombs have I dodged by now, and how much have I lost? Loyalties, I’m finding, can be confusing things.
The broadcaster said that the Americans have reached the Rhine, and that the Red Army is nearly at the Oder in Poland to the northeast and is nearing Vienna to the southeast. The Oder—that’s only 50 miles from Berlin! That was all we heard before the broadcast faded out entirely, but when I asked, “Can this be true?” my hostesses assured me that the BBC reports have always proven true, although the news may not reach us for a week or so.
It's been so long—a full seven years now since the Anschluss, the annexation of Austria. I was nine, but I remember it clearly from the newsreels: the ecstatic, cheering Austrian crowds, the swastikas hung from every window and lamppost, the children throwing flowers, and Hitler standing in the back of a car, giving the salute asevery hand rose in the air in answer, all of it set to music and giving one a swelling feeling of patriotism. I remember my father’s lips compressing over his newspaper, too, and the weary tone of his voice as he said to Mother, “Well, it’s begun. God only knows how it will end.”
Hitler hasn’t led Germany for my entire life, but I don’t remember when he didn’t. It’s hard to believe the Third Reich will just—end, even as I see the ruin and want and death around me. Do all people feel like this in war?
How I wish Father were here now to tell me what to do! Just writing about him and Mother makes me long for them so badly. I understand that Dr. Becker is fearful, and I understand why, but oh, to have Father here, so strong and so sure!
I’m really quite ashamed of myself now for my temper. I’m writing this in the kitchen, as I’m sure Dr. Becker and the children are asleep, but tomorrow morning, I must apologize. He’s been very good to me, and if I’m frightened, how much worse for him! And how much harder would it have been for me to have nobody? It’s made me braver, being with the Beckers, knowing that I must help keep them safe.
No, truly, I must apologize.
On the next page—what a change in fortunes!
27 March 1945
It’s been over a month now since we left Dresden, and at last, we’ve reached Bayreuth! What a journey it’s been to get here.
We were very tired and very wet when we arrived—we’d managedtrain tickets, but halfway along the usual stop-and-start, crawling journey, the train stopped entirely, and we were told that the tracks were blown ahead and we would need to walk the four miles to the next village. It was the middle of the night, and drizzling—a cold, dreary day and a cold, dreary night—and there were puddles everywhere. Nobody had a light, and we wouldn’t have been allowed to use one in the blackout anyway; we merely followed the person ahead of us, stumbling over the rough ground and trying not to fall into the bomb craters. Dr. Becker carried Gerhardt on his back when the boy got too tired, and I carried Dr. Becker’s rucksack. One in front and one behind. He joked that I looked like a pack animal, and I answered that I was at least balanced. That was a lovely light moment, even though it didn’t last.
An hour later, we lost the way, and then we were really in the soup: trying not to turn an ankle over the uneven, marshy ground, not knowing if we were going even remotely the right way or were simply wandering in circles. Then whoever was in front found the path again, and we trudged on.
By the time we reached the station, it was nearly five in the morning, and by the time a train came, it was after nine. We went in search of food in the town in the meantime, but couldn’t get so much as a coffee anywhere. We ate stale crusts of bread and drank water instead, and had to be glad of it. All the time, though, I thought, “We’re nearly to Bayreuth. We’ve nearly made it. Only a few hours more.” I said it to the children, too, and told them stories of how beautiful Bayreuth was: a picture-postcard of a town, surrounded by hills, the houses so picturesque with their half-timbering.
I feared, afterwards, that I’d said too much. What if it was bombed out? But when we got here, it was nearly as beautiful as I remembered. The half-timbered houses, the Opera House where Wagner’s operas are still performed during the Festival—how Hitler loves allthat grandiosity, the legends of German heroism!—and, of course, the forested hills all around. True, there are no flowers in the window boxes, not even crocuses, but I suppose there’s no time now for crocuses. But oh! How crowded the town is with refugees, dismayingly so. On the other hand, what a relief to find someplace looking the same as it used to!
We managed to find a restaurant that would accept our coupons and cash in return for coffee and soup—even ersatz coffee and potato soup tasted good to us, so hungry were we, but we had little enough of either—and then it was time to find Frau Langbein, Frau Heffinger’s sister, and hope that my faith in her would be justified. I knew only the name of the village, but that was enough to point us in the right direction. We were even overtaken by a farm cart along the way, and the farmer kindly took us up behind, so we spent the journey perched on bales of sweet-smelling hay. The rain had stopped, and a beautiful rainbow came out across the hills. It must surely be an omen.
