Russian Caviar: Memoirs of a German War-Child

By Gunter Rau

Russian Caviar, a symbol of power and luxury, is a parable of life and death connected with agony and love. It was the Red Army delivering this delicacy after the last days of war beside devastation, rape, and death. It needed time to overcome those experiences of horror and to find a way out into life and freedom again. The remaining desire to get a chance in life to have caviar on the table without a bitter taste came finally true when love replaced all trauma with caviar as the stimulating centerpiece. This wonderful mental rainbow is the parable of lovethe only alternative for happiness in life with continuation in eternity. From the deadly bombardment of Dresden in 1945 to freedom in Berlin in 1955 and the love story in London in 1961, one can sympathize with the excitement of these days.
Russian Caviar is a love story par excellence. It happened on a blue summer day in London in an unsurpassable development with Russian caviar and champagne on the table. The passion of love changed our life with so much happinessenough for a lifetime and eternity.
Grand merci Florence Je taime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477238240

Gunter Rau

Dr. Gunter Rau, retired museum director and university lecturer in Germany, is author of many books and articles about archeology, ancient glass, social history, and anthology. His latest publications are about protection of wildlife, survey and studies of wild swans in Ireland, his second residence.

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© 2012 by Gunter Rau. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 03/26/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3814-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3823-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3824-0 (e)

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CONTENTS

Introduction:

Chapter 1: Dresden

Chapter 2: War Memories

Chapter 3: The First American

Chapter 4: The Red Army

Chapter 5: Scorched Earth

Chapter 6: The New Germany—East

Chapter 7: Escape

Chapter 8: Freedom

Chapter 9: Monbijou

Chapter 10: Russian Caviar

Chapter 11: Review

2.%20Berlin.jpg

Berlin 1955

INTRODUCTION:

A war-child from the second generation of the twentieth century describes the events of his time selected in the form of a parable in ten inter-connecting episodes.

The last days of World War II and the following years of deprivation and poverty in Germany left a bitter mark on the destiny of the survivors and in particular on the lives of the war-children. This was the so-called Second Generation of the twentieth century, whose childhood was torn to shreds by images of death, atrocity, plundering, and rape. The following is an authentic portrayal of the traumatic events of the end of the war witnessed by one such German war-child, aged ten, and his subsequent fight for survival and freedom.

The anthology in ten chapters recounts episodes involving particularly striking occurrences. It has been proven that the most frightful experiences are useful for later steps in life. The perspective here is understandably subjective. It cannot be otherwise. But the manuscript must also be seen as a true account against a backdrop of historical events. The extraordinary nature of some of the events arises from the equally extraordinary circumstances of time and place. The Red Army prepared indescribable atrocities during the post-war years, but under the shadow of Russian occupation one was also treated to luxury goods, such as the gift of caviar. This very caviar is a synonym for both the horrors of East Germany and the pleasures of life encountered later in London. The coincidences of life can be seen as mere chance or as a chain of occurrences arising out of previous experiences, dramatically conditioned or self-determined, forming part of the search for freedom, education, and choice.

The ten chapters that follow describe a series of events, with caviar as a symbol of death and love, in that order—death beginning with the 1945 bombing of Dresden, the brutality of the Red Army, and finally the restorative discovery of love in London.

Fig.%203%20Dresden%20Panorama%20before%201945.jpg

Dresden Panorama before 1945

CHAPTER 1:

DRESDEN

My childhood came to an end at the age of only ten years old, on 13 February, 1945. It was the night of the English bombing of Dresden, the capital of Saxony. The brutality of the raid was such that the horror of what occurred would remain with the survivors for the rest of their days. I was only a child, but on that night I lost the innocent happiness and safety of my childhood. The sight of that giant red fireball surrounded by a vast cloud of smoke stretching outwards and upwards for miles into the sky left its deathly imprint on my soul. Thousands of civilians were burnt to cinders or buried under their collapsing homes, while others tried in vain to flee the firestorm. There was no way out. The aim of the double strike was the total destruction of the historical town centre and the extermination of its inhabitants. The human drama was all the greater as the city provided shelter for many thousands of refugees from the East fleeing the Russian Army. They were the poorest of the poor, who had made their way to Dresden along icy roads from their homes in East Germany with just a few of their treasured belongings. Once in the city they camped under the open sky. Since its major offensive of January 12, when it inflicted a huge defeat on the defending German forces, the Red Army occupied the whole of East Germany and was now preparing for the last advance on Berlin. That was when my family was forced to evacuate our hometown near Berlin, and we too were on the run for safety. The birthplace of my mother was a little village near Dresden, and that is where she planned to look for shelter till the war was over. We arrived on the last train heading south with thousands of Silesian refugees. I remember our last walk through the old city centre, passing the long convoys of exhausted refugees, who thought they would be safe to wait here until the end of the war. The brave cart-horses were standing anxiously in front of their carriages, their nostrils steaming in the bitter cold, and I tried to feed them with a little hay. My mother was talking to a woman weeping on a cart, her baby in her arms, who told her how, panic-stricken, they had fled their house and farm with the Russian tanks always on their heels, and how along their flight they had witnessed the most grisly and horrific incidents. So many people have died, and all our animals are dead! she added in a whisper. Little did we know at the time that very soon the same fate awaited us. We got out of Dresden three days before the big bombing. We were lucky. Others were not.

