And Silently Falls The Snow

By Klaus M Schwarzenholz

In 1945 the German Reich was in its death throes. From the Eastern provinces people flee to the west. Two thousand people from a small town use horse drawn wagons to cross the vast frozen country. Thirty kilometres from Dresden they observe the fire-bombing and total destruction of the city.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Klaus M Schwarzenholz
• Release date: Apr 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301179978

Klaus M Schwarzenholz

Klaus M. Schwarzenholz born in Germany, migrated 1972 to Australia, holds a degree in psychology from the University of Tasmania What happened in 1945 to Silesian refugees and the city of Dresden lead to the attempted to write the book as a biography but the the information from the few survivors of his family was too fragmented and finally wrote the story as a novel based on the historical events but with fictional characters

Book preview

Chapter 1

They waited for the end to come.

The sunlight reflecting off the fresh snow highlighted the brightly painted eaves of the lodges. Icicles hung like large daggers from the roofs, sometimes breaking off with a sharp click, sometimes without any sound, coming down like an assassin’s knife.

The blanket of snow covering the road was undisturbed except for a few animal tracks. No people were in sight but the doors of their houses were wide open to discourage intruders forcing their way in.

Krummhübel, the old coal mining town which transformed itself into a winter sport resort, had survived the war without any damage, or even loss of business. After the Nazi takeover in 1933 the town had become very popular with NSDAP hierarchy. Until mid-1944 the lodges and Bauden were crowded with bureaucrats and their families, among them the black uniformed SS acting like overlords. But when the Russian winter offensive started, none of the Nazi customers remained. Then the invasion of Silesia started and the battle for Breslau, Silesia’s capital. Krummhübel waited fearfully for its turn.

The sound of the Russian artillery’s rolling thunder in the distance was, in a strange way, reassuring. They were still safe. Only when there was a pause did people look up and try to reassure each other in fearful whispers.

Rolf stood at the open window and listened—nothing but silence, as if the town was holding its breath. He combed his hair with his hands. His hair was dripping wet; he was perspiring despite the coldness of the winter morning.

He had listened many times before, waiting for the resumption of the artillery, but this time the silence continued.

There! Movement. Someone walked past the window in the house on the other side.

Only his neighbour.

He shivered and closed the window.

The waiting continued.

Krummhübel was a small ski resort at the foothills of the Schneekoppe, the highest peak of the Sudeten Mountains, bordering Czechoslovakia and Germany. The town was at the end of the road from Hirschberg, the district administration centre.

There was no other way in or out of the town.

Only old men were left. The young ones were at the eastern front and the women and children were hiding in the caves and mines. The rumour was that the invaders burned down only unoccupied houses.

The waiting continued.

There was a sound in the house. He tried to identify it. Like running water—but that was impossible, the plumbing was frozen. Puzzled, he followed the sound down the hallway to the kitchen.

The sun through the kitchen window framed a huge, bear-like figure pissing into the sink. He turned his head as Rolf drew near.

‘Stoi! Stoi! You SS?’

The leathery Mongol face distorted into a ferocious snarl, as the man spun around and punched his gun into Rolf’s stomach. Rolf collapsed to the floor. The Russian pulled his clothing over his genitals. He wore a Wehrmacht officer’s overcoat with the insignias ripped off. His bloodied boots were mismatched; looted from different bodies. His only clean clothing was his fur cap with a bright red Soviet star. He stank.

‘You SS! Stoi!’

His shout was more of a statement than a question. Rolf struggled to sit up, trying not to vomit. He knew that only incredible luck had saved him from being instantly shot. He shouldn’t have sneaked up on the man. He raised both arms so that the Russian could see that he didn’t have the SS blood-group tattoo on the inside of his upper arms. The Russian seemed to accept that Rolf was not an SS man; his demands changed.

‘Uri? Uri!’ He pointed to Rolf’s wrist.

Rolf took off his watch, and like a gleeful child the Russian grabbed it and held it against his ear. His face lit up. Countless cracks and wrinkles proved that he was used to smiling and laughter.

‘Tick, tock,’ he said, moving his head from side to side like a pendulum.

