Almost every night the sirens were wailing and we dragged ourselves, hastily dressed, into the bomb shelter. It was the winter of 1944. There were many hits in our Munich neighborhood. Mothers with small children were ordered to leave Munich and find shelter in the countryside. My sister, Susie, had already left town with her baby boy and lived in a village at the Ammersee, about 2 hours by train. She had moved in with her in-laws, even though, there was hardly any room for them. Now, all of a sudden, there were two more small children to care for. Since my oldest sister had died we had to take care of Renate, age two, and Hanns-Jochen age four.¹

The village of Diessen was full of refugees. After much searching, we finally found shelter in the last house. It belonged to the chimney sweep, a very important person everywhere. We moved into the attic, two narrow steep flights up. There were two small rooms with slanted walls. A diminutive balcony was our delight, but we could only use it when the children were asleep since it had only a very low railing. It was so narrow that you had to sit halfway in the room in order to stretch out on the balcony. Susanne loved to sun her legs there and she saved the wrappers of the small ration of butter to grease herself up, so she would not get a sunburn.

We finally negotiated one more bedroom, but it could be reached only through another room. Running water was available only in the owners' kitchen on the ground floor, and we carried bucket after bucket the two flights up. The kitchen was locked up at l0 p.m., so we got no more water after that. The toilet, on the second floor, was the old-fashioned type, a hole above the cesspool. A tiny iron cooking stove, acquired through a relative, provided heat, hot water and the facility to cook, even bake, when we had learned how to control the wood fire. The wood had to be cut extra small to fit the round opening on top. It was up to us to find twigs and branches in the nearby woods for our stove.

Several times a week we loaded a handwagon, and with the three kids pulled it up the hill to get a load of firewood. There was none left close to the highway, and we had to drag the wagon deeper and deeper into the forest. Not allowed to break or saw off any branches, we were afraid that we would be checked before entering the village. Still to this day, when I look at all the dead wood in the forest rotting away, I feel a compulsion to pick it up.

Even though we were city girls, we quickly adapted to the tasks of everyday country life. Each day one of us had to stand in line at the dairy, the bakery, the vegetable store and the butcher in case there might be any meat and we had enough ration stamps left. Two ounces of butter and a quarter of a pound of meat per week did not go very far. We tried to round out our menu with "extras." These were mushrooms and berries from the woods and vegetables from a very small garden plot, which our landlord let us have. In the fall the apples which fell prematurely from the trees and potatoes the farmers had missed served to tide us over.

After each warm rain the chances of finding mushrooms was quite good. There were about 20 different kinds growing in the meadows and woods, but some were poisonous and we couldn't be sure. So we brought the whole basket to a refugee, called the "mushroom lady." Her husband had been a professor of botany and a mushroom expert. The fact that we all are still living is proof that she also was an expert. If we harvested more than we could eat, we would dry, pickle or can the rest.

The owner of a chicken farm about two miles up the road was a big strong woman with a good business sense. We had heard that she needed help. I went and offered my work for compensation other than money. I had hoped that a few eggs might roll my way. The owner explained that she had to deliver every single egg to town, but I could work for vegetables and a lunch. She made sure she got plenty of work out of me. It paid off a half year later, when the time came to allot one tree per family for the winter wood. The ranger led us to a good-sized tree, put a mark on it and said:, "It is up to you to cut it down. Saw it in three-foot lengths and build a square block. I will inspect it before you remove it." My sister and I looked at each other. How in the world could we manage that? We had no tools, no idea of how to go about it, no truck to transport it. All the young men were in the army, the older farmers who were left had a hard time keeping up with the daily chores. I talked to the lady chicken farmer and asked her for advice.

"I will give you some big saws," she said, "and maybe my horses will pull a wagon full of wood to your house. In the meantime learn from other people and watch how they do it. There is still plenty of time."

Since it was still early summer, we decided to let the tree grow a while and plot our strategy well in the meantime. We would visit the tree off and on to make sure it was still there. Since we would then have the tools, we could saw off a few more real small trees, cutting them way low and covering the hole with dirt. The winter is quite cold in Bavaria and the attic was drafty. We were looking forward with anxious anticipation to the next few months with three children to care for.

In the spring of 1945 we felt that the war could not last much longer. We listened to the radio, but the official German news did not reflect the true situation. Among ourselves we called the reports "Goebbel's Fairy Tale Hour." It was strictly forbidden to listen to any foreign news.

Standing in line every day for milk, bread and groceries, I would listen to the rumors that the Allied forces had crossed the Rhine River and might advance to Bavaria to take Hitler's Eagle's Nest. Our big question was which army would arrive here first, the French forces or the Americans? One older peasant whispered to me, "You are young, Better hide when the French come here! I heard that they promised their troops from Morocco that they could loot and have any girl they could find." My sister and I were in our early twenties and lived in the very first house on top of the hill. We asked my sister's in-laws for refuge, loaded our little handwagon with the kids and whatever seemed necessary and moved down into the middle of the village. The quarters were small and everybody was on edge. The children did not understand why they had to stay inside most of the time and became too noisy for the elderly couple. Nothing happened for several days.

"Let's take a chance and move back," my sister said. "Maybe there is nothing but bad rumors."

In fact the first troops had bypassed our village.

