In about two weeks (1st May) my home town, "Braunau am Inn" will be able to celebrate the 70th anniversary of the arrival of the "Black Cat Division" of the United States Army, signalling the end of World War II another 8 days hence and the final liberation of Europe from the brutal Nazi dictatorship.
I was 13 years of age then an enthusiastic member of the "Fanfare and Drum" band of the "Deutsche Jugend" and did not understand the importance of this fact.
The happenings of these times remained in my memory in great detail to this day. It was not until about 20 years later that I decided to write an account of these months and I have now decided to post them on my Blog.
Here is the story in its entirety, as I wrote it these many years ago:
THE END IS THE
BEGINNING
At that time, Kurt was a
good friend of mine.
He and his mother were
refugees from the Banat region. We both were 13 years of age and
tried to fit into the time of 1945. Even at such a young age we
vaguely suspected that the war reports we heard over the radio and
which spoke of “strategic withdrawals” and a “shortening of
the defensive front lines”, did not reflect the reality of the war.
It was the 30th
of April and as often before, Kurt and I crossed the bridge over the
river Inn, which was the border between Austria and Bavaria. Quickly
we walked through the town of Simbach and turned down-river. We
carried empty back bags which we hoped to fill up with eatables
obtained in a variety of ways from small farms located there. On a
foot path running parallel to the high way we marched along happily
fully expecting to repeat earlier successes, and waved to the
uninterrupted chain of military vehicles coming toward us and heading
up-river. There were trucks, tanks, armoured all terrain vehicles,
red-cross vans and trucks again. The unusual colour of the soldiers
uniforms we ascribed to our Africa Chor.
That “enemy troops”
could have reached our home land was totally unthinkable until a
distinctive German military Volkswagen, coming from a narrow side
road, was fired upon by a machine gun fixed on top one of the armoured
cars. We turned and in shock we saw the white star emblazoned on the
rear of all the vehicles.
Like two rabbits chased by
a pack of dogs we raced cross-country in a desperate effort to put as
much distance between us and this now threatening column of vehicles.
We ran and did not stop
running until we reached the old abandoned brick factory half way up
the hill range, called the “Marienhoehe” ( Mary’s heights) .
About 30 to 40 German soldiers had gathered up there too, discarding
rifles, hand guns, gas masks and any insignia identifying them as
officers. A Lieutenant attempted to bring some order into the
reigning chaos, but he had no success. Kurt and I climbed onto a
wooden veranda which jutted out in front of the main building and
which afforded a beautiful, unobstructed view across the river Inn
and onto my home town, Braunau.
Our first attempt to
return home failed. There were just too many American military
vehicles and soldiers and the access to the bridge was barricaded.
Throughout the day we roamed around Simbach.
There were very few locals
on the streets and for a while we just sat on a curb and in
fascination watched American tanks, armoured cars, trucks and, most
of all American soldiers, several of whom urged us to “go home”
The night from 30th
April to 1st May
we spent in a hey loft of a small farm, which we picked because of
its strategic location, just about squarely in between the hills
behind and the river in front of us. We reasoned that during an
artillery battle, the safest place would be in between the cannons.
It was a sleepless night.
American artillery salvos whistled overhead. We heard the canon’s
shot, the whistling overhead, then silence and then the impact
explosion from afar.
It seemed to go like that
all night long. The shot, the whistling, the silence and then the
explosion.
Shot; whistling; silence;
explosion. During this night we were convinced that our home town
Braunau was being totally destroyed and would disappear from the face
of the earth, and that our mothers and my sisters could not possible
survive. That night I made plans how I would contact my brother, who
was in America as a Prisoner of War, and how the two of us, the sole
survivors of our family, would stay together. It was a cold,
sleepless, desperate night.
It is the 1st
day of May 1945.
As dawn breaks we climb out of the hey and cautiously
we leave the barn. Rounding the building we can hardly believe our
eyes. In the distance, just as yesterday, the church steeple of my
home town, next to which my family has lived for many years, reaches
skyward, undamaged.
The ground surrounding us
is covered by a light blanket of snow. And that on the 1st
of May! We are hungry.
The farmer, who has likely
not slept any more than we did, gives us a cup of hot milk and a
slice of bread.
Right after this welcome
breakfast we go into Simbach to make another try to cross the bridge.
We feel confident. Along
the Innstrasse there are untold military vehicles. tanks, trucks,
armoured cars. An American soldier leans down from his tank. He
hands us a pack of chewing gum. He smiles as he tells us to “go
home”…”go home”. He doesn’t know that our “home” is on
the other side of the bridge. Aimlessly we wander around Simbach. It
doesn’t seem possible to get anywhere near the bridge.
Suddenly I see Frau Dr.
Prasser, our English teacher for the past 2 ½ years. Many of her
belongings are piled on a pull-cart and she clearly is having a
difficult time of it. We help her pull the cart along Innstrasse,
where she lives.
