Out of the Ashes: Berlin 1930 to 1950

By Annemarie Reuter Schomaker

Seen through the eyes of a child,
the lives of real people in a world gone mad, gives this book its
character. Where else can you experience
the days and nights of innocent children caught in a nightmare, considering
life in wartime as normal. Picture mothers
separated from their children in the name of safety, thereby putting these
children into other, unforeseen dangers.

Imagine a group of school
children, considered wards of the state and therefore under the full protection
of the Hitler government, fleeing from the advancing Russian army in sub-zero
degree weather. See them walking for
days, with backpacks, and finally hitching a ride on open freight cars of a
military train.

Consider that seeing a Russian
propaganda movie in East Berlin was preferable over
watching an American flick in the West, just because the theater in the East
was heated. Ride on top of freight cars
into the countryside, searching for food, trading family treasures for a sack
of potatoes. Join West Berliners in
their stand against
communism despite cold and hunger.

From cover to cover these stories
will amaze you. Written with a sense of
humor, this book will capture your attention and keep you riveted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 14, 2003
• ISBN: 9781414017327

Annemarie Reuter Schomaker

Annemarie was born in Berlin in 1930 during the depression years and managed to survive the war and its aftermath. In 1950 she immigrated to the California, where she resides today.  Annemarie, now widowed, has 2 sons, 3 grandchildren and a great-grandson. A natural born storyteller, she kept her audiences riveted when relating her many adventures and misadventures in war-torn Germany.  Upon the urging of friends and acquaintances she started putting these stories on paper.  “Out of the Ashes” became such a hit, she decided to make the book available to the general public.  Her writing style is unique, often humorous and always entertaining. 

Book preview

© 2003 by Annemarie Reuter Schomaker. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,

or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 1-4140-1732-4 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4140-1733-2 (Paperback)

1stBooks-rev. 11/10/03

INDEX

INTRODUCTION: GRANDMOTHERS 1890 TO 1990

CHAPTER I   THE DEPRESSION 1930 TO 1931

CHAPTER II   HARD TIMES 1932 TO 1933

CHAPTER III   BETTER TIMES AHEAD 1934 TO 1935

CHAPTER IV   OLYMPICS 1936

CHAPTER V   ISLAND OF SYLT 1937

CHAPTER VI   LANDSBERG 1938 TO 1939

CHAPTER VII   RETURN TO BERLIN 1940

CHAPTER VIII   RADENZ SUMMER 1941

CHAPTER IX   MARIENBAD 1941

CHAPTER X   BERLIN 1942 TO 1943

CHAPTER XI   NEURUPPIN 1943

CHAPTER XII   TOTAL WAR 1944

CHAPTER XIII   EICHENBRUECK 1944

CHAPTER XIV   THE TREK 1945

CHAPTER XV   THE FLIGHT 1945

CHAPTER XVI   DROYSSIG 1945

CHAPTER XVII   BATTLE OF BERLIN 1945

CHAPTER XVIII   OCCUPATION 1945

CHAPTER XIX   WANDERLUST 1945

CHAPTER XX   FAMILY REUNION 1945

CHAPTER XXI   THE COLD WINTER 1946

CHAPTER XXII   THE COLD WAR 1947

CHAPTER XXIII   THE AIRLIFT 1948 TO 1949

EPILOGUE   OUT OF THE ASHES 1950

ADDENDUM   FAMILY MEMBERS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

INTRODUCTION

GRANDMOTHERS 1890 TO 1990

After a long and cloudless summer the first rains of fall were a welcome relief to parched Southern Californians. I truly enjoyed that dark and rainy weekend in November 1990. The smell of wet earth, mingled with smoke from neighbors’ fireplaces, drifted into the slightly opened window. Sitting on the floor in my den, papers, photos and notes strewn all around me, I sorted and re-sorted the incredible amount of information. I stacked Dad and the Reuter Family here, Mom and Heidkes there, and the rest in one pile for later use.

One item in particular had caught my eyes earlier, a little essay book written by my mother’s mother in far-away and long-ago Berlin, Germany. I had put it aside for later perusal. Writing a family chronicle would be a formidable task, a project I would tackle later. To begin the process I decided to start with my own life. It had enough subject matter to fill quite a few pages.

