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

disguise. But these were not normal times, and anything, really anything at all, that got me away from the KLV-Lager was very welcome.

“Thank you, Papa!”

He gave me one of his rare smiles in response to my enthusiasm and tousled my hair. He then shook our hands and wished us a merry Christmas before walking off across the platform to one of the station entrances where a woman appeared to be waiting for him. He must have assumed that we had boarded the train and were not watching, or perhaps he did not care, because he then kissed this woman fully on the lips. She looked familiar, but it was far away, and Papa was partly blocking her from view.

“That’s the neighbour. Frau Doctor Burkhard,” Theodor whispered, although whispering was unnecessary. What I had seen was confusing and the information Theodor had given me only compounded the confusion, so I just stared. Papa and Dr. Burkhard were now walking away briskly, arm in arm. Papa did not look back.

“Come on Ludwig, we have to board now.”

When we arrived in Weimar, we discovered that the train to Jena, which passed through Mellingen, had been cancelled. Although Christmas Eve in the Weimar train station would still be an improvement over Christmas Eve at the camp, it would be a crushing disappointment compared to what we were expecting. Fortunately, Theodor had the wherewithal to ask the station master to phone Onkel Peter in Mellingen. He was happy that we called and said that he would send an ambulance to get us! An ambulance! He told us that we should walk to the White Swan restaurant. It was slightly less than two kilometres directly south of the train station. There we could have some tea and cake while we waited. He would give the ambulance driver some money to pay for our tea and cake because he knew we did not have any pocket money.

I had never been in such a beautiful restaurant before. Mama had spoken of it, as she had grown up in Weimar, but her description did not prepare me for the splendour of the arched leaded glass windows, the ancient dark wooden beams on the ceiling and the candles on the white tablecloths. If the waiter was surprised to see two travel-worn boys ask for a table near the door, he did not indicate it. The other thing that was special about the White Swan was that it was right next door to Goethe’s old house. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was Germany’s most beloved and renowned writer and was a great favourite of Papa’s, so we had been marinated in his poems, quotes and witticisms from a very young age. I did not give this too much thought though, nor did I think about what I had seen at the Leipzig train station, as my attention was fully focused on the cake, the first treat I had seen in a very long time.

The ambulance ride was as exciting as expected. I don’t think we fully appreciated how privileged we were to have an uncle who was a respected doctor and could pull strings to arrange such an unusual means of transport. Many other private vehicles, including taxis, had been requisitioned for the war effort. The driver seemed kind but did not say much to us as he had to concentrate very hard on the road, which was icy and obscured with drifting snow. Thankfully, being wartime, there was almost no traffic. Onkel Peter tipped him well and greeted us with warm handshakes. Even Tante Karoline appeared to be in a good mood. Mama had been busy settling Oskar when we arrived, but as soon as she was able to come and greet us, she burst into tears and hugged us both very hard.

The candles on the tree were already lit and all was in readiness for Christmas Eve. Yes, it was, and still is, common to have lit candles on German Christmas trees. Lighting them is a very special occasion and everyone stays to watch the beautiful sight, so it is never left unsupervised. If you use a fresh green tree, there is very little risk.

We entered the living room and my eyes were immediately drawn to the bundles at the base of the tree. To note that none of them were bicycle sized is probably unnecessary. I continued to hope for a bicycle even though I knew it was impossible (and impractical — I would not be able to take it with me to camp) because the impossibility of this dream made the second choice, a proper woodsman’s pocketknife, seem realistic by comparison. I did not have a clear immediate purpose for such a knife, perhaps to carve sticks, but I did have a clear image of myself alone in the forest by the Pleisse with the knife folded in a little leather holster on my belt. Perhaps if the bombing continued until no houses were left standing and no shops were open and nothing man-made functioned anymore, I could use such a knife to help my family and me survive. I could make spears for fishing and shelters of boughs and branches.

These thoughts animated my imagination while I robotically sang the Christmas carols we were required to sing before opening our gifts. Mama, Tante Karoline, Onkel Peter, my cousins, Theodor and I were arrayed in a semicircle in front of the tree, our faces glowing in the candlelight, our voices admittedly a cacophony of tones as we struggled through “Stille Nacht,” “Ihr Kinderlein Kommet” and “Oh Du Fröhliche.” Finally, the children were released, and we fell upon the gifts like a pack of wolves. At home it had been much more orderly — one at a time sorted by age — but here it was a merry free-for-all.

I did not get a knife. I did not really expect one, given the circumstances, or really much of anything for that matter, but my survivalist reverie had sharpened my