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The Last Shot
Hugo Hamilton
In this remarkable book, Hugo Hamilton tells the story of individuals caught up in the turbulent last days of World War II.Stationed in Czechoslovakia, lovers Bertha Sommer and Officer Franz Kern long to escape from the war and its consequences, but they are trapped between the advancing Red Army and the fear of their own system, which punishes desertion with death.Meanwhile, an American contemporary, living in Germany, sets out on a mission to find the exact location of the last shot fired in the war, in a personal attempt to close this horrific chapter in humanity’s history.




The Last Shot
Hugo Hamilton




für Irmgard

Table of Contents
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1 (#ulink_b4f92438-ac43-5cc2-955f-59c2b392bbc7)
At 7.15 a.m. Bertha Sommer walked down the road from the main German garrison towards the town of Laun. She was on her way to the church of St Nicholas, where she would attend Mass, something she was determined not to miss no matter what events would take place on that day. ‘No matter how close the Russians are,’ she said to herself defiantly. It was a clear May morning: May 1945. The relentless rain of the night before had stopped, and even though banks of cloud still hung over the eastern sky, there was a feeling that the weather would change. An intuition of summer.
She was accompanied by an officer named Franz Kern whose noisy boots sometimes obscured the sound of her own footsteps. He was with her for her own protection. Her escort. The roads of Bohemia were no longer safe. And as they walked down the hill, the town of Laun was frozen below them in a patient immobility, blue woodsmoke rising above the roofs in the distance like a symbol of static hostility. The Czechs knew their day of freedom would come soon, but the feeling was tinged with the innate provincial fear which has clung to this small town ever since; the fear of being left behind by history. Time moves on, towns don’t.
The road was loud with birdsong. There was little to talk about as they walked. Bertha Sommer knew Officer Kern from the office where they saw each other regularly, though they seldom talked about anything other than official matters. Outside the office, there was nothing to say. In May 1945 there was so much on everybody’s mind. So much you couldn’t talk about. Or maybe it was the sheer volume of things to say that forced them instead to speak about nothing but the rain.
‘It kept me awake,’ she said openly. ‘I thought it would never end.’
Bertha was sure she had already said too much. It was followed by the silence along the road; their footsteps, the hysterical noise of birds and, somewhere in the distance, the familiar hoarse bark of a dog she had often heard before at this point on the road, but never actually seen. The rain had unleashed the fresh damp smell of the soil. It merged with the smell of exhaust left behind by military trucks.
In the small Bohemian town of Laun, where this story begins, somewhere almost halfway between Prague and Dresden, it was impossible to pretend that everything went on as normal. Europe was in ruins. Hitler was dead. There wasn’t much left of Dresden. The smell of Russian cigarettes came from the east, where the Red Army stood somewhere between Brno and Jih-lava, advancing at a rate of eighty kilometres per day. The smell of Camel cigarettes was even closer, drifting up from Pilsen in the south, where the Americans had stopped, having consented by nodding agreement that the liberation of Czechoslovakia belonged to the Russians. It was a matter of waiting. The radio stations coming from Dresden and from Prague went on broadcasting German march music. Occasionally you heard German swing. Mostly it was waltz music. The Reich was waltzing to an end.
The resistance movement in Czechoslovakia had planned their nationwide insurrection for that day. Everything was set for the liberation of Prague, the only European capital left under occupation. But the Reich held fast. There was talk of fighting to the last man. Orders were given by General Schörner in command of the German Army on the Eastern Front that any German soldier caught deserting or attempting to flee should be hanged on the spot. They were already dangling from the trees elsewhere, in Prussia. In defeat, the army hangs its own.
What everybody really wanted was to go home. The whole of Europe was thinking about home, or what was left of it. Bertha Sommer thought about Kempen, a small town no larger than Laun, but over 1,000 kilometres to the west, in the Rhineland. Officer Kern thought about Nuremberg, or what was left of it. Going home wasn’t that simple. Not so easy to end a war. A war is only over when the last shot has been fired, and who knows where the last shot of the Second World War was fired?
Back in April, when all German civilians were finally allowed to evacuate from the Czech protectorate back to German soil, the commander of the garrison at Laun issued a directive confining the remaining civilian backup personnel to barracks for their own safety. It could only have been intended for one person. Bertha Sommer. She was the last person left at the garrison of 2,000 infantry men of the 213th Battalion who could be described under this directive. She began to plead with Hauptmann Selders to be exempted. She was determined to go to Mass throughout the month of May. It was that important to her. Hauptmann Selders said he would hate to lose his last secretarial assistant to a partisan bullet along the open roads. But he was flexible and eventually changed the directive. From now on, he decreed that civilian backup personnel had to travel in armoured cars, until he reflected on the fuel shortages and changed his mind again; they had to be accompanied by an armed soldier. He put it in writing. She typed it up. Officer Franz Kern volunteered.
Bertha Sommer wore a three-quarter-length russet coat. In the early morning light along the road down to Laun, Officer Kern would have thought the colour of the coat leaned more towards burgundy or wine. But the exact colour of her coat had always been a matter of some dispute, ever since she bought it in Paris. Her own mother called it copper. The inhabitants of Laun, who were convinced that she was sent to the St Nicholas church to spy on them, said the coat was fox-red, or fox-brown.
Bertha Sommer walked briskly. Perhaps it was her shyness. She began to count her own footsteps. She idly measured the distance to the next building in footsteps; the first small house on the outskirts of the town.
‘Fräulein Sommer.’ Officer Kern addressed her quite abruptly. ‘Do you realize how close we are to the end?’
‘What do you mean?’ She was trying to read the implication.
‘It’s over. The Reich is finished. You have seen all the reports. It may not even last the day. Do you realize what this means for you?’
‘Yes and no.’
Occasionally their footsteps fell into unison, causing a slight embarrassment between them until her faster steps doubled his once more.
‘Fräulein Sommer, have you any idea how close we are to Russian captivity? For your sake, Fräulein Sommer, I would avoid this at all cost. Above all people, I would hate to see you taken into Russian hands.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ she said.
There was another moment of raw embarrassment. He apologized for putting it so crudely but he felt he had to warn her. Even then, his open discussion of German defeat was enough to condemn him for treason. Enough to have him shot or hanged from the next tree. Now she began to wonder why he had volunteered to walk down to the town with her. His honesty scared her. She suspected it was a trick. Something to test her loyalty. You could trust nobody in the Reich. And yet, he was only saying what everyone had felt privately for months.
‘Between the two of us, Fräulein Sommer, I think we should get out of Laun as soon as possible. Things are going to get very bad around here. I may be able to arrange something, so I would ask you to be prepared. The sooner we set off back towards Eger, to the German border, the better.’
‘Herr Kern, are you talking about desertion?’
‘Fräulein Sommer, I wish you wouldn’t put it like that. You are a civilian in the service of the Wehrmacht, how can you desert? There is no point in your being here with the army to the bitter end.
‘And it’s going to be bitter, believe me. I hear everything that’s going on. It’s my job to listen to all radio signals. I know what’s going to happen here when the Russians arrive. Very briefly, Fräulein Sommer, I have a simple plan to get you back to Germany. I may be able to arrange it tonight. Think about it. Don’t give me an answer now. Let it go through your head. But whatever happens, I would advise you to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.’
