In 1940 my brother, Hans Joachim Güldenpfennig, was a lively, uncomplicated candidatefor the school-leaving examination, an "Abiturient". He had many friends, applied himself to sport, and often went to church, which at this time was absolutely not typical. Hostility he accepted with composure. His faith and bible studies gave him strength. It seems to me today, as if he, despite his youth, had a well-balanced attitude to life at his disposal.He had just turned 18 years old, when his conscription into the infantry occurred. There remained only a few days for his advanced school-leaving examinations, the "Notabitur" and his departure.Very shortly his first action in Russia took place, from which he returned badly wounded. He was released from the hospital at home as incurable and unfit for the front. In order not to let his comrades down he made up his mind however, for a voluntary return to the front. Neither my parents nor I could influence his decision. I remember his convalescent leave, that preceded his further service at the front. A last walk and a last conversation that was already overshadowed by the shortly forthcoming departure. Each minute of being together was infinitely precious. My fear before his departure increased when my brother confided in me of his premonition that he would not ever return. And now I could understand even less, that he wanted to commit himself voluntarily to danger. His decision stood firmly incontrovertible. In order to reassure him I had to promise that in the difficult times of grief I would stand by the side of our parents and comfort them. I spent the following period between hope and fear. The more time elapsed, the greater was my faith. All my hopes however, were destroyed in a cruel manner when, in the early part of 1942 we received the report, that on the 9th March in Russia, my brother had been killed in action, as it said: "for Führer, People, and Fatherland". He was buried in Debalzewo, east of Stalino.

We were disconcerted. My mother screamed her pain out and my father cried bitterly. Both of them sat, entwined, on the sofa. The thought that my brother could still have been alive if he himself had not reported back, rendered the pain and the rising fury against the regime, almost unbearable. The unspeakable anxiety over my despairing parents left me dumbstruck. I realized that I now had to keep my promise which I had given to my brother. Consolingly, I took my parents by the arm, and at the same time I asked them if they could each be as brave as my brother. I too, could not endure the definitiveness, and also the senselessness of his death..

In the following period I lived in my brother's room. I felt near to him here. I wrote letters to him and read his books in order to understand the world of his thoughts. In a book I read the underlined words: " Birth and death are only entrance gates to life." The belief, which had clearly given my brother strength, lent itself to me. I found comfort in my grief. Through the death of my brother, his courage and his beliefs I was formed for my entire life.The gravestone of my parents contains also the names and dates of my brother, who found his final resting place far from home. Each visit to the cemetery for me is a comforting reminder of my beloved family.

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

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© 2002 Christa Renken