The night of February 13 was cold, with a clear sky. We children had gone to bed and were fast asleep when suddenly the eerie drone of streams of bombers woke us up. We were already familiar with the sound, but this time it was more vehement and frightful. Ilse, our maid, rushed in to get us all out of bed, telling us that something dreadful was happening. We stood in the farmyard in our nightshirts—my two sisters, my cousins, and I—looking up in horror at the sky, lit up with streams of white vapour trails from hundreds of high flying bombers. The reflected light at the sky came from the city of Dresden, illuminated by a carpet of bright shining magnesium bombs spread out over the town, the so-called Christmas trees, flanked by red glowing position bombs that sank on parachutes very slowly to the ground. We knew in our hearts what that meant and what was to come. Marker-bombers flying ahead of the flotilla had identified the target for the endless formations of bomber-squads just above our heads. Death was flying in. The roar of the huge bombers frightened us nearly to death too. Thousands of people in Dresden had a few minutes to live and no chance to escape.

It was close to 10 pm. English Pathfinders and Mosquitoes had marked out the old city of Dresden ahead of the four-engine Lancaster bombers, which were flying directly overhead. Shortly after ten o’clock we could hear the first mighty explosions of the big aerial mines, designed to rip off the rooftops, windows, and doors of all the houses. My mother, who had lived for years in Dresden, sank to the ground and started to cry, "Oh my God, now they are bombing Dresden! My God, they are bombing Dresden!"

That was the beginning of the indescribable bombardment. For half an hour thousands of incendiary and high explosive bombs rained down on the old city of Dresden. The relentless pounding of layer upon layer of powerful explosions was such that it seemed to be one vast, ear-shattering echo across the entire region, and the immense shower of sparks from the phosphorus firebombs lit up the sky like a volcanic eruption. The whole town was soon covered with a red glowing cloud of smoke, with flashes of lightning like a hundred thunderstorms in one. Hell on earth in front of our eyes. My mother lost consciousness and we carried her into the house, her whole body shuddering, her bent arms stiff like those of a corpse. We were frightened she would collapse.

I started to think about the horror for those trapped in the middle of the burning town, the refugees and their horses, the shocked and frightened children. Neither human nor animal could survive the burning flames. Then I started to cry at the thought of my own fishes at home in the aquarium I had to leave behind. They were probably already dead, the glass casing smashed and its water evaporated. I had been brought up with animals at the farm: poultry, rabbits, cats and dog, later pigs and cattle. My childhood had been as sheltered as the cultural centre of Dresden. Now, however, the city resembled a glowing red sunset, one that was to annihilate culture and civilization. I started to cry bitterly and took shelter in the house. The noise of the flying planes and explosions ended. But the sight of the burning town was increasingly horrifying.

At midnight the huge fireball of Dresden was also reflected on the walls of our farmhouse. Three hours had gone by and we children were still sitting huddled together in the hall. Nobody could sleep, and even our cats had come in to take shelter on our laps. Suddenly the unbelievable occurred—a new wave of bombers approached at the skyline. This time the vapour trails were coloured red by the reflected light of the burning city. It looked as if a death squadron was flying to Dresden to finish off the last remains. This was exactly what happened. The Lancaster bombers produced the last deathblow. In those few hours, the great city of Dresden, famous for its culture, was reduced to heaps of smouldering ash. Royal Air Force bomber pilots later reported that they could discern their burning target from hundreds of kilometres and were wondering why they had been ordered to drop yet another carpet of bombs into the dying city. Historians tell us that the RAF Bomber Command, under the control of Air Marshall Sir Arthur Harris, had succeeded in bringing about the total destruction of Dresden despite the misgivings of Winston Churchill.

With the second wave of the British bomber fleet, the inferno of Dresden reached its climax. Despairing survivors of the first raid tried even to extinguish the flames and to free those buried under the rubble. Because of the greater number of planes in this second raid, the devastation was total. The mixture of high explosive bombs and phosphorus-napalm had been calculated to completely destroy the historic city centre. The distribution of the oily napalm set even tarred roads and stone buildings on fire. People were engulfed in flames like torches while trying to escape the horror. Hundreds of small fires grew and joined together to create one vast column of flame and smoke, like a volcanic eruption that could be seen from afar. This all-engulfing firestorm created a total loss of oxygen, which meant that any remaining life in Dresden was suffocated. People running for shelter fell to the ground and were burnt to cinders, and their ashes were swept away in the whirlwind. Many charcoaled bodies were later found, rather like those found in excavations in Pompei and Herculaneum, where the Vesuvius eruption covered the entire area with its ash cloud in AD 79. In Dresden, death came in many forms, starting out with those hit by the destructive hail of high-explosive bombs. Others were buried under the collapsing houses, suffocated in basements, burnt as they