WWII Stories from Mariposa's Grandmama

Last Wednesday was a national holiday here in the Vaterland, which means we all had the day off, all the shops closed down, and half of Nordrhein-Westfalen drove into Holland.

Mariposa, Scaramouche and I, however, drove to Cologne to visit her Grandmama. It was great seeing Mariposa again, talking about what's going on in our lives, and spending time with Grandmama.

At one point, Grandmama started telling stories about World War II. She was in her late teens and early twenties during the War, and seems to have no problem reminiscing and sharing her experiences. It was fascinating. I've always heard War stories from the American side, so hearing her stories was definitely eye-opening.

Here's some of what she shared with Mariposa and me...

All the girls had to do a civil service year, so she and some friends spent a year helping out on a farm. At the end of the year, they were told they could go home, but of course there was no transportation. So, carrying what little they had in their suitcases, they trekked the 600 km home to Stuttgart. Almost everything had been destroyed. Sometimes the streets were no more than a couple of feet wide, meaning you had to squeeze your way through the rubble.

They would travel during the day, and then stop somewhere, anywhere, in the evening. Sometimes someone would give them a piece of bread or some sausage, and sometimes they wouldn't eat anything. Sometimes they'd sleep in a barn or an inn, and sometimes outside. Along the way home they met a woman who had an old baby carriage that she gave them. Grandmama said it was wonderful to have the baby carriage - that way they didn't have to carry their backpacks or suitcases anymore.

Towards the end of their journey home, Grandmama and her friend were sitting outside and resting one evening when a black American soldier approached them and offered them a chocolate bar. As much as they wanted it, they turned it down, being too proud to receive any help from an American. The soldier turned away, hurt, and continued on his way. After he left, Grandmama and her friend asked eachother if he had maybe misunderstood them and thought they had turned the chocolate down because he was black. Which they hadn't done - they had turned it down because they only wanted help from fellow Germans. So they decided to run after him and accept the chocolate bar. In broken English, the girls explained that they'd changed their minds and that they would like to have it after all. The soldier was so happy to give it to them, Grandmama recalled.

It wasn't until after the war that Grandmama knew about concentration camps and what had been done with the Jews. There weren't many Jews where she grew up, and of course the crimes weren't made public, so she had no way of knowing.

Her Father (Mariposa's Great Grandfather) had three Jewish employees in his business, and right before the war, he advised them to immediately leave Germany, if possible. I guess he saw what was coming. Only one of his employees took his advice, fled the country with his family, and survived.

In their town, there was a large white house where Jewish children stayed. I'm not sure what it was for (I should have asked!), but I assume it was some type of children's home or orphanage. During the war, however, the children were taken away, Grandmama recalled. Everyone was told that the children were going to be taken to a better, newer house.

On their journey back home to Stuttgart, Grandmama remembers seeing people in black and white striped suits working in the fields. She stopped and asked someone who they were and what was going on. The answer? They're criminals, serving their time in civil service. If a government official tells you this, there's no reason why you wouldn't believe it.

The Russian soldiers were some of the worst, she said. Russia was so poor at the time (except for a few select rich) that the Russian soldiers plundered everything. They took everything from food to metal to rails from the railroads. She laughed as she told us one thing the Russians were notorious for doing: washing potatos in the toilet. They didn't know what a western toilet was, so they used it for washing vegetables. You always knew the Russians had been there when the toilet was stopped up with potatos, she said.

At the end of the war, her Dad was very ill. She received news that he was in a hospital in Dresden (if I recall the city correctly). The fact that she had no idea which hospital he was in didn't stop her from going to find him. She finally found him packed in a room with about 20 other extremely sick people. When he saw her, he started crying, she recalled. Fortunately, he was released and taken home in an ambulance, but Grandmama had to walk home by herself.

Towards the end of our conversation, she said that "we lost the war..." and her tone of voice was surprisingly more melancholy than thankful or relieved. I wanted to ask if she thought it was a good thing that Germany lost the war, but for some reason I didn't.

Listening to such stories is important because the past can be so easily forgotten and seen as impersonal and distant. History is something we're usually forced to read about in a textbook, or something we're tested on in school, which means we all too quickly forget that it's more than memorized dates and names. History involves real people: it's the story of our parents and grandparents, the story of the human race. It's our story.

I never knew my own Grandparents that well... either because they passed away when I was pretty young, or because my family lived so far away.* This makes it all the more interesting to really sit down and talk with someone from the WWII Generation about their life.


*History has a way of repeating itself...