Illa - Part 4

3 year Old German Girl Remembers Fleeing City During WWII

This is a true story hand-written by Ilse and posted by her daughter on Steemit.

Mother and I worked out a routine to help cope with the nightly alarms and bombings. So from now on, we shared the master bed. We slept in our clothes and only took our shoes off. Two suitcases containing the most important items, like documents, money and clothing, sat on the floor by the door of the apartment, ready to take with us when we hurried downstairs to the basement. With the first sound of the sirens, I would jump up in bed and scream “Mutti, Mutti”. Mom was right there and put our shoes on. Then I would grab my cat, Mom grabbed the suitcases, and down to the basement we went. That was in the beginning. Later, because the suitcases slowed us down, they were left standing by the door.

The basement was transformed into a shelter for the people who lived in the building. It had some chairs and even two bunk beds. Mom did not like to go to the big bomb shelters that the government had built because it was very dangerous. For one thing, they were further away, and many people were killed running to the shelters. The other reason was that all the lights were turned off and the entire city was concealed in an artificial fog. One could easily get lost or totally disoriented. This fog was called “vernebeln” It was meant to make houses and other locations invisible to the enemy. I personally hated that fog because it left an awful taste in my mouth. In order to see family members or neighbors, we each wore a large button that glowed in the dark. Later on, whenever I refused to eat lamb or goat meat I used the excuse; it makes my whole mouth vernebelt.

Once in a while, I checked my glow button and reported to Mom. “Mutti! Mutti! Neucht noch” (It is still glowing.). I loved my Neucht Noch. It was always pinned on my outer garment, and I would not go anywhere without it. It was my tiny little pleasure amid so much destruction and fear. I am glad we never went to those massive bomb shelters. Thousands of people were killed in there. The metal door fused or buckled from the outside heat and the people where trapped inside suffering a slow horrible death.

In the summer of 1942, the raids on the city became fierce. Some nights we had to rush twice to the basement. The afternoon naps I had disliked so much a year before were now a wonderful thing and oh so necessary. My neat eating habits were gone after heavy bombing and Mom had to feed me. I was shaking too badly to hold onto my spoon. Those shakes would reoccur for many years whenever I was really upset.

In the shelter, people did not talk. Everybody listened to what was happening outside. Only after a bomb hit close by, and the ground shook, would one of the neighbors comment, “That was a close one”. Then everyone was quiet again. I found this stillness of the people very scary. All I could do was hold on to my Mom’s hand, and sing a little song, only to be hushed. Humming was not appreciated either, so I played with my Neucht Noch.

One night one of the smaller phosphorus stick-bombs landed on our roof. The house started to burn from the top. People ran to their apartments to rescue what ever they could. My mother was one of them. While I was being taken care of by a neighbor, Mom climbed the stairs in the heavy smoke to the fourth floor to get our two suite cases. As soon as she opened the door, smoke and flames came at her. One look at the burning apartment and she knew there would be nothing left and with that, she had to fight her way back downstairs. She made it, but without the suite cases. “My beautiful piano, Oh my beautiful piano” I remember her mourn. Mom never forgave herself for leaving the suite cases behind. Why didn’t I grab them? I had enough time to do that. Why didn’t I? All we had now was the cloth we were wearing. My Mom came into the basement to pick me up, not anticipating finding me in a crying mess. “My Moorle, I want Moorle!” Nobody could find the cat. He must have run outside with the neighbors when the door was open for a short while. I was heartbroken because we had to leave. The house was engulfed in flames and I never saw my Moorle again.

We stayed with my grandparents for a few days. I could talk to Oma about losing my cat. She understood my sadness. “Maybe we will find him some day” That felt so good. After the tears had dried, I gave Oma a big hug and smiled. “Look Oma, Neucht Noch”. Oma and my Mom looked at each other and both had tears in their eyes. Oma said, “She is telling us, our light is not gone, we are still alive!

The next day my grandparents were burned out too. The whole block of apartment buildings was in huge flames. With quite a few other people, we stood a little way from the street and watched. To me, they all looked strange; the fire making curious patterns on their blackened, crying faces. We had to find my Grandfather (Opa) who was at work driving a streetcar. Being a streetcar conductor at that time, was not an easy job. Most streets were full of rubble and barely visible.

That day, British airplanes dropped thousands of leaflets on Hamburg with this warning: WOMEN AND CHILDREN LEAVE THE CITY. WE ARE COMING TONIGHT TO FLATTEN THE WHOLE CITY.

Nobody was allowed to pick those papers up; it would have been considered treason. Even so, the news spread very quickly and an exodus of the civilians started early that afternoon. My Grandfather (Opa) being on the streetcar was one of the first to see what was happening. When we came to him to see if we should flee and if he would come with us, he said he could not leave. “Somebody has to drive the streetcar to get people moving.” He explained. “But you three should go immediately”. On a little piece of paper, he wrote a note to his family in Bavaria to take us in until it was safe to go back. We had never met those people; the Kohl’s, they were farmers in a small village called Schopflohe. At least he would know which direction we would take and where to find us when needed. We said our goodbyes and left Opa in Hamburg. It would be two and a half years until I saw Opa again.

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by @susieisms
https://steemit.com/writing/@susieisms/illa-part-5