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

distance, I am not sure I had seen a foreigner before. Certainly not one from across the sea.

“Good morning. We are here to assess the possibilities for housing our officers.” It was one of the GIs who spoke. His German was astonishingly good. “How many rooms do you have?”

“We have just this room and a small bedroom. There are five of us,” Mama answered, keeping her tone polite and calm.

“I see.” The GI said something to the officer in what I assumed was English. It sounded like ducks quacking. The officer wrote something in a little coil-bound notebook.

“Thank you, madam. We will not be troubling you anymore. Have a good day.”

So. These were the Americans. In this admittedly very brief encounter there was no evidence of gangsterish behaviour. The other GI had even offered us a smile. I suspended my judgement though. There was not enough evidence yet. Mama said nothing and withdrew to the bedroom. I had not mentioned to her that I had seen Papa’s letter. Now that I allowed myself to think about it, my thoughts were in turmoil. Although death had become a familiar topic, suicide was not. I had never heard of somebody killing themselves, and the idea seemed bizarre to the point of straining credibility. What possibly could be worse than the infinite void of nothingness? How could a rational person voluntarily choose the infinite void of nothingness? I must have misinterpreted what he wrote. I wished I could read it over again, but Mama was in the bedroom. Without Theodor around there was nobody to discuss this with. I certainly would not tell the little ones! I pondered the problem for a while and eventually convinced myself that suicide was not a real thing and that Papa was using an obtuse metaphor.

With this settled I began to become restless and longed to go to the forest. The war was over, was it not? The Americans would not have bothered with an empty forest, so it would be exactly as it was before. That is what I needed — something that was exactly as it was before. I knew that Mama would not permit it though, so I sat and jiggled restlessly. Partial salvation came when Mama opened the bedroom door a crack. Her eyes were red.

“Ludwig, go to the market and see if the Amis are distributing any food. We have nothing left here.” Then she closed the door again.

Our brewery flat was very close to the market, so in a matter of steps I was there. It was busy with trucks full of American GIs rumbling through and clusters of locals either watching the Americans quietly or talking amongst themselves. Before I could assess the food situation, a boy came running up to me. It was Walther from camp. I did not know him very well, but each of us was relieved to see a familiar face in the midst of all this uncertainty.

“Ludwig . . . ! Did . . . you . . . hear . . . ?” Walther was breathless with excitement, so the words came out one at a time, panted more than spoken.

“About Herr Tischendorf, yes.” I was happy to see Walther, but I did not want to encourage this line of conversation.

“Not just him. Kohl. Did you hear about Kohl?”

“No.”

“He shot himself! The Amis were approaching the camp and pretty much everyone except Herr Braun and Manfred had left. Even Kohl could see that there was no point in trying to fight. He was probably worried he would be captured. So, he put his pistol in his mouth. It was a horrible mess! Manfred told Erwin who told me. The Amis took Herr Braun prisoner but let Manfred go.”

Suicide was a real thing. Hauptmann Kohl was crazy, and Papa was not crazy, at least I did not believe so, but still both were fervent believers in the Nazi cause, which was not a good thing to be now. My mind went blank. I made an excuse to Walther and joined a line of people that was forming behind one American truck where it looked like some sort of food was being distributed. But there was none. It was a false rumour and the crowd was dispersed with shouts from an American sergeant. I went home empty-handed.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

April 18, 1945

With a firm “We have to eat,” Mama sent me out again the next morning, this time with a small canvas bag in which she put a pair of silver earrings. Being upper middle class for several generations back on both sides, our family owned a lot of valuable things. The bulkier items, such as many of Opa Flintzer’s paintings, were in bank vaults in Leipzig, but a lot of the jewellery and some of the silverware had come with us to Colditz. There were rumours of an informal farmers’ market at the edge of town. Reichmarks had become toilet paper, so the only recognized currency was real silver and gold. Soon American cigarettes would fill that role too.

The first thing that caught my eye when I entered the market square was that the Americans were building several tiny houses on the far side, near the river. Herr Rittmann was in the square and waved me over.

“See there, Ludwig,” he said quietly, indicating the odd construction. “Do you know what the Amis are building?”

I shook my head no.

“Outhouses! The Amis are building pit toilets for themselves!”

I made a quizzical facial expression.

“Exactly! Why, you wonder? Why use pit toilets when all the homes their officers are billeted in have beautiful indoor plumbing! Even the regular GIs have access to proper flush toilets at the school next to their camp.”

He paused, waiting for a comment from me I suppose, but I did not say anything. I glanced nervously at the American soldiers, who were not very far away.

“You can’t guess, can you? It’s so funny! They are afraid of the Werewolves!” Herr Rittmann threw