1943, A Flashback

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I've started to rework my first book. A TIME AND PLACE, The Making Of An Immigrant. A book of 130 short stories with numerous pictures and drawings. I'm rendering the book to be available soon in E-book format.

Here is the first page:

AUTHOR’S NOTE

A flash and a big bang, a cold cellar floor, and a fear of falling from a window– these are the only things I distinctly remember as a three-year-old.

The air raid sirens, the approach and roar of bomber planes, those memories came alive only, when 30 years later I and my family visited the Smithsonian in Washington, DC. As I entered a wing of the museum, dedicated to World War II, sounds of bombers and sirens played overhead as a background to the exhibit. These sounds evoked dreadful emotions in me, so much so that I had to leave the building. I simply could not cope with them.

1943       

Südbahnhof, one of several train stations of Munich, stayed busy in 1943. Our four-story row house faced the rail yard and also the western sun. The rhythmic sounds of rail cars and steam locomotives became a soothing accompaniment to everyday life. My father shipped out to war from that same station. 

The wide window sills of the building extended outward and overhung the exterior wall. A basket-like wrought iron cage surrounded the lower half of the window from side to side. Mom used that window sill to grow geraniums as well as parsley and chives. The windows closed from the inside and kept the miniature garden exposed to rain and sun. My first memories of fear and trembling came when Mom decided I needed some fresh air and sun. She placed me, three years old, out on that ledge. I could not help but look three stories down to the sidewalk below. Sister Dagmar, then just an infant, also got to enjoy some sun as well.

The air raids of that time also made a dreaded imprint in this little fellow’s mind. The peace of the moment was often shaken by the ever more frequent, piercing screams of sirens. Each scream seemed to come through the windows, the walls, the curtains, the ears, the head, and straight to the soul. These death blasts never respected whether we were sleeping or swallowing our first spoonful of hot cereal. Instantly, in high emotional agitation, Mom and I, she carrying baby sister, raced down the long flights of stairs to the basement of the tenement. I do not know why, but once down there, I always sat and looked at that window . . . one small window up high.  It was level with the sidewalk outside. That window, it made me tremble so. The three of us sat on the damp floor, leaned against a cold wall and looked at that window. Many other people huddled around the walls of that cellar. All mesmerized by one source of light, that window. The light through that window did not stream from the sun, since most bombs rained down at night. Nor did it come from street lights, since power was cut off the render the city dark to the enemy. The light came from burning buildings. One burned so close by, it singed the window curtains in the apartment. 

The bursts of orange flashes, accompanied by earth trembling explosions, were a gauge in one’s mind as to how close every bomb hit. They were all close, because no rail yard was spared. Never any tears or screams came from the huddled. Fright is not accompanied by tears and cannot be consoled by one’s own emotions.

The last etching in my child’s soul came when the worst expectation became reality. A tremendous burst of white light, an earth shattering shock, the little window exploded amid an enormous flash of hell and was no more. The disintegrated window became the final blanket that put to rest the hell of a three-year old.

Soon after, the government evacuated most women and children. We were allowed to live in a small town in lower Bavaria called Griesbach.

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