The Americans fly Hilda to Hamburg's devastation.
Chapter 23
Time passed, the Allies continued to make progress, albeit slowly at times, and suddenly it was 1945. The New Year was gilded with expectation, fraught by doubt. The general view was that Hitler’s plans were crumbling, but no one seemed able to tell him. The spirit had gone out of the ordinary German soldier, conscious of an advancing Russian army to the east, but the die-hards, the unquestioning servants of Nazism, hung on tenaciously. If an opportunity arose for desertion, Hilda hoped many would take that risk without considering the possible repercussions, which would surely not occur when Germany finally admitted defeat. Perhaps Otto had already taken his chance for escape, and returned home to Hamburg to hide until the last days of conflict were over; she devoutly hoped so.
The work poured in and she had to undertake double shifts; one week she was on call all night before starting her day shift. By spring there were signs that the war in Europe would end very soon. The more optimistic thought the Battle of the Bulge might prove to have been the last stand-to engagement. The papers suggested that Germany was being cut to pieces by the forces of both east and west. Hilda wondered how much retribution would the victors exact. She hoped not nearly as much as they took after the previous war; that was undoubtedly a contributory cause of this one. Surely, there would never be another? These were questions she had to ask herself, because she needed to find Otto, Karl and Renate. She wanted to get back to Hamburg as soon as she could.
In May the war ended. It was something of an anti-climax to the BP workers after the relentless activity of the previous three years, and Hilda felt rather at a loss. She had no idea if Thornton had more plans for her, or if she was free to pick up the threads of her own life, whatever that turned out to be. In any case, she felt very strongly that he owed her some help, and she decided to telephone him. Knowing all calls were monitored, she simply told him her days at BP were coming to an end and she wanted, indeed needed, to see her family, especially her son. She couched it in terms which were clear enough to him, but meant no one could suspect that meant a return to Hamburg; if the call was intercepted, there would be no repercussions.
The following week several Wrens and civilian staff were summoned to Hut 13, where they received a stern lecture from a brigadier. His message was simple. They might be leaving Bletchley, but what they had done during the war, and indeed the fact that they had work at BP at all, must never ever be divulged to anyone, anywhere or at any time. If they were asked what their war work had been, they were to describe it as routine secretarial work; the nature of that work itself must remain completely confidential. The venue too must remain top secret, they were told, and the full force of the law would come down on anyone divulging BP’s existence. After they agreed one by one to this commitment by signature and oath, they were free to leave, subject to the needs of the slowing-down operation. The work being done at BP was far from over, as a realignment of Europe was now on the political agenda. But the technical German translations had trickled down to nothing, leaving Hilda with empty days. It was time for her to return to London.
She left BP during the first week of June and made for the capital to seek out Dynes and Thornton. The centre of the city was alive with flags, and people wore broad smiles of relief. She encountered a group of American naval ratings having the time of their lives, with English girls hooked on their arms. Crowds of people of different nationalities and wearing a variety of service uniforms, were congregating, along with policemen, special constables and members of the home guard. The bars were full, as were the cafés, all doing a roaring trade.
As she made her way to the MI6 offices she passed a twelve-piece Salvation Army band belting out Onward Christian Soldiers at full volume while bonneted ladies handed out paper cups of hot tea. It seemed that the country was enjoying an extended victory, even though the war in the east was not yet concluded.
The familiar building still had sandbags around the front entrance. Hilda climbed the steps, and informed the unfamiliar young lady at the desk that she had arrived. When she was asked for her name, the devil was in her head.
‘Tell Mr Thornton that Frau Hilda Richter has arrived.’
She hid a smile as the receptionist took a sharp breath. A German woman at MI6, and so soon after the end of hostilities; whatever next? But the girl she kept her thoughts to herself, though she gazed open-mouthed as Hilda swept past her, brushing aside her offer of directions to Thornton’s office with a crisp, 'I know the way, thank you.'
She received a far warmer welcome from Thornton himself.
‘My dear Hilda, do come in,’ he said, striding forward to greet her and shaking her hand warmly.
‘Thank you. I trust you are well.’
‘Yes, very well thank you, and so relieved that the war is over.’
‘I certainly am too.' She looked around the room. 'Mr Dynes, is he about?’
‘No, he’s gone to Birmingham today. Anyway, I'm delighted to see you survived the war in one piece. It’s been a while since we met.’