It was getting dark, time for a cup of coffee and a short break. The small den was the coziest place in my condominium; it was where I lived, surrounded by books and videotapes. The rest of the condo rooms had 20-foot high ceilings, too much space to heat economically. I quickly left the cold kitchen where I had just replenished my empty cup with steaming hot coffee, and settled down in front of my recently acquired computer. A blanket over my knees to ward off the cold, I picked up the copy of the essay my grandmother had written over 100 years ago.

It was titled Der gedeckte Tisch, loosely translated it meant the table set for dinner. The essay was just a simple class exercise, but her fine Victorian handwriting made it almost a work of art. I could hardly wait to read it. Grossmutti, as we called our maternal grandmother, was barely 16 years old when she penned this essay. It was difficult to imagine Grossmutti as a young girl. All I remembered was an old lady, tall and slender with very short thin white hair, and usually dressed in black. She walked slowly, her back straight as an arrow. When she found time to sit down, she perched on the front part of the chair, unless she was cradling a baby, when she would lean back and relax. Never did she cross her legs, put her elbows on the table, or do any of the unlady-like things for which we children were scolded so often.

As the soft rain became a downpour, with branches of a nearby tree brushing against the walls, I reluctantly closed the window, shutting out the world. It was time to concentrate on the task ahead. I came out of my reverie and started reading in earnest, translating the German into modern day English.

May 14,1890.

The Table Setting.

by: Anna Heidke

May 1, which the whole world had anticipated, was over. The workers had decided to celebrate that day. They wanted to prove that they were a great power, that without them, all traffic would stop. Without them factories would be stilled, no metal or coal would be won from the lap of the earth; without them no house would be built, no street or park, or city, for mankind relies on the worker.

But their lives, too, were intertwined with those of their fellow man, for if the bosses, architects and management laid down their work, the workers could not survive. No one can cut himself off from the world and live by and only for himself. One would have to live like barbarians, clothed in animal skins, building their own huts.

Thousands of people have worked on the things that surround us, not just people from our age, but from generations past. Take a table setting, for instance. How far back are our thoughts leading us!

Already in ancient times cloths and mats were braided and woven. Then the invention of the loom gave us finer material, and now big weaving machines manufacture them so beautifully. These linen wares find their ultimate in damask cloths. How much labor is necessary until we can put a tablecloth and napkins on the table?

First the flax must be sown, then harvested. It must be placed in water several times to break down the fiber, then it must be spread out in the sun for drying. After that, many hands work at breaking and spinning the flax, until it finally arrives as spun thread at the factory. Again, hands busy themselves putting the machines into motion, machines that were built by people from different areas, to produce fabrics of all kinds, with many patterns and figures.

I could not help chuckle as I put down the little essay book to pause for a moment. Little did Grossmutti imagine the wash and wear and no-iron fabrics of her great-grandchildren’s era. It was a monstrous task to care of the damask tablecloths, and other household linens. They were boiled in soap water, then washed in a tub. They were rinsed numerous times, by hand, of course. After a starch bath they were hung on a line to dry. The ironing was as much of a chore as anything, only a very hot iron could banish all the wrinkles. I grew up before the no-iron miracle and spent innumerable hours pushing an electric iron back and forth over many a tablecloth, always careful not to scorch it. How much more difficult ironing must have been with those little heavy hand irons, heated on the stove. But back to the essay:

Then these tablecloths, towels and many other different items were sold to department stores, such as Jordan’s, and shipped there via railroad. Many people worked to build the railroad, until it became what it is today. It now roars with terrible speed through the landscape, instead of our ancestors having to drive carts from settlement to settlement to sell their wares. It takes a lot of time and trouble to make a finished linen product, while all we have to do is walk to Linden Strasse to buy what pleases us to decorate our table.

Probably no one thinks about it, when one places knife, fork and spoon on the tale, how many people worked on them. Deep in the earth the miner digs a shaft to win the hidden silver riches. Rarely do they find pure silver; it is usually mixed with other metals. They must hammer a long time, often at risk for their lives, until the silver for one table setting is won.