She tells us that she
wants to get out of the way when the shooting starts. Then she thanks
us in English: “Thank you very much” she says and she smiles.
Kurt and I return to the
brick factory. (I no longer remember why we felt safest there). Again we
climb onto the wooden veranda.
It is noon as we gaze
across the river. Suddenly there is a black cloud arising from the
river. Its edges slowly turn pink, then all of it turns crimson. Only
then do we hear a loud explosion and seconds later we feel warm air
stroking our cheeks. It is with a sense of devastation that we
finally realise that the bridge no longer spans the river.
After considerable
deliberation we decide to cross over the railroad bridge, which is a
relatively short distance down river. We make our way down to the
river and, following a narrow hiking path , arrive, about an hour
later, at the pump house, which pumps water from the river through
four large cast iron pipes.
The explosion is
absolutely horrific.
I am not certain: do we
fling ourselves underneath the pipes, or is it the explosion which
throws us there. I know, that we lie there, protected from the rain
of iron and concrete blocks. The noise is indescribable. Suddenly it
is silent and I can hear Kurt breathing.
The rail road bridge too
is gone.
Our return to Braunau has
become more and more difficult by the hour. Our determination to
reach our shore, however, increases in equal measure.
Both bridges are gone. We
can’t fly and this time of the year, on the first day of May, the
river is still too cold to swim across. There is only one way out. I
remember, that a short distance up-river from the pedestrian and
vehicular bridge a side-arm of the river starts. We call it the
“Sand-Box” and at its mouth a house boat is anchored, to which 4
or 5 row boats are always tied securely.
To avoid suspicion, we
don’t run, but walk slowly up-river, we pass the ruins of the
vehicular bridge, where several American soldiers scan the opposite
shore through heavy binoculars. They look at us with some suspicion
and again we hear: “Go home! Go home!”
There is nothing I would
rather do than to “Go home”. Finally we reach the Sand Box.
Two 13 year old boys,
somewhat dirty and torn, playing in the row boats, attract little
attention. It is easy therefore to “borrow” two oars and a paddle
for direction from the unlocked house boat. We “play” in one of
the row boats until its rusty chain breaks lose from its connection.
A man, dressed in military
pants, white shirt, but no jacket watches us and asks what we are
planning.
He seems cold and non
threatening, so we tell him, that we intend to pull the row boat
up-river, far enough so that we can cross the river before getting
swept into the remains of the bridge, reaching up from the fast
flowing water. He too wants to get to Braunau and convinces us that
his participation will enhance our chances for success. So we load
him and his bicycle and jump into the row boat. Quickly we cross the
Sand Box and then, with the chain and a rope we pull the boat
up-river. It is only then that we notice that our helper’s right
arm is in a plaster cast. His help is minimal. We pull the boat
another 100 meters up-river to compensate for the additional load.
Kurt suggests that a white flag, fastened to the bow of our boat,
will indicate our peaceful intention. He has a white handkerchief,
hardly used, and ties it to a willow branch, which in turn he fastens
to the bow.
Kurt and I sit side by
side and we row as hard as we can. Our “plaster cast” squeezes
the paddle under his left arm and keeps the boat at a good angle.
Kurt and I row as if our lives depended on it.
The river seems as wide as
an Ocean. We row and row and now and then we glance over our
shoulders to see how close we are to Braunau’s shore.
Finally we make it. We row
around the little sandbar into the mouth of the river Enknach, a
tributary of the river Inn. There we beach the boat, help our Plaster
Cast/Pilot in unloading his bicycle and so, at about 5pm on the first
day of May 1945, we climb the steps leading up to our town’s main
square. There is a placard-box dangling on the side wall of the first
building we come to. I remember it precisely:
It spoke of the death of
the American President Roosevelt and it said:
“The worst war
criminal has gone to hell !
Let us redouble our
efforts in our fight for freedom, liberty and bread.”
On the other side of the
main square I see a man who suffers from a serious limp. He carries
an automatic machine pistol slung over his right shoulder. I know him
to see him, and cannot believe how this man obtains such a weapon.
This man, Kurt and I are the only people in the main square. We head
upwards and reach number 22, “my” house.
Stadtplatz 22 .
Quickly we bid each other
a “see ya” and I race upstairs, two flights. Our apartment is
locked. There is no-one there.
Our neighbour’s
daughter, Fritzi, comes rushing along the corridor.
“Where have you been?”
she calls out loudly. “Your mother and your sisters are in the
basement, worried sick about you.”
I fly downstairs and
arrive in the basement with its arched ceiling. Most of our
neighbours are there. So is my family. I can see only my mother and
my two sisters.
I rush to them, we hug silently and for the first
time I cry.
*******************************
The Vehicular and Pedestrian Bridge spanning the river Inn
destroyed by the remnants of the retreating German Army.
Shortly after the Vehicular bridge, the Railroad bridge also was blown up.
and we were caught on the German side.