Rolf lowered his aching arms but the Russian’s face instantly became a snarling mask and he slammed his gun into Rolf’s stomach again. Rolf saw, through a red haze of pain, the Russian’s grin as he went back to the sink to finish his piss. He turned frequently to check on Rolf, not bothering where his urine stream was going. Why did he bother to piss into the sink in the first place? Rolf thought.

The Russian started to search the kitchen. He said something to Rolf, pointing to his mouth. Bad luck, Rolf thought, there is no food left in this place. He shook his head. More shouting and kicks to his legs was the response.

A sound came from the lounge room. The Russian froze, shouted something and fired his gun towards the sound. Bullets ricocheted through the kitchen; plaster walls exploded until his magazine was empty. He carried something to Rolf.

‘Uri?’ he said. Rolf recognised the remains of his cuckoo clock.

‘Uri!’ Rolf said.

The Russian frowned, gave Rolf a few hearty kicks in the ribs and left. Rolf passed out. As he was regaining consciousness he could hear new voices.

‘Uri? Uri?’ Then a different voice, but more demanding.

‘Uri! Uri!’

We could have won the war if we had enough watches to hand out, Rolf thought. They would do anything for watches. He kept his eyes closed, desperately trying not to groan when the newcomers kicked him again. At last they left and he slipped into painless darkness.

It was night when he woke. The cold numbed the pain but he was shaking violently. He stumbled to the bedroom. The feather duvets were untouched. He cried out when he saw someone standing in his bedroom. When he realized it was only his reflection in the bedside mirror he was horrified. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a muscular physique, looking ten years younger then his fifty-eight years, but the reflection staring back at him looked like a badly bruised seventy-year-old. His sandy coloured hair had developed large grey patches. Dried blood around his mouth gave his face the expression of a permanent snarl. He collapsed onto the bed. It seemed to take hours before he was warm enough to drift into sleep.

When he woke the next morning, bright sunlight blinded him for a few moments. His body hurt but it didn’t seem to be serious, only bruises. Then he heard something which made his skin crawl.

Tanks!

The low rumble grew louder and louder. The building and his body were vibrating as the first steel monsters passed the house. The screeching from the tanks’ chains, hungry for lubrication, jarred his teeth and screamed through his brain. He slumped to the ground panting, shivering, hoping to die fast.

The house continued to vibrate. There was something different; he looked up. The ceiling had developed a network of cracks and had begun to disintegrate. He rubbed burning plaster dust out of his eyes and forced himself up.

From behind the curtains he saw an endless column of tanks. His heart stopped for a moment when he became aware of infantry soldiers jumping from the tanks and entering houses.

He wouldn’t survive another beating. He had to hide, but where?

The soldiers were systematically combing through the houses, occasional shots confirming that they were not only looting. Where to hide?

The attic? No, too much junk that would interest looters.

The coalbunker? No, it would take hours to create a hiding space in the neatly stacked briquettes.

Ah, yes, the well! It was deep and a casual glance wouldn’t find him. He dashed out to the back of the house, lifted the wooden lid of the well, and hesitated. There was fresh snow everywhere. He swore: the well as a hiding place was out because he had just shifted the snow cover off the lid. They wouldn’t even bother to look. A dropped grenade would assure them that no one was alive down there.

Shots came from a house nearby. The sharp pain in his stomach urged him to find a solution. He looked around. Of course! There in front of him was the answer. The lavatory!

The path to the lavatory was well used, snow-free. It wouldn’t give him away.

As he closed the door he heard someone coming into the backyard. The Russians were searching his house. He lifted the wooden seat, hesitated at the stink from the hole, and jumped in.

The cesspit had been in use for years and was nearly filled. He expected the surface to be frozen solid, but he was wrong. Slowly he sank down until the excrement was up to his chest. The smell was so overbearing he thought he would vomit, or pass out.

Above his head he could feel the wooden frame of the seat. He squeezed his hand under the lid and tried to pull himself out, but the suction of the icy sludge was too strong. He strained against the drag, despite his fear that the Russians would hear his panting over the noise of the tanks.

Russian voices! People coming down the path.

He let go and splashed back, sinking deeper than before.

