We were all fed on fear, she wrote in her diary.
13
I kept in touch with Anke and Jürgen. On the rare occasions that they came back to Düusseldorf on a weekend, they came to visit me. Once every two years only. We would spend the night out in a restaurant talking, drinking. We kept in touch by post mainly. Or by phone. Every year I sent a gift for Alexander on his birthday: 1 October. And Anke would write me a short, impulsive letter back just to let me know they were alive. If I didnt get a letter I could expect a call sooner or later.
They were very happy in Münster. Jürgen was doing extremely well in his fathers practice. Though Anke sometimes complained that she didnt see enough of him. And occasionally, she hinted that she would like to be back in her city for a while. But Jürgen would never move back to Düsseldorf. Anyway, it was out of the question because of the new practice.
Once, Anke sent a photograph of herself and Alexander to keep me up to date. She hadnt changed a bit. Though I would not have said that in a letter. My letters were strictly neutral. They were addressed to both Jürgen and Anke, usually in that order. The kind of neutral letters which are read out over the breakfast table before they collect jam stains. This is one of her letters. It was sent when Alexander was three years old. Far from neutral, I thought.
Got your present for Alex, thank you very much. Though I dont quite know what he is going to do with it. All toys eventually drive us mad because it only reminds us of his limitations. A toy is like a test to a childs limits. The joy that most parents get is watching their children break down those limits. Jürgen and I, we have to make exceptions for everything. Of course Im very grateful that you remember Alexanders birthday like this every year. Sometimes I get the urge to talk to somebody else about our life, somebody outside the family, somebody not directly involved
Anke had never said anything like this to me about Alexanders difficulties before. She would never even refer to his having Downs Syndrome. She had told me that Alexander was going to a special school, and occasionally described his retardation and lack of progress on the phone when I asked her, but she always painted a picture of extreme patience. I would never have thought she was anything less than completely happy. It came as a total surprise. The letter ended like this:
Anke had never said anything like this to me about Alexanders difficulties before. She would never even refer to his having Downs Syndrome. She had told me that Alexander was going to a special school, and occasionally described his retardation and lack of progress on the phone when I asked her, but she always painted a picture of extreme patience. I would never have thought she was anything less than completely happy. It came as a total surprise. The letter ended like this:
Sometimes I want to be back in Düsseldorf. Or in the Eifel. I think about you. I think about my other life.
14
On 6 May, the German Army was still in occupation at Laun. And they still occupied the protectorate of Czechoslovakia. By a thread.
Overnight, German planes had flown over the capital of Prague raining down leaflets appealing to the inhabitants to submit, or pay for it in blood. The leaflets promised that no Czech would be harmed and that the German Army wished only to engage the real enemy: the Red Army. Later on, the same planes flew over Prague again with a more persuasive message: phosphor bombs. SS units with tanks approached from the south to regain control of the city, following orders literally: the whole nest has to burn.
In Laun, the German Wehrmacht training garrison became actively involved in the war for the first time. Early that morning, local observers from the town posted to watch the garrison overnight came back to report to the committee at the U Somolu pub that large troop movements were seen leaving in the direction of Hriskov. At least six or seven trucks full of soldiers. There was nothing the committee could do but warn the people at Hriskov by phone. Nothing Laun could do but wait.
Bertha Sommer had not been up to see Hauptmann Selders give the order to send out troops. She arrived to find the office in a frenzy of activity. She was there in time to see the trucks leaving; in time to feel a futile compassion for all those young recruits heading in the direction of the fighting. South. East. Into the hands of the Red Army.
Bertha had given up her own final chance to escape the end. But instead of becoming dismal, she decided to become useful. She took up the task of keeping in touch with other garrisons around Bohemia, to see what their information was. Garrisons like Trutnov, which had also taken a stand against the Czechs with hostages.
It became clear by now that Officer Franz Kern had begun to play the most important role of all. As radio engineer, he was the lifeline to the outer world. Every twenty minutes, he appeared in the office with fresh news. Reports from Prague or from Moscow; sometimes even as far away as London.
