A Woman's Rise to Courage: A True and Captivating Story of a Wwii Survivor

By Birgit T. Klare

March 13, 1945. Thea had just given birth to her fourth child at a hospital under blackout. Her husband defended the Vaterland in Berlin, uncertain if he would ever see his family again. Her hometown Dresden had been reduced to rubble during a two-day bombing by American and British allies. The Russians were on the move, and so was 32-year-old Thea with her four children hoping for temporary shelter. On the road, she encountered the brutal reality of war. Defeated soldiers marching amongst demoralized people on the road to Poland. A warmhearted woman took in the family in the town of Rippchen. Two brave souls, united in fighting Mongolians, that terrorized and raped its citizens. Thea reunited with her mother and sister months later in Dresden. Devastated by the hopelessness she faced, with her children starving, she connected with black marketers to sell X-ray films to hospitals in West Germany. It was a dangerous but lucrative task, prompting the Russians service suspicion of her improved lifestyle. She was sentenced to work in the uranium mines at the Erzgebirge, with her children taken to a communist operated child center. The mines were known as a brutal mining camp, its prisoners doomed for life with no way of escape. But they couldn’t break Thea’s will to survive She cautiously planned her getaway and manipulated her children’s release from the children’s home. Within days she prepared for an escape to West Germany, only taking her two oldest children on this risky journey. Making them believe they were going on a long walk that ended in crossing the Russian border from East Germany to the West. A courageous woman’s escape to freedom against all odds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781984582720

Birgit T. Klare

Birgit T. Klare born 1945 in the former East Germany, enjoys the arts, concerts, old movies, the outdoors and a fun evening in the company of good friends. She was always interested in her own family’s history as well as those of other’s willing to share their past. Everyone has a story to tell. She reads mostly biographies, memoirs and books of history. She traveled extensively the globe, appreciating diversified cultures and languages. Birgit lives in McLean, VA with her cat, Ms. Gracie.

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Copyright © 2020 by Birgit T. Klare.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/18/2020

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Contents

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Postface

W ith love to our mom, Thea Erna Charlotte Klare, a remarkable wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and great-great grandmother.

Special

thanks to my siblings sharing memories with me and my sister Sigrun, pushing me to finish the book.

Foreword

T his is a story about courage.

My younger sister Birgit asked me to write this foreword. She was born in 1945.

I was born in 1939, just before the World War II started. The family, our mother and my sisters born in 1936 and 1940, all were resources for this book. We lived in Freital, a suburb of Dresden.

As we go through life, our personality, character, and knowing the difference between good and bad are formed by others playing a major role in our lives.

With our father not returning from World War II, our mother had to play the role of both parents in the lives of her four children.

To document the tumultuous life of our mother has been on Birgit’s mind for a long time. The book is the story about a woman born into a prosperous business family and enjoying a comfortable family, a life without worries. The horrors of the war years and surviving in East Germany under Russian occupation changed her own life and that of her children forever.

Listening secretly to the BBC on the radio, most people knew that the Allies had invaded and were marching into Germany. As the war ended, American troops occupied Germany west of the river Elbe. Russian troops invaded Germany east of the river. The prayers that the Allied troops would reach Dresden before the Russians went unanswered.

Fleeing from the Russian hordes, enduring Russian interrogations and searches and Allied bombings, scrounging for food, and just surviving were daily challenges for our mother. Cities lay in ruins. A large black market developed and made it possible for families to exist. It was a turbulent way of life. People, it seemed, found an inner strength they did not know they had in them.

I remember clearly that our father had left home for the last time in March 1945. He took me to his office and lifted me on his desk and said, I have to leave again. You are now the head of the family. Look out for them. I was then six years old and bewildered. That was the last time we saw him again. He was killed south of Berlin during the Russian onslaught in April that same year.

This book is dedicated to our mother—truly a courageous woman.

Having lived through the fears and horrors of war, she was lucky enough to live out her life in peace and not have to endure another war in her lifetime.

