A Living Nightmare - From the memoirs and stories told by Anneliese Pitt

Paul had been a professional soldier. He had received a transfer to the General Von Strantz Kaserne in Landsberg. The Kaserne was a big military barrack that sat at the top of a hill. In the summer, it had a breathtaking flower garden in front of the building and three hundred steps encircling the garden in an upside-down “U” shape. I remember playing on those stairs on a walk with my father. An additional barrack by the name of Walter Von Flecks Kaserne, on the outskirts of the city, had less to exhibit. Both of these served professional soldiers.

Paul and Dora expected to live there for the rest of their lives. He died in my early years, but I was too young to know the cause. It had not been a happy marriage for Dora, and she hoped for a new relationship.

Mom and dad accepted their sons-in-law in character and profession as soldiers. My father once said, “It is an excellent occupation if you don’t have to fight.” This was during peacetime when no one in our family thought of war.

In 1937, at the age of six, I started school. That same year, my sister Elizabeth married Herman Engel, a blacksmith. They moved to Kuestrin, a small town that, to this day, is under Polish leadership about forty-six kilometres from Landsberg. Not long after their move, they had a son named William.

My parents received a telegram one winter morning, a week before Christmas. Mom, who usually was in a foul mood, forgot her anger and sorrows as the telegram announced that Elizabeth and Hermann would arrive with their baby son. Cheerfully, my mother asked, “What is today? Just look at me, I am still in the middle of baking the Christmas cakes and cookies. Isn’t it like always, when special visitors like our daughter come to visit, we are always busy,” she continued but talking more to herself. Baking was not important to my mother, but holding that baby boy in her arms was.

We had not seen Elizabeth and Hermann since their wedding day. It was a pleasant occasion for us all, especially for my parents to see their grandson. Mom sent Lotte to Dora’s, across the Warthe, to invite them for supper.

While sitting around the table after supper, Elizabeth mentioned that they had not been able to have their honeymoon. She asked mom if she would mind keeping the baby while they went away. “I know it sounds rather funny,” a timid Elizabeth continued, “but Hermann has to report to the recruiting center in Frankfurt-Oder and join the army. That is only two weeks from now. I would like to stay with him over the Christmas holiday so that he does not get too lonely.” Elizabeth’s voice sounded both excited and apologetic. As she spoke, she kept looking from her husband to mom.

Smiling and understanding, mom replied, “You did not need to elaborate so Elizabeth. Of course, you can leave the baby with us. We would love to have little Willie, regardless of what the reason might be.”

It was exciting to have everyone sitting around the table, enjoying a family reunion. Everyone, including the boys, laughed and enjoyed themselves.

Elizabeth and Hermann planned to take the last train out of Landsberg headed to Hamburg to start their honeymoon off in a grand style. As Dad was getting ready to take Elizabeth and Hermann to the station, he reassured them not to worry about their son. He was sure the baby was in good hands. I thought with mom looking so happy and smiling, of course, it would be no trouble. She adored her grandchildren and especially that they were boys.

My mother once told me that during her pregnancy, she yearned for a son and was very disappointed when they told her I was a girl. All her labour pains and difficulties she had to suffer during the last three weeks of pregnancy would have been rewarding had I been a boy. Growing up, I noticed she did not play with me the way she did with my sisters’ babies, nor did I feel the love and affection she showed them. Mom played with little Willie until he squeaked with joy like a piglet and all the time, I pretended the play included me too.

I stood by, my mouth opened in awe, watching mom bathe the baby, kiss his little hands, and pat his tiny rosy bottom. How I longed for the same love from her. Only God knew how much it hurt me to see that she cared more for the babies than she did for me. My mother was a good woman. However, I did not understand her lack of affection for me. She meant no harm when she said to me one day, “I wished for a baby boy so much, but God did not answer my prayers.” I don’t know how she intended for me to absorb this, but it hurt me very much.

