A Tank in my Street

By Klaus Gansel

Harrowing adventures and near death experiences as a child, and later as a teenager, in war torn Germany.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483500096

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INTRODUCTION

I was born in 1933, in Straubing, Germany, the same year Hitler rose to power. My sister, Ursula, arrived a year and a half later. My family had settled in that small Bavarian town on the Danube after my father, an engineer and technical representative for a company with headquarters in Munich, chose the Straubing area as his working territory.

At the height of the Allied bombing campaign, Dad was recalled to the company’s main office in Munich where he designed military gadgets for the Wehrmacht. The horrors of war and Nazism were not limited to the large metropolitan areas like Munich; little Straubing and my family did not escape their terrible impact.

While I cannot recall the exact words of conversations, I have added dialogue as it conforms to my memory. I also changed the names of neighbors, tenants and city officers to save them and their offspring from the embarrassment of their misdeeds—should they still be alive.

Please join me, my family and my playmates in our struggle to survive the hardships brought on by Hitler and his maniacal actions.

The stories you are about to read are true. I lived them.

Klaus Gansel, 2012.

CHAPTER 1 - - UNCLE BORIS

On January 1933, Adolf Hitler became Chancellor of Germany and two months later he took over the Government. While promising to be Germany’s savior, he attacked the neighboring countries and began a reign of terror and death.

April 20, 1939, Herr Hitler’s birthday. Red and white banners with black hooked crosses in their centers fluttered from flagpoles and hung from every window sill in the neighborhood. I heard a marching band tuning their instruments somewhere down the street. It was a Thursday, the stores were closed and Mom and Dad had gone away on a picnic. As was the custom then, our downstairs neighbor, Frau Wimmer had agreed to keep an eye on me and Ursula, my little sister.

My friend Franz and I had hunted fire salamanders in the Allach creek. I snagged two, but Franz only caught the blood leeches sticking to his legs. I used one of Mom's canning jars to take our trophies home and had to hurry before Frau Wimmer noticed I was late.

Trying not to slip on the polished wooden stairs of our apartment house, and leave water stains, I tiptoed up to the second floor where we lived, but when I reached for the key under the mat, the door opened with a bang. It wasn’t Frau Wimmer; it was Mom! She scared me half to death and almost made me drop the jar. Dad stood right behind her.

I shouldn’t have worried. They didn’t notice I was late coming home; something else was on their minds.

I’m telling you, Boris is missing, Mom shouted as she reached for me. She took the jar from my hands and pulled me into the apartment. In case she’d take a swipe at me, I ducked and escaped down the hall. I just know they grabbed him, she cried as she took off her hat and tossed it on the shelf under the hallway mirror. And this on Hitler’s birthday!

Mother, her blonde hair undone, looked pretty in the polka-dot summer dress she wore for the picnic where she and Dad had gone. Now they were back already and Mom said that Uncle Boris is missing.

Dad closed the apartment door. Don’t get carried away, for Heaven’s sake, he said. Just because Boris didn’t show up doesn’t mean he’s missing. Relax, darling. We’ll hear from him soon.

Dad, stocky with dark wavy hair and gray eyes, was taller than Mom. He liked to josh her by telling her she was beautiful when she was angry, but this time he didn’t and I felt a tingle of fear in my stomach. Uncle Boris was a business friend of Dad’s and not our real uncle, but we liked him a lot and I didn’t want anything bad to happen to him.

My blonde pigtailed little sister peeked out from behind the dining room door. Frau Wimmer must have sent her upstairs before I made it home. Dad saw Ursula and guided her into the hallway. Go on, wash up, you two, he said and shooed us toward the bathroom. Ursula and I did the backward shuffle, trying to find out what happened to Uncle Boris.

Mother twisted the buttons on her dress. I’m telling you, Boris is missing, she sobbed. Anything could have happened to him with all those Nazi uniforms around. Heaven knows, he doesn’t look like the rest of us; he looks like a foreigner with that black hair of his.

Mom grabbed the still full basket they had brought back from the picnic and stomped into the dining room. Dad followed her inside. You worry too much, he said to her back. When he turned and saw Ursula and me still standing in the hallway he growled, Wash up! Before we made it into the bathroom, the doorbell rang and the shadow of a tall man fell onto the riffled glass of our front door.