Frank V. Klare

April 2020

Prologue

"F rau Klare, it is not easy for me to say. We have to be realistic. He paced the floor of his sparsely furnished office, playing with the stethoscope that hung loosely around his neck. The doctor’s room was only scarcely lit and the mood somber. The main concern is your children, those who will survive. You must concentrate on their well-being and nothing else. You have an obligation, you know! His eyes focused on the big dark spots on the worn-out linoleum floor in front of his desk. For your baby, Birgit, I see only a slim hope for survival. Honestly, considering her present condition, I do not believe she will make it. Yet one out of four, that is not so bad. I have seen worse. I am so sorry, but those are the facts, Frau Klare."

I rose from my chair, holding Birgit tightly against my chest, wondering whether he had any children of his own. The last thing I wanted to hear was another devastating prognosis when in desperate need of some encouragement. Still in shock, I asked the doctor how much I owed him for his service. He shook his head and left the room without saying goodbye.

The streets were empty when I stepped outside, my children trailing behind. The dark clouds now released cold raindrops falling hard on our faces and clothes. Birgit cried as she did many times lately. How much I wished for her to be well and happy, keeping her closer to me, covering her pale wet face with soft kisses. Birgit looked at me with her big blue eyes as if she wished to assure me that she would be a survivor. On an empty stomach? Just like the rest of us. Volker complained he felt dizzy and stopped in his tracks. Gitta, his eldest sister, took him by his hand, encouraged him to keep walking, while his other sister, Sigrun, held on to Gitta’s skirt. They didn’t say a word, just dragged their tired feet on the wet asphalt behind me.

The physician also diagnosed that our weakened bodies showed disturbing signs of deficiency disease. Volker had come down with jaundice. Gitta and Sigrun showed blown-up stomachs, certainly not because of overeating. I suffered from chronic open edemas caused by malnutrition on both my legs and hands. Birgit developed acute attacks of epilepsy, which nobody recognized at first. Her face turned blue in an instant, the body stiffened, and most of the time, she appeared losing consciousness. The doctor advised me to hold Birgit by her feet to help the blood circulation. We have to be realistic, the doctor said, only for the wrong reason.

It was bitter cold in the room when we arrived back home, one lousy cramped room for a family of five. We changed into our only other set of dry clothes, still not enough to warm our shaking bodies. I will never forget that day, standing in the kitchen, heating red beets and water in the pot to introduce at least something toasty into our abused bodies. As I glanced at my four children lying on the floor, holding on to one another, I promised myself and the mighty Lord that none of my dear innocent children would succumb to what Hitler’s megalomania put us through. NOT ONE. Not after what we endured during the last months of that miserable year of 1946.

We sustained one of the coldest winters I could remember, with temperatures much below freezing. It was a winter without food and coal. People desperate for firewood searched the parks and streets daily, yet chopping down trees had been declared a punishable offense, so one could only claim the fallen branches to take home. Who in the world had the strength to take down a tree? Nobody, I was aware of.

A small round aluminum container, we called the Hexe (witch), with the dimensions of a medium-sized pot, warmed up the room. First, we fed the Hexe with dry, thin wood branches. However, since most of the collected branches were currently still wet, the fire kept going out all the time. Because the container came without an exhaust, the room always filled up with smoke. Sitting around the Hexe day and night, we wore the same pants and sweaters for days and weeks. It was our only set of clothing to protect us from the cold. And cold it was. It was so cold that we washed up only every other day in our tiny kitchen sink, afraid to catch pneumonia. Electricity came on sporadically for three to four hours a day. With candles a rarity by now, the Hexe provided the basic light when fed. The walls of the room were mostly covered with frozen crystals that sparkled like diamonds in the reflection of the fire of the container.

The few times I was fortunate to come across potatoes; I grated them repeatedly to cook soup. This time I had three potatoes to feed five people. I retained a wooden box in the kitchen, layered with old newspapers and rags to preserve the watered blend for the rest of the day. To our disappointment, the soup took on the flavor of the newspapers, almost unbearable to eat.

Blessed once to trade candles for some low-grade cooking oil, I set out to fry potato pancakes as electricity was available for the afternoon. The unexpected change in the daily menu brought a wonderful glow to my children’s eyes. Yet I became already sick from the smell of the oil and the children later after the meal. Their stomachs could no longer digest the fat.