‘Survived? I've spent the past three years closeted in a hut! Except for a couple of concerts we managed to organize.'
‘I'm sure everyone enjoyed that, even though they were a captive audience, as it were.’ They laughed, and Hilda felt some of the stress flow out of her muscles.
‘Yes, captive and sworn to secrecy. I’m sorry I can’t tell you what the work entailed.’
‘I know. I sent you there, remember.’
‘Yes, but even I don’t know the full picture; how we received messages at such a rate, and all had to be translated; but there I go again, in breach of the Official Secrets Act already.’
They laughed again, and Thornton gestured towards a couple of chairs at the side of the office. 'What can I do for you, Hilda? I know you too well to assume this is not purely a social call.'
‘I was wondering if you would have any more use for me,' she said slowly, ' though I'm not sure what that could possibly be.’
‘Indeed we will have to part company in due course, ’ he said. 'But I am certain you have more pressing matters on your mind in any case.'
‘Well... there is just one favour I need to ask of you.’
‘And that is?’
Hilda could hold back no longer. ‘I need to get to Hamburg,’ she said rapidly.
‘I see.' Thornton stroked his chin. 'To trace Otto, and your brother-in-law and his wife?’
‘Exactly.’
Thornton opened his desk diary and turned a few pages. She wondered if he could pull this rabbit out of his hat. She felt sure it was no more than a thin chance.
‘You know Hamburg will not be as you left it?’
‘You mean the bombing?’
‘Yes, but do you know the extent of the bombing?’
‘No, I can’t really imagine.’
‘The docks were at first our main target. Any device that did not hit the quays hit the city. No pilot wanted to waste a bomb over the sea. Then a little later the city became the main target.’
‘I don’t care. I need to get to Hamburg,’ she pleaded.
'I can see you're quite determined.' He continued to leaf through his diary, then lifted his telephone.
‘Hello, Transport? Yes, Thornton here. Anyone going to Hamburg? Let me know when one is leaving. I have a live package.’ He replaced the telephone.
‘There. If they can’t get you there, no one will. I suggest you stock up on groceries before you go. It will be very rough over there. It's likely nothing will be functioning properly, there are no shops, and provisions of any kind will be scarce. You will have to work quickly and get back promptly. It’s not a place for the fainthearted – but you were never that.’
She should have been downcast by his account of her city's fate, but she retained a hope of finding some semblance of life was around Hamburg, and needed to see for herself.
‘Perhaps you can leave notes and forwarding addresses,' Thornton suggested. 'And you never know – perhaps Otto will be heading there too. You could even bring him back with you.’
‘That would be ideal,’ she said, her hopes buoyed by his optimism.
‘Come back at three this afternoon and see if we have made any progress.’
‘Thank you, Mr Thornton. You have been very kind.’
She set off in search of a supply of easily portable groceries, but they were not easy to find. Rationing had not affected BP directly, and though everyone had been issued with a supply of coupons when they left the complex, she was unfamiliar with the system. Eventually she managed to purchase some packets of dried American soup and dried fruit and a loaf of bread, then she found some slices of ham and cheese and tins of fruit, and something called Spam, which seemed to be one of the few plentiful things in the shop. When she asked the shopkeeper what it was, he seemed surprised that she did not know; apparently, it had become a staple in the meagre wartime diet, but between Portugal and BP, Hilda had had no opportunity to encounter it.
She bought a canvas rucksack so that she could carry the food on her back. The fruit tins were heavy, but the packet of water biscuits which filled it to the top added very little weight. She returned to Thornton’s office five minutes early.
‘We’ve got you a flight to an airport just outside Hamburg,’ he announced.
‘Oh, thank you, that’s wonderful news. Thank you so much.’
‘Don’t thank me, thank the Yanks. They’ll be over here shortly to pick you up and take you to their base. You’ll be heading for Hamburg early tomorrow morning.’
She gave him a broad smile; her face had not stretched so far for many months. Just one issue remained, now that she was so heavily laden with provisions.
‘I wonder if you could keep my oboe with you until I return? I won’t need it in Hamburg, and the case is quite heavy. Anyway, it really has no home to go to yet. I’m still not at all sure where I’ll settle down.’
Thornton smiled. ‘I’ll be delighted to help. Regard this office as your base. I fully understand. Mind you, I thought you two were inseparable,’ he said with a wink.
‘We are. But I know I can trust you not to sell it.’
He walked over to a high-walled cupboard and climbed a small stepladder.
