East Prussian coast, Käthe thought again of the modesty of the Rupps, of their gentle example and sense of duty.
In July, there was a further death – another of Käthe’s uncles – and the family gathered for a cremation in Berlin – a dark contrast to Peter’s romantic hope. Sometimes in photographs he seems earnest, especially in one taken with his brother Hans (whose face is longer, more calm) where Peter stares through rimless spectacles at the camera, lips slack in adolescent uncertainty. Then, a year later, in uniform, he is more sure, the lips tighter, slightly smiling, calm as Hans had seemed the year before, still thin, a large nose beneath the soft military cap, large buttons and belt buckle bright against the dark tunic. What looks like a cigarette is held between his second and third fingers.
Peter celebrated the summer solstice with three friends by a lake south-east of Berlin, all wearing flowers in their hair, a foretaste of the 1960s in this last summer of peace. They planned a
trip to Norway, to an empty land fashionable among the Wandervogel; some days after this came the assassination at Sarajevo. In the middle of July the group went north. Years later, in 1994, Hans Koch, a survivor, spoke of the Norwegian journey in the calmness of old age, showing what Peter could have become – a serene observer of the world’s mistakes, disillusioned with socialism, the founder of a successful business, ready now for death. In the northern wilderness they heard of mobilization, followed by the declaration of war. All wanted to enlist, and peace ended with a journey back from Bergen to Oslo by train during which the four German friends met some friendly English and French travellers who were now their enemies. The group took the ferry to Rügen, then the train to Berlin, their faces burned by the sun, talking excitedly about their new identity as fighters, lit up by sensuality and the thrill of imagined battle.
Hans Kollwitz went into barracks on 5 August. His mother, moved by her elder son’s tranquillity, tried to prepare herself for loss. Her grandfather Rupp’s words came back – that God never took without having given more than he had taken. On 8 August she was sitting at the table in the living room when she heard Peter’s quick footsteps in the passage. That evening, the three – Käthe, Karl and their younger son – talked into the night; and two days later the argument began that haunted the rest of her life. Peter wanted to volunteer, and because he was under age he had to have his father’s written permission. Karl said that the boy’s year hadn’t been called up yet so the country had no need of them, to which Peter answered that Germany might not need those of his age but it needed him. The talk swung to and fro; the son looked at his mother and pleaded that he was ready. She stood and he followed her to the door, where they kissed and she pleaded with Karl to let him go. It should be the boy’s decision, she believed, so Karl signed the paper and Peter departed for the barracks, leaving his parents alone, ‘weeping, weeping, weeping’.
The boys came home often during the short army training. Sometimes they all sang together and once Käthe and Peter read
the history of the Prussian wars of liberation of a century before. Käthe might rebel against the public view of women’s dutiful, even joyful, sacrifice, yet like most German Social Democrats, she and Karl supported the war, believing in the need to fight encircling enemies – autocratic Russia, decadent and vengeful France, jealous Britain. They enjoyed the idealistic unity and the early success. News on 21 August of victories at Brussels and Metz brought flags onto the streets, although Karl read the next day that the Governor of Königsberg had told old people and children to leave the city. There were stabs of pain. Peter, the more delicate of her sons, the more sensitive, must be spared to see the world’s beauty so that
In July, there was a further death – another of Käthe’s uncles – and the family gathered for a cremation in Berlin – a dark contrast to Peter’s romantic hope. Sometimes in photographs he seems earnest, especially in one taken with his brother Hans (whose face is longer, more calm) where Peter stares through rimless spectacles at the camera, lips slack in adolescent uncertainty. Then, a year later, in uniform, he is more sure, the lips tighter, slightly smiling, calm as Hans had seemed the year before, still thin, a large nose beneath the soft military cap, large buttons and belt buckle bright against the dark tunic. What looks like a cigarette is held between his second and third fingers.
Peter celebrated the summer solstice with three friends by a lake south-east of Berlin, all wearing flowers in their hair, a foretaste of the 1960s in this last summer of peace. They planned a
trip to Norway, to an empty land fashionable among the Wandervogel; some days after this came the assassination at Sarajevo. In the middle of July the group went north. Years later, in 1994, Hans Koch, a survivor, spoke of the Norwegian journey in the calmness of old age, showing what Peter could have become – a serene observer of the world’s mistakes, disillusioned with socialism, the founder of a successful business, ready now for death. In the northern wilderness they heard of mobilization, followed by the declaration of war. All wanted to enlist, and peace ended with a journey back from Bergen to Oslo by train during which the four German friends met some friendly English and French travellers who were now their enemies. The group took the ferry to Rügen, then the train to Berlin, their faces burned by the sun, talking excitedly about their new identity as fighters, lit up by sensuality and the thrill of imagined battle.
Hans Kollwitz went into barracks on 5 August. His mother, moved by her elder son’s tranquillity, tried to prepare herself for loss. Her grandfather Rupp’s words came back – that God never took without having given more than he had taken. On 8 August she was sitting at the table in the living room when she heard Peter’s quick footsteps in the passage. That evening, the three – Käthe, Karl and their younger son – talked into the night; and two days later the argument began that haunted the rest of her life. Peter wanted to volunteer, and because he was under age he had to have his father’s written permission. Karl said that the boy’s year hadn’t been called up yet so the country had no need of them, to which Peter answered that Germany might not need those of his age but it needed him. The talk swung to and fro; the son looked at his mother and pleaded that he was ready. She stood and he followed her to the door, where they kissed and she pleaded with Karl to let him go. It should be the boy’s decision, she believed, so Karl signed the paper and Peter departed for the barracks, leaving his parents alone, ‘weeping, weeping, weeping’.
The boys came home often during the short army training. Sometimes they all sang together and once Käthe and Peter read
the history of the Prussian wars of liberation of a century before. Käthe might rebel against the public view of women’s dutiful, even joyful, sacrifice, yet like most German Social Democrats, she and Karl supported the war, believing in the need to fight encircling enemies – autocratic Russia, decadent and vengeful France, jealous Britain. They enjoyed the idealistic unity and the early success. News on 21 August of victories at Brussels and Metz brought flags onto the streets, although Karl read the next day that the Governor of Königsberg had told old people and children to leave the city. There were stabs of pain. Peter, the more delicate of her sons, the more sensitive, must be spared to see the world’s beauty so that
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