Candlelight in a Storm

CHAPTER I
Exodus
Just three years old, Renate was not aware of the situation. She was
right in the eye of the kind of storm in which the skies darken to drop
bombs.
The place was Berlin; the year was 1943. The city was under attack.
The “Battle of Berlin,” begun in the previous November, was in full
swing, with a series of bombing raids by the Royal Air Force. The
western residential regions of Tiergarten, Charlottenburg, Schöneberg,
and Spandau had suffered severe damage. The Kaiser Wilhelm church
was in ruins.
Miles away, it was quiet in the southern district of Mariendorf. It
was a gloomy morning, with the faint, oblique sun rays partly blocked
by clouds, shining on the street of Schützenstrasse, a pleasant middleclass
residential area. Only the factory of the company Fritz Werner
located farther south offered a target to the enemy. The company was
manufacturing necessary mechanical parts for the war machinery.
After breakfast, the children were playing indoors. Their mother,
Erika, was washing up in the kitchen, as usual listening to the
news broadcast. Radio noises from crackle to whines at full throttle
competed with the broadcast for attention. There was an interruption
and the voice of the reporter gave in to the other dreaded voice, this
time in a low and grave tone, not in the customary high pitch. She
switched off the radio. She knew the time had come. She walked out
of the kitchen.
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Renate’s brother, Dieter, was crawling around with a wooden toy
murmuring “Brrrm, brrrm”; it was a crude, red wooden car that their
neighbor, old Hans Lehmann, had carved, painted, and provided with
rugged wooden wheels. Renate was scolding her doll, Inge, asking her
to behave herself. The children looked up. She burst out,
“Okay, children, I have good news for you. We are now going to
travel by train and will visit Emi. Right away!”
Emi was the children’s grandmother. The kids knew that to see her,
they would have to travel far away on a train. “Oh, yeah! By train, by
train!” Renate jumped up and shouted, “But Inge will be coming with
me!” The doll was of celluloid, blonde, almost a foot tall, with blue eyes.
The doll was her dearest friend and her constant companion, day and
night. She would introduce Inge to anyone she met, and this time it
would be to her grandma.
Mom Erika, “Mutti” to the kids, had chosen to surprise the
children, for how could she share with them the anguish she felt?
She knew the mention of relatives and a train trip would meet with
immediate enthusiasm.
Renate, for one, enjoyed travel and loved to be always on the move
to discover new places. Dieter was no less happy than his sister. He just
loved trains. He was enthralled by the majestic smooth movement of
those colossal iron beasts chugging and lugging along, enduring long
distances, camellike, but living only on coal and water.
Adolf Hitler, who had invited the calamity in the first place, had
realized the danger the inhabitants had to face, now that the western
parts had already been bombed.
Ironically, himself an immigrant, he did at least one favor for his
hosts: he allowed his minister for propaganda, Josef Goebbels, to ask
them to quit. On the radio, the usual hysterical voice was now grave,
and forebode evil: the voice sternly called upon all citizens of Berlin,
women with children, in particular, asking them to flee from the capital
and get to rural areas to relatives or friends, and to protect themselves
against the pounding that had begun.
Erika had been following the news on an hourly basis. She heard
about the bombs over Berlin in the western districts. She had never
gone through such a situation. Bombs falling from the sky over Berlin
Candlelight in a Storm
3
was a horror scenario beyond her wildest imagination. This was not
a nightmare, but an imminent calamity. She had to save herself and
her children, anything else had no value. She had to run before it
would be too late. In this moment of decision, a flashback of her past
popped up: her youth, her dreams of a family, a home, rearing two dear
children, sharing a life with her husband Werner. Then, as if all such
pleasant thoughts were now only a nuisance, she brushed them aside
with vehemence. However, they persisted now, appearing as a promise
for the future. It was only a momentary lapse in her luck. If she would
only bring her children and herself to safety, escape from the deluge,
then the day would come for Werner’s return and the sun would shine
again. One day, when this nightmare was over….
She had packed in advance and had stacked the suitcases in a
separate room. She always had a bag containing all of their important
documents, like identity papers and birth certificates, ever handy and
ready to be grabbed before fleeing anywhere; it was known as her “black
bag.” As usual, it lay near her bed, so she could grab it in a moment’s
notice and go. The children packed up their playthings into small bags.
They felt they were assisting their mother big time by moving the bags
to and fro in excitement. Then the three hurried to reach the railway
station. It was still dark and cold outside.
Dieter stopped at the doorstep; he set down his grip, brushed the
lock of blond hair away from his forehead, looked up to his mother and
asked,
“Mutti, does Vati know we are going away to Emi?” At the age of
seven, he was dearly missing his father.
“Yes, of course,” Mutti assured him, stroking his head. “He knows
everything.”
“But how?” Dieter persisted.
“I have written to him, and he will get my message by Feldpost.
Don’t worry,” she assured.
Feldpost was the mail system at the war front, an organized effort,
which could offer some comfort amid the tumult of the times. She did
hope Werner was safe and sound, and would also receive her frantic
message.