I felt my little heart overflowing with love toward my mother. I wondered if she had ever done the same things to me or loved me in the same way, as I was too young to remember any of it. My mother did not like to be kissed nor any of my affection towards her. She didn’t fuss over me. Had she shared an affectionate word once in a while, my heart would have jumped with joy. She tried to show her affection in other ways.

On one such occasion, she bought me a doll. My only toy, ever. The doll, made of paper-maché, was soiled at one point. Wanting it clean, I bathed it in the water. The paper deteriorated. That was the end of my toys. She thought it would have made me happy when all I wanted was to feel her arms around me.

My mother found me to be a challenge and was impatient with me. At times, she would check my school lessons and strike me in the face when I made mistakes. It would make my nose bleed. I would remember her violence but not the lessons she was trying to help me memorize.

I would spend time in my room where I would sit by the window to daydream. I would wonder why my mother was so cold towards me. I questioned if she had treated my sisters in the same fashion when they were young and also if they found it hard growing up. Sometimes I believed they did. They never reminisced about their earlier days. Now they were all married, except for Lotte and I. Dora and Elizabeth lived the life they had chosen away from my mother’s eyes. Perhaps, I was to blame for my misfortune. No matter how much I reflected on this, I was unable to find any answers.

As for my father, who was rarely at home, he was too busy to show his affection for me. He would never find time to sit me on his lap and put his arms around me. I felt so unhappy and lonely at home. I was anemic, small, neglected.

I enjoyed staying overnight at a friend’s house or one of my parents’ friends’ houses. I was never eager to come back home. It felt empty. I usually had to fend for myself. It was so much nicer at Aunt Clara’s, my dad’s oldest sister, where I sometimes spent my summer school holidays. I looked forward to being away from home and Lotte. I don’t recall having trouble getting along with Dora or Elizabeth. However, Lotte and I could not stand the sight of each other. In a way, I couldn’t blame her as she was older than I and looked more mature.

Very often, I would come home for lunch to find an empty apartment. There was nothing for me to eat. I would run down to one of the shops and beg for some food. The neighbourhood bakery usually gave me a bag of cake trimmings, the dried pieces they had removed from their cakes before selling them. The ice cream parlour would give me their dried cones without the ice cream.

At eight years old, I was still a young child in comparison with Lotte, who was now sixteen. Lotte was dating after school. My mother was not pleased when I told her. She did not approve of dating at such a young age. Unfortunately, my mother had strict rules and became more abusive when my father was away.

After my telling on my sister, my mother used the six-streamer on her. A painful punishment, the six-streamer looks like a baton at one end and has six leather bands hanging from the other end. Lotte had trouble accepting the flogging. She swore to pay me back one day. She sure did when I least expected it.

Long after I had forgotten the incident, my parents had gone out and left me alone at home with Lotte. She pulled out the six-streamer and whipped me good. “You will get a lot more if you dare to tell mom or dad about this beating, you, you ugly duckling,” she screamed at me in anger. Lotte and I never forgot the pain these floggings inflicted on us.

The term “ugly duckling” quickly spread in the neighbourhood. Even at school, the name-calling continued, particularly with the boys on the street. The more I got upset about it, the more they teased me. Had I been strong and wise, I could have shown them who was ugly.

Following that name-calling, I often studied my image in the mirror. I would examine my long pale face topped with a bushel of blond hair that refused to cover my forehead due to an ill-placed cowlick, long nose, thin lips and stare into my crossed blue eyes. I have a lazy eye that falls to the side and impairs my vision. I had had surgery on my eye as a young child before starting school, but the results were poor. Despite all of this, I could not see anything disagreeable with my looks. Could I help if my sister and now the rest of the kids didn’t like my appearance? Nature made me that way.

Our parents were quite neglectful. However, Lotte was quite rebellious. She would often get herself in trouble. At one point, she ended up incarcerated for stealing. The city jail was on the opposite side of our street. Often, as I got ready for bed, I would see her through the window waving at me.

The last memories I have at home with Lotte was when she became pregnant. After this, she moved away to Dora’s apartment. She made...