I lived in the Hörselberg

Hörselberg is a mountain in the state of Thurengia (Thüringen) in the heart of Germany. It is only some 350 m high. Nearby is the Wartburg castle where Martin Luther long ago translated the Bible from Latin into German. The mountain became famous because Richard Wagner used it as a background for one of his Operas. There are also lots of fairy tales connected to this mountain. “Hörsel” is a river nearby and “Berg” means Mountain in German.

I am not a figure from a Wagner Opera or a hero from a fairy tale.  But I actually lived in a cave in the Hörselberg off and on. And this is how it came about:

The family of my mother originated in Thurengia. Great grandfather came from Bavaria. We lived in Berlin until World War II. From 1943 until 1945 a lot of bombs were dropped, enough to destroy 75% of the City.

The families of father and mother lived in rented flats. Both flats went up in flames. We lost most of our belongings. In 1943 the Government evacuated us to a village called Wutha at the foot of Hörselberg. We spent some time with an aunt in Wutha, but lived mainly with a family which had to take us in. That was in Weinberg Street at the bottom of the “small” Hörselberg.

Nearby was a stone quarry with a cave, a refuge for residents during bomb raids. There was not much talk about a “Final Victory” any more.

That is Ralph, a friend of mine. The photo was taken many years after the war.

In 1943 I was three years old. I therefore remember only bits and pieces of events around me. My mother later on explained it all and added her own memories.

One day I stood at the fence of auntie’s house. A troupe of the Hitler Youth marched past, the swastika flag in front, with drums and trumpets. Suddenly a stone from the garden of our neighbours hit my head. Mother had to dry the blood and the tears. Maybe I was the only spectator. Was the Hitler Youth not popular anymore? At the end of the village, towards the village of Schönau, was a camp for prisoners of war and for slave labourers from Ukraine. Some of them spoke German and were allowed to spend their pocket money in the shops in Wutha. My mother used to talk to them.

By law everyone had to greet each other in public with “Heil Hitler” and lift the arm up in military fashion. Mother used to say “Heil Hi” and only slightly moved the hand. One day she was called to the village mayor. He said: “Don’t you know that you are not permitted to talk to the prisoners? And please greet properly. Else you may end up in Buchenwald.” That was a Concentration Camp in the vicinity.

On 13th February 1945 I sat with my mother on a bench behind the house of aunty.

From the West we heard a frightening roar which got louder as it approached. As per Internet some 722 heavy bombers of the Royal Air Force and 527 American planes were on the way to bomb the city of Dresden. They flew in a V-formation like flocks of birds. It seemed to last an eternity until they disappeared behind the horizon in the East. My comment: “Mum, look at all the little silver fish in the sky! Why do they make so much noise?”

Above Inselsberg, a 900 m high mountain in the distance, white puffs appeared in the sky, cannons shooting at the planes. A British pilot hanging on his parachute landed on the meadow behind the Hörsel River. Mother told me that later on the people in the village threw pieces of ice at him.

When the planes returned there were still a few bombs left over. They landed on the mountain slope behind the house, were probably meant for the Autobahn (Highway) which ran along the mountain. One of them exploded behind the house. Luckily the pressure wave passed over the roof. But the house was shaking down to the foundations.

Later on my father climbed the slope with me. He cut up one of the trees which had fallen. I helped to carry the pieces of wood. For some time we had enough firewood.

“To be or not to be – that is the question…” (Hamlet)

Behind the other house we lived in. When the bomb hit the ground the detonator broke off. In 1996 it was still lying there. When the Highway got demolished the bomb ”happened” to lie on the road and was taken away by the Government removal service. If the detonator had remained I might not be here to tell the story.

Not long before the end of the War I walked along Weinberg Street with my mother. On a slight slope a truck overtook us. My mother quickly covered my eyes with her hand. But between her fingers I saw the pile of corpses on the truck. Most of them were probably clothed and all of them originated from the prison camp at the end of the village. One of the corpses slipped off the truck and fell in front of our feet. My mother pulled me to the side and we kept walking. I turned around and bumped into a telegraph pole. A big lump on the head and lots of tears were the result.

From 1944 the bomb alarm sirens were howling more often. Every time we ran as fast as we could to the cave in the quarry. In front of it a rock wall had been erected. Usually a French officer, a prisoner of War, was sitting there. His comrades had to fortify the embankment of the Hörsel River with white rocks standing up to their bellies in the water which was very cold in winter.

The Frenchman looked very much like my father. I sat on his knees, and he wrapped his army coat around me and kept me warm. When there was no one else around my mother stuck sandwiches in his pockets, another “crime.”

The cave was shaped like an “S”. From the entrance one had to walk to the left and turn around a bend to the right. On the left, near the entrance, was a curtain. Behind it a shaft led to a cave further down. That was the retreat for the party officials. Maybe some 50 people could fit into the cave. Light was provided by some kerosene lamps or by Dynamo-torches. They had a handle which one had to squeeze all the time. It provided light for a distance of about one meter.

In those days my mother often disappeared in the cellar. On a chair she had a “Volksempfänger”, the typical radio at the time. She hid the radio and herself under a blanket and listened to the German news of the BBC in London. So she always knew how far the Russians and Americans had advanced in Germany.

Listening to the news was a crime which led to arrest and transfer into a Concentration camp. Special care was needed. Only closest relatives were informed.