"We have a chance now to hide our valuables before it is too late," I mentioned to my sister after we had moved back. "The safest place would be under the woodpile in the little shack our landlord had allotted to us." We took turns moving all the wood and digging a deep hole. No one, not even the children, were aware of it. All our jewelry, sterling, documents and one good camera were buried, wrapped in a piece of tarp. We were exhausted from the effort since we had lived on not much more than boiled potatoes.

More rumors in town: Someone had seen a tank in the next town and had bicycled back through the fields. I volunteered to stay awake. There was a big book I had wanted to read for a while, but there had never been enough time. It was "Gone with the Wind." A small lamp right by the book gave just enough light to read, because a blackout was still in effect. The story was fascinating and kept me awake hour after hour. It was quiet save for a bark in the distance or the wind rattling some loose shutters. It dawned and even then there was no movement, not even the milk truck or a farmer with his horse cart rumbled down the cobblestone street.

"I could have gone to bed," I said to my sister when she put her head in the door. Just then the landlady ran up the stairs breathing hard.

"The Americans are here, their tanks are all lined up in front of the city hall. They circled the village and came in from the other side." We breathed easier. There had been no shooting since there was no resistance. In the afternoon the village secretary came to talk with the landlord. We heard some excited remarks from the landlady. She called us down. The secretary looked at us and said, "You will have to move, out too, the whole house is requisitioned. Be out in one hour. I suggest you move to the inn one-half mile out of town. Since the inn is closed, it has empty guest rooms. Besides," he added, "by six o'clock to-night, everybody who has a camera, must turn it in to the city hall."

I got out my old bike and pedaled as fast as possible to the inn to make sure that we could move there. An old lady, who was now the sole occupant, opened the door.

"The secretary said we have to move out in one hour and suggested that you could give us shelter," I stammered.

"But all the rooms are locked up, the furniture moved together, the carpets rolled up. They have not been used for years," the old lady murmured while she gave me a suspicious look.

"You don't have to do anything; we will arrange everything ourselves-- as long as we have a roof over our heads. I hope it will be just for a few days," I pleaded. She shrugged her shoulders. "You will have to make do," she said getting a key and opening a musty-smelling room on the first floor. "That will be yours, but I cannot help you otherwise."

I hurried back and found my sister packing the hand wagon and the stroller. We not only had to pack clothing and dishes, but also all the food we had to tide us over the next days. Perhaps the stores would not be open.

At the inn letting fresh air in was our first move. The double bed was piled high with blankets and pillows, the floor covered with carpets from several rooms and hallways. The children had fun climbing and jumping on them until we pulled them to one side to make room in the middle. We set up the one crib we had brought and spread a couple of mattresses on the floor.

"I will go back," my sister said, "maybe the soldiers have not yet moved in and I can get some more things out. Otherwise I will go down to the village, deliver up our old camera and see if I can get at least some milk and bread." She took the hand wagon and I watched her disappear over the hill.

I hope I can keep the children quiet, I thought, so the landlady does not get upset to start with. Even though there was much to do, I read them a story and played games, then gave them a skimpy lunch. Hopefully, they would take a good nap.

It was my turn to cook this evening. A pot of boiled potatoes with homemade cottage cheese from skim milk would be our dinner, a few pieces of dried apples the dessert. I went down to the kitchen. The old lady was cooking her own dinner. It smelled delicious. She made herself a big omelet, and by the smell she must have put some bacon in it. We had not seen any eggs or bacon for months. Murmuring an apology, I left my pot and retreated. I figured out that she had some things to barter away for eggs and meat.

In the days to follow we got accustomed to our new surroundings and ventured back into the woods. One morning the news spread through the village: the soldiers are gone, everybody can go back home. We expected the worst. Holding our breath we tiptoed up the stairs of our old home. Everything seemed in order. The floor was still wet. We could not believe that the soldiers would wash the floor before they left. Checking around, we found a few glasses of homemade jam missing, but this we would not hold against them.

Another few days of quiet followed. Life was routine and the goal was survival. We had learned to live from one day to the next. Without any warning a French unit moved into the village and settled down. We went back to the inn. We had learned what the most necessary things were and the moving got easier. But this time we worried more how we would find our home when we returned. We stayed mostly inside remembering the rumors about the Moroccan Army. Time dragged on. Finally, the soldiers left. This time the rooms looked as if a hurricane had swept through them. Everything was turned over, broken dishes on the floor. Flies were buzzing around dirty pots and pans. When we discovered that they had broken the last sewing machine needle and opened all the mason jars so that the contents would spoil, we could not hold back our tears. The bedroom had a very pungent smell and the last drawer we opened gave us the answer. It was completely filled with Limburger cheese, fully ripened.

"Never mind," I said to my sister, "this might still be good with our boiled potatoes. I bet they requisitioned this from a dairy and could not stand the smell."

Another summer went by. The war was over but it meant even less food and fuel. Another hard winter followed and neither my sister's husband nor Jürgen had returned. We always hoped that the next day might bring some good news. My sister suggested that the one whose sweetheart would come home last should get a consolation prize. It never occurred to us that one might never come back. A gold pin, shaped like a butterfly, adorned with rubies and diamonds, which had belonged to my mother, was chosen as a prize. My sister got it.