Refugee in search of a homeland

What if they can't come back for me? This terrible war seemed to come to a rapid end now, but could life go on thereafter? Wasn't everyone expected to fight to the last man, to the last drop of blood, as we had been told? Somehow I had never contemplated that life could go on, should we lose the war. It was hard to shake off years of propaganda and brain washing. Every day we heard of advancing enemy forces on both sides and of terrible bombing raids, especially on Dresden, which had been full of refugees. Carpet bombing and incendiaries inflicted terrible casualties among the civilian population. Fighter planes were now strafing country roads, which once again had become clogged with refugees. Would my parents make it across the Elbe? And what about the bridge there? If that were to be damaged, what then? Were we to welcome the enemy who had inflicted such suffering on civilians everywhere? Why should I want to go to the West in the first place, and not just stay in the East?

Were the Russians really so different from the western allies? We had heard that the former killed even more indiscriminately, if that was possible. We were told that they were even more vicious, and that the communist system was just another totalitarian regime, which we had hoped to escape.

It all was still very confusing to me. Some soldiers from the Russian front had said, that they would have been quite happy to turn around and go together with the Americans, the British and the French and continue the fight against the Russians. This never eventuated of course, but it might have solved a lot of future problems.

This time I didn't have to wait for Vater in vain. He came on 4 April 1945.

"Am I glad to see you, Vater!" "So am I, I can assure you. But we must not lose any time. Come with me, I want to see the Head of this military hospital."

When we found him, Vater told him that I was his son and that I had a mastoid operation in this hospital. I had nearly fully recovered, and that he wanted to take me home. He also told him about Günter who was missing at the Russian front, and that he didn't want to lose another son.

After hearing that my operation had taken place five weeks ago, he referred us to the specialist. He insisted that I had to see a doctor in the village to change my dressing. Then he took my bandage off and told me to go into the corner of the room. He went to the opposite corner and said in a low voice "twenty three."

I repeated, "twenty three." He seemed happy. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper: "Forty eight." I repeated again, "forty eight."

"This is extraordinary!" he exclaimed. He called his colleague, whom he had shown my open wound at the first change of dressing, and said: "You remember this chap? the big wound where you could see the brain?"

"Yes, I do" "Listen to this!" and out of his corner came a very faint whisper, hardly

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