Bertha said nothing. She kept walking as though she could pretend at any moment to have heard nothing. Why was this officer so interested in her welfare? She searched for motives. Gave no hint of collusion. She listened.
‘This may be your last chance to get back to Germany. The people in our garrison may never see their homes again…’ Officer Kern hesitated. ‘I want to offer you that chance, at least.’
When Officer Kern unexpectedly looked into her eyes she may have unconsciously given him some encouragement, because he began to unveil his plan as they walked.
‘At eleven o’clock this evening,’ he said, ‘you will see a Lazarett vehicle marked with the Red Cross by the main gates. It’s there every night. If you’re sitting in that truck by half-eleven, you’re with us. There are three of us. There is room for one more. Bring only one light bag and don’t let anyone see you.’
She acknowledged nothing and gave no indication whether she would be there or not. She felt that Officer Kern had shown her enormous trust. An almost indecent trust. She could have gone straight back and reported the plan, though it would be unlike her to do so. But she was afraid that she had already been dragged into a conspiracy by his talk. The fact that such an offer was put to her would force her to consider it. One way or the other, she would have to answer.
He told her to think it over. It was up to her. He would not be offended if she ignored it.
‘Just remember, Fräulein Sommer, when the Russians get to Laun, we can expect very little sympathy from them, or the Czechs. You know what’s happened around these parts. They’ll all be hungry for revenge. All these Sudeten Germans will be for it.’
She thought she knew what he was referring to. The occupation of Czechoslovakia. She knew nothing more. She knew nothing of Theresienstadt, forty kilometres east of Laun along the same river. She could imagine nothing like it. She walked into the church. Officer Kern held the large oak door open for her, nodded and stepped back outside, where he waited for her to pray and make up her mind. He was Lutheran. He stood at the bottom of the steps outside.
Inside, Bertha Sommer kneeled once again before the massive wooden carving which covered the end wall of the church behind the altar. The interior of the church had become so familiar to her over the months she had spent in Laun that her opinions began to repeat themselves. The great wood carving seemed a little out of place for this small church; it belonged more to a cathedral. The May altar for Our Lady was decorated with extra flowers. She tried to keep her mind on the Mass. She tried to put everything secular out of her head.
If you want to know what Bertha Sommer did during the Second World War: she prayed. That morning, though, she could hardly concentrate. Nothing could keep out the fragile reality of her situation in Laun. She kept wondering whether she would ever see her home again; her mother, her sisters, her aunt, her home town of Kempen. Struck by a sudden impatience, she wanted to go home that minute, and involuntarily she began to weigh up Officer Kern’s plan for escape.
Bertha prayed for guidance. She expected somehow to be given a divine signal. During the course of Mass she changed her mind at least a half-dozen times. She could not come to terms with the idea of desertion. It was dishonest, and dangerous. She kept thinking about Officer Kern’s subversive proposal. Could she trust him, she wondered. She had nobody to talk to about it but God. She would let God decide.

2 (#ulink_eeb8af82-e3ba-540c-b9c3-f2cc9b1d6c1a)
The barber’s shop on Prag Strasse in Laun was busy that morning. It could have been taken for some kind of symbol or national expression of independence that men arrived early to get their hair cut. Apart from Mass at the church of St Nicholas, it was the only good excuse any man could invent to be seen so early. The horizontal blinds of this front-room barber’s shop gave an excellent view on to the main street, on to the pub across the road and everything that moved through the town.
There was a group of men waiting to have their hair cut, four men and a small Down’s Syndrome boy who stood by the window. They all had seen the new armoured patrol arrive to replace the night patrol on the square. And the German woman on foot, in her red coat, along with a German officer.
The men sat along a wooden bench and said nothing. They felt the silent, reflective moment that all men feel before their turn comes up in the barber’s chair, the moment preceding change. From time to time they found something to whisper about. Occasionally the barber joined in with a discreet word in somebody’s ear as he drew the sheet up and stuffed it into the collar of his next customer. But the clicking of scissors took over and covered everything with a feverish whisper of its own.
The boy with Down’s Syndrome clapped when his father settled into the barber’s chair. He ran back and forth to the window, excited about everything, occasionally receiving a smile of acknowledgement from the men along the bench. He had red hair. Saliva ran down to his chin and there was a damp stain on his chest where it collected. He was no more than four years of age. Born during the war. The very existence of a boy with Down’s Syndrome was an overt act of revolution in the Reich.
The Czech liberation came late. They could have waited for the Russians but they were anxious to strike a blow for independence. A home-made revolution.
Throughout April the resistance movement had obstructed German military movement by bombing railways, disabling locomotives, tanks, armoured units and generally supporting the Russian advance. The aim was to be a nuisance. They blew up fuel reserves, and when the German Army resorted to using alcohol to power their vehicles, the Czechs began to spill bottles and barrels of schnapps and slivovitz into the streets; bottles they would soon need to celebrate victory when they were eventually liberated.
The men in Laun were waiting for the signal. They were already aware that on the previous day men from the nearby mining town of Kladno had marched to Hriskov, south of Laun, with no more than a ration of cigarettes in their pockets, to take over the German arms dump there. The Czechs needed weapons. In Prague, they planned to fight with furniture. With barricades. In another north Bohemian town, the people tried to do without weapons altogether and came out on the streets for a peaceful protest, a premature but unsuccessful attempt at the velvet approach. General Schörner told his troops ‘to quell any such disturbances with the most ruthless force’.
The men at the barber’s shop in Laun were waiting for the right moment to assemble and form a National Committee of independent Czechoslovakia. All they needed was a leader. They sat watching the boy with Down’s Syndrome playing with the cords of the blinds by the window. The boy groaned in a world of his own. Occasionally, he turned around and addressed one of the men without the slightest hint of shyness, his upper lip drawn up toward his nose, genetically disfigured into a permanent smile.
‘Who’s next?’ the barber asked, knowing that a son follows after a father.
The boy sat down on his father’s knee and allowed the barber to hang a sheet around him and tuck it under the collar. It was all new to him. He was silent, reassured by his father’s words, until the barber began to clip rhythmically with the scissors. ‘There’s a good boy,’ the barber kept saying. But even before the scissors had touched the boy’s hair, he began to struggle and make life difficult. The white sheet had already come undone. There was no point in putting it back. Instead, the barber manoeuvred himself around the chair as best he could to try and get at the boy’s hair.
Both the father and the barber tried to distract the boy. ‘Look, look in the mirror. Look, there’s a good boy.’ The barber tapped the mirror with his scissors. ‘There’s a good boy. Nearly finished,’ he kept saying.
But the boy soon began to wail. Not so much like crying, but a solid howl; half fear and half mistrust. He kept looking around to see what was going on but he couldn’t understand the purpose of the scissors. He tried to free his arms from his father’s grip. Wisps of cut hair fell into his eyes, tickled his nose and his neck behind his collar. Nobody could explain it to him. The barber got a scented towel and wiped it over the boy’s face, taking away a mixture of saliva, cut hair and tears.
