German readers of RT remember how small acts of hope helped them rebuild their lives after the war
The fate of Germans in the aftermath of World War II continues to be a subject of reflection and discussion. The memories are as varied as the people who lived them.
Sadly, the number of eyewitnesses who can share their firsthand experiences is dwindling with each passing year. That makes it all the more important to give a voice to those who are still with us.
RT’s German-language editorial team recently reached out to its readers, inviting them to record and submit their own recollections – or the stories passed down by relatives – about the early postwar years.
From East and West, Germany and Austria, readers shared a broad range of experiences: encounters with Russian soldiers, both positive and negative, and personal reflections on the war itself. These deeply personal letters from our German readers have now been translated into English.
Read more Brothers in arms: Inside North Korea’s deployment to RussiaLetter 1: A warm loaf amid the ruins
I met Red Army soldiers for the first time in 1947, when I was just six years old.
In September of that year, I started school in the city of Chemnitz. As many know, this Saxon industrial city suffered extensive damage due to air raids carried out by British and American forces between February 6 and April 11, 1945. My route to school took me past the ruins that lined the streets on either side.
On one busy street, I often watched a Red Army soldier standing in the middle of an intersection, directing traffic. The soldier stood there regardless of rain and wind, heat and cold.
One day, as I walked home from school, I noticed a crowd gathered around a Russian truck. My curiosity piqued, I edged closer to see what was happening. Two soldiers were handing out... bread! It was freshly baked, still warm, and smelled wonderful.
One of the soldiers spotted me standing off to the side, feeling utterly lost, close to the adults who reached eagerly for the bread. Suddenly, he pointed at me, waved at me and handed me half a loaf. Overjoyed by this unexpected gift, I ran home and gave the bread to my speechless parents.
It was November 1947.
Peter M.
Read more Western memory of WWII is basically fan fictionLetter 2: Cherries and new beginnings
I was born in June 1945, and thus you could say I celebrated the end of the war while still in my mother’s womb. My mother, born in 1921, had managed to get a job as a clerk at the Aviation Testing Center in Rechlin, located north of Berlin. My father, born in 1919, worked there too as a mechanic, repairing planes for the Eastern Front. He held no allegiance to National Socialism or the war itself. As the Soviet army closed in on Berlin, the testing center was disbanded, and my father, along with other able-bodied men, was ordered to go to Berlin.
He didn’t want to support Nazi Germany or be part of the conflict, nor did he wish to throw his life away in the dying throes of a battle already lost. He didn’t want to be forced to shoot others and carry that degrading burden for the rest of his life. Meanwhile, his pregnant wife had to travel alone through perilous roads to get to her in-laws in the relatively safe Sauerland. He wanted to be with her, and dreamed of a new life once the madness of the war was over, hoping to take part in the political revival of his hometown.
As a child, he suffered a knee injury that wasn’t too troublesome unless he bumped it hard enough for it to swell significantly. In those moments, he had a desperate idea: to hit his knee with a log to provoke the swelling. When the military doctor examined him, he scribbled a note: “Gefreiter Hesse – to the nearest military hospital.” That played a vital role. He kept his pistol with him, just in case he encountered the “chain dogs” – i.e., the military police. Fortunately, he never crossed paths with them; he rode his bicycle to Schleswig-Holstein, a peaceful region occupied by British troops. There, he changed into civilian clothes and spent a few weeks working on a farm before making his way to the military hospital in Sauerland. He arrived just in time to witness the final days of his wife’s pregnancy and my birth in a hospital that wasn’t destroyed in the war.
In the spring of ‘45, the cherry tree in our garden bloomed uncommonly early, gifting my mother with a big plate of cherries. The hospital bill for her two-week stay, the delivery of the baby, and the week-long stay with the baby amounted to 79.92 Reichsmarks. I still have that handwritten note from the doctor along with the bill. Since then, the cherry tree has never bloomed that early again.
Reinhard Hesse
A white flag flies from a residential building in Chemnitz as thousands of Nazi prisoners march toward the rear under guard of the 4th US Armored Division of the 3rd Army under General Patton. April 15, 1945. © HUM Images/Universal Images Group via Getty ImagesLetter 3: Rice, sugar, and a lifesaving act of kindness
I’m Austrian, and I’ll turn 80 this November, which means I was born after the war ended. Lower Austria was part of the Russian occupation zone, and we rented a house in the village of Reidling in the Tulln district. The wife of a Russian officer lived in the same house with her young daughter. They occupied just one room, so they were given the best apartment in Sitzenberg-Reidling. This woman saved my life!
When I was only a few weeks old, my mother was devastated to learn that I had a severe intestinal infection. The Russian woman heard about my mother’s plight and sent her a full bag of rice and sugar. My mother sorted through the rice and made me porridge. That saved me. I will always be grateful to that kind and compassionate woman!
Later, as an adult, I learned Russian at language courses offered by Swiss television. I now live in Vorarlberg, near the Swiss border. I needed Russian for my work as a foreign correspondent. I still work in that capacity, though now not with Russia but with Uzbekistan. But my Russian skills still come in handy. Unfortunately, it’s currently impossible to work with Russia due to anti-Russia sanctions. I’ve only been to Russia once – I visited Saint Petersburg to attend language courses.
