Our Turn Would Come — In Time
Berlin, Age Six
In the daytime we played happily in our farm paradise, but the nights became more and more frightening. During the fall months of 1940 when the days were still fairly long there were few air raids, and we kids nearly forgot about them. However, with early winter the nightly terror resumed, sometimes twice a night. Once the sirens went off signaling the start of an air raid, we usually did not have more than five minutes before the bombing and flak fire started. Mom had to dress herself as fast as she could, help me, and, running out of time she just wrapped Peter into a blanket and carried him. Since our building had only the stables downstairs, we had to run across the yard to reach the cellar of the front house. By that time the bombs were already falling and the flak was barking. We could often hear shrapnel falling all around us on our mad dash to the other building.
After too many of those scary dashes, and wondering how long our luck would hold before one of us got hit by shrapnel, Mom went to bed at night only partially undressed. Later, Onkel Rudolf who lived in the front house came over to help Mom with us and he carried Peter for her. One of the things we needed to do at the start of each air raid was to unlatch all windows so that they could blow open during the bomb blasts. This saved the glass from getting broken. Onkel Rudolf would take care of that while Mom helped me dress. I always froze with terror as soon as the dreaded sound of the sirens started up. My heart would pound, and I shook so violently that I could not manage to get into my clothes. Mom had to help me.
Eventually, when more often than not there were two air raids a night, Tante Hilda and Onkel Rudolf invited us to sleep in their apartment. Every evening after supper we “moved” to the front building. During the long nights of winter when darkness came before 4 p.m., the first air raid often came in the middle of supper. Mom and Tante Hilda consolidated the cooking and we “moved” before it got dark. Gypsy life had started for me.
Dinner conversation revolved mostly around speculations as to when the “Tommies” (British bombers) would show up for the first time that evening and how many hours they would stay. Would they come a second time tonight? And, most important to us, would we still be around to see the sun rise on another day? What cheerful subjects for a six-year-old to listen to! I did not comprehend all of the things they talked about. Mom and Tante Hilda often whispered to each other, which was eerie, and I felt scared. I started to become afraid of nights because of the terror they brought.
Tante Hilda's apartment had only one bedroom. I slept on a chaise lounge in their room, Mom on the living room sofa, and Peter in a “basket” which consisted of two wicker chairs tied together. We were spending so much time in the cellar now that Mom fixed up a beach chair with blankets for me to sleep on, and moved the old baby carriage down there for Peter. I hardly ever slept. Bits of conversation picked up from the tenants' talk kept worrying me as much as the blasts of the bomb explosions outside. Somebody mentioned something about water and sewage pipes breaking and people drowning in the cellars. With each nearby explosion that shook the building, I anxiously looked at the many pipes on the ceiling.
When finally the “all clear” signal sounded, there would be sighs of relief. People were grateful that it hadn't been “our turn.” However, everyone was sure that “our turn” would come — in time.