Russian Occupation Zone
Straupitz, Post-War, 1945, Age Ten and Eleven
Most of the time there were no grocery distributions until near the end of the month, and then we did not get our full allotment. Not owning any land on which we could plant a garden, Mom had to take measures to keep us alive during the rest of the month. She was seeing too many homeless people (unsettled refugees) riding the trains, aimlessly, until they were dead from starvation. Since they had no permanent place to stay, they were not registered anywhere and therefore received no ration cards.
Because of her work on the railroad, Mom had certain opportunities which she took advantage of, though often at tremendous risks. For a while she was able to get into the milk supplies which were being transported to the Russian headquarters in Straupitz, by skimming the cream off the top of each of three or four milk cans. She also went to “harvest” some of the potatoes outside of town. All potatoes were earmarked for the alcohol still in the castle, where the Russians made their vodka. To be caught would probably have meant death, or worse. One night Mom was picking string beans, when the Russian guard walked past the field. Quick thinking saved her. She crouched down, pretending she “had to go,” so the guard discretely looked the other way. When he was out of sight, Mom continued the harvest and we had a rare meal of string beans.
Our fare was always stew. Turnips, cabbage, carrots, potato soup. Sometimes we could flavor it with a little meat or a bone. The very meager meat rations had to be stretched for flavoring. Never did we have enough food to be reasonably full. While the vegetable stews were a very healthy fare, the body needs fat, too. I was nearly eleven years old now, and growing. So was little brother. Seven-year-old Peter with his hunger pangs confronted Mom and me one evening, accusing us of not giving him all the food he was entitled to, and then demanding that we give him his portion so that he could manage his own rations. Mom gave it to him just as bread and jam were available. Peter ate his whole ten day ration, which was less than one loaf of bread and about three ounces of jam, within a day and a half — then remorsefully came to us begging for food. He admitted that there wasn't enough food allocation at any time if we ate until we were no longer hungry. He had learned his lesson, but Mom was hurting. To watch her children being hungry, and Peter would often cry when he was hungry, must be one of the worst things in the world for a mother.
Mom did what she could to get us through the rough times. She often came home from work with a sandwich, a few potatoes, or whatever she had been able to get in return for a favor she had done for somebody. Most of the time, the favor consisted of getting some overweight farmer a seat on the crowded train. There were no seat assignments and a crowded train in Germany was, and still is, one where people who are sitting down are nearly piled on top of each other. The alternative was standing up. At that time nobody was fat, and to clear a space for a heavy person meant having to talk two people into giving up their seats. Only Mom could do this kind of thing. She had the personality for it. She also had a Guardian Angel protecting her during some of the risks she took.