Another armoured car went by outside. The barber managed to deflect the boy’s attention for long enough to clip a semi-circle over the ears. The fingers of his left hand pinned the boy’s head down vigorously. But the sound of the scissors magnified in the boy’s ears to the size of shears and he resumed his howls, louder than ever.
The whole barber’s shop had become occupied with the boy’s haircut. Once again the barber made an attempt to distract the boy. He took out two ivory brushes, clacked them together and gave them to the boy. The barber rushed around, exploiting the moment. It was a race against time, before the boy dropped the brushes again and put his hands up. That was enough. His father released him and the boy jumped down, running into the centre of the room.
‘Vla, vla,’ he said, holding his ears, showing off his haircut to the men waiting on the bench.
That was the morning the Czechs finally decided to liberate themselves from the fascists and hand themselves over to the communists. The grand uprising in Prague had begun. The whole country was rising up in support. In Laun, a man named Jaroslav Süssmerlich walked into the pub U Somolu at 81 Prag Strasse and convened the first meeting of the National Committee. The men at the barber’s shop abandoned their places in the queue and joined him.
They demanded the immediate surrender. They wanted nothing but outright capitulation. By phone, Jaroslav Süssmerlich translated the anger of the town and told the Germans they were ready to attack the garrison. The men from Kladno had already taken the arms dump at Hriskov. But the German commander in Laun made it clear that he had no authority to capitulate until orders came from Prague; from the German High Command. Besides, they held a number of key prisoners; Czech resistance fighters. It became a hostage drama. Negotiations became a race against time. Nobody realized that the Russians were approaching from the north instead of the south.

3 (#ulink_4252d6f6-00df-5403-ab09-0b5a116e0fac)
Bertha Sommer emerged from the church of St Nicholas, pushing the heavy oak door like a child. The idea of heavy oak doors in churches is to make people feel small and innocent; children of God. She adjusted her hat, blessed herself from the font and looked down the steep concrete steps, where she saw an armoured car parked along the kerb. It was the only vehicle in the street. The engine was running. Officer Kern stood beside the driver and both of them looked up at her. There was something wrong. She knew it.
Around her, everything else in the street bore the inertia of centuries. The houses, the dusty windows, the grey roofs, all looked as though they would never change.
Bertha Sommer had a good nose. It was the way Officer Kern looked at her as she descended the church steps that told her something had changed. For a moment, she thought she was being arrested for betrayal of the Reich. Either that, or she was fleeing straight away, back to the German border. She told herself she didn’t care. After the initial fright, there is always a moment of indifference.
She smelled a wisp of woodsmoke drifting down the street. Nothing visible, beyond the faint blue tint in the distance above the houses. It was a reassurance. Bertha knew every kind of smoke. She had smelled all the different smokes of the war: gunsmoke, fires, scorched landscape, phosphor smoke; even the smell of burning hair. She feared and respected every smell. She then got the smell of Officer Kern’s cigarette. Kern looked serious. When he spoke to her, it was back to his official voice. The former intimacy was ignored. She expected the worst.
‘Fräulein Sommer, we have instructions to return to the garrison immediately. By right, I should have conveyed this to you without delay. We must go straight away.’
He held the door of the vehicle for her and whispered, as she held her hat to get in, ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
Afterwards, she felt foolish to have mistrusted him so much. She felt naïve, and envied the way men always seemed to know everything first. Inside the church, she had been under the brief illusion that it was raining outside, only to come out and find the street dry and the sun trying to break through the clouds at last.
The driver turned the vehicle and headed back through the town, past the square, along the main street towards the hill leading up to the garrison.
‘Apparently there is something going on here in the town,’ Kern said to her in the back of the car. ‘Hauptmann Selders has ordered all personnel off the streets.’
Kern didn’t discuss it any more. She asked him what it meant but he put a finger over his lips and pointed at the silent driver. They all went mute and looked out of the windows. Bertha saw nothing. No sign of anything going on. At the end of the town, she spotted two women hanging out washing. On a wall, she saw a ginger-coloured cat preparing to jump down. Smoke rose from the last three chimneys in the town. Nothing would ever change the speed of smoke rising from a chimney on a calm day in May.
Her own life would soon accelerate beyond recognition. After months and months of waiting, since Christmas, she would finally move into a new, though perhaps uncertain future. Anything was better than waiting. She thought of Caen in Normandy where she had spent most of the war. And the trips to Paris which had been so exciting. Czechoslovakia had provided none of that excitement. It became the place to wait for the war to end. She could only think of home. She could only think of the frustrating irony that the car in which she sat was actually travelling in the wrong direction. East. Into the arms of the Russians.
She turned around to look through the back window at the town. It may be the last look, she thought. Everywhere Bertha Sommer went, she called things by a private, arcane name in her own mind. As the armoured car climbed the hill back towards the garrison, she looked back and called it: the hill of the last time looking back. The morning of the end of the Reich, she said to herself as they drove through the gates.
‘Tonight,’ Officer Kern whispered discreetly to her as she got out of the car. She didn’t respond. She watched him click his heels and bow slightly, before he marched away towards the command centre.

4 (#ulink_e08a067d-5067-5a7a-a672-9bae2bd3a932)
I always thought it was strange that things between Anke and myself ended with a crash. Or was that actually the beginning? It was in Jügen’s car. Just coming off the Autobahn, heading back into the centre of Düsseldorf, we were hit by another car. Don’t ask me how. All I know is that I’m certain it wasn’t my fault. The other car came out of a slip road and hit us on Anke’s side, the passenger side. It was in the evening. Dark. Wet. Autumn. I only remember the bang and the sudden immobility afterwards. It was like being attacked for no reason. Neither Anke nor I suffered any real injuries. It all must have looked much worse than it was because the other car had been overturned by the impact. I thought the occupants must be dead, because nobody moved. But it turned out that the driver, a middle-aged woman, escaped gracefully with nothing more than concussion.
The big problem was that I was driving. I was sitting in the driving seat of Jürgen’s car. A car I wasn’t insured to drive and a car I shouldn’t have been sitting in at all in the first place. Anke was hurt. The other car had crashed into us from the right and Anke had got a terrible thump all the way down from her shoulder to her knee. Even though nothing was broken, she was badly bruised.
‘I’m all right, I’m all right,’ she kept saying, hysterically reassuring herself, or both of us. ‘It’s nothing. Honestly.’
All we thought of at that moment was the fact that I was in the driving seat. Uninsured. Without a licence to drive in Germany. The complications would have been enormous. Like all survivors, glad to be alive and uninjured, we reassured ourselves that nothing else mattered. But then, when we saw that the street was empty and that nobody had emerged from the overturned car, we thought again. We could get away with it.
‘Quick,’ Anke said, hauling herself up out of the seat. ‘Quick, before the police arrive.’
She manoeuvred herself across me as best she could. A swift seat-change inside the car. Once she was in the driving seat and I was in the passenger seat, everything seemed all right. At least we could explain that much. It was only when she sat back with the steering wheel in her hands that she said she began to feel any pain at all on her right side.