‘Here, this cupboard is locked every night. It will be perfectly safe here,’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s if we both can remember where it is.’
Hilda did not have to wait long. There was a knock at the door and in came an American airman in smartly creased mushroom-coloured trousers and a flying jacket.
‘Sir, Colonel Zak Withers reporting for duty. A damsel in distress I’m seekin’. I’m sure lookin’ for one stunning dame,’ he said. His eyes turned towards Hilda.
‘You can’t possibly mean me, Colonel, but I hope you'll fly me to Hamburg all the same. Do I detect a southern accent there?’ she said in her friendliest tone.
The colonel looked at me. ‘Louisiana man I am, ma’am. Got to the dance late, but saw some action in the Battle of the Bulge.’
‘Excellent flying skills required for that engagement, I imagine, officer,’ she said.
‘Thank you, ma’am. Sure was a tricky op. Hamburg, eh? You sure got guts.’
‘Guts? I’m not flying the machine,’ she joked.
‘Your boys hit Hamburg real bad. Not easy to get around.’
‘I know where I am going,’ she said, injecting more confidence into her tone than she was feeling.
‘ Glad to take you on board, ma’am. However, we leave early tomorrow. I’m taking you back to base at Northolt, not too far from here, a bit north of the city. We leave early tomorrow. Y’all ready to go?’
‘I know Northolt. I sure am ready to return to Hamburg tomorrow.’ She did her best to copy his American accent, and he slapped her back paternally, even although he was young enough to be her son.
At the airbase, her bunk bed was in a row of small rooms with a shower at the end. An opaque plastic shower curtain drooped down in the centre with a few hooks missing, hardly protecting anyone's modesty. Any passer-by could see that someone was using the shower.
Hilda chose not to remark on the drawings of nude women in various poses which decorated the hut common room. She understood their frustration.
‘Excuse the art work. We’re all randy around here,’ laughed a young flying sergeant perched on the corner of a table, his left leg swinging above the floor. He held a Lucky Strike between his fingers and tapped the ash into an empty beer can. ‘Don’t really get women here,' he added. 'We chose the best room for you. The others are less tasteful.’
She did not doubt him.
‘Meal in the main hut across there,’ said the sergeant pointing out of the window. ‘Six p.m. sharp or you get the scraps. Breakfast from six a.m. till eight, but you’ll be away by then, I guess.’
Hilda risked a shower later that afternoon, and sang loudly to deter any visitors. The airmen respected her privacy, and she returned to her room to dress, excited that she’d be returning to her home and family in Hamburg, but more than a little apprehensive about what she would find. Something niggled at the back of her mind: was she being unrealistic to hope she would find her son? So many young men had died. She made up her mind to assume he was dead, and to deal with it if it proved to be the truth. If he were alive, she would would be overjoyed. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, she told herself. Only time would tell.
It was time for her meal in the company of her American hosts, and she made her way to the mess hut the amiable flight sergeant had pointed out.
The meal was Cobb salad, something quite unfamiliar to her. She had not tasted bacon for years, and avocado was quite new to her. It was accompanied by a plentiful supply of sourdough bread, which one of her fellow diners told her was baked fresh every day. The American chef clearly had access to a wider range of ingredients than was generally available, but Hilda decided not to ask too many questions. There was even a glass of white Alsace wine to wash down the food; liberated by some troops they had airlifted home, a young airman confided.
Hilda's plateful was more than substantial, and she was full even before the banana split arrived. She had attracted a full table of servicemen. They were all young men and she guessed they were longing for home, for loved ones and their mothers’ home cooking. That night Hilda was their substitute mother.
‘Say, ma’m, you got any kids in the war?’ one of them asked.
She wondered if she would need to tell a white lie, but decided to play it by ear. They were no longer at war after all.
‘Yes, one son.’
‘In the navy?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Britain’s got a good number on the high seas. Okay, he’s a pilot like some of us here? Did he fight in the Battle of Britain?’
‘No, he’s in the army. Light armour infantry.’
‘Wow, I bet he’s seen some action.’
‘I am sure he has.’
‘Is he back home safely now?’
‘That’s what I’m flying out to discover.’
The answer must have confused the airman. He stood up to leave the table. He pulled his hand from his pocket and flung a packet on the table.
‘Chewing gum. Helps the ears from popping in the plane.’ She smiled her thanks. Her brief flirtation with chewing gum at BP had ended quickly, but it might prove useful tomorrow.
