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

there were probably about 6,000 normal inhabitants, but because it was a desirable place for bomb refugees to escape to, not only from Leipzig but also from Dresden and Chemnitz, I am sure that the population by the time we arrived was easily double this. The reason it was so desirable is very interesting. Dominating the town was the ancient Colditz Castle, first built in the year 1083 by Count Wiprecht of Groitzsch, the Margrave of Meissen and the Saxon Ostmark. The castle that stands now dates from 1506, as the medieval one was badly damaged in a fire that also destroyed most of Colditz. I was told that the fire was accidentally started by a baker in town. At the start of the war the Nazis gave Colditz Castle a new and thoroughly bureaucratic name: Oflag IV-C. Oflag IV-C was established as Germany’s most secure prisoner-of-war camp. “Oflag” is short for Offizier’s Lager, or “officer’s camp,” as its prisoners were all Allied officers. And these were not just any Allied officers. These were top-ranked officers, those considered “incorrigible” and especially those who had attempted to escape from other POW camps. This is why Colditz was a desirable destination for refugees and why Papa pulled every string he could to find us a place here — the Allies would never bomb this town.

The castle is set high atop seventy-five-metre cliffs on the east bank of the Zwickauer Mulde. The river draws a lazy backwards S through the western edge of town with a little of it to the west and most to the east, under the castle. Papa had found us two rooms in the 400-year-old Colditzer Brewery, on the east side, right on the market square beside a bakery. Whether that was the notorious bakery from 1506, I do not know, but I liked to imagine so. We were only a hundred metres from the castle wall. I write “we” although Theodor and I did not sleep there and really had no right to feel any sense of belonging other than that was where our mother now lived and so was as close to the definition of home as we were going to get under the circumstances. The town itself was beautiful. Because it was on the riverbank, many streets were steep and winding and all were paved with cobblestones. On some streets the houses were the medieval half-timbered style and on other streets the houses were an ornate baroque style with coloured plaster. The Colditzer Brewery was the latter and the plaster was a mocha coffee colour with darker brown trim. Papa had rented two rooms for us in the back, facing away from the square. There was a small iron stove in the main room for heat and cooking and heating wash water, and Mama and the three little ones slept in two small beds in the adjacent room. The toilet was a privy in the lane. This was a considerable reduction in living circumstances from Tante Karoline’s in Mellingen (let alone our beautiful house in Leipzig), but Mama was delighted to be out from under her sister’s ever-critical gaze and to be once again mistress of her own domestic realm, no matter how diminished.

“Theodor and I could sleep here.” I pointed to the floor beside the stove after the happy greetings were all done and I had had a good look around.

“No, Ludwig, I’m sorry,” Mama said. “You need to stay at the KLV-Lager. There is no school here that you can go to.”

“It is very close, Mama. We can walk there every morning and walk home every evening!”

“No, I’m really sorry, truly I am, but I don’t think they would permit that. The camp needs to be kept secure and they can’t have boys just coming and going. Also there’s your father to consider. He will not let you leave the Hitler Youth and they often have activities very early and very late. And the floor here? There would barely be enough space.” She did look remorseful as she said all this. Theodor must have realized that she was right as he hated the KLV-Lager as much as I did, but he did not jump in to bolster my arguments. He just sat quietly on the bench against the one wall, absentmindedly rolling a ball back and forth to Oskar, who was sitting on the floor nearby.

“But Mama, with Papa’s position there must be a way to bend . . .”

Mama cut me off. “Are you going to be a lawyer like your father with all these arguments? It is just not possible. You know how your father is about the rules. If the Party said do not breathe on Sundays, he would hold his breath until he passed out.”

I was about to make a bitter remark about his respect for marriage rules but fortunately thought the better of it. It was especially fortunate because at that moment Papa appeared in the door. He was dressed in one of his fashionable light brown Sunday suits, complete with a wide brimmed hat and a green hatband that matched his tie and pocket square. He had a bundle of spring flowers in one hand for Mama and a small sack of sweets for us children in his other hand. He and Mama gave each other pecks on the cheek and Mama took the flowers without an audible thank you. The five of us stared at the sweets the way a pack of hyenas would stare at a juicy bone.

Papa said, “Children, you will share this in the manner that old Germanic law dictates: the eldest will divide the sweets into five piles and then the youngest will choose first, followed by the second youngest and so on.”

This was objectively fair and wise, but subjectively annoying as I would be the last child to pick who did not have the honour of being responsible for the division.

After carefully putting my allotment of sweets into my pocket I asked,