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

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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.

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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

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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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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.

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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.