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23 April 1945 - A different Potsdam
23 April 1945, Rembranstrasse 6, Potsdam, Germany
Christina Schmitt had watched the troops pull out of Potsdam the previous day. The “Thousand Year Reich” was in its death throes. The Fuhrer’s birthday three days ago had provided the usual exhortations of victory. It was out of touch with all reality. What had formerly been her much loved country was now merely a swirling maelstrom of total chaos.
A full two years on the Eastern front as a nurse before a bout of typhus had seen her invalided out had put paid to any starry eyed idealism that may have existed in her own mind. She could have gone back but never did so. She looked in the mirror. A conventional face framed by light brown hair and blue eyes, cheeks too thin and hair untidy. A figure no longer filled out by healthy living and eyes watery from lack of sleep. She looked a fright yet would have to make herself look far less attractive if the lurid stories told by the line of refugees streaming East of what had occurred to women under the Russians were to be believed.
In the mirror she could see the body of the young woman sprawled on the ottoman covered by a thick blanket. She was a perfect example of what happened when you went against the system in Hitler’s Germany. Helene Schmitt was her cousin and as the only two girls in her generation they had been firm friends. Helene had joined the KdF and gone East two years after Christina in 1943. It had not taken long to cut through her starry eyed idealism, a much shorter time period than with Christina herself. Alas, it did not pay to sing a little ditty criticising or mocking their glorious leader even off stage in front of the wrong people. By March 1945, so many people were pouring into the cells at Prinz-Albrecht Strasse, that some were sent to Postdam to be accommodated locally in jails. When Helene had been conscious during the night, she had told her story.
An SS Oberstumfuhrer had come to Helene’s cell the previous day with two men. “Did you think we had forgotten about you?” he mocked, leading her out into the courtyard. Bodies were everywhere, glassy and unseeing eyes staring upwards toward the sky in the driving rain. To her rear a truck revved its engine as she took in the scene. Before her was a line, all of women, some as young as teenagers, a couple as old as 70. “We saved you ladies until last. We are gentleman that way” mocked the officer.
“Speichellecker”. This had produced a furious punch to the side of her head that left her woozy. She lined up and then heard the command, a sound like fabric ripping and then only blackness. Eager to leave, they must have failed to check their last 20 or so victims. So it was that locals brought her to Christina’s house in a wagon, her head covered in blood from a scalp wound and her ear bleeding from the punch, the only survivor of the day’s work that left over 300 bodies piled in the courtyard for the dogs.
Christina Schmitt reflected on their circumstances. The Schmitt family had once been well known in Postdam, owning not only a jewellery store but also two quarries and a trucking business. It seemed like a lifetime ago. The quarries worked out, the truck commandeered, jewellery not a marketable product in wartime. As for her family, three brother’s dead, all on the Eastern Front. Her father gone from a heart attack, her mother from a broken heart, her Uncle and Aunt dead before the war. All that remained was the house, however, it was one of the tallest in Potsdam, a former church built with a spire and “widows walk” that gave a good view of the city. She walked to the top. It provided a panoramic view. What remained of Wehrmacht units had gone the previous day, along with any SS troops. Was the pathetic unit of Volksturm aged men and young boys still guarding the Glienicker Brucke?
She heard rather than saw the first units of what she hoped may be the Americans or British moving up the Templinerstrasse on the other side of the Havel. Finally, they came into view. It had been a while since she had used her English. It was as the metal beats crawled forward, men clinging to them like ants, that she first heard it. The two aircraft snarled past her vantage point; the red star prominent on the tail. They swept low over the tanks. A rain of small metal canisters fell from the wings of both aircraft cascading down over the armoured beasts. One fireballed immediately, then another started to burn. She could see troops on the ground firing back furiously. An aircraft flew away trailing smoke, dropped lower and crashed into nearby trees.
It was not ten minutes later that figures started firing from the tree line to the West and a much larger tank nosed its way from that tree line, firing at what it was now clear were Americans. It carried brown clad figures. Russians?
