The city was in chaos. Every day, I heard more reports of traffic diversions, trams out of action, and electricity, gas and water being cut off in parts of the city. Walking to and from work, which had, thank God in Heaven, sustained no damage, I skirted around bomb craters and stepped over rubble on the footpaths next to once beautiful buildings in ruins, horrified by the blackened, twisted shells and the shards of broken glass crunching underfoot. There was dust everywhere. It was eerie and surreal.
Teams of workers, many in striped prison uniforms, moved from site to site clearing the debris, repairing essential services and shoring up buildings where they could. Bulldozers came in to demolish what was unsafe. I often found my cheeks wet with tears, and became weak at the knees at the sight of the dead, dug from the ruins and laid out for identification.
Volunteers from the National Socialist People’s Welfare congregated in the worst affected districts, setting up soup kitchens and centres offering emergency first aid and accommodation. The vacant expression of shock on many faces as they wandered around lost and the hysterical tears of those who had endured more grief than they could bear clenched my heart with overwhelming sorrow. How could the dignified citizens of München be reduced to this? Why weren’t we protecting our people better? Why weren’t we fighting off these attacks?
I thought of the oberinspektor’s words more often. Our hard work seemed to be having little impact on German life and yet we couldn’t just give in to defeat and loss. We would find a way to continue, to live our lives and survive whatever the Allies threw at us. Maybe the tide of the war had turned against us but we would do everything in our power to turn it to our favour once again. We would fight for our survival.
We worked long hours to cover for those who were needed at home, and one day, the oberinspektor sent me home early to get some rest.
I found strangers in our parlour.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked an old woman, grey hair poking through her headscarf.
‘I live here,’ I retorted. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I live here too,’ replied the woman, scowling.
‘What are you talking about?’
The woman thrust her chin in the air. ‘My family has the right to be here. We were bombed out and my daughter was killed. The city officials have given us this place to live in. This is our home now.’
I stared at the woman as if I had been slapped across the face. ‘Is my mother here?’
The woman shrugged and turned away.
In a daze, I moved from room to room, looking for my mother. Other families were squatting in the living areas, our furniture covered in their meagre belongings and pushed to one side to accommodate bedding. Even Herr Schmitt’s room was occupied.
‘Get out,’ growled a heavily pregnant girl in a state of undress.
‘You’re trespassing,’ hissed another shrunken figure.
Some just stared at me, as shocked as I was at their situation, their eyes blank and movements automatic. I stumbled away, bewildered and unable to believe that I was being made to feel like I didn’t belong in my own home.
I found Mutti in her bedroom, her best furniture and Turkish rugs crammed into the room. She was lying on her bed, pale and quivering, her cheeks marked by tears.
‘Mutti. What’s going on? Why are all these people here?’
‘The city has requisitioned our apartment,’ she said. ‘We now have the use of only two rooms and we were lucky to get that. The rest have been given to families who have lost their homes in the bombings.’ She looked up at me then, anguish clouding her eyes. ‘I don’t mind helping those poor souls who have lost everything but I was given no choice in the matter.’
‘Does Vati know?’
‘I was handed an official order.’ She gestured to the paper on her nightstand. ‘They tell me that Vati approved this but he’s not here, is he? Then these families arrived to take over my home.’ Mutti sat on the edge of the bed and started to cry again, shaking her head. ‘I couldn’t do a thing about it. Herr Schmitt helped me move my best pieces of furniture in here, the artworks and my silver and crystal, but the rest will be ruined. There are already big scratches on the parquetry floors from where they’ve pushed furniture out of the way.’
A sudden spear of panic shot through me, making my throat close. ‘The photos? The ones of the boys?’
‘Yes, I got all the photos. They were the first things I thought of and the last portraits you took of Ludwig and Willi are still safe in the suitcase.’
I sighed with relief. ‘Thank you, Mutti.’ I squeezed her hand. ‘Where’s Herr Schmitt? What will he do?’
‘He’s gone to buy new locks for me. He said he’ll move in with his sister, but he’s promised to come whenever we need help. I can’t go anywhere for peace except in here. Even the kitchen I have to share, and some of our rations have disappeared. We’ll have to keep everything in here.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said, not able to believe how thoughtlessly this had been handled. If only Mutti had been given more time to make appropriate arrangements. I slumped to the bed next to her and picked up the order. ‘I can’t understand why Vati would agree to this. Why didn’t he tell us?’
‘I can’t even contact him – the telephone lines are down. I’m not sure when he will be coming home.’
‘Vati will be home in a few more days, but don’t worry, I’ll find out what’s going on.’ I wrapped my arms around her. My father had managed to contact me a few days earlier to make sure we were safe after the spate of bombings but hadn’t said anything about the apartment.
Later, when Mutti had calmed down a little, I tried to get in touch with Vati. I couldn’t get through to him but I managed to speak to his office, and was told that Wehrmacht officers were now expected to open their homes to the bombing victims – the emergency accommodation in and around the city was full and unable to cope with the number of evacuees. The Wehrmacht had to set a good example and each officer had to provide as many rooms as possible, at least until further housing had been built or could be made accessible. Those who were prepared to stay within München were now being directed by municipal officials to the homes where rooms were available.
I discovered that people were being pressured all over the city to give up their rooms to cope with the burden of homeless on the city. Heinrich called by and he was horrified by our situation. He couldn’t understand why we didn’t complain that we needed more space or use our connections to retain a more genteel living arrangement. His parents had ‘voluntarily’ offered a few rooms in their home. They were not happy about it, sharing their home with ‘commoners’, as he called them. At least they were able to choose what rooms to keep and how many – this time – and they were able to retain their privacy by sectioning off their area. I knew complaining would make no difference and these people deserved a roof over their heads. We would just have to manage until more housing became obtainable. Surely it wouldn’t be for that long?
I made appointments to discuss our situation with the appropriate party and municipal officials in order to fully understand our obligations to our new tenants. I spent hours in a queue waiting to be informed that my parents would be compensated for the use of our home, with rent payable for each room in use, cooking facilities and heating costs. I was assured that, under the Evacuee Family Support program, each of the families was more than adequately subsidised to meet their needs and altered living circumstances without impinging on our family any further. I filled in the forms to register our claim.