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Before closing the door, Erika threw one last glance around. This
was not the time for an emotional departure, for a moment to say goodbye
to furniture and articles that make a home out of a bare flat. There
was no time to take leave from all those things that stand there symbolic
of the dreams, hopes, aspirations, and plans for the future of her young
family. Maybe one day she would return with Werner when all this is
over and there is a final victory all spoke of, the Endsieg. But, right now,
this was a moment of leaving all that was dear to her, a moment to close
the door. To move, to escape, to flee.
* * *
The railway station, called Anhalter Bahnhof, was situated in the
heart of Berlin at the Ascania Square. It had been built a hundred years
ago back in 1839; it became the biggest and finest railway station in
continental Europe. It was called the “Gateway to the South” for railway
lines led from here to the south, to capitals like Prague, Vienna, Rome,
and Athens. Trains would depart every three to five minutes and would
transport some 44,000 passengers per day or 16,000,000 per year.
The train-shed roof alone sheltered an area which could hold 40,000
people standing. It was connected, via an underground tunnel, to the
Hotel Excelsior, Europe’s largest hotel at that time. The tunnel, some
100 meters or yards long, with shops underground, was considered the
longest of its kind in the world.
Goebbels’ call had caused sufficient alarm and flurry. The station
was packed with excited people, all hectic and confused, particularly
after the experience of the air sirens and bombs, and with fear of an
uncertain future in a strange place. The station was stuffy and the din
was deafening. Luckily, she had purchased tickets in advance, but she
had reached the station late. She approached an official, who reassured
her that her train’s departure had also been delayed and she could get
it, if she hurried. She squeezed through the crowd with her luggage and
the children behind. They were too small to look over the heads of the
mob. She had given them strict orders to hold on to her and to follow
her wherever she went.
Reaching the train, she saw a huge crowd struggling to get through
the entrance door of each compartment, all at once. Gone was the
Candlelight in a Storm
5
otherwise orderliness they had been trained to follow. Some were
courteous and let her pass, but most were not. Carried by the wave, she
was practically pushed into the cabin, all the while feeling the children’s
hands in the rear, and hanging on to her coat. She was even lucky to
find a narrow space to seat herself with the bags on her lap. Dieter was
there beside her. And Renate?
Renate was nowhere to be seen. Mom Erika cried aloud for her
little daughter, but the child had disappeared. Totally lost, she looked
out the window. She caught sight of a soldier on the platform, a sudden
symbol ushering better days and a final victory. Indeed, beside him was
little Renate, standing alone with a confused look. The soldier called
out to Erika.
“Is this your child, madam?”
“Yes, that is my girl” Erika called back.
“Here we go!” he called out to the child as he stooped to her. “Off
to your mom.”
With a jerk, the soldier lifted Renate off the ground and passed her
through the window. In an instant, Renate had been heaved into the
cabin. Erika sprang up and grabbed her.
“Thank you, soldier!” Erika cried out, sighing in relief. She sat down
and dropped the child on her lap. Dieter gave his sister the precious
doll, Inge.
The incessant smell of burning coal all over was only welcome to
Erika. For her, it was the smell of escape to safety. The locomotive gave
a long, merry whistle, followed by a low hiss. Then there was a heavy
jolt. She sensed forward motion. They were off to Apolda.
1 by W.G.Sebald, in English 2003 from the original “Luftkrieg und Literatur”,
1999, Carl Hanser Verlag.
2 Marjorie Garber, Pantheon Books, New York, 2011, pp 188-194.
3 ibidem p.273.
6
CHAPTER II
The Refuge
Apolda
The town of Apolda, with about 20,000 residents, is situated in the
state of Thuringia. It can be easily spotted on the map as a neighboring
town, northeast of Erfurt, the capital of the state, right in the center
of Germany. Geographically, the Thuringian basin is prominently
surrounded by the Harz Mountains to the north and the mountains
of Thuringer Wald as well as the Schieferberge to the south. The basin
hosts the river Unstrut along with other rivers like, Gera and Ilm,
further to the south. The state also boasts cities, like Jena, world famous
for heat-resistant glass and optical instruments, and the historic city of
Weimar, where Goethe lived and met Schiller in 1788.
During the war, Thuringia had attained immense military
importance for the Reich. Deep in the middle of the Reich and farthest
from the enemy advance, the state featured a hilly, woody, and rugged
terrain, not easy to be invaded. To its further advantage, it had several
tunnel mines already dug into the Harz Mountains in the olden days
for salt recovery. One of Hitler’s pet projects was that of the “Wonder
Weapons,” V-1 and V-2 rockets. After the bombs on Peenemünde on
the Baltic coast in 1943 and 1944, he had the production moved to the
tunnels in the Kohnstein hills of Thuringia. The company Mittelwerk
started production of the rockets along with the aircraft Ar 234 and
Candlelight in a Storm
7
Me 262 (in Nordhausen and Kahla), as well as the Taifun and Orkan
missiles.