I can never be sure if Jürgen ever discovered that I was driving. Or if he ever found out where Anke and I could have been to in his car. Or what we were up to. Anke was already married to Jürgen. Just married, in fact. I had been at the wedding not long before that.
The idea of Anke and I driving off together like this was her strange notion of a final farewell; Anke’s idea of saying goodbye to me, taking me back to the Eifel mountains, to the exact spot where we went the first time. She was basically meeting me for the last time as a lover, a formal rite whereby she was now ceremoniously entering into a new life with Jürgen. From now on she would be married. Why she left this intimate farewell until a month after the wedding was beyond me. I have never fully understood Anke.
The crash must have changed her plans. It placed us together in a further conspiracy. Because we had switched places inside the car, we were bound together for ever in a fraud. We were going to have to tell lies. And then backup lies with more lies. We were going to have to discuss and plan out a communal approach.
We didn’t know what to tell Jürgen. How was I going to explain being in the car in the first place? Even as we sat in the car, shocked, waiting for the police or an ambulance or something, Anke suggested that I should just walk away, pretend that she was the only occupant in the car. There was nobody around. It might have worked. But I was against it, instinctively. I stayed.
Walking away never works. I began to think about the driver of the other car, overturned, right behind us. I had difficulty opening the door on my side, but I got out and went over to see. I told Anke to stay in the driver’s seat. Eventually, people came out from houses near by and called an ambulance. The woman in the other car was unconscious, though when she was taken away one of the ambulance men said she would be fine. Anke was taken to hospital too, for observation, overnight.
It was up to me to phone and tell Jürgen. And somehow, maybe because Jürgen and I have known each other for so long, there was no immediate pressure for an explanation. All Jürgen wanted to know was that she was all right. What hospital? What ward? He didn’t ask me how I knew or how it happened or anything. I volunteered nothing.
In the end, I left it to Anke to do all the talking, since the whole thing was her idea in the first place. When Jürgen arrived at the hospital that night he still wasn’t asking for an explanation, and Anke said little else other than that she had been giving me a lift home. We had met for a drink. The fact that the location of the crash didn’t correspond with my route home from anywhere never came up. Nor did the fact that her injuries were on the wrong side of her body.
I went to visit her at the hospital early the next day, before she was discharged, to see what she had said to Jürgen. She showed me her bruises. She didn’t remember being hit at all. But the proof was there. A massive blue, black, purple cloud under her swollen skin, all along her arm, and down the side of her right thigh. There was a small bandage on her thigh where the skin had burst.
‘Looks lovely, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘I’ve got myself a fine-looking mark there.’
‘Does it hurt?’ I asked.
‘Not in the least,’ she said. ‘I’m quite proud of it. The only thing that bothers me are these endless X-rays.’
She pulled back the sheet and showed me the full extent of the bruising. Everybody has a natural fascination for injuries. You want to see more.
‘Do you want to kiss my bruise?’ she asked.
I ignored her because it made me uneasy. I knew that Jürgen was coming to collect her any minute. She stuck her tongue out at me and covered herself up again. That was Anke all right. She was always sticking her tongue out like that.
‘What are you going to say to Jürgen?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. I’ll tell him everything. The whole thing, if he asks.’
‘Everything?’
‘Well, the only thing he doesn’t need to know is that you were driving his car. I think we should keep that a secret for the moment.’
Jürgen never asked. There was never anything said about the crash. I think Jürgen was glad that nothing worse had happened to Anke. No broken bones. He was concerned for her. He also asked how I was. Maybe it was his medical background, his doctor’s instinct for discretion.
The fact that Jürgen never pursued any questions made me think even more. I slowly began to believe that it was Jürgen who had sent Anke on this farewell trip with me. Maybe they did have a pact. Maybe he had some notion that one final trip up to the Eifel would end it for Anke and me. One last goodbye to a past lover. And the fact that Jürgen, a doctor, a highly intelligent man with an inquiring mind, never noticed that the bruises were on the wrong side worried me. But then, nobody else asked either.
We let the lies stand.

5 (#ulink_4f62432a-f1c2-5466-a08d-5fd30d3d0973)
Before Bertha Sommer reported for work that morning she went to her room to pack. She was taking Officer Kern’s advice and decided to have a light bag ready so she could leave at a moment’s notice. She had made no final decision about fleeing that evening; she was still tormenting herself with the choice. Desert, or stay and face the Russians. One way or the other, she wanted to be ready.
She made two selections of clothes; an A selection and a B selection. Clothes she wanted to take with her and those she would simply have to leave behind. Occasionally she would hold up a garment, like the pale blue blouse, remembering the shop in Paris where she had bought it, and then transfer it from the B selection back to the A selection.
She thought about Officer Kern. He had an honest face. A face she could trust. She knew he was married. He had told her that quite openly when they first met in the office in January. He told her then that there was a lady’s bicycle belonging to his wife Monica left behind in the garrison. He and his wife used to go cycling together in the summer. Fräaulein Sommer was welcome to make use of the bike any time she wanted. But the weather in January was too cold for cycling. And when the spring came, the environs of Laun became too dangerous. Besides, then came the directive from Hauptmann Selders, confining everyone to the garrison.
Officer Kern was a calm man. He seemed to know everything. He was a man of predictions. Even back in January he had told her the war wouldn’t last long. And when the war was over, the bicycle would become the fastest mode of transport in the whole of Europe. He would be sorry to leave it behind.
He had a married look about him, she thought, as she sorted her clothes. She packed her bag with her sisters in mind. Then she took everything out again and packed it more sensibly, thinking of the worst. She laid out her russet coat and hat on the bed. It was time to go to the office.
She had gone through all this before, evacuating back from Caen in Normandy, running from the British. Now she was running from something worse. She kneeled down and prayed, silently. She was ready for God. Then she quickly wrote a note in her diary, which lay on the table. The morning of the end of the Reich. Packed my bags. Am I a civilian? How will they treat civilians?
Bertha Sommer spent the morning trying to get through to Berlin. She knew it was useless but she kept trying. Berlin was well lost by now. The Russian flag had flown from the roof of the Reichstag since 30 April. Another officer kept trying to get through to Prague, with no more success. The office had worked itself into a quiet panic. Cups of coffee were frequently started but seldom finished. Hauptmann Selders fought off the constant demands of the Czechs in Laun. He had already made the concession of withdrawing the army from the town. He fought off the almost hourly demands to surrender with the single remaining advantage left to him. In the end, he could bargain with hostages. But there was no question of capitulation or further withdrawal until he got word from the High Command.
Bertha didn’t see Officer Kern anywhere. She knew where he was, in the communications room next door, but she wondered why he hadn’t been seen in the office.
By mid-morning she had become so busy herself that she forgot everything. She had been asked to sort out the files on to a trolley. Ready for incineration. Lunchtime passed without anybody getting hungry. Hauptmann Selders ordered a Wurst sandwich but never touched it when it arrived. The other officers had no appetite either. And when Bertha went to the canteen, she had to force herself to have lunch, telling herself it might be the last. But the logic was no substitute for appetite.
She was thinking too much. She had been put in charge of erasing the records. How to end a war? We know how to start a war, she thought. We know nothing about finishing it.