It doesn’t matter if they find me, he thought. I’ll drown in my own shit anyway.

The toilet door creaked.

Oh mein Gott!

The Russian lifted the lid and for a moment Rolf’s face was bathed in light, only to be plunged into darkness when the man placed his arse over the opening. For a moment Rolf felt lucky that the Russian didn’t peer into the hole, until warm faeces began raining down.

Rolf stayed in the hole until the sounds of the tanks faded and were gone. After a few panicky moments fighting the sludge, which was trying to hold him back, he forced the lid open and climbed out.

The tanks were gone. There were no soldiers anywhere in sight. The sun was still shining and in its warming rays he suddenly became aware that the stinking shit he was covered in was steaming and the stench was increasing by the second. He ripped his putrid clothes off and rolled his naked body in the snow. There was no water, the pump was frozen, but there was plenty of snow. He rubbed himself with snow until his body turned blue and numb.

He ran into the house. The blankets and duvets were gone and he had to cover himself in the curtains and rags that the Russians didn’t think worth looting.

It was too dangerous to light a fire; the smoke would have been visible for kilometres. Slowly his body warmed up, and with the warmth came shrieking pain, as each limb’s nerves came alive again.

Most of his clothes were gone. Dressed in his Sunday suit, the only one left, he searched for his friend Hans and any others who had stayed in their houses and survived.

Hans had hidden in his coalbunker. His bright smile was even brighter through the coal dust.

‘Nice suit,’ he said and gave Rolf a hug and jumped back. ‘Herr im Himmel! What is that stink?’

‘Shit’, Rolf said.

* *

Some of the unoccupied houses were on fire or smashed by tanks, but most of Krummhübel was relatively untouched.

The town had paid a price.

Of the sixty men who stayed behind twelve had been shot. Either they didn’t give the Russian looters what they demanded, usually watches, or the Russians didn’t believe that there were no women in the town. Some were shot for no reason.

But now the tanks were gone and no troops had been left behind.

‘Twelve dead, we should have had prevented that.’ Hans looked at Rolf as if he had murdered the men.

‘They chose to stay, like you, but didn’t hide like you. You are lucky they didn’t burn your house down.’

‘If they had hidden they would be alive.’

‘Maybe, but they chose to stay and make the Russians believe that everyone else left. Would you have preferred four hundred raped women?’

Chapter 2

The whole town attended the funeral of the twelve murdered men.

Day-by-day the population was shrinking. Every day, loaded wagons headed down the main road, as those left behind looked on without waving goodbye. They stay with us, but they want to go, Elli thought.

Hans and Rolf pleaded with people to wait until they could all leave together. The exodus went on, some leaving in the middle of the night, as if they were ashamed.

It was a week since their ordeal in the caves and they were still recovering, especially the children. Elli’s daughter Anna woke up crying every night and did not settle unless her mother lit a candle in her room and stayed until she fell asleep again. But candles were getting scarce.

One night Elli was woken early by banging and shouting coming from their neighbour’s house. They were loading their wagon. She rushed out.

‘Hannelore, what are you doing? Wait! It’s too dangerous to go on your own.’ Hannelore, a young looking woman in her forties, and her three young daughters, stopped packing for a moment.

‘Heike, get the mattress, and Lotte, don’t stand around, there is more kitchen stuff to be loaded. Help Elke. Schnell!’ The two girls looked at their mother, perplexed, but then rushed back into the house.

‘Hannelore, are you listening?’

Hannelore spun around and raised her arms as if she wanted to push Elli out of her way. For a moment she stood there, tense and shaking, trying to stare Elli down. Elli forced herself to smile and reached out to her. Hannelore resisted at first but then crumbled into her arms. Sobbing, she asked Elli if she didn’t know that the Poles were coming and they would all be murdered.

‘The Poles? The Prisoners of War here in town?’ Elli asked. She knew what Hannelore was talking about. The news was impossible to ignore, as the Reichsradio repeated several times a day that Polish settlers would follow the Red Army and evict the remaining German population. There were also reports that the Poles were dealing with the Germans in an even more barbaric way than the Russians.

