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

hopes, so I admit that I was disappointed. Instead there were thick black woolen hand-knit socks. Mama knew that although we had to wear uniforms in camp, we could choose our own socks, so long as they were not in garish colours. Moreover, she knew that my feet were often cold in the large shoes I had been assigned, so big woolen socks would solve two problems. I also received a handful of walnuts and an orange. The orange was a kind of miracle. Clearly Onkel Peter had connections as I had not seen oranges, or really any fruit other than soft old apples and spotted pears, since the beginning of the war. I ate half the orange that evening, one segment at a time, spaced half an hour apart, and saved the other half for Christmas Day, each segment then also to be eaten at carefully timed intervals. I saved the peel and over the next few days, including back at camp, I would hold it under my nose and pinch it to squeeze out a little orange oil. What a heavenly smell that was. I had only a dim conception of what the lands where oranges grew looked like, but my imagination busily coloured in all the gaps with bright sunny hues. I was certain it was a much better place than KLV-Lager Schoenberg or Mellingen or possibly even Leipzig Connewitz.

I do not recall anything about Christmas Day that year, but a conversation with Theodor on the second day of Christmas, before we had to leave, comes back to me.

“Should we tell Mama about Papa kissing Frau Doctor Burkhard?” I asked my brother when we were sitting alone in the foyer, waiting to be taken to the train station.

“No, she already knows.” Theodor did not look at me.

“How do you know that?”

“She told me. Yesterday she took me aside and asked whether anybody was with Papa at the station in Leipzig. I wasn’t sure what was the best thing to say, so I said that yes, there was a woman with him, but I didn’t say anything about the kissing. Mama nodded and said that she thought so, and then she asked me directly if it was the Frau Doctor. I said yes. She looked upset, but she didn’t say anything, she just nodded again, kissed me on the forehead and left the room.”

Various confused thoughts, like weasels squirming in a sack, struggled to gain the upper hand in my mind. “Will Frau Doctor Burkhard become our new mother?” was what finally emerged.

Theodor snorted. “No. Mama will always be our mother. Even if Papa marries Frau Doctor Burkhard, she will still be our mother and he will still be our father. They just wouldn’t live together anymore, which they aren’t doing now anyway. Nothing would change except Mama wouldn’t go to Leipzig every week to do his laundry anymore. His new wife would do that.”

This made sense, so I nodded.

“But they won’t get married anyway,” Theodor continued. “Kissing does not automatically lead to marriage, especially for people who are married to other people already.” He used his authoritative older brother voice when he said this, and that ended the conversation.

Mama joined us on the train to Weimar and then Leipzig as she was going to do Papa’s laundry, make sure he had enough food and check on the house (the windows had been provisionally repaired). I studied her carefully when she was looking out the window or reading, trying to detect any change that might be a clue that she was upset about the Frau Doctor. But she looked the same as always: tired and a little grim with the occasional smile for us. When we were preparing to board our Grimma train in the Leipzig station, she kissed us each on the forehead, told us to be brave and then left to go look after Papa, tightening her kerchief around her head as she walked out of sight.

Chapter Thirteen

January 1944

And then there was a fresh anxiety. About three weeks after we returned from Christmas in Mellingen, the boy in charge of distributing the mail handed a letter to me after breakfast. My mother had written this letter just two days prior; the post was still remarkably efficient despite everything else that was no longer functioning properly.

Dear Theodor, Dear Ludwig,

I am writing to share some very sad news with you. Your oma, my dear mother, passed away in the care home in Weimar early this morning. I visited her the night before. She was so very thin and all of her hair had fallen out, but she was calm and peaceful. She could no longer speak because of the cancer, but we were able to spend several hours together just looking into each other’s eyes, so I knew that she was not frightened or in pain. I left her with a heavy heart, but I had to catch the last train back to Mellingen as I had left Oskar with your aunt. When the telephone rang this morning, I knew exactly why.

I loved her very much and I know you boys did too. She was always there for me when I needed her. Now we will have to rely on each other more than ever.

Oma Flintzer had a good and long life, so don’t be sad for her. It is our loss, not hers.

Your loving Mama

In hindsight this seems like too much detail and emotional content to share with two young boys. Even at the time I was aware that not everyone’s mother was as candid as ours. Theodor was in quarantine with diphtheria in a special camp when this letter arrived, so I was unable to show it to him until he was released. A lot of boys had become ill, but I had not really taken much notice of it. They would be gone for a couple of weeks and then, most of the time, they would be back.