Other workers are busy melting the silver ore with much effort to make it pure, before it can be worked into any form. Spoons, forks and knife handles are made of silver, but silver is too soft for knife blades. For this iron is used, specifically hardened iron called steel. First it is dug out of the earth, with much effort, in the form of iron ore, which is then hammered and rinsed. The tall blast furnaces are visible from afar; red flames from their chimneys rise into the air. In their burning heat the ore is smelted and separated. The liquid iron is formed into bars, which is then heated and worked with hammer and anvil until it reaches certain grades of hardness. After so many types of labor we can finally place spoon, fork and knife on the table.

I remember some of those old knife blades made of steel. They rusted very easily and had to be washed and dried immediately after use. Nowadays the blades, as most other utensils, are made of stainless steel! How much easier our lives had become, but how much more complicated in other ways. Reading the unfamiliar script and the faded handwriting made my eyes tired and I laid the book down, reminiscing about Grossmutti. I closed my eyes, trying to picture her as a young girl, sitting at a table, painstakingly putting her thoughts on paper, making no mistakes in spelling or grammar. The grammar sounded somewhat stilted to me, and it lost more clarity in the translation. Nevertheless, it gave me a new awareness of the progress we had made in such a short time. Certainly this was not a first draft. Still, it must have taken a lot of discipline and concentration to complete such an essay faultlessly. When I was not quite eight years old, I proudly showed my father some homework I had done. It was a very short essay, written with an ink pen. I had accidentally put an ink spot at the bottom of one page and had corrected a word here and there. Vati, as we called our dad, had me write it again. I rewrote that short piece several times and before the task was done, I was in tears. It turned out almost perfect, and I received a good grade.

How we would have adored one of today’s beautiful ballpoint pens. All we had in the 1930s and 40s were penholders, in which a pen (much like today’s calligraphy pen) was placed. It had to be dipped into an inkpot between words. Too much ink made a big blotch, too little ink left a long word incomplete. Still, it was better than the quills our ancestors had to use. When I first started high school Mutti, my mom, bought me a marvelous fountain pen. It had a green marbleized casing and came with its own carrying case. Refilling it every other day or so was quite an event at first, but became routine in short order. I treasured it beyond all other possessions and carried it with me wherever I went. Progress was a wonderful thing. I saw my first ballpoint pen shortly after World War II, in Berlin. A street vendor was selling this miraculous item at a price I could not afford. If my mind keeps wandering this way, I will never get this chapter finished, much less a whole chronicle, I thought, as I picked up the pages and started reading once more.

Less than two hundred years ago our ancestors ate from tin plates, and only in highest society could one find silver and porcelain. Although the Chinese knew the art of making porcelain, they kept it a secret. It was not until 1710 when a German named Boettcher invented the art after various chemical experiences. Through this discovery Saxony, where he lived at the time, received endless riches, for here, in the City of Meissen, the first porcelain factory was built. More and more the wish to own porcelain instead of tin plates spread. More factories appeared, so that finally porcelain was used in every household and has become indispensable.

Much older than porcelain is glass that the ancient Phoenicians supposedly invented. Even if this is only a legend, the use of glass is ancient. A mixture of quartz sand, soda, saltpeter and other ingredients is heated and blown through a pipe into certain shapes, or poured into brass molds. Clear and translucent we behold the glasses before us, which are shipped into all directions, and which then beautify our table.

Grossmutti was the only child of a well-to-do family. When she was a little girl, her father moved his family from Stralsund, a town on the Baltic Sea, to Berlin. They lived south of downtown Old Berlin, near the Tempelhof Parade Grounds, which later became Berlin’s International Airport. They lived comfortably on his income as teacher at the Kaiserliche-Koenigliche Lyceum fuer Maedchen. Translated it meant the Imperial-Royal High School for Girls. It probably had a name, such as Koenigin Luise School, for it was THE school for aristocratic young girls. Poor Grossmutti had to be on her best behavior at all times, mingling with the many princesses, duchesses, countesses, baronesses, and other titled young girls. As the teacher’s daughter she had to set a good example.

