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

his head back and made a quiet “ah-oo” wolf howl. “That stupid Göbbels’s propaganda worked! They really believe that resistance fighters are hiding amongst us, ready to booby-trap toilets and blow their well-upholstered Ami asses high up into the sky!” He laughed loudly at the absurdity of this thought. I became thoroughly alarmed that we would attract unwanted attention, but none was forthcoming. The Americans continued to ignore us. “If there is even one real Werewolf fighter in all of Saxony, I will eat my shoe. However, I might have to eat my shoe anyway. Speaking of which, I imagine you are going to talk to the farmers. There are a few by the sports field, just south. Good luck!” Herr Rittmann continued to watch the Americans while I left the square and headed down to the old sports field.

It was too early in the season for anything fresh, but the farmers, who were incidentally all women, had eggs, meat and bread for sale. I could see this from where I stood at the edge of the field. I watched as people came and went and I tried to analyze the transactions so I would know what to do when I had finally amassed the courage to approach one of the farmers. But I was too far away to hear what was said, nor could I see the smaller objects being handed over in trade. One short round woman with a neat red apron and a white spotted green kerchief on her head smiled a lot and was off to the side a little, with her food spread out on the hood of a burnt-out SS staff car. She seemed like the best choice, being out of the noisier crowded area and looking friendly. But still I could not go. I clutched my canvas bag and began to get upset. Would Mama believe me if I went back and said there was no market, or that they were sold out? But we had so little food left at home, and I had already failed once. This was my responsibility. Going up to a strange woman with the intent to bargain was as terrifying, however, as cowering in our cellar in Leipzig when the bombs were falling. Perhaps worse even. Here it was all up to me and failure was a definite possibility, whereas in the bomb shelter my fate was entirely out of my hands. It was like the difference between being the pawn and being the hand that moves the pawn. Moreover, in this instance, I was meant to be the hand that moves the pawn when I had absolutely no experience playing the game or knowledge of its rules. The woman in the apron and kerchief noticed me standing there and beckoned me over. At the same time a townswoman whom I recognized as living around the corner from us came over.

“You’re Luise’s son, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“It’s okay if you don’t know what to do here. Hilda is good and fair. I’ll help you.”

Before I could protest, the townswoman took me by the hand to the smiling farmer, who was apparently named Hilda. I glanced nervously at the staff car, wondering whether there might be something gory in there, like blood splatters, but it was comprehensively blackened on the inside.

My two silver earrings got me a dozen fresh eggs, two loaves of rough-looking dark bread, a half pound of butter and a pound of fatty pork. I had no idea whether this was a good deal, but Hilda and the townswoman assured me that it was. The latter got a larger quantity of meat but had traded a very fine-looking gold bracelet and a handful of cigarettes for it, so my confidence increased that I had done well. Nonetheless, although I was not too sure how much jewellery we had, I sensed that this arrangement was not going to keep us fed for very long.

As I came around the corner onto Nikolaistrasse on the way back to our flat, I almost walked right into a patrol of three American soldiers. They were Black. I had never seen a Black person before in my life. I only knew about them from storybooks and a little bit from history class when the German colonies in Africa were discussed. These were lost after the First World War. Was there discussion of cannibalism? I think there might have been, but I could not instantly recall right then. I gasped and I think I would have peed my pants with terror had my bladder not already been empty. The three of them stopped and laughed. It was a kindly laugh. What a sight I must have been to them — small, thin, terrified. One of them crouched down on his haunches and placed his hand gently on my shoulder.

“Junge, okay, nein, nicht . . . alarm,” he said in a broken but understandable mix of German and English. “Gummi?” he then asked and pulled a package of chewing gum out of his jacket pocket. Chewing gum! I had heard of it, and there was surely some around in Leipzig before the war, but I did not know anyone who had it. I knew that the Americans were famous for it. Was it a trick though? The soldier seemed to read my mind. “Okay, wunderbar, yum,” he said and popped one piece in his mouth, smiling broadly as he chewed it. He then handed the rest of the package to me, which I accepted with a quiet “Danke schoen.”

The other two soldiers seemed a little unhappy with him and one glanced nervously up and down the street while the other said something quite stern to my new friend. Later I would find out that the U.S. Army had strict anti-fraternization rules in place. The soldiers were not allowed to speak to any Germans of any age, again because of fears that a devious Nazi Werewolf resistance might even use children to befriend