March 3rd 1945

March 1st/2nd 1945

We knew that the Americans were coming ever closer. We could hear Artillery fire as villages only a few kilometers away were shelled. For weeks we had spent every night in the cellar, mother hadn't bothered carrying bedding upstairs for a long time; it was easier that way. We had got used to the cold and darkness; I had lived a large part of my life underground and knew no better.

Even at this late stage German infantry was in defence positions, both in the village and in the same woods where we later, in the winter of 46, stole coal from the trains. American shelling of the village centre started at midnight on the 1st, on the morning of the 2nd a small band of the village Volkssturm made their way towards the advancing American troops in a futile attempt to hold them up on the outskirts. Fifteen German soldiers lost their lives in these skirmishes.

By early afternoon the remnants of the German resistance had retreated and the American battalion was firmly in control in and around the village. The fighting was over.

The noises changed; instead of the engines of the overhead artillery plane and bursts of shelling and machine gun fire the rumble of tanks in seemingly endless procession reached our cellar through the opening of the coal hole.

Somehow, in all the chaos, before the tanks rolled in, mother had managed to hang a white handkerchief from the shutters on the kitchen window. Still in the cellar, we heard human voices above the rumble of the tanks; then thunderous knocking on the front door.

Mother grabbed my hand and we stumbled up the cellar steps as fast as we could, realising that any delay could prove dangerous. Mother opened the door.

A search commando bristling with weapons roughly pushed past us. There were three or four GIs, one of them staying in the hall with us, the others searching the small house. The search was soon over; the Americans were looking for German soldiers. There were none hiding in our house.

Mother and I stayed utterly still and silent, we neither cried nor spoke at all; we couldn't understand what the GIs were shouting; we didn't even know if they were shouting at us. Mother was petrified, I was simply unable to understand what was going on, I just stared and stayed still.

The GIs left the same way they had come, roughly, suddenly, leaving the front door wide open. Mother tried to shut it after them but a gun pushed it out of her hand and it stayed open.

There was no reason to go back into the cellar; instead, we went into the kitchen, which was also our living room. Although the front door stood wide open the shutters on the window were still closed, the kitchen was dark. There was no electricity, but even had there been, we would not have thought of switching on a lamp. The darkness was comforting in a way, it made the noise outside seem less threatening. A child closes its eyes to make the world disappear.

There were many more searches during the same day and the following night and the following days. We owned very little of any value, nothing was stolen from us. We were never ill treated by any of the GIs. Mother and I stayed close together the whole of the time, day and night, taking naps in her bed, fully dressed, when we could. Mother's handkerchief stayed fixed to the shutters.

Town & Country and a bit of Culture

In my last post I talked about the many societies we have; there is also a very active social scene. Many inhabitants are retired professionals, academics, artists, writers and musicians. Although not all of them meet socially, at least not in the same circles, quite a few social gatherings take place. we give each other meals, meet for drinks, have parties. 

In the last week the scraper and I went to a birthday party, a lunch party and gave a dinner party ourselves. We also spent an evening with friends watching Verdi's "Don Carlo"  on DVD, with a young Pavarotti and Ricardo Muti conducting the La Scala orchestra.

Not bad for the sticks. 

Drinks parties can be boring, one meets the same 20 or 30 people in varying combinations and after a while it is difficult to find anything new to say. And I certainly don't want to listen to the same  stories time after time. I find switching off doesn't always help, sometimes I get found out because I've been asked a question which I simply haven't registered and am therefore unable to answer. Then one paddles like mad to catch up. 

Dinner parties are different. Sometimes you are paired with bores, which is rotten luck. Mostly though, and certainly on the occasions when the scraper and I  do the entertaining, we chose guests who will be amusing, lively and interesting. I try to get the IQ average to be twice that of the age average. At least. There were two history professors, two musicians, two teachers at the table this weeks, all of them happy to eat, drink, talk and be very merry indeed. 

Our Community

A place like our village, which is so far from anywhere, has to have a lot going on which is not dependent on anyone or anything from outside - (or from  off, as the locals would say) -. 

According to the Valley Diary, which is also produced entirely by people in our community, there are currently 27 local societies, as well as Church groups, school related groups, good neighbour groups,  groups providing emergency transport. We have a village hall and a Museum. We also have our own surgery and dispensary, a hardware shop, 2 butchers, a small supermarket, a shop selling flowers and a few groceries, a newsagent's,  a post office (still) and a hairdresser's. All that for about 700 inhabitants and a further 200 people living in the outlying hamlets and on farms.

All societies flourish; admittedly, it is mainly incomers who do the work, provide the meals on wheels, run the elderly to hospitals or sit with them and pick up prescriptions. Much is run by committee, on the whole, people mean well and are kind, even if some might try to boss others around.  Much is achieved by a small number of volunteers and large amounts of money are collected almost weekly through the many fundraising events held by the societies.