Nonetheless, life could not have been too bad. I imagined great-grandmother’s household much as the movies portray life in the late 19th century. The movies Life with Father or Meet me in St. Louis gave us hints of middle class living at the turn of the century. Almost all such homes had a live-in cook; they had a washerwoman come to the house once a week and hired additional help for heavy cleaning. Grossmutti never talked about her childhood, and I never asked, something that is most regrettable. One thing was certain however; meals were an important part of the day. Much value was placed on a proper table. On Sundays heavy damask cloths and napkins were used, while on weekdays a plain linen tablecloth sufficed. On festive occasions, especially for Sunday afternoon coffee, the table was adorned with cloths lovingly embroidered by the lady of the house. Often the embroidery on the tea-cozy or coffee cozy, matched that of the cloth. How does one describe a tea-cozy? It resembled two little triangular pillows, sewn together on two sides. Since coffeepots were usually taller, cozies came in different sizes. Without electricity the use of cozies, to keep beverages hot, was as common place as the use of featherbeds instead of electric blankets.

The afternoon had turned into evening. Not wanting to waste precious time cooking supper, I found enough odds and ends in the refrigerator for a quick meal. My mind on the essay, not on food, I ate without paying attention. I decided to help myself to a cup before getting back to the essay. Of course, the coffee I had made earlier was cold, so a minute in the microwave oven made it hot and delicious again. I picked up the papers and started reading once more:

But what are glasses without wine, which should not be missing on a bourgeois table. Thoughts lead us to the time of grape harvesting in the fall. Carefully the vintner prepares the ground in which the vines will grow well and the grapes ripen toward a rich harvest. To increase the warmth of the sun’s rays he has covered the ground with pieces of slate, which absorb and retain the heat so that the cool night air does not act detrimentally on the young plants.

With much joy the vintner looks toward harvest time. All the effort and labor are forgotten at the sight of the rich and beautiful harvest. The little village and the whole neighborhood look forward to the day when the satisfying work will begin. Old and young alike are up and about. Young girls adorned with flowers, collect the sweet grapes in baskets decorated with grapevines, from which the delicious wine is made. After dark everywhere fireworks shoot brightly and noisily into the air. As exciting as this festival is after the labor in the fields, it is just as satisfying and relaxing after a day of stressful mental work, to have a glass of wine at the table set for dinner.

I could not help but smile as I read the last sentence. Where did Grossmutti, at the tender age of sixteen, learn about physical labor and mental stress? Too bad though, that she did not finish the essay with the same thought she started. May Day. It brought to mind girls with flowers in their hair, dancing around the Maypole. It meant spring and sunshine, a new beginning, a celebration of the summer to come. May Day, a century-old festival of spring, became Labor Day in Europe. First celebrated the year before, in 1879, the workers in the industrialized European countries selected May 1 as International Labor Day. It became a national holiday in many of these countries, including Germany, but most notably in the Soviet Union. During the 1930s May Day Parades became an excuse to show off the military might of many nations, a process that was perfected by the Russians in the latter part of the century.

With militarism on the wane, maybe May Day will once again return to its origin, the celebration of spring. A festival of the young and the new, a day for children dancing around the May Pole, a day for music and laughter. As I was writing these paragraphs I decided to start the chronicle with the grandmothers of today, or more specifically with my own generation. Only too soon many of the experiences of my generation will be lost forever.

Midnight had come and gone, time to shut down the computer. It was still raining softly, but the wind had died down completely, a perfect night for a good sleep. Tomorrow was another day; I would start writing in earnest.

CHAPTER I

THE DEPRESSION 1930 TO 1931

I do not remember being born. It happened on November 3, 1930, at the Berlin School for Midwives. Times were desperate and the cost of birth at the school was minimal. After the dreadful inflation of the 20s had been halted, Germany had fallen into a deep depression. Of the 4 million inhabitants of Berlin 450,000 were unemployed in 1930, a number that would rise to 600,000 by the end of 1932, and Vati (as I called my father) was just one of the many.

Mutti (my mother) and Vati, as members of the national groups called Naturfreunde, Nature Friends, and Wandervoegel, Migratory Birds, had always abhorred smoking and drinking and disliked the modern dances. Instead they enjoyed the old folk dances and folk songs, accompanied by their own small orchestra and they loved spending weekends in the great outdoors. Even during Berlin’s Golden Twenties, they abstained from joining the frenzied lifestyle of the times, but remained true to their love of nature. The girls wore loose dresses, while the boys refrained from stiff collars and ties. Vati, as a natural born leader, had formed a musical band with members of some of the nature loving groups.

