The Willow Wren Philipp Schott (best free e book reader TXT) 📖

idea; it is that the idea never occurred to me in the first place. I wrote to Johann and Clara in Aue occasionally as well, although being too young they did not write back. At first, I had felt very bad for them, but now I envied them as I imagined them living an idyllic rural life, running through fields and patting goats. (Later I learned that they had been sent to a baker’s family, so no fields or goats, and that they were constantly scolded for being a burden.)

Writing letters on Sundays and reading in the little interval between the end of evening entertainment and lights-out time were two of the three principal highlights of my camp existence. The third highlight was a discovery that I stumbled on: I had a talent for making up funny rhymes. As I mentioned, I was not especially concerned with being popular but there were benefits to not being solely identified as a contemptible weakling. One morning while waiting for the flag raising to begin, I spontaneously whispered, “Tischendorf ist ein Schorf” to Jolf, the boy standing beside me. He giggled and passed it along to the next boy and before you knew it the whole group was cracking up. Herr Tischendorf glared at us and we quickly settled down, but I freely admit that this made me feel good, especially when word spread that I was the poet and when even the older boys clapped me on the shoulder and smiled. The little rhyme translates as “Tischendorf is a scab,” which I felt a little bit bad about because he was a decent man, but the thrill of being the bard of transgressive little-boy humour far outweighed any sense of guilt.

My next target, and possibly greatest triumph, was Reinhard. His surname was Protz, so that made it very easy. “Der Kleiner Protz ist voll mit Rotz” rang through the camp for days. “The little Protz is full of snot” is as far removed from Shakespeare and Goethe as one can conceive, but if you do not understand the impact of it, then you have not been around very many little boys.

I still got more than my share of torment, but I felt that I had found my place in the camp hierarchy, slightly off to the side, observing but remaining small and mostly unnoticed until I had something clever to say. I also figured out that if you “accidentally” slopped the bucket contents more than once onto the dormitory floor on the way out, the yelling and threats would ultimately transform into exasperation and you would be deemed too feeble for the job. Washing windows was the second most onerous chore, but the gap in onerousness was significant.

Chapter Twelve

December 24, 1943

When a German says “Christmas” he is usually specifically referring to Christmas Eve. Although the Christmas season runs for more than a month from the First Advent to Epiphany and includes all manner of special days, the warm beating heart of the season is Christmas Eve. Every child looks forward to it with a special kind of fervour, as this is when the gifts are distributed. Keep in mind that even in well-off families, spoiling children was considered a terrible vice, so if there was something special you wanted, such as a bicycle or toy train, you had to somehow earn it or wait for Christmas Eve. For adults Christmas Eve was also very special as it was the most family oriented of all the holidays. If it all possible, the family must be together for Christmas Eve.

For both these reasons Theodor and I viewed the approach of Christmas with mounting anxiety. How could we possibly get gifts? How could the family possibly be together? We had already heard that the camp would remain open for children who were unable to go home for Christmas. Herr Tischendorf would stay, despite having family in Leipzig, as would Reinhard and a skeleton crew of staff. The thought of staying there for Christmas was horrifying, absolutely horrifying.

A week before Christmas a letter arrived from Mama. It was not going to be possible to celebrate Christmas in Leipzig, but Tante Karoline had agreed to allow us to come to Mellingen on Christmas Eve. We would have to return to camp on the 26th. Johann and Clara would not be able to come, nor would Papa. The former because it was too far for little children to travel on their own and the latter because the Party needed him in Leipzig. This should have been received as bittersweet news, but I will confess that I was delighted. I had a glimmer of empathy for my younger siblings, but the joy I felt in not having to spend Christmas Eve in the camp with Tischendorf, Reinhard and the lot overwhelmed any such brotherly sentiment.

We would be spending the better part of Christmas Eve day in transit, as we had to walk to Grimma, take the train to Leipzig, take another train to Weimar and then finally the train to Mellingen. Papa met us at the Leipzig train station to give us our onward tickets. He was in a sharply tailored grey business suit and a jauntily perched fedora rather than his uniform. He looked thin and tense, but then I suppose we all did. He ushered us around the clumps of soldiers and their families to the correct platform and as we stood by the Weimar train, he patted me on the head and said, “Ludwig, you will be turning ten in just over a month. I’ll talk to your mother and we’ll try to arrange for you to spend the day with me in Leipzig.”

In normal times the prospect of spending the day with my father would have at best been viewed with mild concern, as his primary interest in me appeared to be to offer clearly worded criticisms or opaquely worded wisdom, which were often also just criticisms but in a more intellectual-sounding