Apolda means “apple region.” This nomenclature, already in use in
the 10th to 11th century, is explicitly documented in 1119. The settlement
attained city status in 1289. Popular tradition associates the town with
the region of Gramont in France (Département Haute-Saone in the
region Frache-Comté). According to one version, Napoleon Bonaparte
encountered this region in 1806 when he won the “double battle” at Jena
and Auerstett against the Prussian-Saxon army. Highly impressed upon
seeing Apolda, he is supposed to have said, “Looks just like Gramont.”
In 1714, the families of Ulrich and Schilling made Apolda famous
for forging bells and the town received the title “Glockenstadt,” Bell
City. This tradition continued even up to the 20th century. In 1911, the
company Franz Schilling and Sons became specialists for carillons and
church bells in Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. The bell “Decker
Pitter” (Fat Peter) of the cathedral in Cologne was forged here in 1923.
From 1904 until 1927, it was also an automobile town with the Apollo-
Werke AG producing the Apollo and Piccolo cars. The residents also
take pride in the Doberman dogs. This well-known breed has its origin
in Apolda, named after its breeder, Friedrich Louis Dobermann of the
19th century.
The town also reached prominence for its textile industry, especially
for wool and knitwear. Back in 1593, a resident called “David the
Knit-man” made history by teaching how to knit using seven needles;
he laid the foundation for the town to become the capital for knitwear.
The textile trading company, “Christian Zimmermann und Söhne,”
was founded in 1789; incidentally, this was the very year the French
Revolution began. In 1880, the company began its own production,
evolving to be the most prominent knitwear manufacturer in town and
beyond. On the occasion of the centenary of the company, a statue of the
founder Christian Zimmermann (1759-1842) was erected on November
10, 1889. It is a bronze statue on a sandstone pedestal at the Alexander-
Pushkin square (Karlsplatz until 1950).
In the 20th century, the company C. Zimmermann & Sons was in
the hands of the descendents, the family of Hollmann. Fritz Hollmann
was representing his business in the 1930’s in the United States, but
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Naveen Sridhar
then he was called away to Apolda because his father had passed away
suddenly. He took over the company overnight. The woolen products
of the business were highly cherished during war time, mainly by the
infantry at the cold eastern front.
Fritz married Renate’s aunt (her mother’s sister) Lise-Lotte Wenck,
“Tante Lilo.” The pair had two sons, Klaus and Peter, and a daughter,
also named Erika. They lived in a luxurious house with a big terrace
garden in the rear, and a swimming pool. They even had a maid. Fritz’s
cousin, Weidemann, and his family lived above them.
* * *
Grandmother Elisabeth Wenck, or Emi, was living with her own
mother, Omchen, in a four-bedroom house. Omchen passed away in
1940 at age 89. Now Emi lived alone. A few years later, fleeing from
Berlin, her daughter, Erika, had also moved in with her two children
in tow to her grandmother’s home.
A somewhat consistent childhood memory begins for Renate in
Apolda. It is here that she vividly remembers the bomb exercises. They
started with a low warning and threatening siren, which set one and all
to scurrying around. She would feel uneasy, with tension rising in her
belly. This was not like the whistle of a locomotive she remembered,
happily announcing, “Here we go!” It hardly mattered whether an air
attack was real or if it would only be an exercise. An air attack was
imminent, now or another day. She remembers how her mother would
drop everything and call out, “Come on, children! Hurry up!”. She
would hustle the kids and her mother to get going. They would run out
the door, down the staircase to the air shelter in the basement. After
the last neighbor hurried into the shelter, the massive steel door would
squeak and moan until closing with a bang. Having reached the dark
and dank safety, all would stand in uneasy silence. She remembers
looking up at the grown-ups’ faces, paralyzed in unmasked anguish,
holding their breath, all frozen in fear. She learned to associate the
sound of the alarm with the tense facial expressions of the elderly.
Then the all-clear siren would sound a welcome call, giving them all
relief, and she knew the “game” was over. On leaving the basement,
the neighbors would make comments, even joke, to relieve the tension.
Candlelight in a Storm
9
None prayed in desperation, nor were there any emotional outbursts,
despite the terror that was gnawing at their marrow. “Haltung bewahren.”
“Maintaining composure” were the watchwords. Returning home, the
family would carry on with daily life, business as usual.
Bombs over Berlin was also a daily topic, with Erika receiving all
kinds of news from her former home, aside from the daily news on
the radio. From letters she received, she had learned their house in
Mariendorf had been blown up in the most concentrated attack of the
southern districts, on the night of January 28-29th, just after they had
left the city. Whew! That was close. 4
In contrast, Apolda was attacked only once, on November 21st, 1944,
but even that led to a large number of casualties. This bombardment was
an overreaction on the pilot’s part, for the town had nothing to offer
from a military standpoint. A train on its way to the industrial town of
Jena some 10 miles away had stopped momentarily and the pilot had
aimed at it and the surroundings. On that night, Dieter and Renate had
huddled with their mom and grandma in the air shelter, shuddering at
the thuds in the distance. To their great relief, on coming out in the
morning, they did not see any devastation in the neighborhood. The
bombs had fallen farther away.