The City in Flames by Elisabeth von Berrinberg

INTRODUCTION
    If I remember my first school day, it is only because that day also marked the beginning of World War II with the invasion of Poland. I was six years old.
    Perhaps I was too young to fully understand the war’s impact on the world, but the imprint it left on Germany and consequently on my own life is still reflected in many of my values. While World War II brought victory to the Allies, it brought defeat to those who conspired it. Nevertheless, the rewards of war, however meager they may have been, also touched the defeated. They showed us the value of ordinary life.
    War taught us gratitude. We were thankful for every night that passed without interruptions from howling sirens. If they did disturb our sleep and send us to the cold and moldy cellar, we were grateful to leave the cellar alive.
    I felt hunger many times and will always remember its ache. Now I feel guilty whenever I prepare a meal. The potato peels I flush down the disposal are thicker than the ones we once dug out of garbage cans. The heels from loaves of bread are still tastier at the time I discard them than the moldy bread we devoured at many meals. Even the tough outer leaves of the lettuce in my refrigerator taste better than dandelions. Would I feel guilt had I not experienced war’s hardships?
    War tore many bonds, but it strengthened the relationships that survived. Would I still be alive, had my mother not found the courage to distract a gunner pilot? She offered her life to save her children, a deed that only strengthened the bonds between us.
    War also allowed us to experience compassion. A Russian prisoner of war, in spite of being our enemy, risked his life to save my family. And the Americans, whom we once called enemies, became the good guys to us. We even called some of them our friends.
    One soldier stands out particularly in my mind. When first I saw him, I was performing my nightly chore of gathering dandelions for our rabbit. When he approached me, he handed me an orange, then turned around to return to camp. The next night he brought me a cream puff. I noticed a slight blush on his face as he handed it to me. I thanked him, but he just nodded, turned around, and walked away. I was certain he would come again the next night, and he did. It was a can of bread pudding he brought me then. I talked to him, hoping he could understand me. But he only smiled, and again I saw a blush on his young and gentle face. He bent over to help me fill my basket.
    After that he never came back. Not once did he speak to me, and still, I remember him most of all. I remember his kind eyes and his warm smile. And wherever he is today, I want him to know that his gifts to me were the greatest reward of all. Did they not express his love? His love for all of mankind?
    Back to front

Chapter One
Warnings in the Night
    My family lived in a four-story apartment house that was owned by my maternal grandparents. At the beginning of the war, we had from four to five tenants who lived on the ground floor, second floor, and third floor. My parents, and my sister, Rita, and I lived on the fourth floor. My grandparents lived in a house next door. We were a close-knit family who loved each other very much.
    One night, my mother’s voice sounded far away. “Wake up! Quickly!” Was I dreaming? But again I heard her calling. I pretended not to hear, and with a sigh I rolled over. Suddenly I was being shaken by two arms, and my feather bed was lifted and pulled away from me.
    “Gee, Mama, why do I have to get up? I just went to bed an hour ago!” I complained as I glanced at the wall clock. The light was dim, but I could see that the clock’s hands had not yet reached midnight.
    “The sirens!” my mother exclaimed. “Didn’t you hear them?”
    “Hurry up in there!” yelled my father from the kitchen.
    I searched for my socks. “Where are my shoes? I can’t find my shoes,” I growled to myself. Sleep was still in my eyes, and I could barely open