Early afternoon, Officer Kern came rushing into the office for the first time. He had heard something. At 1.30, the radio signal from Prague was interrupted. A spokesman in Czech appealed to all factions throughout Czechoslovakia to rise up against the fascists. Minutes later the Germans had regained control of the station. But it had become obvious that there was a struggle on for the capital. It became clear why they had also lost contact with Prague on the phone.
Hauptmann Selders called his officers for an impromptu conference. Another phone-call came from the town demanding immediate capitulation.
Everyone looked at Hauptmann Selders, waiting for him to announce withdrawal. He made a brief speech. Bertha Sommer stopped sorting files to listen. But her heart sank. She had expected something else.
‘There remains only one option open to us at present,’ he said. ‘While the German Army is still at war, we must remain firm. We cannot act in our own self-interest and make an escape bid. To do so would be irresponsible and put at risk thousands of German civilians still on Czech soil. We would also put ourselves at risk. You know the terms under which General Schörner operates. We must wait for the command.’
Bertha thought for a moment that he was referring to her. To Officer Kern’s escape plan. She looked at him standing by the window, but he didn’t look back. She felt implicated, even though she had consented to nothing.
‘At the same time,’ Hauptmann Selders said, ‘we should be ready to move out immediately.’
The officers agreed with Hauptmann Selders’s decision. There was no dissent. Arrangements were being made for the inevitable evacuation. One officer put forward a plan to use the hostages. Everybody went back to work.
Bertha spent the afternoon burning. A large punctured fuel bin had been placed in the centre of the square outside on her instructions. She had been told to oversee the burning personally.
The afternoon turned out bright and sunny. Looking south, she saw beams of sunlight lancing through the clouds on to the rounded hills. It looked as though the rain would hold off for a while. She didn’t need her coat.
She accompanied two recruits to the store-room on the far side of the square where a consignment of fuel was kept for the sole purpose of destroying documents. She had stacked most of the files on to two trolleys. Two more recruits came out pushing the trolleys into the square. There was nothing of great importance in the files, nothing but reports on resistance operations, command structures and details of the garrison’s personnel, names, ranks etc. She was told to burn everything. All over Germany, she thought, people are burning the past.
She placed some of the documents into the bin and stood back. One of the recruits stepped forward and poured some fuel over the documents. It was all done systematically, without any sense of urgency, or regret.
Bertha looked in the direction of the garrison’s main gates. Her mind was on escape.
Taking account of the wind direction, one of the soldiers politely advised her to stand back where the smoke would not contaminate her clothes. She saw him strike the match, an act that was no different to clicking his fingers. It was the first time she fully understood the qualities of petrol, a silent blast of flames sucking air violently from the surrounding space, from around her ears and her face.
One by one, she handed the documents over to the soldiers, who added them to the pyre. This was the way to end a war. Without a word. Bertha did ask one of them what area of Germany he came from: Dortmund. But it led to nothing. They went silently about the task, preparing for withdrawal. Later on, Hauptmann Selders came out carrying a number of files which he added to the fire himself. He stood with her for a moment until he saw his own documents disappear. Throughout the afternoon, the flames were reflected in their eyes, in the windows of surrounding buildings and across the windscreens of trucks on the far side of the square.
By late afternoon, the clouds had taken over the sky once more. When the flames receded the charred remnants of paper began to curl and crinkle as they shrank. It doesn’t take long to burn a garrison with three companies of Ersatz Grenadiers of the 213th Battalion out of existence.

6 (#ulink_e9e8e812-5a08-5329-941b-88958263e913)
That was typical Anke, sticking out her tongue. For her it was really an expression of affection. Maybe with a bit of daring and natural contempt thrown in. She was into expressions. It was one of the things that struck me most about Anke when I met her first, at the university.
I told her she had jumped the queue in the Mensa. She stuck her tongue out at me.
I had been living in Düsseldorf for a number of years at that stage. Why Düsseldorf, I don’t really know. I could have stayed in Vermont, where I come from, or chosen any other city in America for a good clean American education. There is something about Germany that I want. Something that everybody secretly wants and openly denies. I opted for a European education at the university in Düsseldorf, where I studied German classics.
Jürgen was studying medicine there at the time. Later, he went on to do gynaecology. But while he was a student, we became good friends. In those five or six years, long before Anke came on the scene, Jürgen and I went everywhere together: Morocco, Greece, Peru, Ireland. He was a perfect travelling partner and a perfect friend. We always knew when to leave each other alone and when to be there to pick each other up. Some of those mornings after the Irish bars I was glad to have a doctor friend. With time, though, Jürgen’s job became more demanding. He grew a moustache and we travelled less together. He once took a two-week job in Baghdad during the Iran-Iraq war, and I wasn’t able to go. I think that was the first time he went anywhere without me.
We stayed the best of friends. Maybe the only real friends either of us ever had. Mutually exclusive. I think Jürgen would agree with that in theory. We never stopped being friends.
But then came Anke. Anke Seidel.
Everything changed after she arrived. She was wilder than Jürgen and myself put together. There was no time for moderation or discretion. She kept saying there was no such thing as an afterlife. The day after she stuck her tongue out at me, she invited me for a drive to the Eifel mountain range. With her mother’s car, a case of her father’s champagne and a small Bavarian snuffbox full of cocaine, she drove the Audi into the Eifel in the middle of March. She showed me some of the landmarks, like Camp Vogelsang where Hitler trained his elite young successors. As promised, she also showed me where Heinrich Böll used to live. He was a hero. He had taught her how to cry.
That was the other thing about Anke. She was able to cry. She had a spiritual side to her. She could cry at will. In the car, she told me straight off that she had practised it when she was a child. She and her sister used to look in the mirror and summon up the emotion until the tears ran down. They once sat in the back of the car crying while their parents went shopping, and passers-by began to look into the car and worry about them until they burst out laughing. Her mother berated her for playing with her emotions. Never play with your sacred, involuntary faculties.
I didn’t believe that Anke could cry on the spot. Like a movie star. We had a long conversation about it as she drove the car. Then she stopped the car and started crying. Okay, it was outside Heinrich Böll’s house, but still and all, she did it. I was moved. So much so that I told her to stop crying.
It’s what she said afterwards that worried me. It sounded as though she was clocking up all her crying in advance. Advent-tears.
‘Maybe some day, I’ll have something to cry about,’ she said, laughing, as she drove on.
‘I’ll give you something to cry about,’ I said, as a joke.
I was never any good at jokes. I always listen too much to the prediction of words. We dropped the subject and drove on into the mountains.
Eventually she stopped the car at a remote forest for a picnic. She got me to open the champagne and then dealt out a line of coke on the dashboard of her mother’s car, which we snorted with a 100 DM note. Ten minutes later, she handed me her glass to hold for a minute before she opened the door of the car and stepped outside. She leaned back in and said: ‘If you can catch me, you can have me.’ Then she slapped her bottom and ran off into the trees.
I believe she let me catch her.