‘They said on the BBC that the Russians are giving Silesia to the Poles, and if we don’t get out we’ll all be killed!’ Hannelore looked up, tears streaming down her face. ‘I have to protect my daughters. Hans and your father are wrong to wait.’

Elli was shaken; she hadn’t heard that there was any truth to the propaganda of the German or English radio broadcasts and still did not believe it. She tried to convince her neighbour. Everyone was just panicking. Hannelore stopped crying. Elli was amazed when the woman, who a moment ago was falling apart, straightened up and looked her in the eyes.

‘If only half of what I’ve heard is true there is very good reason to be scared.’

* *

The Reichshof, Krummhübel’s leading hotel where Elli was employed as a chef had, like many other businesses, allocated POWs as workers for menial and dirty work in and around the hotel. Every morning three trucks arrived from Hirschberg’s POW camp. The prisoners were guarded by Wehrmacht soldiers who accompanied the men to their designated work places. A black car carrying several SS men always escorted the men. The POWs, mainly Poles, looked starved and were often covered in bruises. Some were so weak they were unable to work. One day Elli said jokingly to a guard that she had to feed two of the men before they were able to work. She never complained again when one of her kitchen hands told her that two SS men escorted the prisoners to their car and left with them.

‘They took them back to the camps?’

‘No they were back twenty minutes later—without the prisoners.’

Elli knew that her careless remark had cost the two men their lives. She expected soon to be interrogated by the Gestapo to see if she had complaints about any other POWs, or anyone else. Denunciation was a part of life in the Third Reich. Everyone spied on everyone else and people disappeared. Every German citizen listened for the sharp knock on the door in the early hours, and hid under their blankets, hoping it didn’t mean them. When they heard the pleading and screaming they held their hands over their ears wanting it to stop. After the Gestapo and their victims left, doors opened and white faces appeared, trying to identify who was taken, and who had denounced them. Maybe tomorrow it was their turn. It didn’t need much—only someone telling the block-warden their neighbours listened to the BBC. Very few of the people taken away came back and if they did, they had changed. Terror was etched in their faces. Their neighbours kept away, knowing that the Gestapo would visit them again.

Elli never complained or joked again and made sure no one observed her when she fed prisoners.

* *

‘They treated them badly in the concentration camps,’ Hannelore said. ‘They said on the BBC that many were starved to death or even murdered. Don’t expect gratitude because you treated some well. They hate us with good reason.’

‘Hannelore, you can’t believe everything you hear on the BBC. That’s just propaganda to create fear and disunity among the population.’ Elli could see by Hannelore’s expression that she wasn’t convinced, so she tried appealing to the woman’s fear for her family. They would be safer in a convoy than on their own. A broken wheel or a lame horse could be the end of them if they travelled alone.

‘I’ll take my chances. I don’t think we have days to spare,’ Hannelore spoke with determination. ‘Here Elli, I want you to have this,’ she said, and handed Elli a thin, silver necklace with a zodiac pendent of Scorpio. ‘Remember us. You were a good friend and neighbour.’ Elli felt embarrassed; Hannelore had never before expressed herself like that.

‘Wait Hannelore. Here take mine.’ Elli took off her golden necklace with a single large pearl that her father had given her at the completion of her Abitur. Hannelore blushed.

‘Elli, that is very expensive. I can’t take that.’

‘Sure you can,’ Elli smiled. "Remember us too.’

When the wagon rolled slowly down the road, Elli felt her eyes burning and asked herself if it was really wise to stay.

Two days later, a small convoy of Polish soldiers arrived in Krummhübel.

* *

Except for the Lutheran church, the Rathaus was the largest building in Krummhübel. The buildings faced each other across the cobblestone street. In 1933 the Nazis replaced the council with Nazi party appointees and the SA made the town hall its headquarters. In 1941, with the increase in holidaying party officials, the Gestapo also established itself in the building. The Rathaus’s locally mined granite facade was in stark contrast to the church’s light sandstone structure and contributed to the building’s sinister impression.

The Rathaushalle was bursting with people. Laid out as a multipurpose room, there was no fixed seating. Flimsy fold-up chairs strained under the weight of people sharing them. The whole population of Krummhübel was squashed into the room, built for a maximum of three hundred people. In the aisles there was jostling as people tried to see the stage.

