The following narrative is what I remember from the end of World War II. I was four and a half years old so of course I do not remember dates and names, these were given to me in later years. But the images described here are the events and interaction with people is from my own recollection as I experienced them.
I was born in North Eastern Germany, in the Province of Mecklenburg, a farming country bordering on the Baltic Sea with hundreds of lakes, beech and pine forests, red brick houses and people with a good sense of humour and wisdom.
The village of Mestlin, to which our farm belonged, was on one of the most direct East-West routes used by refugees fleeing from the Russian advances. Looking through an upstairs window I remember seeing this endless stream from early morning into the dark of night. It must have started a year earlier, before I could remember.
My mother ran the farm for her father, who worked the family estate, about 60 kilometers away. My father had been in the Africa Corps, Rommel’s Army, and having surrendered to the Americans in 1943 was a Prisoner of War (POW) in the United States. My mother’s three brothers had died, two in the war and one sister committed suicide. Of their six children my grand parents had two daughters left and fourteen grandchildren.
We had a large farm house and sometimes thirty or more people stayed over night or a few days. It was in late March when relatives from Estonia had come to stay with us on their way West. Snow had melted and the muck in the farm yard was ankle deep for a youngster like me. I had shown my aunt the cow stable , when my boot got stuck. As I tried to pull my foot up, it slipped out of the boot.
My aunt lifted me up and began to cry unconsolably, holding me tightly. Later my mother told me that she had received news that morning of her husband’s death in France. She was twenty and he was thirty one years old. They had been married seven months.
Easter 1945 fell on April 1st. Our barns sheltered some 900 Russian POWs. The Mestlin Farm was ordered to shelter and feed them. Every day a horse or cow had to be slaughtered and hygiene had to be provided.
For all Christians Easter is the day when Christ’s resurrection is celebrated as the sign of ultimate redemption and forgiveness.
For Russians Easter is the greatest spiritual event each year, a time, when families unite. For those 900 men, brutalized by years of war, awaiting an uncertain future and without news from home, we, the children on the farm became the vision of their dream of home.
The commanding officer asked my mother whether the men could give us small presents they had made.They came and sang in a language I could not understand and the music was so different from the songs I knew. One song I remember began with a whisper and ended in a loud cry of pain and hope.
And then they pulled out the toys. There were tiny carved animals, Easter eggs, toys rich in Russian folklore.
I remember one man, he seemed old to me with his weather beaten face, unshaven, teeth missing, reeking of garlic and sweat, bending down, picking me up, hugging me and kissing me on the head, tears running down his face and sobbing. After he put me on the ground again, he reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a ping pong racket with a number of small carved hens mounted on the edge facing the centre. Under their tails strings were attached and knotted together underneath with a small weight. Through their feet were stuck small pins, which allowed the hens to rock, as if they were picking. The man placed the handle in my hand, put his gently over mine and began to move the toy in a horizontal circle. One by one the hens would pick and then raise their heads again as the weighted knot underneath rotated. In the calm position they had their heads down.
I have not forgotten the picking hens and the man’s face.
THIS STORY WILL CONTINUE, NEXT WEEK.