It burned intensely for a short while between Anke and myself. We were seen everywhere together. But then, after about two months, she took an equally sudden, but even stronger liking to Jürgen. It seemed far more durable between them right from the beginning. In fact, he seemed to settle her down quite a bit. From time to time, she did revert to me, briefly, for an afternoon, a night, a weekend at most. But she was already leaning more and more towards Jürgen. Then she moved in with him altogether. In less than a year, they decided to get married, which they did with a great carnival in August of 1984. I was left trying to work out what it was that Jürgen had and I didn’t. It was more than the moustache.
Then came the crash. Anke and I drove up to the Eifel for the last time. To what she called the consecrated forest. You can see why I was beginning to think that Jürgen was in on it as well; as though he had made a deal with her. But then I realized it was much more like one of her own plans. Anke’s farewell.
Since the crash I have been back home to Vermont, wondering if I should leave Germany to Jürgen and Anke. I really thought that in order to forget Anke, I would literally have to leave the country. We were still the best of friends, all of us, and we kept on meeting. They went on inviting me to dinner parties along with other friends. Occasionally I met them for drinks at the White Bear or the Irish Pub where Jürgen burst out one night with the news that Anke was expecting a baby. I congratulated them both and made a toast. Jürgen was already drunk. Anke was moved to tears.

7 (#ulink_0a0def66-0b2b-5bcd-8fd7-d4fea81a7a40)
During the afternoon, the people of Laun began to reclaim their town. As soon as the last of the German patrols had withdrawn back to the garrison, they gathered in the streets quietly, in small groups. Children came out to play on the square beneath the statue of the Czech martyr Johann Huss, which had ironically been allowed to stay untouched during the war.
Rumours went around about the uprising in Prague. About the imminent German capitulation. Men went up to the post office and began to throw stamps and registration forms into the street with a mixture of anger and joy. They had been given instructions by the National Committee at the U Somolu pub to repossess the institutions of the state. The officials who had been working at the post office up to then joined in, throwing documents out through the windows where they fluttered and chased each other in the street. Then the post office was closed for business.
The children who had come to watch this spectacle went back to the square to play, chasing, trying to take a scarf off each other. There were three girls and a boy; along with a dog who was trying to join in with their game. An over-friendly town dog who had always tilted his head and followed every inhabitant through the streets with equal curiosity, occasionally receiving a pat on the head from a German soldier, or the German woman in the red coat, coming from Mass. He was everybody’s friend.
The idiocy of impartiality.
The dog chased the children around the square, keeping his eyes on the scarf, inevitably tearing at one of the girls’ clothes instead of the scarf. The game was stopped and one of the older girls got cross, clouting him over the head. The girl whose dress was caught in the dog’s mouth went on giggling as though she had been caught out as part of the game. When the dog eventually let go, the children tried to chase him away, but he stayed with them, at a distance, until they began to chase each other again and forgot that he was a dog. He was one of them.
Outside the pub U Somolu, where the National Committee was still in session, still negotiating with the Germans, a crowd, mainly men, had gathered to celebrate. They wanted to add voice to victory. They were told the pub was closed. It was too early to celebrate. Jaroslav Süssmerlich came out in person to explain that, if anything, things were going badly. The latest news from Prague was that German reinforcements were regaining control of the capital. The men outside announced their readiness to join the uprising by attacking the garrison. But the garrison held Czech hostages. An attack was impossible. Süssmerlich gave his men something else to do.
The people of the town went away and began to remove the German street signs, replacing them with rough, hastily painted Czech names on wood. They had reclaimed their town. Above the town, the sky was a celebration. From time to time, sunlight broke out over the hills, over the roof-tops of Laun, lighting up the calm columns of smoke like blue angels. There were no cars in Laun. Nobody owned very much. All they owned was their place in the world.
Some of the people went into the church to give thanks to God. Others went home to listen to the radio in groups, waiting for the Russian liberation. Others cooked food, fecklessly using up ingredients they might have rationed carefully for months up to then.
Before nightfall, a young couple arrived at the door of the pub asking to speak to the leader of the National Committee. They were told to go away. But they insisted.
‘Just for one minute,’ the girl said hopefully.
When they wouldn’t go away, Süssmerlich finally agreed to speak to them. They had already received permission from their parents to marry. They had postponed the wedding for weeks, knowing it was wiser to wait for the end of the war. They had obtained permission from the priest in the town. All they needed now was permission from the National Committee. They wanted to marry the following morning.
Süssmerlich became angry.
‘Can’t you control your passions? The war is not over yet.’
But the intending couple returned some time later accompanied by the priest. The bride appealed with her eyes. The priest spoke on their behalf and explained that the couple wanted to get married on the day Czechoslovakia was liberated. On VE day.
Süssmerlich softened. Who could fail to understand such a request? He gave his permission and wished them luck in their lives. The couple thanked him. The priest blessed the revolution.

8 (#ulink_e290e3f0-ff63-5bc6-8c8c-54d802013990)
By evening, it was threatening to rain again. You could smell it in the air. And the clouds had built up over Bohemia.
Hauptmann Selders, having postponed his evening meal several times, finally took a late meal at his office. He would not go over to the officers’ mess. The kitchen staff brought a table which they covered with a linen tablecloth. He ate his meal with some of the officers keeping him company.
In the next two rooms, the ongoing war was being monitored by Officer Kern and his radio operators. They listened to the German signal: Radio One from Prague. Someone else listened to the free Czech signal from Prague. Somebody kept tuning in to the BBC in London, who were giving almost live coverage of the Prague uprising. On another set, Officer Kern occasionally tuned in to Moscow. The news was getting worse.
After his dinner, Hauptmann Selders shared a glass of brandy with his officers. The kitchen staff came back and swiftly cleared away the table and the used plates.
Bertha, who had come back from her own evening meal, was also offered some brandy, but declined. It was a toast to the end. There was a peculiar atmosphere of calmness; camaraderie. Hauptmann Selders dropped his role as commander for a more friendly, fatherly tone and began to talk to everyone in the room about themselves.
There was a strange silence in the office. At any moment the phone could ring, or a technician could come in from the room next door with news that would change everything irreversibly. In spite of that, Hauptmann Selders asked each person what they would do after the war. He enjoyed listening to their plans, one by one. Officer Albert said he would go back and resurrect his father’s printing business in Vienna. Officer Kern said he would join his wife in Nuremberg and start a gramophone shop. Others said they were keeping an open mind, perhaps business, perhaps a profession. One of them had already studied law. Bertha Sommer, surprised that she was asked at all, said she would hope to study medicine.
Hauptmann Selders revealed for the first time that he was an archaeologist before the war. He wished them well. Then he dismissed the gathering and told them all to get as much sleep as possible. A roster of officers would have to be selected to monitor events throughout the night. Bertha could stay in her room until morning, unless he sent for her.
Officer Kern volunteered to remain at his post, in the communications room. In the corridor, as the officers dispersed, Kern casually asked if his watch was showing the same time as everyone else’s. Bertha looked at her watch. It was five to 10. And just when nobody was looking, Kern winked at her, pointing at his watch.