The freezing hall’s central-heating boiler was shut down for lack of coal and the room’s icy air mingled with heat from the densely packed crowd. Tobacco smoke and breath produced a choking fog in which the crowd was barely visible and only the brightly lit stage stood out.

Like most others, Elli was dressed in layer upon layer of clothes, restricting her movements, and barely allowing her to fit into the narrow space her chair occupied. To her left was Elfriede Schulze, the local butcher’s wife, a large woman dressed in a moth-eaten fur coat with a blanket wrapped around her legs, forcing her to share part of Elli’s seat. To the right Elli was squashed against Irmgard Kopetz, one of her children’s teachers. Irmgard was dressed in a worn-out coat, with a thin scarf covering her head. Hunched in her chair, she shivered.

‘Elfriede, please share your blanket with us. Irmgard is freezing.’

Elfriede looked at her, annoyed, but then spread the blanket out over Elli and Irmgard’s laps. ‘Irmgard, swap seats with me; you’ll be warmer between us.’ Elli manoeuvred the small woman between her and Elfriede.

‘Danke, Elli.’ Irmgard spoke softly. ‘How silly of me not to dress properly.’ Elli smiled at her. She knew the widowed teacher had barely enough clothes and blankets for her daughters.

‘Who do these Polacks think they are?’ Elfriede said to Elli, ignoring Irmgard between them. ‘We were ordered to come to this meeting. How come Hans Kruse let them tell us what to do? When your father was the Bürgermeister no one told him what to do. Kruse is so weak.’ Elli didn’t answer. Elfriede Schulze looked even more annoyed and turned to others for support.

‘What will they do to us Elli?’ Irmgard Kopetz’s whispery voice was only just audible.

‘Who, Irmgard?’

‘The Poles! I heard terrible things. They rape and murder women and children.’

‘Everyone is scared. There are so many rumours. We survived the Russians and we’ll cope with the Poles. Hans and my father will know what to do.’ Irmgard stared at her for a moment. The fear in her face was undiminished as she shrank back into her seat.

The walls were still plastered with large posters alerting the German population to be suspicious, not only of strangers, but anyone. Spies could be everywhere. In the centre above the stage, some thoughtful soul had hung a painting over the faded official photograph of the Führer.

Much better, Elli thought, but rather silly to leave the swastika flags on each side.

She looked around and shivered when she saw several small round holes in the cracked plaster wall, surrounded by brown discolorations. Bullet holes and blood. Maybe someone was shot against that wall. She felt sick in her stomach but still tried to see if there were more. The smoky atmosphere in the hall deflected the light and made it impossible.

‘Irmgard, what do you think those holes in the wall are?’ Irmgard looked at the wall beside her. When she turned back to Elli, her white face showed Elli that she had drawn the same conclusion.

‘Oh mein lieber Gott, someone was shot here.’

Elli remembered her terror when, in the middle of the night, the Gestapo arrested her father and every other member of the council and took them to the Rathaus. Had it not been for Hans, Rolf would have disappeared like so many others. Hans, the newly appointed administrator, used his connections to have Rolf freed, at great risk to himself.

The hall had been a cause of anxiety for Elli since her childhood. It was where her mother directed the local amateur theatre group. Elli did not remember the stage being so small. It had seemed a huge space with nowhere to hide and with an invisible audience hanging on her every movement and word. She hated it, even though she had participated in only two plays. The first time she had forgotten her lines and Ruth had saved her with several prompts. The second time she forgot her lines again, and Ruth was not around to rescue her, so she improvised. She ignored the bewildered looks of the other performers and her mother’s gestures and continued to demolish the play. The audience responded with howling laughter. They loved it, but Elli never went on stage again—unlike Ruth, who loved to perform, never forgot a line, had impeccable timing and always looked striking.

If Ruth had not become a successful painter, Elli knew she could have been a famous actress.

Suddenly there was a commotion. Elli’s thoughts jolted back to the Rathaus. Hans was coming through the back door, followed by four men in Russian uniforms. No, not Russian, Polish!