Mom must have heard the chime and came storming back out of the dining room, as Dad opened the door.

Boris! Mother shouted. Come in. Come in. Whatever happened to you? She threw her arms around his neck before Dad pulled him in with a handshake.

Whenever Uncle Boris came to visit he brought chocolates for my sister and me, and flowers for Mom. It made her smile. He’s such a gentleman, Mom used to say, but this time there were no chocolates for us, nor any flowers for her. He hugged Ursula and messed up my hair. Dad and Uncle Boris gripped each other by the shoulders and Dad wiped his eyes.

Mom held open the dining room door. Let’s go in here, she said. We’re glad you’re safe, Boris. Tell us what happened, Mother said, her voice fading as they entered the dining room.

Mom was right. Uncle Boris looked different from anybody we knew. He stood taller than Dad, and while he had wavy black hair like Dad, he parted it in the middle. He also had a narrow face, coal black eyes and a black mustache that covered all of his upper lip. Dad told us once that Uncle Boris was born in Bulgaria to a German mother and a Bulgarian father. I had heard Dad tease him that he looked more like an Arab than a German. To make things even worse, he had an odd last name. I never could get it right. It was something like Kariev—yes! Boris Kariev!

The only thing Ursula and I didn’t like when he came for a visit was that the grownups always talked politics. That’s when they sent Ursula and me out to play or they locked themselves in the dining room. They didn’t want us to hear what they were talking about and then blab it around the neighborhood. Once or twice they forgot we were still in the house and then we could hear them shouting and arguing behind that locked door.

As soon as the adults had gone into the dining room, I joined my sister at the bathroom sink. Then, clean and hungry like a gang of starved weasels, we rushed into the dining room looking for the picnic food.

I helped Ursula climb onto her chair, shoved a pillow under her butt and then slid onto the chair next to her.

Mom had put cold chicken and potato salad on china plates, and we dug right in. When everybody finished eating, she poured coffee for the grownups. Uncle Boris opened a silver case and passed Turkish cigarettes around to the adults. When Ursula asked to be excused and skipped out the door, I snagged her plate with the pudding she hadn’t finished.

Dad lit their cigarettes and then turned to Uncle Boris. You had us worried when we couldn’t find you up at the monument, he said and waved out his match. We wondered if we had the date wrong, but after we checked the calendar we assumed you were lost in the crowd of all those Nazis that were milling around. We asked people if they had seen you, but of course, nobody had. I thought it wiser not to ask too many questions; it being Hitler’s birthday and the Nazi bigwigs having their big celebration—with a band and all.

You did the right thing, Uncle Boris said, not asking around.

Mother touched his arm. Tell us what happened, she said.

I smeared pudding around on my plate to make it last. Uncle Boris stubbed out his cigarette. I was running a little late for our picnic, he said. So I parked at the bottom of the hill, near the steps of the monument. I thought it would be quicker to walk up than trying to find the road that goes around in back. He lit yet another cigarette and blew smoke through his nose. Did you know there are nearly three hundred steps from the base to the top of the Walhalla?

He waited for a reaction, but didn’t get one. Well, there are! he said. And when I got to the top, I was out of breath.

It’s those Turkish cigarettes you’ve been smoking, Mother said.

I suppose so, he said, and smiled. I stood there for a while to catch my breath. Then I walked past the flower beds hoping to find you, but then I realized that a big event was going on inside the Walhalla. He spread his hands. You saw it yourself: Hundreds of people in brown Nazi uniforms, running all over the place. I am telling you, Nazi brown shirts were more plentiful than cow patties in the nearby pastures!

Not so loud Boris, Mother said. The windows are open. Someone might hear you.

Uncle Boris smacked his forehead and continued. It finally dawned on me; the Nazis were installing some poobah into the pantheon.

I blurted out. What’s that?

Uncles Boris grinned. Cow patties, a pantheon, or a poobah?

What’s a Walhalla? I wanted to know.

Dad tapped the back of my hand. What did I tell you about interrupting when an adult is talking? he said.