So the escape plan was on. Bertha crossed the square in a fever of excitement, not only at the thought of this clandestine and dangerous scheme, but at the idea of a man winking at her. It wasn’t a suggestive wink, but a serious, conspiratorial sign. It had sent a rush of blood to her head. She was amazed how one signal like that from a man could make her feel so worked up and so secure at the same time. Whatever doubt she had about the plan was erased entirely with Kern’s wink.
She looked around and saw the Red Cross vehicle by the gates. Once again, she remembered Kern’s warnings. The fear of Russian captivity gripped her more than any other immediate fear.
She went to her room and sat down on the bed. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked at her watch again and was afraid that an hour was too long to wait; she might change her mind again. By 11 o’clock, the inbred fear of the Reich might break out once more and restrain her. She thought of the most horrific sight she had seen, during the war, on her way to Prague; the sight from the train of men hanging, their heads bowed, arms limp, cardboard signs hung around them in warning to others.
She sat at the table and wrote in her diary to keep her mind off the worst. She put down a new heading: ‘Evening 5 May’. She could put none of her real thoughts down. It would have left incriminating evidence. Not even Officer Kern’s name. She looked around the room for something. She heard the rain beginning to fall outside the window and finally had something to write: ‘Rain’.
It was the longest hour she had ever spent in her room. The months of waiting from January to May seemed to have been packed into that hour. She was clear in her mind what she was about to do. If they were caught, she would be punished as a deserter. Or aiding deserters. She could expect to be hanged. Under Schörner, there was no leniency. She was confused. Only the fear of the Russians convinced her to go ahead; to run.
When the time came, Bertha Sommer packed her diary in her bag and brushed her hair. She thought about perfume but decided against it. She put on her coat and hat, took a last look at the room and went out into the corridor, closing the door behind her. From one of the corridor windows she could see the Red Cross vehicle by the gates. The constant rain made it look further away. Kilometres away. A great rush of excitement hit the base of her stomach. She walked down the stairs and out through the door on to a porch where she was temporarily sheltered from the rain at least.
The rain bounced on the surface of the square. It beat down on every square inch of the roof and collected with a noisy gurgle in the drains.
There was nobody around as far as she could see. She decided that she would have to keep to the side of the buildings, both to avoid being seen and to avoid getting wet. She could go from one porch or doorway to the next. The rain made her think of her mother. What would her mother say? Bertha Sommer, what are you doing? You have never done anything illegal in your life. This felt suddenly like a great crime. She kept all doubts away with the reminder of avenging Russians; merciless enemies. She put it out of her mind and tried to concentrate on getting across the square to the Red Cross vehicle.
She made it to the next doorway. She put her bag down on the ground and waited. She looked everywhere to see if anything moved. The rain was relentless. It would go on all night, it seemed, just like the night before.
Bertha blessed herself and ran to an arch next to the main administration building. From there she had a choice of going up a few steps and running along a raised wooden platform along the façade in front of the administration block, or along the square itself, in front of the platform. The raised porch or platform was sheltered by an awning, but its wooden boards might be far too noisy and arouse attention. She finally chose the square. But just as she had begun to run along the outside, she heard a door opening and saw extra light spilling out on to the square. If it wasn’t for the railing, she would have been seen straight away.
She crouched down on the outside of the platform, getting soaked. She felt the rain getting in at the back of her neck. She saw the rain light up orange as it travelled past the light. She then heard Hauptmann Selders’s voice. He was standing on the porch, condemning the weather. She couldn’t move. She had no idea what to do. She knew her coat and her hat and her hair were getting soaked and realized how irrelevant it was. If she was caught there with her bag, she was finished.
Hauptmann Selders stayed on the porch gazing out at the rain. If he had looked down, he would have seen her. Every time she looked up, the strong rain blinded her.
Bertha crept slowly back towards the arch, holding her bag against her chest. She was ready to drop the bag. Ready to say she had come out because she felt ill. She made it back to the arch.
It was more than she could endure. With her back against the wall, she clutched the handles of her bag in her fist. Now, even the thought of Russian captivity seemed better than being caught there in the arch, with her bag, attempting to flee; a common deserter.
She had changed her mind. She was no good at breaking the law. You needed a devious mind. You needed to have done it before. She was weak. Certain that she had already been seen.
She heard the heavy sound of boots hurrying along the platform. A group of soldiers passed her by with their heads down against the rain. Just as they passed her hiding in the arch, they took a sharp turn and ran across the square away from her.
All Bertha Sommer wanted to do now was to get back to the safety of her room. The escape was far too risky, she decided. As soon as she heard the door to the administration block close, she checked the square and ran back to her own accommodation building.
Back in her room, she felt relieved. She took off her coat and her hat. Everything was soaked. She dried her hair. And slowly she began to regret that she hadn’t gone the whole distance. She had gone so far. She was let down by her own fear and there was no way she would try it again. Her courage began to come back. But it was too late. She felt despair and anger at the fact that she had not made the escape with Kern. She felt she would never see home again.
Just before 11.45 she went out into the corridor to see if the Red Cross vehicle was still there. It was. She could see no movement around the vehicle. Once again she thought of making a run for it, abandoning all caution. But then she saw the vehicle lights come on. It began to move towards the gates. Then it was gone. Her chance had disappeared.
Bertha went back into her room and settled down for the night. She couldn’t sleep. She could only think of Officer Kern waiting for her. She had let him down. He would surely think she had decided to remain loyal to the army. And he was the only man she could trust around here. Now she was on her own.
Finally, she fell asleep, only because she was exhausted and because the constant rain beating on the window mesmerized her.
In the morning, she got up and thought of the Red Cross car making its way towards the German border. She tried to visualize how far they would have got by now. She had a quick breakfast and reported for work early, at 5.45. The rain had eased off. It felt ridiculous to walk so confidently past the arch where she had been hiding only hours before.
Hauptmann Selders was already in his office surrounded by some of the officers. They were talking about Hriskov. The arms dump had fallen into Czech hands. During the night, soldiers had returned to the garrison on foot with the news. There was fighting to the north as well. She heard one officer come in with a report that one of the Red Cross vehicles had disappeared. Nothing more was said. She asked if there was anything she could do. She took the phone and tried to get a line to the capital.
An hour later, she got a real fright. Bertha couldn’t tell whether she reacted with shock or sheer joy when she saw Officer Kern walk into the office with a report. German reinforcements had entered Prague and were set to regain control of the city. She ignored the information. She couldn’t believe it was Officer Kern speaking. He had stayed behind. Why? She wanted to explain everything to him. But he went out again, avoiding her gaze.
It became clear that Kern had waited for her. Had he passed up a golden chance for her? To stay behind with her? The implication of such loyalty weighed on her thoughts.

9 (#ulink_c354a0af-90b5-5f60-bc56-d9e35d1ef5ff)
The first time I went to Laun – now Louny – was late in 1985. First impressions are those of a sleepy town with a massive bus station which is completely out of proportion to the size of the town. The bleak tar-macadamed bus station offers little shelter except for a row of covered passenger islands. The bus routes which pass through the station give you some idea of the industry and crop farming in that part of Bohemia. It’s like being dropped off at the edge of an industrial estate. I arrived there in the afternoon, in October, the best time to travel anywhere.
