In September 1938, I closely followed news of Hitler’s meetings with British Prime Minister Chamberlain and French Premier Daladier in Munich, at which the leaders agreed to the transfer of Czechoslovakia’s German- speaking Sudetenland territory to Germany. I thought that this was a sensible development. Like the Anschluss (political unification) with Austria the previous March, this diplomatic triumph had broad popular backing and bolstered national pride, though the approval was balanced by concern that Hitler might eventually push neighboring countries too far.
Despite becoming conscious of the possibility that I might be called to military service, the peaceful resolution of the Munich crisis, which amicably corrected a division of our people after Versailles, led me and most Germans to believe that war was less likely.
On the night of Wednesday, November 9, the Nazis’ uneducated, brown-shirted SA thugs attacked Jewish businesses and assaulted Jewish people in the streets all over Germany. The events of what was called Kristallnacht (Night of Broken Glass) dominated the news, with the state-controlled media justifying the rampage as a popular retribution for alleged “Jewish crimes.”
On my way into Luneburg on that Thursday morning, a few SA men and a small crowd were gathered in front of a shop on the central street. The shattered glass of a large display window littering the pavement identified the store as a Jewish business, something of which I had not even been aware until that moment. By that time, the propaganda had helped induce a lack of popular sympathy for the suffering of Jews, but most Germans felt that this type of public violence went too far and experienced a sense of apprehension about what the Nazis might do next.
Disturbed by this radical escalation, I began to ask myself questions. What caused the Nazis to act so brutally? What was happening to Germany? Though concerned, I was afraid to speak out and hoped that the situation would somehow improve. While the Nazi measures against the Jews did indeed become much less visible to the German public in the years that followed, they grew unimaginably worse in secret.
Reflecting back on that time, there was widespread dislike of the crude officials and extremist tendencies of the Nazi Party. Most Germans felt uneasy about the future and were not content to be living under a dictatorship that abolished their freedoms. Even many citizens who had previously supported the Nazis probably recognized the regime was growing too radical both in its domestic and foreign policy. But whatever the extent of their opposition, individuals remained fearful of the consequences if they openly expressed their dissent.
At the same time, many of the Nazi government’s policies had broad support. Germans credited Hitler with bringing a measure of social order and an economic recovery that achieved nearly full employment. Perhaps more importantly, they felt a tremendous sense of patriotic pride in the revocation of the injustices of the Versailles Treaty and the revival of Germany’s national power. It was perhaps these conflicting sentiments that allowed the Nazi regime to maintain its control.
The atmosphere in Hagen, meanwhile, became more tense and cheerless following Irma’s death. Even though I continued to enjoy the time spent with my cousins and the trainees, my relationship with my uncle and aunt grew more distant. Spending less time in Hagen, I began to make more of an effort to get out and meet girls.
As the weather was warming up in the spring of 1939, Bodo and I decided to bicycle into town from Hagen to attend the regular Saturday evening dance at a hotel in the center of Luneburg. As was the custom at such events, males wearing coats and ties collected on one side of the large, chandeliered ballroom, while girls in formal dresses sat on the benches that lined the opposite wall.
The band was already playing as Bodo and I took our seats. About half an hour later, a beautiful girl across the floor from us caught my eye. Hastening to the other side of the room, I quickly reached the table where she was sitting with a female friend. Bowing my head to her, I requested the favor of a dance.
We danced well together and enjoyed three or four more waltzes and foxtrots before the evening was over. When it ended, she agreed to allow me to escort her the few blocks to her residence, located above the flower shop where she worked. Entering the darkened store, we sat down on a bench. Over the next hour or so, we gradually slid closer to each other and mixed a little kissing into the conversation.
A year younger than me, Anneliese Berndt was a 5’6” beauty with brown hair and brown eyes. Her looks were matched by a natural grace and an innocent simplicity that was highly alluring. While friendly and outgoing in public, she turned out to be more quiet and serious in an intimate moment. Her reserved nature regarding her private thoughts and her past only made her more enchanting to me. Indeed, it is difficult for me to imagine a girl at that age who could have been more captivating.
