Miller Caldwell - A Reluctant Spy

Sitting on the doorstep of a wrecked building that might once have been her home, a woman raised her eyes as Hilda passed by. Still, the words did not come to her. She lowered her eyes and she walked past, feeling guilty and quite helpless.

The east of the Alter, the oldest part of the city, lay in even more dishevelled ruins. Oldest was something of a misnomer; it was actually the new town built after the great fire consumed the original one in 1842. She walked by, still seeing little semblance of life. Hagenbecks Tierpark had a British jeep parked at its perimeter; the bomb disposal team who had arrived in the jeep were defusing unexploded Allied bombs, thereby rendering them safe. In the park, there was some uncut green grass, but no borders or flowerbeds. There was no natural colour at all; dust had settled on the ground like a winter cape although it was early summer. Everywhere was desolation and devastation in sight; children cried, and their parents despaired, unable to provide any food or meaningful comfort. Few men were in sight and those shuffling along aimless were the elderly, dishevelled, depressed and lost, carrying makeshift walking sticks and wearing heavy winter coats, which seemed to be all they possessed in the rising heat of the day.

Within a half-mile of home, Hilda became more and more aware of the damage she was likely to find there. Miraculously some dwellings did remain standing untouched. It bewildered her that the bombs could miss one home while flattening the next, and gave her hope that she still had a home.

Hamburg had prided itself on the wildlife inhabiting its waterways. She had been used to seeing hundreds of wading birds in the great pond, and she had fond memories of afternoon walks with Otto in his pram, throwing breadcrumbs to the ducks. Now they were absent. Had they migrated back in 1940? Would they ever come back?

She found herself in the administrative centre of the city. Standing before her was Gestapo headquarters, Eicke’s citadel, where he ordered the Jewish ‘cleansing’ of the city and its environment. Perhaps he had died in the devastation. She would lose no sleep over him. A Nazi flag lay on the ground, partly hidden by the rubble of grey stone. Everywhere in sight was destruction, despair and the ubiquitous smell of rotting flesh. Few men were visible and those seen shuffling along aimlessly were the elderly, all looking dishevelled, depressed and lost. They carried makeshift walking sticks and wore heavy winter coats which seemed to be all they possessed in the rising heat of the day.

Even the damage caused by the Blitz in London seemed insignificant compared with what she had seen during that morning. Bomber Harris had certainly been seeking revenge. Hamburg had been his focus.

Hilda was within two hundred yards of home. The nearer she got, the more anxious she became. She passed former neighbours’ homes. Some had a wall standing, even two or three walls, but the windows supported no glass. Glass glittered on the ground, and she was glad of her sturdy footwear. Then she looked up. Where her house – her home – had been, there was only blue sky and a pile of rubble some thirty feet high to remind her of their blissful family life only five years earlier.

Tears came to her eyes, and as she struggled to climb over the debris, her foot slipped. She steadied herself then looked around, anxious to see if there was anything worth risking injury to seize. Was there nothing to be salvaged? However, all she saw was a spilt tin of white paint. She remembered Willy painting the ceilings with it. She sat down on a level stone and cried her eyes out. Her thoughts were everywhere and nowhere, overcome by the devastation, deaths and desolation. She had no home and nowhere for Otto to return to. There was no point in looking for any mementoes. Where would she start? Anything of any value would have been damaged, taken by a bomb or taken by a needy thief.

Approximately an hour and a half later, still seated like a 5th November guy on a stack of rubble, she saw a weary German soldier approach. He carried no gun and wore no helmet or cap. A camouflage-patterned shoulder bag seemed to be his only worldly possession. He dragged his left leg but not because of an injury; one of his boots was lace-less and both were muddy. His dirty blond hair and grit-spattered face epitomized what Germany had become: a nation engaged in fighting far too long at the call of a mad dictator who had now taken his own life.

The soldier stopped. He looked at Hilda without speaking, puzzled, as if to say how could you have possibly survived? He took another tentative step forward.

‘Frau Richter?’ he said quietly and hesitantly.

She looked up and stared at his face. She smiled. He seemed familiar. ‘Yes. Otto’s mother.’

He looked down for a moment as if to gather his thoughts. Slowly his head lifted.

‘Then you know about Otto?’ he asked.

Her heart lurched. Did she know what about Otto? ‘I haven’t heard from him for a long time. I came looking for him. You know where he is? Is he in Hamburg?’ she asked, excitement vying with fear.

The soldier came forward. He sat down close to her. That was when she began to fear the worst.

‘Otto was with me in 1941 when Operation Barbarossa began.’

‘You mean Otto is dead?’ She simply had to ask.

The soldier nodded, and Hilda’s heart began to thud. She bit her lip and stifled a cry as reality hit home. Nevertheless, she needed to know what had happened. Her eyes focused on the young soldier’s sorrowful face.

‘Otto and I, that is me Marcus, Marcus Baumann, had been together through the invasion of Poland. It was far easier than we expected back then. The Blitzkrieg was so effective. We thought the Russians would be as easy to overcome, but the summer of 1941 ended and winter approached as we set in, outside Moscow. We were making no progress. Then the Russians rearmed and we had a pitched battle. It was… it was then in November, mid-November. A Russian sniper hit Otto. He died instantly. Honest, I was near him. It was that quick. It was horrible, really horrible.’

Hilda dried her eyes. So, this was what it felt like to be a mother who made the ultimate sacrifice and lost a son. So many sons had been lost that she should not have expected Otto to survive, yet she had never lost hope, until now.

‘His body, I mean was he buried? If so where?’

‘I wish I could tell you. I do not know. Our strategy was not successful. The Russians overran our positions. His body lies in Russian land. I think it best not to think about where his remains are, but value the time you had with him over his happy years here in Hamburg.’

Hilda smiled through her tears. Such fine words from such a young man. They shook hands. He left, looking lonely as he walked away from her. She had not asked where he was going or what he was looking for, and he turned out of sight before she could call him back. Then she let the tears and howls of anguish flow and her voice joined the choir of mourning mothers in the city that afternoon.

Hilda looked at her wristwatch. It was approaching her normal lunch hour, but she was not hungry. The anger of Otto’s death changed her priorities, and it was as if grief satisfied her need for food.

She looked around her at the ruins of her home. She knew there was nothing worth saving; everything she found as she poked around the rubble was damaged. Roof slates covered much of the debris; she looked underneath a few but had neither energy nor incentive to lift up each one. Shards of crockery surfaced like an archaeological find; she spotted broken chair legs and a buckled bed. Things she had regarded as treasures now had no worth; even if she found her precious mantelpiece clock undamaged, nobody would be able to buy it. Money was worthless. Time would clear the ground and all traces of the Richter family in Hamburg would be gone.