On November 10, she brought news that the American General Patton had crossed the Moselle and was moving his armored forces toward the city of Metz.
On November 15, she provided the sobering news that the battleship Tirpitz, the pride of the Kriegsmarine, had been attacked and sunk with all hands in a Norwegian fjord.
The Soviets were still moving west, while the Westwall was holding out against the Anglo-American invasion force.
On November 20, Adolf Hitler arrived from the north in an unmarked car. He took up residence in his bunker. Anton, who had been appointed leader of his reduced troop, led them around the streets in celebration. The Führer would solve all the city’s problems.
On Sunday, November 26, the rain started, a heavy, unrelenting downpour that turned the building rubble to grey mush.
Looking through the window, Gretchen felt she was witnessing the death of the city. Like Oskar’s, it was slow and obscene. It would be kinder if they were given a quick, sudden death. A massive bombing raid could do it. She smiled grimly. Where was the RAF when you needed them?
21
By the end of November Herr Korn, the master baker, had been discharged from the Volkssturm. He sent word to Gretchen and she turned up for work.
One look in the storeroom told her that their plain flour reserves were severely depleted.
“The delivery was down again this week,” he said. “The French reserves are no longer available to us.”
They produced enough dough for half of their usual output, using a rye-rich mixture and a new ingredient that Gretchen was unfamiliar with. When she asked Herr Korn what it was, he handed her a letter to read.
It was from the Gauleiter’s office, ordering the addition to the dough of a three per cent ‘filler’.
“What is this filler?” she said.
“Sawdust,” Korn replied, with desperation in his eyes.
“How can we add sawdust? It’s indigestible.”
“Three per cent won’t do any harm,” he said. “But I wouldn’t like to add any more.”
The bread ration had been cut in proportion to the reduced flour supplies; the scramble of the people for their half rations was even more frantic than usual.
“Until tomorrow,” said Gretchen as she left.
“See you then,” said the baker.
At half-production, Gretchen knew she was not needed; Herr Korn could have done the work on his own. Keeping her on was a kindness.
When she got home, she cut a piece from her half-loaf and tasted it. It was disgusting. The taste of the sawdust was masked by the extra rye in the mixture. She doubted that many people would notice any difference. But could she give it to Oskar? It would play havoc with his digestion. She had little choice. He had to eat something.
The following day, there was a general power failure that affected half the city. There was no electricity in the bakery. The ovens were heated by gas, but the controls couldn’t operate without electricity. Herr Korn placed a notice in the window. There was uproar in the line outside the shop.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” he said, splaying his palms. “There’s nothing I can do without power.”
Gretchen went home early, empty-handed.
By midday it was still raining, not so heavily now, but the deluge had turned into icy sheets. Frau Niedermeyer ducked into Kaiser Wilhelm block 2 and made her way upstairs. “I’m sorry Frau Schuster.” She handed a damp letter to Gretchen and hurried away.
The envelope was addressed to Oskar Schuster, sergeant. She opened it with trembling hands. It couldn’t be anything but bad news.
The water had seeped through the envelope to the letter, but it was still legible. An official notice from OKW Headquarters, Bendlerblock, it ordered Sergeant Oskar Schuster to report to the Volkssturm registration office on Johannisstrasse near Friedrichstrasse Station, at 0900 hr. Wednesday, December 6.
Gretchen removed Oskar’s army discharge letter from her tin box and set out immediately through the icy rain. The trams weren’t running – the tracks were no longer serviceable – so she took the U-Bahn to Friedrichstrasse and located the busy Wehrmacht office. The room was full of old men and teenage boys in rows of seats. A sergeant behind a desk was recording the details of an elderly recruit. All eyes turned to Gretchen as she waved the letter and demanded in a loud voice to speak to someone in charge.
“Take a seat, madam,” said a man in a strange uniform, pointing to an empty seat. “You will be attended to in due course.”
Gretchen sat. As the soldier at the desk worked his way through the recruits, and each man or boy was called to the desk, those waiting shuffled along. By the time Gretchen reached the first seat, two hours had passed. She was worried about leaving Oskar alone for so long, but she gritted her teeth. She wouldn’t leave until she’d sorted this out.
She was called to the desk.
“Name?” said the soldier, without looking up.
Gretchen handed over Oskar’s. “I’m here for my husband. You cannot enlist him in your Volkssturm.”
The soldier looked up, frowning at her. “Is he dead?”
“No, but he’s incapacitated.”
“Incapacitated in what way?”
“His mind is gone.”
He gave her a grim smile. “Many have used that as an excuse to avoid conscription. He has served before?”
“Yes, he was a private soldier in the Reichswehr and a sergeant in the Wehrmacht, but he has lost his mind.”
“Do you have his discharge papers?”
Gretchen slapped the discharge letter on the desk. The soldier read it quickly and passed it to a sergeant sitting at a desk behind him.
“Hmm,” said the sergeant. “This is dated 1943. A lot has changed since then. If your husband is able-bodied and can hold a rifle, he must report to this office.”
Gretchen’s felt her face flush. “He wouldn’t know what to do with a rifle. His mind is gone, I tell you. He might shoot anyone. He might shoot his commanding officer. He requires