Anneliese had grown up in a middle-class family in the Hamburg suburb of Wandsbek. Her father owned four acres of land on which he operated six or eight large greenhouses growing flowers to sell in local florist shops. Following the divorce of her parents when she was about eight years old, her mother was subsequently hospitalized with a long illness, leaving her unable to care for both her children. Consequently, her younger sister Friedel remained with her mother while Anneliese lived at the flower nursery with her father. As joint owners of the nursery, his two sisters, together with one of their husbands and two daughters, also lived with the Berndts.
Sadly, these relatives relegated Anneliese to the role of unwanted stepdaughter. While her father was a kind man, his gentle nature made it difficult for him to assert his authority in their home to ensure that she was treated fairly. Despite his affection, she lacked adequate love and support from her mother during a difficult transition in her life. This psychological isolation in her childhood would negatively affect her for the rest of her life.
After completing the tenth grade, Anneliese sought to escape this loveless environment by leaving Hamburg in October of 1937 to pursue a three-year apprenticeship at a florist shop in Luneburg. Not surprisingly, she was reticent to share her childhood experiences and only gradually revealed some of the details of her past to me.
My relationship with Anneliese was not initially serious, but I increasingly enjoyed our long conversations and banter as we came to know each other better. Because of our work schedules, we were only able to get together for a movie or a walk around Luneburg about once a week. Arriving outside the florist shop, I would alert her to my presence with a special whistle. In response, she would come outside or open her window. Although seldom able to afford to buy us dinner, I would occasionally take her to eat at a restaurant in the main park close to town.
On one of our long strolls through the park, we experienced a close call when my Aunt and Uncle Stork from Luneburg suddenly appeared off in the distance up the trail. Spotting them, I quickly pulled Anneliese into the bushes beside the path just before they caught sight of us. Hiding from relatives might seem an overreaction, but people at the time viewed an unmarried man and woman alone together as improper. Had they seen us, it would have been a highly embarrassing situation.
While Anneliese never met my Aunt and Uncle Stork, I made occasional visits to their large home for meals. When they adopted my ten-year-old brother Hermann in April 1939, I initially approved of the arrangement as beneficial to everyone. My mother had been hesitant about the adoption, but grandfather Matthies strongly encouraged it as a means to assist my parents financially and provide his daughter’s childless marriage with a son.
By the summer of 1939, any optimism that the Munich agreement had achieved a lasting stability in Europe had faded as the international situation again grew tense. In spite of the increasing likelihood of war, I had no hesitation about fulfilling the two years of military duty required of all males reaching 18 years of age. Still, if service had not been compulsory, I would probably not have volunteered at that time. Even with my long-held desire to experience life as a soldier, I was simply not interested in a professional career in the army.
Rather than waiting to be conscripted, I decided to volunteer with the intention of entering the military in January 1940 after completing my two-year apprenticeship as an electrician. This would allow me to perform my required two years of military service before beginning my college engineering program.
In early May, I took a train to the army recruiting center in the nearby town of Winsen to volunteer, or rather to complete the necessary paperwork to commence my military service at the start of the next year. Despite my interest in reading about naval combat during the Great War, I possessed no love for the sea or interest in being a sailor. Nor was I interested in serving as a pilot. Long before reaching military age, I determined that I wanted to serve as a soldier in the German Army when I performed my military service.
With my strong interest in mechanical and electrical machinery, my ambition was to join one of the new Panzer (armor) units. While feeling my technical skills could be useful as part of a tank crew, I was also simply drawn to the exciting and prestigious reputation of the armored branch. After receiving a short physical exam and quickly completing the necessary paperwork, an officer informed me I would begin training with a Panzer division in Berlin that January as I had requested.