Bertha had not spoken to him since their escape failed. She wanted to catch his eye, to get some acknowledgement. She wanted to let him know that she had tried to escape with him the night before. It was the rain. She wanted him to know that she had not informed on him. But Officer Kern seemed too preoccupied. Their eyes met only in passing. There was no communication between them. No signal.
When she eventually found an excuse to go out into the corridor, she was hoping to catch him and speak to him briefly. With the Third Reich collapsing around them, she invented a reason to meet him alone for a moment, but he would not let her speak. He placed his index finger over his lips. He didnt want to hear.
I know, was all he said.
That was enough for Bertha. What it was he knew wasnt clear. But he must have known that she had not betrayed him. She went back to her work.
During the day, the activity in the office intensified apace with the war outside. There was talk of capitulation. But General Schörner wanted more valour and sent out personal messages to his men over the radio: Soldiers. You must break every resistance from the Czechs with the heaviest weapons.
Very soon after that, Officer Kern came back into the office with another message, this time broadcast by the free Czech radio. It had been put out repeatedly in three different languages: Prague calling. Here is free Prague. Red Army send help. We need tanks and planes. Dont let us go down in a useless struggle. Help, quick, quick, quick.
It is significant that Prague began to call on the Russians, instead of the Americans, who had been closer to Prague for days. At one point, a report broadcast by the BBC in London said that the American Army at Pilsen had begun to move on Prague. But the report was misleading. Nothing could lure the Americans to get involved in what had already become a Soviet state.
For the Germans, it meant that all hope of surrendering to the Americans had faded. Second best, they would have to surrender to the Russians.
15
That evening, straight after dinner, Bertha Sommer went to her room to rest. There was nothing she could do at the office any more. She took her washbag and towel and went to the washrooms on her landing to wash her hair, and after that her feet. She had just got back to her room when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside her door. She could hear a knock on the room next door which she knew to be unoccupied. She stopped combing her hair and listened. When there was no answer, the footsteps came and approached her own door. She waited for the knock and then went to answer it, opening up a little so that only her face could be seen around the door. It was Officer Kern.
Ah, Fräulein Sommer. I didnt know which room was yours. Ive got to speak to you for a moment.
She didnt know whether this was an order or a request. This was not a good idea, his coming to her room, she thought. She looked past him to see if there was anyone else in the corridor. But the building had been largely empty since the civilian population moved out. Her hair was wet and she stood there feeling awkward in her dressing-gown and slippers, waiting for him to speak. She was glad at last to be able to explain to him what happened the night before, but felt it wouldnt be right to invite him inside.
Im afraid we might be overheard in the corridor, he said. I wont stay long, Fräulein Sommer, I promise. He understood her reluctance.
Wait. Let me get dressed.
He stood outside and heard her moving around inside the room. As soon as he heard the sound of clothes, he began to pace up and down to give her complete privacy. Bertha checked herself in the mirror and considered the implications of letting a man into her room. The war is a time for exceptions. She looked around to make sure that the room was tidy and reminded herself not to speak too soon. Let him speak first, she said to herself.
Forgive me, Fräulein Sommer, Kern said as he entered the room. But I felt I had to speak to you. What happened last night doesnt matter.
I tried to go, she broke in, already disregarding her own first rule.
I know, he replied. I saw you. I saw you turn back. You were right. There was no other way. I was worried that somebody else might have seen you too. Now Im sure nobody did.
I saw the Red Cross vehicle leave.
Yes, Officer Kern said. It doesnt matter. What happens now is more important. It is too dangerous to make any new plans to escape. We should wait for a ceasefire and hope for the best. I know the Red Army is approaching from the north. Theyre not far away. But our best bet is to stay. The hostages here give us some protection.
Bertha was taken aback by the way Officer Kern included her so presumptuously in his plans. At the same time it reassured her. There was something she wanted to ask him, but she had forgotten what. She let him speak.
There is great hostility against the Germans. Ive heard reports from London aboutterrible things. About the Jews in the camps. I thought it was all propaganda at first. But now, Im beginning to believe it. No imagination could invent what theyre saying about us.