After Vati had been out of work for some time, he did the one thing he knew best. He entertained. He took his troupe of folk singers, dancers, and musicians on the road. Mutti usually accompanied him, but due to her ‘condition’ (that’s what pregnancy was called in the old days), she stayed behind on this latest trip. She lived with Grossmutti, and when her time came, it was Grossmutti, who took her to the institute where I first saw the light of day.

Vati was informed of the happy event and the following day a congratulatory telegram arrived, naming me the youngest member of his troupe. They were traveling through Southern Germany at the time, and it would be several weeks before I met Vati. Not that I remember the incident, but it must have felt wonderful, for Vati was loved by everyone.

Most of my early ‘memories’ come from photos and stories told by Mutti. When Vati was out of work in the twenties, the young couple lived with Grossmutti much of the time. She subleased a room in a very large apartment on the second floor. The building, a five-story structure, had seen better days. Built before the turn of the century, for the upper middle classes, it boasted gaslights, an in-door toilet for each floor, and running water in the common area of each of the three apartments on each floor.

Mutti and Vati rented a room in the same apartment, as did Mutti’s youngest brother Rudi. While Vati had only one younger brother, Mutti came from a large family. Grossmutti had two sons and four daughters, and Mutti was one of the middle children. There, in a flat on Solmsstrasse, I spent my first few months in the loving company of many family members. Only conditions worsened. Finally, in early spring, we moved into the small bungalow owned and occupied by Vati’s parents. Oma and Opa, as we affectionately called our paternal grandparents, had plans to add a wing to the house, but in the meantime we shared their cramped quarters. No wonder Mutti and Vati took every opportunity to escape.

Our first overnight camping trip took us to the Spreewald, south of Berlin. The name indicates Woods of the river Spree, a delta in the river, with dozens of little islands surrounded by waterways. People of the Spreewald still wore their local costumes on festive occasions. The region was well known for its fruits and vegetables, which were shipped to Berlin markets early each season. Modes of transportation were flat-bottomed boats, which carried people and their harvests to and from market. We camped on one of the many mosquito-infested islands. I was only seven months old, and, as Mutti used to tell, the mosquitoes loved me to pieces.

While we were living in Rudow, Vati often went on tour with his troupe, leaving us behind. He missed us as much as we missed him, and, finally, in late July he decided to take us along. It was a three week trip of one-night-stands, taking us through many little towns and villages in Western Austria.

I ‘swam’ in every lake and stream Vati could find, from the well-known Woerthersee and Aussee to the Mondsee near Unterrach. Evenings Vati and his troupe, now known as the Braunhemden, entertained the local population, while I slept in the audience. During the day I enjoyed the scenery from my little seat, carried by two of the troupe members. It gave Mutti a little freedom to be with Vati.

Sometimes we traveled by train, hay wagon or boat, but mostly the troupe went on foot. While in Austria, we took in the usual sights, including a hike up the 6000-foot high Kanzel Mountain near Willach, making me the youngest to ever climb that mountain. Our trip ended in Salzburg, where we boarded a train for the return trip to Berlin.

Back home, Vati decided to try independence once more. He moved us into a small apartment on the Alliancestrasse, in South West Berlin. Located near the Koerner Park, it was close to transportation, and near many of Mutti’s brothers and sisters. We had central heat, a real bathroom and a small kitchen. Mutti had hated life in Rudow, with her inlaws, while Vati was hardly ever home. Now she enjoyed life a little more, even if it was for only a short time. When things did not get better, she took a job as nanny to a wealthy family’s little boy, and Vati became Mr. Mom. One day, while I was sound asleep, Vati walked Mutti to the subway, only to come home to a crying baby with pooh-pooh all over her. When Mutti heard about it later, she found it hilarious and never tired of telling the story.

On my first birthday Mutti and Vati presented me with a beautiful doll buggy. Made of cane, and painted pink, it had big wooden wheels, and a movable hood. It was my pride and joy, and after the snow melted the following spring, Mutti and I took it to the park for an outing.

