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

the particulars in a ledger. It was becoming chaotic in the barn as people were increasingly anxious. Some were even arguing with the DGP men, which struck me as pointless and ill-advised. A thick jostling crowd developed around the table. It was difficult for Mama and me to deal with the registration process as well as keep an eye on the children and our belongings. After the officer was done with us, Mama noticed that her leather satchel had disappeared. This contained our food (bread and hard-boiled eggs) and the bit of jewellery she had left. Mama thought one of the police had taken it, but I reasoned that it could just as easily have been one of our fellow aspiring refugees. Either way it was going to be a difficult night.

Chapter Fifty-Three

April 2, 1949

It was a very long sleepless night of mostly standing, leaning against the barn wall, but occasionally sitting when Mama decided to stand. We could only go to the outhouse in the farmyard accompanied by one of the guards. Even Clara, though very small for a twelve-year-old, was escorted by a guard. She said he kept his finger on the trigger of his rifle the entire time. When morning finally came, we could see through the small broken windows that it was going to be a glorious spring day. Fingers of dusty sunlight stabbed through the barn, illuminating clusters of exhausted people, many slumped against the walls, some sitting on the benches and a few braving the filthy floor. It had been thirty-six hours since I last had anything to eat. I should have breakfasted in Leipzig, but I had been too nervous then to think about food. I had the faint hope that we would be given something to eat, but all that was provided was a cup of Muckefuck for each of us, even for little three-and-a-half-year-old Paul, who wisely refused it.

At around eight the DGP officer strode back in and shouted at us to form three roughly equal length lines. We were then taken outside and each line of about fifteen to twenty was told to climb into the back of one of the three waiting trucks. There was only enough room to stand, and barely even that. Mama held Paul in her arms, and we all squeezed tightly together, which while uncomfortable prevented us from falling over as the truck bumped along a deeply rutted country road. Fortunately we did not have far to go. The trucks stopped at another abandoned farm. We were taken into the farmhouse and told to wait in a large empty room. Farmers often had large rooms like this that served as dining rooms, living rooms and even kitchens all in one. Here there were only two small benches, so there was again a lot of standing as we waited to be processed again, this time by the Russians. I do not know why this processing could not have all been done by the DGP, but my dark suspicion is that each of them — VoPos, DGP and Russians — wanted the opportunity to scare us and shake us down.

It was late afternoon by the time it was our turn to be called into the small adjoining room where a Russian officer sat at a desk with a translator behind him and two soldiers standing off to the side. I remember fixating for some reason on the small bright red desktop flag of the USSR that was on the desk in front of him. The soldiers began rifling through our backpacks while the officer fingered our identity papers, looking bored. The soldiers had emptied our spare clothes and sundry bits and pieces into a heap in the corner of the room. They looked angry and said something to the officer. He apparently asked them to hand the bags over. They passed them to him, one at a time, and he carefully inspected the linings and kneaded the cloth wherever there was a double layer. It was obvious that he was looking for money or jewellery. I am glad that he did not notice that we all had become very still as he went through Paul’s baby bag, again squeezing the sides. The padding was thankfully thick enough to prevent him from detecting the Deutschmarks. When he was done and had not found anything, he shrugged and tossed the bags back to the soldiers. Then he turned to face Mama. His expression changed from boredom to anger.

He spat something out in Russian, which was translated as “You will go back to Colditz first thing in the morning!” He then loudly stamped each of our papers. “You are lucky. I should send you to labour camp now and put the children in state care, but I am a family man myself. Consider this a warning. These stamps mean that if you are found trying to cross the border again you will be imprisoned for sure. I swear this to you.”

We were then permitted to leave the building and go out into the farmyard. It was a gorgeous sun-drenched late afternoon, the saturated greens of grass and blues of sky vivid in my memory. Russian soldiers were playing soccer while most of our fellow travellers were milling about. I noticed that the young herring smugglers were nowhere to be seen. Mama sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. We did not speak for fear of being overheard by the wrong ears, but I am sure that we were both thinking the same thing: we had come this far and there was nothing for us in Colditz anymore. Somehow, some way, we would try to escape tonight. First we would wait for darkness and then we could see what opportunity might present itself. In the meantime we sat down on a patch of grass and tried to enjoy the sun.

A middle-aged man dressed like a hiker with knee socks and a dark green wool coat with carved