On the narrow country road, disappearing like a grey ribbon rolled an endless procession of gaunt, exhausted people. There were women with suitcases and bundles, soldiers in torn and dirty uniforms, hungry children hanging limply on to their mother's skirts, or were jammed in prams between smothering loads. The bigger children tried but were hardly able keep step with the adults. Even the frail old men whose feet scarcely still carried their own body let alone the rest of their possessions, were part of it. On that October 18th 1945, they were all on the flight out of the Soviet-occupied part of Germany moving towards the west. Probably hardly one of them noticed the beauty with which the sun sank in a kaleidoscope of colours of red and gold behind the hills of Eichsfeld. The strained pale faces were brushed a rosy hue by the glow. Another day came to an end without the border to the British occupied region having been reached.

A young girl of about four years with blond plaits and a big red scar on her left cheek pointed with an outstretched arm at the clouds on the west horizon edged in gold: "Mama, are we now going to the gate of heaven?". Those who heard it looked up in amazement. The small child had spoken with a loud bright voice. " Indeed, who knows.", replied an old man thoughtfully, and patted the girl on the head. "Do you think they are already waiting for us there?", continued the young girl. "No Inge," her mother energetically corrected, "we are going to Daddy in Hanover!". "Too bad, answered Inge, "Too bad! I don't want to go to Hannover.". She didn't say any more. I could understand that child so well. She was certainly just as exhausted as I was and had the same eager wish as I to be allowed finally to rest. But there was no rest.

The procession had its own rules and didn't care for the needs of a child.Some refugees had old rickety bicycles, others even a handcart as well, in order to be able to take many of their belongings with them. Unfortunately we had no wagon or carts of that type in our possession. My mother and my 20-year old sister carried a heavy suitcase in each hand and still stumbled along laboriously. I was close to remain lying on the road.It wasn't until a few days ago that I had left my bed after a month-long illness, and was actually still much too weak for this undertaking. But we had no other choice because it was the second time within two years that we had no roof to live under. ... but we had no other choice already, the second time inside two years, we had no roof under which we could live.

In July 1943 our house in Hamburg had been destroyed in an air-raid and we had found a friendly reception in the Altmark. Now the Russians had driven us also out of this domicile. So we were now moving again to Hamburg, where our father, brother, and a sister were already waiting for us. We had already been ten days on the way between Harz and Thüringen and at the end of our strength. Who would notice it if I remained behind? The stream of people would continue to stretch for miles. Everybody had to deal with their own problems....Each of us had enough to do with ourselves....

"I can't go on, I am so tired...so tired.", I complained. A young woman stretched her hand out to me. "Come on, hold onto our handcart tightly, then you'll still manage for a while.". My mother smiled at me encouragingly. Her lips were sore from thirst and from fever. But she rarely complained. Did she suspect that these were the last days of her life? So we wandered on until the golden gleam had paled and a deep dusk spread over the land. The woods were now bathed in a deep black so that they appeared as a silhouette stuck on to the horizon. The past several nights had been spent in overcrowded freight cars, at the side of the road, in cow or pig stalls, and also in a Russian prison without food and water.

Tonight the street would again be our bed. The people sank down to rest just where they were standing. The few men ripped up a pasture fence and lit a smoky campfire. The exhausted people came over to warm themselves while tongues of raging flames climbed into the sky. In the light of the flames, the bellowing cattle wandering around were like primeval monsters. Soon the fire crackled softer and the crying of the children fell silent.

Half dreaming I was lost in thought when a ...I had abandoned myself, half dreaming, to my thoughts when a ... shrill cry, like the piercing voice of an apocalyptic leader arose. There the woman stood at the fire: full of despair and accusing she screamed and the screams revealed her desperation about war, rape and murder and was echoed many times by whispering of the startled children. ...A woman stood at the fire full of despair, and crying out in condemnation, she screamed her horror over the war, rape, and murder, and found a varied response in the whimpering of the startled children.... Someone succeeded in calming the woman and silence fell again. It was a night certainly as many others at that time, on these streets. For days we had almost nothing to eat, but we scarcely noticed it, for perhaps the thought that we would soon be home outshone all the hardships like a light. The thick meadow stakes still glowed in the dark embers, while brushwood that had been collected from the edge of the woods flared up brightly. A giant full moon lit up the autumn landscape. The mist rose out of the meadow as the earth breathed. The cattle also pushed clouds of white vapour into the air whenever they raised their heads. Now and then they stopped to 'moo'. Certainly they were really confused about the strange nocturnal company.

My sister drew herself up close to me. Her warmth flowed through me invigoratingly. All at once I no longer felt tired. We sat beside our mother with our arms tightly around each other, a bastion of security against this coming-apart-at-the-seams world. Elizabeth whispered to me in my ear, "Should we sing little sister?". I nodded, "I would like to, but what will the people say?". "We can at least try it once anyway.", pleaded my sister. How often had we sang over the last days whenever courage wanted to leave us. Each time afterwards we felt as if a little bit of weight had been lifted from our hearts. ....Each time afterwards it had become somewhat easier for our heart strings..... So we dared also so to sing here. At first tenderly, then somewhat louder we sang a duet, that familiar Matthias Claudius song, 'The moon has risen.". My mother then joined in, "... the little golden stars resplendent". Gradually there were more and more voices until it was a large complete choir. It was a wondrous sound, wondrous singing - the hills near Friedland most certainly never had witnessed anything like this before.... The sound of the songs lasted into the night with no wish for them to end.... Finally a soldier sang the Volga Boat Song. He had a fine full baritone voice. When he came to the refrain everyone joined in," Have you also forgotten me over there, my heart still yearns for love...". Many tears rolled over gaunt cheeks, from deep distress, but also with deep longing and hope. The singing had consoled me. It seemed to me that even the stars were shining more brightly... Even the stars now seemed to me to shine more and appeared more lively..., as if they knew a comforting answer to our problems. But that was naturally just a deception born in the fairy tales of my childhood.

On the next morning, when it was still dark, we moved on further with our trek. It was my thirteenth birthday and as a present I received the last sausage-end, which my mother had saved for me, out of our suitcase. On the day after that we finally reached the border crossing to the west. At this single point here in Germany about 5000 refugees each day were allowed to pass. Crying from exhaustion and happiness we fell into each other's arms. After one more night on the floor of a shack in Friedland, a slow windowless passenger train brought us, after a 12 hour journey, to Hamburg. The monotone rattle of the wheels allowed us to sink again and again into a leaden sleep. The pounding sounds formed themselves into words, which rung clearly in my ears...home, home, finally home.

Translated from the German by John Milloy,Can. (nimso@aol.com)

Gertrud Everding, Jahrgang 1932 Homepage: www.literadies.de

SeniorenNet Hamburg

© 2002 Gertrud Everding