The following morning she arrived at the table at a few minutes past six. Her pilot Zak Withers was already seated.
‘Hi, Good morning, Hilda. Southern grits on the hob, staple Louisiana diet, fills you up. Have some.’
‘Sounds just what I need,’ she said, helping herself to the grainy porridge.
‘Best breakfast in the world, our grits. Those in the north make fun of us.’
‘So it’s a southern recipe?’
‘Well, matter of fact, native Indians gave us it. You like it?’
She swallowed a mouthful with difficulty. ‘An acquired taste, perhaps? But I’m hungry.’
‘Okay, I hear you,’ he said. He shouted through to the kitchen staff, ‘Two eggs sunny side up, you got that?’ The chef gave a thumbs-up.
Hilda contemplated a full English breakfast, as it could be the last proper meal she’d have for a while.
‘Hilda, so what you goin’ for?’
‘Something quite filling. Not sure when I'll eat again.’
‘Hey, stack of pancakes with maple syrup for the lady with some bacon and eggs on the side. Sunny side up or over easy, Hilda?’
‘Er, sunny side up please.’ Not that she knew what it meant.
Once breakfast was over, Zak gave her a few minutes to get ready and pack before they set off for the aircraft. It was a RB-1 Conestoga cargo transport aircraft, a bulky enough craft to accommodate a row of tenement houses, she thought. It was being loaded when she arrived, with jeeps and lorries, and pallets of sugar, flour and milk powder for Hamburg and the surrounding district. Each bag bore the stars and stripes, though the propaganda was hardly necessary. The German people would surely have rejected Hitler’s dream and swastika emblem, and would welcome any aid which helped them to stay alive.
Chapter 24
The pilot released the brakes, and the plane rolled gently along the runway, pointing north. The engines grew louder and louder as the ambling monster dragged its heavy load along, and Hilda began to fear it might run out of runway. Then she felt the force as the nose lifted. For half a minute, the treetops seemed within reach. She breathed a sigh of relief as the craft levelled out, then had another moment of unease when it occurred to her that the cargo behind her might be shaken loose.
However the flight proved pleasant and uneventful. The sun was up early and they followed the river Thames out to the North Sea. The water was deep blue and peaceful, with flecks of sunshine reflecting on the rippling waves. There were no angry ships or threatening air flak; she was even given a cup of strong coffee and a doughnut with jam inside. I could get used to this American life, she thought, then she remembered the gritty porridge at breakfast.
‘We're going to Hamburg Airport?' she asked Zak in the seat in front of hers. 'Won’t it be demolished?’
‘What?' yelled the pilot. 'You’ll have to speak louder.’
‘Is Hamburg airport... still intact?’ she shouted as loudly as she could.
‘Hamburg Airport, Hilda, has been running since 1910 when the airships were in vogue. Between 1937 and ’45 it was the Luftwaffe base, but very cleverly disguised with trees and bushes to make it look less like an airport. So by the end of May we got it working just fine. There might have been mass starvation without us getting these food sorties through. These people are desperate.’
‘I see,’ she replied. Zak was relaxed at the controls, chewing away.
The British coast slipped behind them, and the summer sunshine seemed to warm the aluminium fuselage. Her seat rested against the structure, which was in a constant state of vibration. It was not an uncomfortable feeling; in fact, she found it rather comforting, and the tickling sensation was a distraction from the thoughts invading her mind about what she might encounter in Hamburg. She draining the last drops of coffee, and dusted off the doughnut sugar from her knees. Chewing gum was constantly passed round, and did indeed prove useful, as her ears did pop.
‘You know where you’ll be staying?’ Zak shouted.
‘I’ll get into the city and work my way along to my home. I’ll take it from there. I’m not sure what I’ll find or how long I’ll be.’
‘Then keep your eyes peeled. Look out for notes on scraps of paper pinned to doors, railings, that kinda thing. I saw that in Nicaragua when we flattened some towns.’
‘Flattened?’
‘Well not exactly flattened, but many of the homes were set alight, burnt to the ground.’
‘When was that?’
‘Part of the Banana Wars in Central America. It ended in 1933 after many years of troubles.’
A different country, and a story she was unfamiliar with. The same human suffering at the hands of the military, though; might was not necessarily right, but brute strength prowess had the final say. She shook her head. When would they ever learn? She had heard the United Nations in New York was about to replace the League of Nations, and hoped it would be a more successful organization than its predecessor. If it could intervene in time, conflict might be avoided, leading to a more settled and safer world.
