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

Worst of all, Kohl declared that we were all to be instructed in guerilla warfare tactics. I write “worst of all” because of what this implied. It implied that even if — or was the leadership beginning to accept that it was a “when” not an “if”? — Germany lost the war, we were expected to continue to fight as an underground resistance group. It also implied that the “we” who were expected to continue to fight included all Hitler Youth. In fact the very youngest like myself might even make better guerillas because we would be less suspicious to the occupiers. At first we thought it was just Kohl’s kooky idea, but rumours began to spread of the High Command’s Werewolf plan, which was exactly that — a guerilla army that would fight on no matter what, sort of in the way that the Yugoslav Partisans and French Resistance had continued to fight us.

Theodor told me that he thought all of this was silly and that I should not worry. They would not make ten- and eleven-year-olds fight. He did not comment on the fact that as a fourteen-year-old he was in much greater danger of being drawn into the fighting, either in the Volkssturm or this Werewolf group, and I did not ask him about it either.

Whatever little bit of fun there had been in camp was gone. The little jokes, the less annoying activities, the bits of useful education, the nicer songs, the occasional edible meal — all gone. It was just stale bread, thin cabbage soup, military and guerilla training, long marches and endless chores and labour. Our class time had become perfunctory and revolved around yet another revised curriculum that featured the worst sort of Nazi drivel. I suppose that I did not know that it was drivel at the time, but I did know that it was boring, profoundly boring. In addition, the weather in the autumn of 1944 was grim. Everything was grim, grim, grim. And it was grim in a uniform way, like a poorly made cold porridge, so no particular memories stand out that I would care to write about. My one solace were Sundays in that stand of oaks in the Colditzer Forst, with the wren and all the other birds. These are still warm memories, but there is nothing interesting enough in that to write about. The closely observed habits of wrens and tits and sparrows do not really belong in a memoir.

Christmas was quiet, especially compared to the previous one in Mellingen. It was nice that all five of us kids could be together with Mama, but Papa had to stay in Leipzig again and there was no money for gifts and there was very little food to do anything special with. Mama had hoarded a few ration coupons and traded them for a nice piece of fat pork, so we did have that, which was also the first meat in a little while, but there was nothing else special. We did not have a Christmas tree, but the town put one up in the market square and we admired it. The castle was of course not decorated for Christmas (would that not be funny?), but somehow the way it was lit made it look almost festive with the fresh snow on the roofs of the towers. I suppose it is all up to the brain to interpret what the eye sees. The same object can subjectively appear to be either festive or terrifying without objectively looking any different.

Herr Rittman stopped by to wish us a happy Christmas and to tell us that the Allied officers in the castle were eating much better than we were. This was because the Geneva Convention stipulated that prisoners were entitled to receive parcels from relatives delivered by the Red Cross. Up until last year these had been quite generous with chocolate and real coffee and such, but this year fewer parcels had gotten through and those that did were perhaps not quite as lavish. What he said next was interesting and made a strong impression on me. He said that the prisoners shared all the parcel contents equally so that those who did not get a parcel enjoyed the treats as well, and that they even shared a few little things with the guards, who they could see were increasingly poorly fed.

Papa sent us a letter, which arrived on Christmas Eve.

Dear Luise, Dear children,

I am writing to wish you a happy Christmas. I wish I could be there with you, but important work for the Reich keeps me here in Leipzig. This work will hopefully play some small part in making future Christmases happier when we can all be together again. The situation for our beloved Fatherland may appear to be difficult, but we must trust in the Führer. He has knowledge that we do not have, and he has wisdom that we do not have. Everything will be well in the end, I assure you.

I hope that my big boys are being helpful at home and dutiful in the Hitler Youth and I hope that my smaller children are behaving well.

Your husband and father,

Heil Hitler!

Wilhelm/Papa

Chapter Twenty-One

January 1945

Theodor was gone. It happened so quickly that neither he nor I had time to properly react, not that a reaction, proper or otherwise, would have made any difference whatsoever. Soon after New Year’s Day, an unfamiliar officer and several soldiers appeared in camp with three or four old army trucks. We saw him march into Herr Tischendorf’s office with Hauptmann Kohl. Shortly after we were all called to assemble in neat age-sorted rows in front of the flagpole.

“Please pay attention, Oberstleutnant Kessel has an announcement to make on behalf of the Wehrmacht and the Reich.” Tischendorf then stepped aside to allow this unfamiliar officer, a tall muscular-looking man in a very neatly pressed uniform, to come forward and address us.

“Loyal Hitler Youth! The