Uncle Boris grinned and stubbed out his cigarette. Well, the Walhalla is a monument where they put statues of famous dead people in it. It’s like the Parthenon on top of the Acropolis in Athens. Tall white columns and lots of marble, he said. The Walhalla is a shimmering, white palace on top of a hill. From up there the Danube looks like a silvery ribbon.

As Uncle Boris talked he was waving his arms around and almost knocked his cup to the floor. Mom grabbed it just in time.

In clear weather you can see the Alps from there. It is truly a beautiful spot and that’s why we had planned to have our picnic there. Does that answer your question?

I didn’t know what a Parthenon was, or an Acropolis, but was afraid to say anything. I didn’t want to be sent from the room.

Mother poured more coffee. Uncle Boris took a sip, set his cup on the saucer and then looked at Mom. You know, only famous dead people are supposed to have a statue put in the Walhalla. The emphasis is on the word, dead! His voice got louder. But the Nazis don’t want to wait that long, he shouted and slapped the table with the flat of his hand.

I jumped and felt a little scared, but I wanted to hear what had happened. Mom picked up the teaspoon that had fallen off the table. Dad held up a hand and asked me if I didn’t have anything better to do than sit and listen to adult conversations. I said I didn’t and could I please, please, hear the rest of the story. Dad told me to leave the room anyway.

Mom smiled as I left the room and Uncle Boris made a face at me.

I went to my bedroom, which was right next door to the dining room, but I didn’t close the door. I could still see what was going on, and heard Mother say, Boris please, not so loud. I closed the windows but the walls have ears. I ducked behind the door because I thought she meant me.

Of course, Uncle Boris said and cleared his throat. Well, there were all these Nazi uniforms around, and sure enough, they were getting ready for some kind of induction ceremony. There were speeches and a band played one of the new Nazi marching songs. When the man of the hour appeared, the crowd cheered and I rose up on tiptoes so I could see who it was.

Who was it? Mother asked.

I never did find out, like I said, I was standing on tiptoes with my hands behind my back like this. He stood up and demonstrated. "Ellie, my secretary had wrapped half of a Bundt-cake in the brown packing paper we use at the office. It was to be my contribution for the picnic. Brown wrapping paper was all we had.

Suddenly, I am jerked off my feet. At first I thought it was a practical joke, but when my arms were twisted behind my back, I knew something bad was happening.

Mother gasped and Dad leaned forward, his eyes fixed on his friend.

It felt as if my arms were being wrenched from their sockets, Uncle Boris continued. It hurt like hell and I was confused about what was going on. I could feel somebody take the cake out of my hands, but I was so stupid with pain that all I could think was if they wanted a piece of cake they only had to ask me for it and not turn me into a cripple for heaven’s sake. He rubbed his shoulders. It still hurts.

My heart pounded as I listened at the door, but when I took another peek, Uncle Boris was looking right at me. I ducked back behind the door and held my breath. If he saw me, he didn’t let on.

They slapped handcuffs on me, he said. They dragged me by my elbows in such a way I couldn’t walk. I’m sure the tips of my shoes dug furrows in the dirt.

He lit another cigarette and blew more smoke through his nose. Everything happened so suddenly and the pain was so bad that I couldn’t think straight. It had to be a mistake I thought, as they forced me into a small wooden building and dumped me into a chair. That’s when I noticed they were from the Sturmabteilung. The SA. Hitler’s Nazi goons. Probably the security detail for the poobah they just immortalized in the Walhalla.

He shook his head. Funny, he said. I felt guilty all of a sudden, but I couldn’t think of anything I had done wrong. Now I was doubly sure it was all a mistake. It had to be!

Again he opened his silver case and pulled out yet another flat Turkish cigarette and stubbed out the one still burning in the ashtray.

Dad struck a match and held it up for Uncle Boris. Go on, he said.

Uncle Boris sucked the flame into the cigarette. "The door opened and this man, also in a brown uniform shirt, but wearing riding breeches and boots, came into the room. This rattled me so much I jumped up and shouted, ‘Heil Hitler!’ The goons took my handcuffs off and ‘Riding Breeches’