In a small community like our's good neighbourliness is all, without it, many people would find daily life difficult.  You pop in to see if Mrs. Smith is alright, minding your own business is not an option. Of course, that can cause problems, Mrs. Smith sometimes resents the interfering busybody who checks on her, but at other times she is very grateful.

Snowdrops, aconites and hellebores

A wonderful day's gardening, Gardener came at 10.30 am and we didn't stop work until 4.30 pm, with one short break for lunch. We are still working on repair jobs like creosoting the new fence and making low brick walls around the beds where the cats dig up the earth and chuck it on the paths. Perhaps a brick wall will stop them. 

We pruned a couple of apple trees, an ancient one, all gnarled and bent, which produces scabby apples which are only good enough for the birds and a beautiful crab apple tree, Red Sentinel, which is spectacular in all seasons, first producing gorgeous blossom and later millions of tiny bright red apples, which stay on the branches throughout the winter, provided the birds don't eat them all. But there are so many of them even my greedy blackbirds can't take them all. I'd encourage anyone who has the space to plant and cherish a Red Sentinel, they are just so wonderful to look at. We also cut back a few fuchsia bushes; I sincerely hope I won't regret that, there will still be frosts. Most of the fuchsias grow in  sheltered spots along walls; perhaps that'll protect them enough. We tidied up and mulched the spring borders. Soon the daffodils will be too tall to get in there. The snowdrops and aconites are quite spectacular now and the hellebore buds are beginning to open. 

Crocuses

One frost free night and the first crocuses are out here in the Marches. So far only the ordinary blue and orange variety are sprinkled on sunny banks, but can the others be far behind?

March 3rd 1945

On this day the war was over for us, the 9th US Army reached the Kreis Kempen.

Not that I understood it at the time, all I knew was that mother and I were alone in the house and mother was racing around in a panic. We rented two rooms and a kitchen in a house which belonged to Nazi sympathizers, members of the party since the beginning. Our landlord was somewhere at the front, but his wife and son, who was in the "Hitler Youth" lived in the same house.

When news of the Americans' imminent arrival reached the village this woman and her son fled; they were not the only ones. Mother was left with a houseful of incriminating material, from pamphlets and posters to uniforms and a Nazi flag, all the accumulated detritus of 12 years' party membership. How to get rid of this was a huge problem for her; she had no help, couldn't ask anyone for help - even at this late stage there were still pockets of German resistance and you could still get shot for any sign of mutiny -. But the stuff had to be got rid of. The papers, pamphlets, magazines and posters she burned, some in the range in the kitchen and some in the copper fire in the washhouse in the back. The uniforms, neckerchiefs and flag were much harder to dispose of. We had an earth closet in the back, in a part of the shed, the usual wooden box with a hole in the top and a cover for the hole; that's where she stuffed everything she couldn't burn. It was dark in the privy, the closet was deep and noisome; even a keen house search might forego a close inspection.

Mother could only hope that she had found and disposed of everything there was; we kept our heads down and awaited developments.

Town & Country and a bit of Culture

The thaw continues, the courtyard is almost free of ice, driving is again possible.

I met with some German speaking friends in the local town to read and discuss the Heinrich Boell Erzaehlung "Die blasse Anna" over tea and biscuits; like so many of Boell's stories there is great sadness and a feeling of hopelessness about the tale.  Boell appears to be one of the few German authors whose work is well known among literary Brits.

A bit of much needed grocery shopping in the pretty little town, which still has many individual shops selling good quality, non-mass produced goods, followed. Ludlow is  famous for its restaurants and its markets selling produce from the surrounding areas. Come for a visit!! Alas, the dreaded Tesco has managed to get its foot in the door here too.

Today's social outing was a pleasant lunch with neighbours.  After a glass of wine or two we feel quite ready to discuss and bemoan the dire state of the economy;  it seems to be the fashion to moan.

"A bank is a place that will lend you money if you can prove that you don't need it."

Oh, Bob Hope, if only!!

A visit to the ballet "The Russian State Ballet & Orchestra of Siberia" performing "The Nutcracker" last week provided the bit of culture; I went on my own - that is with a coachload of other people (how are the mighty fallen). The Scraper has played it too many times to want to pay money to see it. We probably didn't get to see the first XI, there was the odd fumbled step. The band played well,  I almost hummed along to Tchaikovsky's familiar tunes. Considering that country mice can't be choosers it was a very enjoyable outing, with a jolly good and pleasantly lubricated lunch in the company of like-minded people thrown in.

Ah well, why moan ? 