The Western allies and the communists had arrived at the same time, but why were they firing at each other?
Christina Schmitt had watched the troops pull out of Potsdam the previous day. The “Thousand Year Reich” was in its death throes. The Fuhrer’s birthday three days ago had provided the usual exhortations of victory. It was out of touch with all reality. What had formerly been her much loved country was now merely a swirling maelstrom of total chaos.
A full two years on the Eastern front as a nurse before a bout of typhus had seen her invalided out had put paid to any starry eyed idealism that may have existed in her own mind. She could have gone back but never did so. She looked in the mirror. A conventional face framed by light brown hair and blue eyes, cheeks too thin and hair untidy. A figure no longer filled out by healthy living and eyes watery from lack of sleep. She looked a fright yet would have to make herself look far less attractive if the lurid stories told by the line of refugees streaming East of what had occurred to women under the Russians were to be believed.
In the mirror she could see the body of the young woman sprawled on the ottoman covered by a thick blanket. She was a perfect example of what happened when you went against the system in Hitler’s Germany. Helene Schmitt was her cousin and as the only two girls in her generation they had been firm friends. Helene had joined the KdF and gone East two years after Christina in 1943. It had not taken long to cut through her starry eyed idealism, a much shorter time period than with Christina herself. Alas, it did not pay to sing a little ditty criticising or mocking their glorious leader even off stage in front of the wrong people. By March 1945, so many people were pouring into the cells at Prinz-Albrecht Strasse, that some were sent to Postdam to be accommodated locally in jails. When Helene had been conscious during the night, she had told her story.
An SS Oberstumfuhrer had come to Helene’s cell the previous day with two men. “Did you think we had forgotten about you?” he mocked, leading her out into the courtyard. Bodies were everywhere, glassy and unseeing eyes staring upwards toward the sky in the driving rain. To her rear a truck revved its engine as she took in the scene. Before her was a line, all of women, some as young as teenagers, a couple as old as 70. “We saved you ladies until last. We are gentleman that way” mocked the officer.
“Speichellecker”. This had produced a furious punch to the side of her head that left her woozy. She lined up and then heard the command, a sound like fabric ripping and then only blackness. Eager to leave, they must have failed to check their last 20 or so victims. So it was that locals brought her to Christina’s house in a wagon, her head covered in blood from a scalp wound and her ear bleeding from the punch, the only survivor of the day’s work that left over 300 bodies piled in the courtyard for the dogs.
Christina Schmitt reflected on their circumstances. The Schmitt family had once been well known in Postdam, owning not only a jewellery store but also two quarries and a trucking business. It seemed like a lifetime ago. The quarries worked out, the truck commandeered, jewellery not a marketable product in wartime. As for her family, three brother’s dead, all on the Eastern Front. Her father gone from a heart attack, her mother from a broken heart, her Uncle and Aunt dead before the war. All that remained was the house, however, it was one of the tallest in Potsdam, a former church built with a spire and “widows walk” that gave a good view of the city. She walked to the top. It provided a panoramic view. What remained of Wehrmacht units had gone the previous day, along with any SS troops. Was the pathetic unit of Volksturm aged men and young boys still guarding the Glienicker Brucke?
She heard rather than saw the first units of what she hoped may be the Americans or British moving up the Templinerstrasse on the other side of the Havel. Finally, they came into view. It had been a while since she had used her English. It was as the metal beats crawled forward, men clinging to them like ants, that she first heard it. The two aircraft snarled past her vantage point; the red star prominent on the tail. They swept low over the tanks. A rain of small metal canisters fell from the wings of both aircraft cascading down over the armoured beasts. One fireballed immediately, then another started to burn. She could see troops on the ground firing back furiously. An aircraft flew away trailing smoke, dropped lower and crashed into nearby trees.
It was not ten minutes later that figures started firing from the tree line to the West and a much larger tank nosed its way from that tree line, firing at what it was now clear were Americans. It carried brown clad figures. Russians?
The Western allies and the communists had arrived at the same time, but why were they firing at each other?
- johnboy
- Word Count: 900