Around the bus station there was nothing but derelict land, overgrown with weeds. In the distance, I could see some isolated high-rise apartment blocks. The town itself had no colour. It’s got an old square and a remarkable church. But it’s not a place you would see on a tourist brochure. The people at the tourist office in Prague looked surprised that I wanted to go to Louny. What would a foreigner want in Louny? There were many places of interest, with ancient castles, like Kutná Hóra, or Karlovy Vary. And then there was Theresienstadt, not far from Louny, Czechoslovakia’s Nazi transit camp where the ashes of 20,000 Jews were said to have been thrown in the river.
All I really wanted was to see Louny. There are places like that where you just want to be able to say: I’ve been there, I’ve seen the place.
There was little to see in Louny. Coming from West Germany, as I did, the place looked uninteresting, like a faded water-colour. The place that history left behind.
The shops were sparsely stocked with tins of beans and tins of stew. Everywhere in Czechoslovakia, I saw these neat pyramids of cans in the shop windows. There was a queue outside one of the shops in Louny. From Prague, I had learned that the sight of a queue was the sign of something worth buying. It seemed to be a bookshop.
I went into the pub U Somolu on the main street and had a drink, knowing that all Czech pubs have a habit of closing early. I would have spoken to some of the men in the pub, but they spoke neither English nor German and I didn’t have a word of Czech. They looked at me. They must have wondered too what brought a German to Louny. I would like to have told them where I was really from. But it was too complicated.
I walked around the streets for a while. In the square, I sat down beside the statue of Johann Huss. The warm October sun hit the square at an angle. After a while the shadow of the buildings edged up across my face and reached the base of the façades on the other side. The loudspeakers which hung around the square suddenly came alive. First with a crackle and a lot of background noise, perhaps that of someone fumbling with the microphone, the voice eventually boomed out over the square. I had no idea what it was saying.
I tried some more people with English and received a bewildered stare each time. Then I wondered if this town, on the edge of the Sudetenland according to pre-war maps, might still have some old people who spoke German.
People shrugged a lot. I could see that they were dying to help me but were unable to. One man kept asking me questions enthusiastically in Czech. At the post office, somebody eventually pointed to an old woman who spoke a little German. I asked her about the garrison outside the town, at the top of the hill. She shook her head.
‘You cannot go there,’ she said. ‘Nothing for tourists.’ She waved her index finger.
I asked her what it was being used for. Who occupied it now?
‘Russen,’ she said.
It was not something she wanted to elaborate on. I had already asked too much. She walked away.
Since there was nothing else to do in Louny, I decided to walk back beyond the bus station up the hill to take a look at the garrison. It seemed like an impossible place to defend, surrounded only by a low wall and some rusted barbed wire. Around to the front of the garrison, along the wall, there was a large red star. That was as far as I went.
The journey back to Prague takes around an hour. The bus was full of workers commuting back to the towns along the way. A girl beside me kept falling asleep with her head repeatedly sinking on to my shoulder. Perhaps she was a factory, girl. She wore overalls underneath her coat. Every now and again she woke up and realized that she had begun to lean against me. But she soon fell asleep again. Whenever the bus stopped, she sat up, startled, looking out through the windows as though she had gone too far.

10 (#ulink_fa0bf79a-6987-5c37-9919-01b9def87c8d)
According to the diaries of Bertha Sommer, an impeccably written account of the life of a young woman who reached the age of twenty when the Second World War started, she was born with a trinity of strong values: faith, honesty and cleanliness. There was nothing Bertha liked more than to wash her feet in the evening. She liked clean feet. Her faith and honesty helped her through what she called ‘the turbulent times’ in which she lived.
Born in the small Rhineland town of Kempen, she was brought up in a family devoted to the Catholic faith, except perhaps for her father, Erich, who was more devoted to cynicism and a good joke. In any case, both cynicism and Catholicism combined to place the family at odds with the new ideology of Nazism, and with the people in their town who had risen to prominence out of nowhere.
Up to then, Bertha’s father had been a prominent businessman with a fine toy and stationery shop on the market square. He had a prodigious disregard for the most elementary notion of profit and loss. He refused to join what he called the ‘Brown Wave’. His standing with the people of the town was based on the old values of gentlemanly wit. ‘God save us from sudden wealth,’ he would say, to the amusement of his followers, who shared his taste for wine, song and humour, along with his compulsion for practical jokes. One Sunday morning he borrowed a brown Nazi cap and climbed up to place it on top of the St George monument at the centre of the market square. Then he went and apologized for offending St George.
But Germany had lost its sense of humour. Nothing could save Erich Sommer from the plummeting Weimar economy, the accelerating age of fascism and his own progressive ill-health. The pulmonary illness which he had brought back from the First World War got the better of him. He bowed out just before the Second World War, leaving behind his wife and five daughters, a trove of unsaleable toys, a hoard of initialled silver cutlery which was eventually sold off for nothing, and his inimitable sense of humour. Bertha writes how he asked her to bring him a mirror on his death-bed, where he looked at himself in silence for a long time before he said: ‘Auf Wiedersehen, Erich.’
With little else to share among them, the five sisters held on to some of their father’s humour. They had a propensity to break down laughing, often until the tears rolled down their faces. His remarks were repeated as a comfort to their mother.
Bertha’s mother, Maria, a professional opera singer who had given up her art for marriage, tried in vain to salvage the business. She resorted to giving singing and piano classes instead. If nothing else, the house was filled with laughter and music. Five girls and a mother who had once sung in the opera. They all sang arias, Schumann, hymns, love songs, pop songs like ‘Lili Marlene’, nursery rhymes – everything. In winter they placed a lighted candle into the grate to give students the illusion of warmth. But the demand for piano lessons had begun to diminish in a country preparing for war. The family eventually came to depend on social security under the new National Socialist state.
Life in Kempen became harder to explain. The Jews in the town disappeared. Families to whom Bertha had often been sent to buy gherkins had gone overnight. Once, on a trip to an aunt in Düsseldorf, Bertha records in her diary how she and her mother saw brand new shoes and leatherwear flung into the streets and how her mother said, ‘What idiots. They’ll regret this some day.’ Shortly after that, the social security payments were mysteriously withdrawn from the Sommer family and life became impossible.
Plans had to be made to ease the burden. Grandmothers and aunts all conferred to make the best decisions for the five girls. Husbands were sought for the two eldest. The two youngest continued at school. Bertha, right in the middle, went to work as a secretarial assistant at the employment exchange, where she went on to obtain excellent references praising her enthusiasm and attractive manner. When the war came, her attributes were welcomed into the service of the army as part of the civilian personnel.
Bertha spent most of the time on the French coast of Normandy until the British arrived. She used the years in France to help her family, regularly sending home money to her mother and regularly arriving home with suitcases full of French fashions – dresses, blouses, hats, lingerie – all of which were quickly claimed by her sisters.
Shortly before D Day, she left France for the last time, with her cases stuffed to the gills. The trains were packed with girls coming home with their belongings, all evacuating back from the Normandy coast. The bombs were already raining on Germany. Bertha prayed hard. When they heard the planes overhead, she prayed for her life. And for her suitcases.

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