Chapter Twenty-Three
Once the sounds of attacking artillery and the bombing onslaught ceased, those who had miraculously survived in Bremen had to learn to live with another invasion.
The occupier had become the occupied, a daily reminder as American and British forces walked their streets.
Fear of retribution was on everyone’s minds.
It was a new era of peace, with a hierarchy that no one really wanted to last.
They were dark uncertain days, but a flicker of hope came with the arrival of Red Cross vehicles bearing practical help and hope.
Feeding stations were hastily erected, providing nourishment to a starving population.
Charitable donations of clothing and shoes arrived soon after, confirming that someone outside Germany wanted to help them, despite all that had happened.
The generous gifts by strangers they had been taught to despise and fear helped grow faith that there was a way out of the hell of the last six years.
As the soldiers returned home, special units arrived to help bring organization to the chaos that the war had caused.
Despite the British having responsibility for much of the northwest of Germany, Bremen and Bremerhaven, the largest ports in the north, were allocated to the US Army, whose zones were otherwise landlocked, allowing them to import food and other supplies.
Food remained a priority, so parties of able-bodied people were put to work gathering and transporting food to where it was so desperately needed.
Agriculture and transport routes had suffered the same damage as the armed forces and buildings, their roles badly affected if not made impossible without support.
New ration cards were introduced and meagre rations could be collected at set times of the week.
Those early days were desperate times for those recovering from the shock of losing a war they had been told that they would always win.
And where there is desperation, crime flourishes.
Curfews were put in place. The fragile link between occupier and German citizen was naturally threaded with fear and suspicion.
Even the simplest of commands ran the risk of being misunderstood or igniting frustration.
Since the declaration of war, Elsa had been wary of admitting her linguistic skills to anyone outside the teaching profession, but when she saw a young woman with a baby trying to explain to a soldier she had lost her ration card, she felt compelled to help by translating.
Within days she was being sought out for her ability to translate orders or obtain help such as medicine, food or shelter.
Yet despite her skill and good intentions, she couldn’t help seeing the wariness in both German and American eyes, as if she was tainted in some way.
Both sides had to place a great deal of trust in her to translate accurately — how could she be a link between them and still remain patriotic to her country? she saw them silently ask.
Shelter was another problem. Many who had remained in Bremen slept in bomb shelters or cellars, but the population was slowly increasing as the people who had fled the bombing began to return on foot, by bike or by cart.
Temporary wooden barracks were hastily erected for those who had lost their homes.
Elsa and Klara were allocated a bed in one.
It was basic, but it would do and she counted herself luckier than most. She might not have a family, but they had shelter, ration cards, a spare set of clothes, sturdy shoes and warm coats.
Makeshift schools gave the children somewhere to go and, for the first time in her life, Klara went to school.
Elsa found work as an interpreter between local leaders and the Allies.
One of their many concerns was the health of the population: there was a real threat of disease running rampant, as the water and sewage infrastructure had been badly damaged.
Typhoid, diphtheria and other contagious diseases were life-threatening for a population short on food, rest and medicines.
Something had to be done. Health monitoring stations were set up by the Allied military medical units and the Red Cross to screen the health of the population.
Elsa found herself in the midst of this, as a translator between the Allies, local leaders and the public who arrived to be monitored.
It kept her busy and stopped her from grieving all that she had lost. To stop working would mean providing oxygen to all the pain she held deep inside.
Yet she still found herself searching for a familiar face in the crowds that lined up for food, charity or the goods on sale at the clandestine black markets.
Every day she inspected the names pinned to the noticeboard outside the town hall, all of them seeking missing loved ones.
The anxious messages, her own among them, fluttered wildly whenever the door of the building opened, like damaged butterflies caught on thorns and desperate to be free.
Every day she hoped to find a scribbled message from her mother or sister beneath her own with details of where they could meet.
Every day she was disappointed. Her aunt, mother and sister had vanished.
At night she checked on Klara’s sleeping form before giving up to her own exhaustion and crawling into the rudimentary wooden bed beside her.
Only then she could retreat into her cherished memories of Sam.