Shortly after my birthday Vati booked another tour, and Mutti packed for one more trip. December saw us in Heidelberg, where Vati splurged some precious money on a family portrait. I must have turned into a pretty good traveler, sleeping in unusual places, behaving when I was awake, that Vati did not mind his little family’s escort. Maybe my sense of adventure was instilled in me long before I was aware of it.

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CHAPTER II

HARD TIMES 1932 TO 1933

Back in Berlin for Christmas ‘31, we celebrated the holidays quietly. It was a severe winter, adding to the burden of the unemployed and suffering population. Supplies were plentiful, but few people had the funds to purchase all necessities. Knowing nothing of these problems, I enjoyed the sheer wonder of winter. The softness of new snow and the miracle of falling snow flakes.

By the end of March Mutti and Vati could no longer afford an apartment of their own, and decided to move back to Rudow. Back to the small bungalow, that was big enough for two, but not for five. Mutti dreaded the return to dirt roads, to isolation, and to life with her in-laws. Rudow was so far away from the people and places she loved. It was a difficult decision for both of them, but it was the only way to survive. To ease the situation somewhat, and to give the young couple a little privacy, Oma and Opa decided to finally add that wing to the house to make room for us. Mutti and Vati did their share of the labor, learning masonry, roofing, setting doors and windows, before the addition was completed.

When the addition was done Oma turned the front parlor into a store, where she sold everything from milk to bread and from cigarettes to sodas. Opa had lost his business building portable hangars for the newly invented flying machines. The 1st World War and ensuing inflation, combined with a revolution in Berlin, forced him to close. He now had a fulltime job in a nearby factory and was gone most of the day.

When he was home I kept very busy helping him. Always under foot, I assisted Opa with his chores, watering, feeding chickens, and generally being in the way. He did not seem to mind, but tolerated his first grandchild with much patience.

During the summer months Mutti and Vati used every opportunity to escape. For very little money we took the subway or streetcar to one of the many lakes and rivers in and around Berlin. Often we visited relatives or friends, but usually we found ourselves near water, turning me into a regular sea urchin.

We usually camped, sleeping in tents on air mattresses. I did not care for them much. In German they are called Luftmatratzen, which I mangled into Puff Katratze. Once a mattress collapsed under me and the hissing swoosh of air scared me half to death. My surprised look made everyone laugh, and I was not sure whether to laugh with them, or cry. Eventually the hiss of the air mattresses no longer frightened me, and I took my naps quite peacefully.

Soon it turned cool again, with Christmas just around the corner. Vati had a wonderful surprise for me. He took me to the annual Weihnachtsmarkt, the Christmas Faire, held in the Lustgarten. The Lustgarten, located on the world famous avenue Unter den Linden, had been the pleasure garden of royalty in days past. Each year, the big square, part of the garden, was transformed into a winter wonderland. It was a marvelous place, filled with wondrous things. Booths, brimming with toys and candies, and rides galore lined the aisles, while the air was resounding with Christmas music. The smell of Christmas trees for sale, and of freshly baked ginger-bread-men mingled with the aroma of sausages roasting on open fires. The cold winter air turned the children’s cheeks ruby red, and mine were no exception. A reporter found the scene interesting enough to snap a picture of Vati carrying me on his shoulders. The photo made the evening’s edition of his paper, The illustrated Night Edition. This was my first and only claim to fame.

It was a very pleasant life for me. I enjoyed a lot of freedom in Rudow. Opa’s fenced half acre was completely filled with berry bushes, fruit trees, and with vegetable beds and flowers. Mutti used to remark that there was so much growing in Opa’s yard, one did not have enough room to walk around. She was so right, for every square inch was planted, except for one walkway down the center of the property. After much pleading, he did leave a side yard open, where Oma had a little seating area, and where Opa built me a sand box.

It became Mutti’s favorite place. She often sat there, doing some darning or embroidering, while I entertained neighbor’s children in the sandbox. When we tired of building castles or baking mud pies, we threw sand in the air, getting it into each other’s hair, a practice Mutti abhorred.