Christmas 1946 was just another day without joy or presents for my children. Not to impose more unhappiness on them, I purposely ignored to mention the holiday. Heartbroken, I deliberated how to create something unexpected, a touch of Christmas spirit.

Covered in my overcoat, I left the house in the darkness of the evening, promising to be back soon. The cold, wintery night, with a clear, starry sky, served my purpose well. Passing the barely lit single-family homes on my walk to the park, with the street lanterns now dark, I was reminded once more of the desolate state of the times. When I reached the entrance of the park, I noticed that the iron post with the sign was missing. It probably served some useful purpose at somebody’s home. Moving on, I realized the wooden benches at the playground had also disappeared, leaving only the short bolts sticking out of the frozen ground. The wooden and colorful structure of the former merry-go-round was dismantled with all the horses vanished from the rotating circular platform base forever. Freezing, I needed to move on to find a little tree, no matter what. Although the selection was already depleted, I found a tiny wooden plant along a brick wall, with only two or three twigs, indicating live. With my heart beating fast, I pulled the shrub by its lowest point, hoping to release it from the frozen ground. It didn’t move. I pulled more forcefully. Nothing. Well, not all was lost as I reached under my coat to carefully grab the whimsy saw I brought from home, ready to commit a crime unimaginable under normal circumstances. Except for tonight, I thought of it as absolutely splendid. When I finally separated the little plant from its roots, I experienced something unbelievable. I was sweating—sweating! I wanted to savor that wonderful feeling for a brief moment.

Yet I couldn’t risk being detected, so I picked my saw and the tiny shrub and ran home as fast as my feet carried me. Slowly, I opened the door to our room, holding the wooden plant high up and placing it in a corner of the room. The children didn’t seem very impressed with this ugly plant I looked at with some pride. During the last few months, I saved coal bricks, which I swapped for two candles. Positioning them in front of the shrub, I declared it as our official Christmas tree. It was a very precious moment that made all the difference. The children’s eyes revealed so much happiness now that we celebrated Christmas. Suddenly, we seemed embraced by the special spirit of the day.

The night before, I secretly cooked potato soup, not watered down but real thick potato soup. Potato soup of yellow color that would stay in the spoon until it reached the mouth and stuck to the palate. But most importantly, the soup had the flavor of real potatoes. We almost didn’t dare to swallow. Once we swallowed, the soup was gone. We created a game of who could keep the blend in his mouth the longest. We declared no winner. Sitting on the floor, we savored the moment and cherished our Christmas tree with its two candles burning.

It was Christmas 1946. For us, it was the best Christmas ever.

Chapter One

E rnst and Gertrude Bollmann welcomed me as their first child to their world in Dresden, 1913. Sister Margot joined the family nine years later. In the year of my birth, Germany was still a monarchy under Wilhelm II, last German emperor and king of Prussia. Adolf Hitler, twenty-four, years old was still an unknown citizen of Austria.

My parents’ style of living represented that of the wealthy and respectable members of the Dresdner society. My father was a financial consultant to the affluent, while my mother enjoyed monetary independence because of her prosperous parents, Gustav and Thekla Fahlbusch. Grandfather Gustav, an astute self-employed businessman, invested in real estate and precious jewelry. Yes, the name Fahlbusch guaranteed solid advocacy.

My grandfather reigned as the undisputed patriarch, austere, and guided by principles. To me, he was the most interesting man, with a jovial laugh, and an enthusiastic storyteller. I loved him dearly. Thekla, his self-conscious and equally fashionable wife, was unconditionally adored by her family and friends for her wit and good spirits. She loved to gossip and social gatherings. At least three times a week, she met with her lady friends at popular coffee houses in Dresden to savor her only weakness, sweets. Grandmother’s increasing weight problem remained a sore subject in her relationship with her husband. Perhaps it was her addiction to confections that motivated her husband’s unfaithfulness. She often amused the family with her obsession with big hats garnished with startling decors. When still very young, she scared the wits out of me wearing this something dominating on her head, with three long heron feathers standing straight up in the air like guards. The moment I spotted grandmother’s imposing creation, I ran to Mother, hiding behind her skirt, leaving everybody laughing.