Silently, she welcomed thoughts and memories that she dared not even share with Klara.
The soft timbre of his voice, the curve of his smile and the gentle touch of his fingers as he caressed her.
And in those moments, despite the post-war chaos around her, she once more felt like the woman only he had seen and loved.
* * *
‘They will see you as soon as they can. The wait won’t be long.
’ Elsa noticed a woman in the queue at the military clinic who looked particularly anxious.
She gently touched her arm. ‘There is nothing to fear. They just want to ask some questions about your health. Perhaps give an injection.’ She noticed the baby in her arms. She touched the bundle of dusty blankets.
Even through the layers she could feel the soft heat of the baby swaddled inside. ‘How old is this little one?’
‘Eight weeks.’
‘A boy or a girl?’
‘A boy.’
‘He feels hot. Is he still feeding?’
‘Not as much as he normally does.’
Elsa touched the child’s forehead. ‘What have you called him?’
‘Dieter. After his father.’
‘It’s a good name.’
‘Yes. I named him after a good man.’
They shared a fleeting sad smile.
‘I think your baby is unwell. I will ask if you can be seen quicker.’
‘Thank you. I feared he might be.’
Elsa turned away and sought out a nurse. ‘Do you see that lady with the baby?’
The nurse nodded.
‘The baby has a raging fever and has not been feeding. I think he might be dehydrated. Will you take a look now?’
‘We have hundreds to see today.’
‘Please. It’s an innocent child and I think he is more ill than his young mother realizes.’
The nurse’s expression softened. ‘Bring her to the front of the queue and I will see what I can do.’
Elsa quickly retraced her steps to find the woman. ‘They will see you now. Follow me and I will translate for you.’
The woman hesitated.
‘I told you there is nothing to fear. I’m here to help you get the assistance you need.’
* * *
Elsa left the temporary military clinic and stepped into the daylight.
Exhausted and a little lightheaded, she realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and had not drunk as much as she should.
She fastened the buttons of her worn coat and headed towards the missing persons’ station to check if there was any news of her aunt, mother and sister.
Before she could search the messages pleading for news, she heard her name being called.
A woman was running towards her, pushing her way through the dwindling numbers of Bremen inhabitants who hadn’t given up hope of finding their loved ones.
‘Elsa! Is that you, Elsa?’
The woman wrapped Elsa in her arms and she felt obliged to hug her as tightly in return despite her being a stranger.
It was intrusive yet intriguing. Eventually, Elsa dared to disengage from the embrace in order to look upon her face.
Her features nudged a distant memory, but this woman was not her aunt.
‘You don’t remember me, do you, Elsa? I must seem so much older to you now. I used to live three doors down from your aunt.’ It still took a moment before Elsa recognized her.
‘Frau Schmidt?’
The years and war had thinned her hair and turned it from deep, much-admired auburn to ordinary slate grey. Beneath her smiling eyes hung dark grey shadows and her body looked so very thin. Her smiling eyes suddenly ceased smiling.
‘I thought you were dead,’ Frau Schmidt said. ‘How long have you been in Bremen?’
‘A month or so.’
The woman stepped back but continued to hold her with outstretched arms. ‘I saw your message on the wall and waited for you.’
‘Do you have any news about my family? I went to my aunt’s house but there was nothing there.’
‘It was bombed. The whole street was.’ Frau Schmidt touched her face with trembling fingers. ‘I can’t believe you are here. Do you have somewhere to live?’
Elsa’s eyes began to smart. It was the first time someone had expressed heartfelt concern for her welfare since Sam. ‘Yes. Do you?’
‘Yes. An old schoolfriend invited me to stay with her family in her cellar. It is a little crowded, but we are alive and that is all that matters. How is your grandfather? Your mother was so worried about him.’
‘You’ve seen her?’
‘Is he well?’
‘He didn’t make it. His health deteriorated quickly after they left. He died early in the journey.’
Frau Schmidt squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry you had to witness his death alone.’
‘You spoke of Mother. Have you seen her? Was Frieda with her?’