Bert's Travels: The End is the Beginning

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 30^th 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 30^th April to 1^st 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 1^st 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 1^st 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.

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