Grandfather also enjoyed traveling in style. He acquired his first luxury convertible automobile and, of course, hired Friedl, a full-time chauffeur. Every outing by car required planning in wardrobe and advance notice to Friedl, a married man in his forties who took great pride in his position. He stood tall in his gray tailored uniform, with a stylish matching cap, white gloves, and shiny black shoes. He acted off the essence. Friedl attended to his duties fifteen minutes before the announced time of leaving, catering first to the flawless shine of the black exterior as well as the dusting of the interior. After disposing of his white gloves, Friedl opened the trunk in the back of the car, exposing this disgraceful-looking but necessary tool, the crank, to start the engine. Connecting the crank with a metal stick to the car engine in the front, he took a deep breath and turned the crank clockwise and steadily with a firm hand until the engine ran somewhat monotonous. The family then rushed to the huffing and puffing automobile. Grandmother never seemed to get used to the nosy neighbors leaning out of their windows or peeking from behind the curtains to follow the spectacle of the Fahlbusch family’s departure. Grandmother voiced at first concern traveling in the car because of exposure to the elements. We required special outfits and probably resembled aliens with our tight-fitting leather caps and jackets, enormous thick rubber framed glasses, voluminous fur blankets, and muffs to protect us from the cold. Grandfather put me in charge of signaling the change of direction holding two long wooden sticks with round disks at each end. At his command, I extended either stick to signal a left or right turn.

Later, Grandfather traded the Benz for the sporty Simson Supra. The car suited his lust for speed and to drive it as a convertible or enclosed. Friedl lost his job but could keep his uniform as a farewell present. The family welcomed the luxury of dressing in formal wear, especially for the regular Sunday lunches at some beautiful restaurant on top of the hills of the Erzgebirge. Exhausted after the ninety-mile drive, my grandmother could still not resist arguing with her husband about his irresponsible driving behavior. Gustav, she would say, you are out of your mind, speeding at 50 mph! Because of the bad road conditions and poor tire quality, Grandfather carried along a spare tire mounted on a rack outside the trunk of the car. He generally experienced at least one blowout on the trip to the restaurant. Replacing the tire was grandfather’s moment of glory. Because of previous experience, the family stood wisely at a safe distance, withholding any comments. It took Grandfather about thirty minutes to complete the job and only then would Grandmother resume her duties, handing her husband a towel to clean his dirty hands.

Grandfather cherished a refined atmosphere and the three-course lunches, always enriched with a bottle of vintage wine. He involved everyone in vivid conversations, concluding the meal by puffing on a big thick cigar and reminiscing about his adolescent years. His family (he had seven siblings) enjoyed taking horse-drawn sleighs in the wintertime from Bromberg, in what used to be Prussia (now Poland), to visit relatives in Warsaw. Those trips were not without danger because of wild roaming wolves. Servants, armed with their rifles, positioned in the back of the sleigh, ready to protect the family from a possible attack by starving animals. He ended his trip down memory lane by reminding us to be thankful for the good times and health we enjoyed and never to take anything for granted. He would then squeeze his wife’s arm for some kind of acknowledgment. When Grandfather reached for his leather gloves, it signaled that it was time to leave. Driving back home, he seldom failed in his attempt to break the record he had set the previous week, much to Grandmother’s dismay.

In the spring, the ladies of Dresdner high society vanished from the scene to join forces in the fashionable resort Marienbad to recover from the fatiguing ball season. The enormous amount of luggage required for the four weeks’ stay attested to the extravagance of these annual visits. Grandfather suffered through the time of separation, not so much because he missed his wife but of the jealousy because of the seventeen-year difference in their ages. Although they seemed fond of each other, Grandfather asked me one year to accompany my grandmother to Marienbad. I wasn’t pleased since I lacked common interests with the old ladies. But he insisted, and because of spring recess, he allowed me to take a girlfriend along. It didn’t make much of a difference; we were still bored to death.