As I mentioned before, she hated living in Rudow. It was too far from everything, and it was not the cleanest place in which to bring up a child. Oma’s house was on a dirt road, with a dirt path leading to the front door. The floors were plain cement and all the plumbing was outdoors. Often, in winter, the pump needed to be primed with warm water, before giving us the much-needed liquid. Mutti endured the hardships of country living. She heated water for my bath on top of the wood burning stove, and did much of our laundry in cold water.

I spent most of my waking hours outdoors, weather permitting. Opa’s garden was my paradise. I loved his densely planted garden, full of mysterious plants and flowers. My favorites were the big lilac bushes in front and next to the house. To this day their sweet smell evokes memories of a carefree childhood, reminding me of the love that surrounded my early years. I also loved Opa’s strawberry beds. Every spring, after the snow thawed, he emptied the holding tank under the outhouse, and poured the good stuff around the berry plants, saving some for the fruit trees and berry bushes. Opa worked very hard in his garden, but his labor did not go unrewarded. His sweet, juicy fruits and lush vegetables were the best ever.

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CHAPTER III

BETTER TIMES AHEAD 1934 TO 1935

One of my first real memories dates back to the birth of my sister, Irmgard, on May 24, 1934. By then I was three and a half years old. There were no photos to jog my brain, nor did anyone ever relate the story to me. While I was growing up happily unaware of anything except a full stomach and a soft bed, Mutti was getting ready for my first baby sister.

I knew nothing about it until one evening, when Vati took me to a friend’s house for an overnight stay, while Mutti was going to ‘get’ a baby at the hospital. Our friends treated me royally, but I have never forgotten the unusual sleeping arrangement. Two overstuffed leather chairs were pushed together, seat to seat, and a heavy blanket placed across the crack. There I curled up and slept peacefully until morning. We repeated this for several nights, until Vati and Grossmutti picked me up, on their way to the hospital, to bring Mutti home.

As Grossmutti and I waited in the back seat of a taxi, I could hardly wait for Vati to bring me my new baby. Vati had promised me a baby of my own, but when Mutti came with little Irmgard in her arm, he handed me a sweet baby doll! What disappointment! I wanted one that moved just like little Irmgard. The disappointment was short-lived, however, because Mutti let me hold my little baby sister, who felt so warm and soft and lovable. All was forgiven.

After Irmale, as I called my new sister, was born, we lived in Rudow for a while longer. I went to a day care center for a short while, where I promptly contracted chicken pox. The day care center said good-bye to me shortly thereafter. It was just as well. I resumed helping Opa. He worked so hard in his garden. Whenever rain was overdue, Opa had to do all the watering by hand, with buckets filled from the overflow barrel at the pump. He then carried the buckets to the four corners of the garden.

In addition I had certain ‘chores’ in Oma’s store, such as putting away empty soda bottles into wooden cases for their return to the bottling plant. I dusted the many glass covers of the built-in containers that held noodles, oatmeal and other staples. Sometimes I even helped Oma wait on customers.

When I was no longer wanted, there was always Irmale, whose bottom needed powdering, or whose blanket needed adjusting. I always had a lot to do. When Mutti, who was a great believer in fresh air, hauled Irmale’s bassinet outside, it was my job to see that it was turned just right to keep her head in the shade. I considered this a grave responsibility, and followed through until tiring of it. After all, I was not yet 4 years old.

Occasionally, when salesmen called on Oma, they sat outside the store, under the lilac bushes, enjoying a beer while swapping stories. I laughed every time they did, even if I did not understand anything. Before they left, they often patted me on the head or gave me a shiny Pfennig, a German penny.

August 19, 1934 was set aside for Irmgard’s christening. Irmale all decked out in white, looked most beautiful. Since I had never been baptized, Vati decided that this was as good a time as any to have me christened at the same time. I, too, wore a sweet little white organdy dress, and felt very special that day. The baptism took place in the Old Village Church in Rudow on a lovely summer day. Mutti’s younger brother, Rudi Heidke, and his wife Wally were Irmgard’s godparents. Vati’s cousin, Henry Reuter, and Else Kummerow, an old family friend, stood up for me. Tante Else gave me a lovely little necklace, which I cherished for years, but seldom wore, until I lost it during the war, in one of my many evacuations.

Some time in 1934 Vati Radio Berlin hired Vati to head its youth