Now there was another person to fit in to our cramped living quarters. But we gladly made do. Winning some strong arms and another ration card were a big improvement. Jürgen could not go home to Berlin. Neither could we move back to our Munich apartment since it was occupied by two bombed-out families.

Should we really go ahead with a wedding so soon? He was drafted a few months after we had met. Surely each of us must have changed after almost six years. I always had promised myself to give us another year to make sure, absolutely sure, that we were suited to each other. Now, as we worked side by side, gathering wood and mushrooms, standing in line for food, taking care of my nephews and niece, it seemed natural and practical to tie the knot soon.

"It will be easier to get the apartment back when we are married," Jürgen said. "There is little chance that we get more than one room back at any rate, and they would be frowning when two single persons applied for it. When the university reopens in the fall, I should be entitled to a room. By then the children's father will have remarried and take the children back."

Even though there was no chance to have a prewar-type wedding, it would take a month for the arrangements. Gisela would bring the veil from her own wedding and try to borrow a dark suit. I found my older sister's wedding gown and our landlady promised to make it fit. The chicken farmer let us work in her vegetable garden in exchange for two chickens to be used as the wedding feast. The landlord offered his parlor for the occasion and a new top hat he had not used yet on his chimney-sweep rounds. This would draw the attention away from the ill-fitting suit. The neighbor offered to bake the chickens in her oven since our wood-stove was too small. A photographer suggested that we should try to find a new film so she could document the wedding. The only taxi in town was hired to take us to the church in town. Some friend even promised a simple cake.

Gisela was supposed to arrive the day before, June 21. It was getting dark and a cloudburst hit when we arrived at the train station. It was not lit, neither was the train, when it arrived a half hour late. Calling her name, we ran along the train to make sure she would not miss getting off. Only two farmers stepped down, dragging big baskets behind them. As we walked up the long hill, we pondered about, what could have happened to her.

"She must have missed the connection in Augsburg," I suggested. "She will have to spend the night in the train station."

"Or she could not fight her way into the crowded train; she is not the person to do that," Jürgen said. "The stationmaster was not even sure when the next train would arrive. Even after one year nothing is on schedule yet."

Early next morning she dragged herself into our apartment, a sad picture. Her raincoat was wet and torn, and she was exhausted from standing many hours on the crowded train. Her suitcase with the suit was still at the station and the wedding was just hours away. While she rested, the suitcase was retrieved, the suit pressed.

The wedding party consisted of four adults and three children. That was all we could accommodate and feed. A quarter before noon we all were dressed and waited for the taxi at the front door. The rain came down heavy again. Would we have to walk the muddy street to the church? The landlord tried to cheer us up saying, "When it rains on your wedding day, you are bound to get rich."

At noon sharp the taxi drove up. "I am sorry, but I had to bring a woman in labor to the hospital. You have no phone, so I could not let you know. Normally I decorate the car, but there was no time."

The village church was a big monastery cathedral. Our small wedding party felt dwarfed walking down the aisle. The organ was out of commission, so there was no music. That made the ceremony very short. But the banquet was a real feast. No one had eaten chicken for years and a bottle of wine had shown up as a wedding gift. A few more packages arrived during the next few weeks. Relatives and friends had combed through their belongings and gave us what they could spare. There were some towels and sheets, pots and dishes, all used, all very welcome and dearly needed.

A cousin, Erika, the daughter of Uncle Walther, my mother's brother, was evacuated to a village on a nearby lake. She called and invited us for a "honeymoon." The bicycles were oiled and inspected and we started the next morning for a four-hour ride through the countryside. Erika gave us her bedroom furnished with a small bed and a sofa, but we had to share it with her two-year-old son. That was nothing new to us since we had to share our bedroom with the three-year-old niece who had the habit of banging her head against the headboard. Erika had gone out that morning after the rain and had gathered a basket full of chanterelle mushrooms, a real treat. The farmer's wife, her landlady, had donated some flour, two eggs and fruit for a dessert. We stayed only one night, since Susanne was left alone with three children and many chores were waiting for us.

The next day found us sitting in the cellar, looking over our meager resources. Our mainstay was a pile of potatoes from the previous harvest of last October. They were shriveled up and sprouting. We had to remove all the sprouts to be able to still use them. We would comb the woods again for mushrooms and berries and try to raise as many vegetables as we could on our small plot. We felt it could only get better from now on.