Hans went on to the stage and raised both arms. The noise died down.

‘Friends and neighbours, the purpose of this meeting is to decide whether to stay in Krummhübel, or to leave.’

His voice was low, barely audible. Angry hisses from all sides finally silenced those who had continued to talk.

‘By now, all of you are aware that Polish settlers are coming into Silesia. These officers have told us that the first group of settlers is only two days away and that we have to decide now if we want to stay or leave. The settlers will have their choice of our houses, our business, our property.’

There was silence in the hall.

A falling chair sounded like an explosion. People jumped off their chairs, yelling and hurling abuse at the men on the stage. Hans stumbled back from the onslaught. The four soldiers made attempts to unbutton their pistol holsters. Hans lifted his arms, and gestured at one of the Polish officers to step forward.

The Pole, his face ablaze, started to yell, slapping his hands together, emphasising each word.

‘This is not your town anymore! In the future it will be called by its Polish name, Karpacz. Karpacz!’ he said again. ‘Germany has lost the war. Now the German people will pay for it. We take back what is ours. Silesia was, and is now again, West Poland. You can stay, but if you do you will have to work for us.’

The room exploded, everyone shouting at the same time.

‘Please friends, settle down and let me talk!’ Hans tried to cut in. He had to repeat himself a few times but slowly the crowd quietened. ‘Friends, we have to face reality. Silesia is no longer German and the Poles will settle here.’

The crowd was restless. This was not what they wanted to hear. Several people interjected but Hans took no notice of them.

‘Don’t expect any sympathy or understanding from the Poles. As they see it, we are still their enemies. We invaded their land and now it’s their turn. They give us one choice only—to stay or leave. And we have to decide here and now.’

The Polish officer stepped forward again.

‘We will allow you to stay if you want to. You destroyed our country and murdered our people, but we will forgive the past. You can help to rebuild Silesia.’ He stopped for a moment and looked around at his audience. ‘You won’t be allowed to own property, only Polish people can do that. You will work and you will earn your living.’

‘What, stay as your slaves?’ Elfriede, who until now had been talking to others around her, jumped up. To Elli’s horror, she shook her fists at the stage.

‘Sit down Elfriede! Are you totally mad?’ Elli forced her down. The Polish officer didn’t see from where the interjection had come, but responded to it.

‘We were your slaves; you used us and killed us, but we are not like you. You may stay, but you will have to work. You can stay in your houses if Polish people don’t need them, but you’ll have to pay rent to the Polish government. Should you decide to leave, you must be gone within two days. You must not take anything with you, except clothes, pots and pans. No animals, with the exception of one horse for each wagon. This is a very generous offer from the Polish people. We expect you to be grateful.’

With a formal smile, he stepped back.

Elli was not sure if the Poles really expected the Germans to stay. What the speech certainly achieved was a decision.

When Hans called for a show of hands in favour of leaving, there were no abstentions.

Chapter 3

Two weeks earlier.

‘We can’t leave now,’ Rolf said. ‘It’s too dangerous. Look.’ He spread out a map of the area around Krummhübel.

Both his daughters, Ruth and Elli and four of his five grandchildren were in the kitchen.

Elli, 34 years old, blond, tall and slim, the mother of three children, represented the perfect Arian woman for the Nazis. Like a highly regarded breeding cow, as a jovial SS man dining in her restaurant highlighted, by offering to sire two more children for her so she would be awarded the ‘Mother Cross’ medal. Furious she slapped him and walked out. Moments later a pale, shivering restaurant manager asked her if she was insane and warned her that she would be visited by the Gestapo, but nothing happened.

Elli’s sister Ruth, 38 years, was a brunette with the petite figure of a ballet dancer. The sisters were so different that Rolf often had to field questions about how sure he was of their paternity. The joke went sour when Ruth was first refused her Aryan certificate, a written confirmation that none of her ancestors, going back to great-grandparents, were Jewish. She had studied painting in Breslau and Berlin and many of her teachers had a Jewish background, which was also held against her.

Ruth’s two children were playing with pots and pans they had dragged out of the cupboards, utterly unaffected by the tension between the adults.

‘Elfi, Hubert, stop