Winter 46/47

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questions and answers

Conversation on a street corner (overheard)

1st woman (holding leaflets):                                       hello

2nd woman (waiting to cross the road)                      hello

1st woman: Is there anything you would like to pray for today?

2nd woman: Yes, better weather.

1st woman: I wonder what it would be like in heaven?

2nd woman: Boring!

1st woman: Boring?

2nd woman: Well,  sitting on all those white clouds, playing lutes and harps.

1st woman: What? That's not what it says in the Bible!

2nd woman: Well, what do you expect? All those old men writing it up over several centuries,

what do they know about it!!

2nd woman crosses the road.

Bores

Went out to lunch yesterday; a very pleasant couple invited us to their home. We are not exactly great friends but we get on very well and enjoy each others company whenever we meet.

Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for the other couple who was present. The husband is quiet, doesn't say much. The wife makes up for his reticence : she talks. And talks. And talks. I quite like people who entertain me, in whose slipstream I can gently doze away a pleasant couple of hours, while enjoying good food and drink. What I cannot abide is being forced to listen to every tiny detail in the life of somebody's (unknown to me) family, be they children, grandchildren, brothers and sisters, yes, even uncles and aunts. A bit of juicy gossip, yes, I can live with that. I admit, that secretly, I might even enjoy a bit of scandal - the sort that can never be repeated but causes a tiny frisson of glee all the same. But the everyday minutiae of very boring lives drive me rigid with fury.  Instead of relaxing in such people's company, I can feel my shoulders getting stiffer and more tense by the minute. And, politeness demands, that you say nothing to shut them up; you are a guest in somebody else's house.

Could one possibly ask never to be invited at the same time again? 

Winter 46/47

Huge news: it's winter - we have snow - Britain has come to a standstill!!!

For a country which is obsessed with the weather (after all, there is hardly a casual conversation which does not start with a remark or two about it), we sure don't know how to cope with it.

However, it's fun for me to wade through deep snow, snug in Aunt Josephine's ancient furs, watching Benno race around and manically bite into it. All his favourite sticks are buried

deep and he digs so hard to unearth them, the snow flies up and covers him too. The only problem is that we can't drive the car: we can't get it over the cattle grids and out of the drive.

Winter wasn't always such fun.

There was a time when frost, ice and snow were a curse and that was the winter of 46/47 in Germany. In fact, more or less the whole of Europe iced over but for a country which was on its knees, with millions of people without fuel, without food, without shelter it was retribution indeed.

As a tiny child I lived in a village on the lower Rhine and although we had shelter we had neither food nor fuel. There were, however, trains filled with coal from the nearby mining area of the Ruhr, which rolled through woods not far off on their way to the Dutch border.

It so happened, that these trains always came to a momentary stop in the woods, waiting for a signal to allow them passage onwards. It didn't take long for this to become known in the village. The coal was transported in open wagons, not very high ones, with iron bars or steps on the outside. A few village men risked the first raids on the train; when nothing happened, others followed suit. Little by little, everyone was involved in stealing coal, my parents and me included. It was always after dark when the raids took place. As soon as the train started to slow down (it was never very fast) the men clambered aboard, throwing down coal with their bare hands while the women and children frantically scooped it up, into sacks or baskets; the lucky ones might have had a handcart, although it was quite difficult to get anything but the smallest conveyance through the uneven terrain of the woods. We had a bicycle which helped with carrying our loot. My father pushed it. My mother was ill with starvation and unable to carry much and I was too small, although I remember dragging a sack behind me until we got out of the wood and my father loaded it onto his back.

Because we were such a small group, we never managed to take much coal, enough for loading the stove once or twice only. Others were better organized; a family of several men and older children could carry two or three sacks away on each raid.

The authorities soon became aware of the raids. The trains never stopped for long, at most five to ten minutes, not enough time to steal large quantities of coal; it was, however, a criminal offence; even people in danger of freezing to death could not be allowed to get away with it.

We never knew how the military police found out but, within a week or two, the raids were regularly interrupted by several all terrain army vehicles arriving along the tracks, lights blazing, whistles whistling shrilly and much confused shouting. The men jumped from the wagons, women and children dragged away what they could and, abandoning the rest, the thieves fled into the woods.

Nevertheless, the raids continued for much of that winter. Not always did the military police get to the signal box in time; sometimes they came when the train was already moving again and the families were just about to vanish into the woods.

I never heard of anybody being caught and punished. Why that is so I don't know. Children and women would have been easy prey. Did the soldiers and policemen resent having to leave their vehicles and follow the fugitives into the dark woods? Why were they occasionally late arriving? Were their barracks too cosy on these bitter nights? Were the raids over too quickly for decisive action?

Or did they have a heart?