Looking for some excitement, we found out where the after-hour actions took place and secretly escaped one night to go dancing. The society dames brought also their servants to Marienbad. The downtown dance halls were famously recognized as hunting places for the local gigolos to chase the amenable maids from the big city. My girlfriend and I fell automatically into the same category and were treated accordingly by the lady’s men. Our protests and efforts to impress those hot-blooded dance partners with revelations of our life in the privileged social class only resulted in laughter and disbelief. We were, therefore, surprised when bouquets of roses arrived from our admirers the following day. Well, we finally confessed to Grandmother, obviously amused by our previous night’s experience. This episode was never told to Grandfather, and it remained the first secret that Grandmother and I shared.

My grandparents owned a summer residence in Ostrau, part of the Sächsische Schweiz, also referred to as the Switzerland of Saxony, chosen as the exclusive residential area by the rich and famous of Dresden. I have fond memories of the house with its rather small foyer and cozy atmosphere throughout. A staircase led up to the second floor with three bedrooms, a living room, and the Red Salon. We grandchildren were not permitted to enter the salon. Nevertheless, whenever the door happened to be open, my sister and I sneaked into the room to get a quick glimpse of the marvelous tapestry hanging on the opposite wall, flanked by two crystal chandeliers. Wooden balconies surrounded the second floor of the house. On a clear day, everybody enjoyed the spectacular view of the mountains, sometimes as far as Czechoslovakia. Grandfather never failed to ask us children to name the peaks, and we had to recall them in the right order. I still remember them so well, from the left to the right: Falkenstein, Schrammsteine, Winterberg, Rosenberg.

Grandfather’s pride was the two acres of land that stretched out from the back of the house. He planted many apple trees throughout the garden and allowed Margot and me to pick those delicious Grafensteiners. Yet Grandfather enjoyed mostly his rose garden. That was his sanctuary, his alone. I was so excited when he invited me for the first time to his refuge, to educate me in the art of grafting roses. Not only had he acquired profound knowledge over the years, but he also successfully grafted a special rose called Thekla that he cherished the most. Enthused over their beauty and colors, he would lower his voice to a whisper and quote at times the English poet Edward Young, Numerous as glittering gems of morning dew as if the slightest breath of air might harm their exquisiteness.

My grandparents optioned for separate bedrooms at their home in Dresden. One time, Grandfather whispered in my ear about something special he wanted to show me in his bedchamber. We went upstairs, and he invited me to open the large-sized wooden door to his bedroom. The room was decorated with masculine walnut furniture, with the heavy dark gray velvet curtains drawn, creating an eerie atmosphere, to me at least. Guiding me to the huge square safe positioned in the left-hand corner of the room, he pointed toward the thick iron door. Come on, Thea, and feel the knob in the middle of the door. I am the only one who knows the combination, he said with his deep voice and made a motion sealing his lips with the pointing finger of his right hand.

Bending slightly forward, Grandfather’s eyes firmly focused on the knob. He turned it several times to the left and then to the right, concentrating on the faintly audible clicks at the end of each turn. I loved the sound of the clicks and wished he had gone on just a little bit longer. But he straightened up, and looked at me with the knowledge that something important was going to happen. I could not stand the suspense. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and opened the door by the strong long iron handle. I was disappointed. There was nothing but three shelves filled with papers and wooden boxes.

Grandfather carefully took one wooden casket from the second shelf and opened the box gently, to reveal many glass stones in an assortment of beautiful colors. They couldn’t be marbles; I thought but did not dare to ask. Thea, he said, what you are looking at are gems, very valuable precious stones. He reached into the box and selected different gems, explaining to me, This is a sapphire, this is a ruby, and this is a diamond. My dear Thea, one day these precious stones will be yours. They should guarantee your financial security and independence if you treat them with respect. My dear child, I want you to remember that always. I longed to touch those beautiful colorful stones, maybe even play with them for a little while. But Grandfather deposited the box back on the second shelf of the safe, closed the door, twisted the little knob once to the right and once to the left,