V Alexander - The Taster

Daylight grew stronger by the minute, although the city still lay in shadow. I ran past the deserted storefronts, darting through the empty streets, heading west. The Russian voices receded the farther I ran from Spandau. Soon I came to a narrow road lined with abandoned farmhouses. The landscape reminded me of photographs I’d seen of World War I France—blasted houses with blackened windows staring out at me like lost souls. The vile stench of rotting cattle and horses rose into the air. After about an hour on the road, I heard the sputter of an approaching vehicle. I ducked into a grove of trees and flattened myself against the ground. I dared not look up for fear of being caught. When I finally got the courage to lift my head, the vehicle had passed and the world was deathly silent. I walked for another hour, keeping close to the road. I passed a sign propped against a tree that read: Staaken . Nothing living had crossed my path until I noticed a raven sitting on top of a barn. The black bird eyed me suspiciously. As I drew near, it flew off in a wide circle to the west.

I left the road, went to the barn and pulled open the door. There was nothing inside except a rusty tractor and leather bridles. The horse stalls were empty, but hoofprints remained stamped in the dark earth. I rested for a few minutes on the hay of one of the stalls. My legs ached, my stomach growled and my throat was parched with thirst. I forced myself to get up. The only food I found was a cup of chicken feed sitting on a windowsill. I couldn’t eat it; it was so dried up it would crack my teeth.

I lay down on the hay, fell asleep and awoke late in the afternoon. The sun’s slanting rays filtered through the cracks in the siding. Sleep had done little to revive me; if anything I felt worse. Lack of food had made me weak and trembling. I tried to get up, but my legs wouldn’t carry me. My cracked lips cried out for water. I lifted my head and my body swam in blackness. My breath left me and my head dropped back to my straw pillow.

I awoke on a rickety cot in an underground room illuminated by candles. The air was close and humid and brought back unpleasant memories of the bunkers.

A boy of about eight stared at me and then called upstairs, “She’s awake, Mamma.” A thick-legged woman wearing torn hose and black shoes trundled down the stairs. She frowned at the boy and scolded him with her eyes.

“I told you not to wake her,” the woman said.

“I didn’t,” the boy protested. “She woke up by herself. I was watching her to make sure she was all right.”

“Thank you,” I said, forcing the words out. “Where am I?”

“Staaken,” the woman said. “My son found you in a barn about a half kilometer from here. He was looking for his cat. My husband carried you home.”

I pushed myself up on my elbows. Apparently, I was in a room underneath a farmhouse. Shelves filled with glass containers of food lined one wall. I pointed at them.

“We’ve been feeding you,” the boy said. “Don’t you remember?”

I shook my head.

“You’re not all we’ve been feeding,” the woman said. “We give food to the Reds. They leave us alone, but they always come back for more.”

I must have flinched or shown pain in my face, for the woman responded, “They’ve never looked down here. As far as they know, it’s a root cellar. They eat in the kitchen and then leave. Most of them are headed east to Berlin anyway.” She shook her head. “We can’t stop the soldiers from coming down—if you’re running from them.”

“What day is it?” I asked.

The woman wiped her hands on her apron. “May fourth.”

“The last I knew it was the morning of May second.”

“It’ll be suppertime soon, if you feel well enough to eat upstairs.”

“I don’t want to put you in danger. I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

The boy stepped toward me. “Don’t leave. It’s been exciting with you here.”

Above us, the sound of an engine grew closer. I huddled next to the damp wall.

The woman bent over me and touched my shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. I recognize the sound. It’s the Americans.”

“Americans?”

“Yes. They drive by in their military vehicles at least once a day. I think they’re meeting with the Russians near Spandau.”

I sat up and put my feet on the ground. “When they come back, I must leave.”

The woman nodded. “Whatever you like. We don’t need an extra mouth to feed.”

I washed at the cistern and then had supper with the family as the sun set. The husband had been working the fields all day, now that the fighting had stopped near Staaken. He was late planting, but hopeful some crops would grow.

The farmer and his family were people of few words and I was glad. I could tell the boy was the most curious of the three, but he was not allowed to speak at dinner. I didn’t want to tell this family my story for fear of putting them in danger with the Russians. I said only that I was looking for my husband, an SS Captain, who might have been captured by the Americans.

I helped the woman with the dishes after the husband and boy had gone to bed. About ten thirty we heard the sound of the engine again. She looked toward the road and nodded. I grasped her hands and thanked her for saving my life. The vehicle was approaching fast and I didn’t want to miss it, so I pushed open the door and ran into the road. The headlights rushed toward me. I planted my feet firmly and waved my arms. A stout-looking green car skidded to a stop in front of me.

A man in a uniform I’d never seen before stuck his head out of the passenger window.

I walked toward them. The driver opened the door and pointed a pistol at me. I kept my arms raised. The two men looked around excitedly as if they might be ambushed.

“Shit. What the hell are you doing?” the driver said in German.

“I’m giving myself up,” I said.

He scowled. “You and the rest of Germany.”

“I worked for the Führer,” I said in German and repeated my words in what little English I knew.

Past the glare of the headlights, I saw their stunned faces. The soldier got out and walked toward me. The driver never dropped his aim.

“Prove it,” the soldier said in German.

I took off my wedding ring and showed it to him.

“Holy shit… .” He spoke to the driver in English and then continued in German. He told me to keep my hands up while he patted me down.

The driver shouted instructions in English.

“He wants us to get in the jeep,” the soldier told me. “There’re Germans around here who still think the war is going on.”

“Isn’t it?” I asked.

He pointed to the jeep. “Climb in, sister. If it isn’t over already, it soon will be.”

At 10:44 p.m. on May 4, 1945, I was taken into custody by officers of the American army Ninth Division. After midnight, I sat, shivering and disoriented, in an army camp near Magdeburg on the Elbe River. I was happy to be alive, but deeply saddened for my country.

Freedom came through the price of blood. The Allies had leveled the Reich. Germany stood humbled and divided because the world wanted our nation enslaved. No people on earth wanted to see Germany, or the slightest specter of fascism, rise again. Meanwhile, Germans dug through the rubble trying to rebuild their lives. Along the way, many were felled by disease and hunger. Retribution also played its part in the continuing deaths. Many women killed themselves after being raped by enemy soldiers. Families starved on the streets. Hitler, in many ways, was right when he predicted that Germany would suffer terrible consequences for losing the war. He had taken the easy way out while those left behind suffered.