The skies were so calm and peaceful now that it was hard to credit that so recently they had been filled with pilots driven by fear of flak and enemy fire. Their descent began directly they had crossed the North Sea. Light cloud hid the city, which had risen from the ashes after the great fire of 1842, survived pestilence and cholera fifty years later, and grown into the second city of the Republic, and home to millions of northern German people, thousands of Jewish families, and to Hilda for thirty-five years. They taxied along a mercifully debris-free runway and came to a halt near the airport terminal.
‘Guess we drop you off here,’ said Zak.
‘Yes, into the unknown.’
Zak nodded. ‘Make your way back here when you’re done. There will be a rota of flights back to Northolt, sure thing.’
‘That’s a good safety net for me.’
‘Sure is, honey,’ he said, winking as though he had been in the company of a southern belle.
The airport was not far from the city. Hilda declined a lift and decided to walk, in order gather her thoughts. She might even meet someone she knew along the way, someone who could provide the information she sought. Once she was under way, she realized walking would actually be quicker; the roads were damaged, and many were partially blocked by rubble from bombed homes. A stench of rotting flesh made her hold her breath, and she realized it came from dogs. She saw no dead cats, though some must have been lost. Perhaps their nine lives was not such a myth after all, though it was more likely many of the dogs had starved to death, whereas cats could survive by killing the rats she saw every few steps, scurrying under the debris.
Some elderly women passed by, pushing prams, gathering anything they could find: food, or wood to light a makeshift stove. She hadn't the words to speak to them; they could not have been oblivious to her recently washed face, her clean clothes and her well-fed shape.
A few telegraph lines stood undamaged but lifeless. Others had broken poles and a puddle of wires lying on the ground. The plaintive meowing of a cat brought back memories of Inka back in Portugal. Their wail reflected the despair of the people. Where was Inka now, she wondered. Surely in a better place than this?
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 she could not find words to speak, and lowered her eyes and she walked past, feeling guilty but quite helpless.
To 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. The Carl Hagenbeek’s Tier Park had a British jeep at its edge; the mine-clearing team who had arrived in it were making safe the unexploded Allied bombs. In the park there was some uncut green grass, but no borders or flower beds. 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 who were seen were elderly, dishevelled, depressed and lost, carrying makeshift walking sticks and wearing heavy winter coats, which could have been all they possessed.
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 stand 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. But now they were nowhere to be seen. 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 was man-made devastation, despair and the smell of rotting flesh. Even the damage caused by the Blitz in London seemed insignificant compared with what she had seen this morning. Bomber Harris had certainly been seeking revenge in Hamburg.
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 all the windows had been blown out. 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 was blue sky and a pile of rubble some thirty feet high to remind her of their blissful family life only five years ago. Tears came to her eyes, and as she struggled to climb over the debris, her foot slipped. She steadied herself and looked around, anxious to see if there was anything worth risking injury for. She looked around for anything she could salvage, but all she saw was a split 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 already have been taken. Taken by a bomb or a casual thief.
Approximately an hour and a half later, still seated like a November 5th guy on a stack of rubble, she saw a weary German soldier approach. He carried no gun and wore no helmet or cap. His hair seemed matted, in need of a wash. 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 laceless and both were muddy. His dirty blond hair and grit-spattered face epitomized what Germany had become: a nation fighting 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’s face fell, and 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 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.
‘Otto and I, that’s 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 re-armed and we had a pitched battle. It was... it was then in November, mid-November, Otto was hit by a Russian sniper. 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 to war. So many sons had been lost that she should not have expected Otto to survive, yet she had never lost hope.
‘His body, I mean was he buried? If so where?’
‘I wish I could tell you. I don’t know. Our strategy was not successful. Our positions were overrun by the Russians. His body must be in Russian land. I think it best not to think where his remains are, but value the time you had with him over his few years.’
Hilda smiled through her tears. Such fine words from such a young man. They shook hands. He left, looking so lonely as he walked away from her. She hadn't 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.
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As I read the beginning of chapter 23 and the end of Hitler, I strangely thought of the coming end of Donald Trump and his rampage through American law. Like Hitler, his followers seem to be sticking to him to the end. Although some in Congress, more political, seem to be bailing out these days. Many were elected in when the Republican Party was a different party than it is now.
Ron