Mother and I along with the people from the village spent many hours in the cave, sometimes the whole night. On 6th April 1945 a white bed-sheet was hung over the wall at the entrance. The Americans had already arrived in the city of Eisenach nearby. During the night some women started screaming. My mother put me on her arm, walked to the entrance, and stood in front of a black American soldier. He held a torch-light and a submachine gun. Mother knew a little bit of English and said: “Don’t shoot.  Only women and children  in the cave.”  That was not quite true. In the back of the cave some wounded soldiers were hidden under blankets. But the American retreated.

According to American War reports the soldier belonged to the 89th division and 353rd Infantry battalion. Near Wutha they met with resistance from handguns and bazookas and “removed” the resistance.

Next morning we left the cave. Outside half a dozen German soldiers lay in crooked positions. I said to my mother: “Why don’t they go home and sleep there?” Up on the mountain near the highway was a machine gun nest. That did not help against the American tanks. In the valley a whole army was on the move. There was no escape for the German soldiers.

Mother walked into the village with me. Along the road from the quarry to the railway station American army vehicles were parked. On the footrest of a truck sat that black American soldier, let his colt rotate around his index finger and gave Mother a big smile. I was scared and hid behind her skirt.

During the following days every now and then trains filled with soldiers passed through Wutha towards the city of Erfurt. We kids stood by the railway line and fought over lollies and chewing gums which the soldiers threw from the windows of the trains. Sometimes before the trains arrived we put the now useless aluminium coins of the German Mark on the rails and enjoyed it when the wheels of the trains flattened them.

On 1st July 1945 the Americans retreated from this part of Thurengia. This part of Germany was apparently exchanged for West Berlin. I stood by the road in the village center with my mother when the Russians arrived.  A small cart appeared with two small wheels in front and two big ones in the back. A tired horse pulled the cart with two Russian soldiers on the seat, cigarettes in the corner of the mouth, a cap sitting sideways on the shaved head. Behind them German soldiers dragged their feet on the cobblestone road. There must have been thousands. They had bandages around their heads, arms in slings or limped on crutches, many of them. Their faces were void of expressions. Every now and then there was a Russian soldier walking along the column with his rifle hanging over his shoulder. I saw all this with the innocent eyes of a child and remained silent like the villagers next to me, had no idea of what was going on.

Later on two Russian soldiers followed my mother from the village. She barely managed to quickly lock the door of the house before they could get in. Next day she visited the army commander. She said something like: “Thank you for liberating us from the Nazis. But now the war is over. Your soldiers should behave better if you expect sympathy from the population.”  The following day two officers from one of Stalin’s elite divisions moved into our house for protection. They were real gentlemen. Father was probably still a prisoner with the Americans. He had been an “Oberzahlmeister”, a Senior Paymaster, and never fired a shot. Mother had buried his swastika armband and other decorations in the garden of aunty.

The Russians now began to distribute army bread to the hungry population. It was dark rye bread with water rings. But with topping of brown sugar or lard with onion and apple pieces it was quite tasty. When I was crying because of being hungry my mother gave her own ration to me. Our coffee was “Muckefuck”, as it was spelt, made from tree bark and improved with sweetener tablets. There were no vaccinations in those days. Soon I lay in hospital with diphtheria and typhoid fever. I also had measles and smallpox, not necessarily in this sequence. I must have had a good guardian angel. Else I would not have survived.

The lawn between the quarry and the railway line in the meantime had been subdivided into gardening plots. My father lost it there with a pickaxe and spade and let the soil feel his anger about the lost war. Soon we harvested peas, carrots, tomatoes, green beans and potatoes.

In 1946 I was supposed to go to school, but had no shoes. After a few months my mother found a pair of army boots for me. She stuffed them with newspaper. Then they fitted more or less. I attended the primary school in Wutha until 1947 when we returned to Berlin.

Wutha, Weinbergstreet, “Small” Hörselberg

At that time I often climbed the Hörselberg, the small and the big one. And there I sat and dreamt of far-away places, a better life with good food and many adventures. I also visited a large cave in the village of Farnroda or walked the six kilometres to the city of Eisenach. My parents were often looking for me. Well, the hunger brought me home.

My father often travelled to a village called Sonneberg in a large forest and returned with chests of wood carvings. During winter once he pulled a chest on a toboggan from Eisenach to Wutha in the snow. I had to push. The wood carvings ended up in Berlin where they were well paid for by the foreign soldiers who bought them.

One day the Russians retreated into army barracks and let their German vassals run the country. The new communist village mayor called for my father, showed him his Nazi Party membership book, and asked: “Isn’t it about time for you to join our party?” That did not appeal to father. So we returned to the British sector of West Berlin.

And again a new time began. The view of the Hörselberg was sometimes spoilt by advertising boards. It became very hard for people from West Berlin to obtain a visa to visit Wutha. An iron curtain had come down over Eastern Europe. I could only take a photo from a train as I passed through on my way from West Berlin to West Germany.

“The policy of the Socialist Party of Germany is the policy of the whole Nation”. Auntie’s house is the second from the left.

Many years later this period ended too. The last comrade of those days exchanged his spot on a wall in the local pub with a wall in the workshop of a genuine son of a worker. The Hörselberg does not seem to mind.

That is about all I can remember. I hesitated to put this story in my BLOG. But in between the lines it may contain some lessons for young people who hopefully never in their lives will have the sort of experiences I had.

With grandmother at the foot of the Hörselberg after 1945. I had forgotten how to laugh.