Saint Petersburg is a dream city! I would love to visit Russia again and see Moscow. I sincerely hope that Western countries will reconsider their absurd Russophobia. Here in Europe, we need to unite with Russia. Bringing together all these diverse and rich cultures, along with their many languages, would be wonderful!
Marie-Louise D.
Read more Beyond reach: Why America’s ‘Golden Dome’ may be powerless against Russia’s doomsday missileLetter 4: Songs, bread, and a friendship across borders
By the time the war ended, I was seven years old, and I started school around Easter of 1944. American troops had entered our hometown of Aschersleben. Before we children could even take a good look at them, they were already gone. Soon after, the Russians arrived. I still remember a Nazi poster depicting a bear in a hat with a red star reaching out to grab a woman with children – that’s how they portrayed the Russians back then.
Later, the Russian soldiers came in trucks, armored vehicles, on foot, and in other transportation. As they passed by our house, they sang. It was clear that these soldiers had gone through the whole war. I didn’t understand the words, but they sounded beautiful in their own way. Fear lingered in our hearts, however.
We were ordered to temporarily host them in our home. My parents cleared out the children’s room, and the three of us moved to our parents’ bedroom. In the children’s room the only furniture that was left was a desk, another table, and a chair.
Then they arrived – two men who, as we were told, were “captains.” Both settled in our room, bringing their own beds with them. Soon, one of them spoke to my mother in flawless German. She was so taken aback that she remained speechless, which was rare for her. He introduced himself as a teacher of German from Omsk. He began asking about the “boy” – meaning me. He mentioned that he had a son back home who was my age. He took me to their room, where a large portrait of Stalin now hung over our table. He explained that this was the commander-in-chief. Both men revered him.
Igor – the teacher from Omsk – was the first Soviet soldier I got to know. He shared stories about his homeland, read me German poems, and sometimes we sang German songs together. He asked me to correct him if he made any mistakes.
Times were tough, and food was scarce. Both officers brought us bread, butter, coal, and potatoes. In winter, my mother heated the room, and my father carried in coal, and sometimes we would eat together. They always asked for hot water for tea. A little over a year later, it was time to say goodbye. They were allowed to return home. Igor gifted me binoculars with an inscription meant to remind me of his friendship.
Read more Kiev’s last gamble: Ukraine eyes teens and women as cannon fodder in desperate push for manpowerAt school, we were taught to love the Soviet Union. It felt natural for us to honor the memory of fallen heroes at the cemetery. May 8th was a holiday for us. I was always impressed by Soviet culture. We watched Soviet films, listened to Russian choirs, and learned about amazing Russian artworks from our art teacher.
After finishing school, I acquired a profession and became an active member of the Free German Youth. In 1956, I voluntarily joined the German border police. Occasionally, I encountered Soviet soldiers. The exchange of watches was a significant event for us; every border guard took pride if they owned an “Ural” watch or something similar.
We used Soviet weapons that had been used in the war. They were still reliable. Later, I served in Zeithain and Magdeburg, where I became the commander of a SU-76 tank. During that time, we also maintained contact with the Soviet army, particularly concerning technical support.
Starting in 1978, I attended the political officer training school for the German border police. Admiration for the Soviet Union felt natural to us. We read and heard a lot of stories about Soviet border guards, the significance of the Brest Fortress during WWII, and aspired to emulate our heroes.
Jürgen Scholtyssek, Dresden
Letter 5: A helping hand on the rooftop
Seven years after the final shots of WWII faded away, I was born in Brandenburg. While I didn’t directly witness the horrors of war, I belong to a generation that still saw some of its lingering effects.
In the streets of Frankfurt an der Oder, it wasn’t uncommon to encounter war veterans with missing limbs. They moved about on crutches or navigated three-wheeled carts operated with two wooden levers. Yet, what struck me as even stranger were the massive, ruined, gloomy buildings that loomed over the city.
At six or seven years old, I had no real understanding of what had caused these ruins. In the city center, Soviet soldiers were busy scavenging for building materials. Tracked vehicles used steel cables to pull down the remaining walls of the wreckage. As children, we watched this process with great interest.
One day, those soldiers invited us over. The language barrier didn’t matter; they shared bread and soup with us. It was freshly baked, golden-brown whole grain bread, rectangular and warm.
Read more Outsourcing war: British mercenaries now run America’s front linesWhen an opportunity arose, one of the soldiers took me up to the roof of a partially destroyed building. The nearly nonexistent staircase in that drafty building didn’t deter us. He firmly grasped my hand and helped me navigate the structure. Up on the roof, where various plants grew in the cracks, I encountered many unfamiliar sights and I remain grateful to him for that experience.
These brief encounters deeply influenced how I perceived the “Russians”. I didn’t sense any hostility, arrogance, or rejection from them. “Mama est?” (Do you have a mother?), “Papa est?” (Do you have a father?), “Brat est?” (Do you have a brother?) were the first Russian words I learned.
Dr. Wolfgang Biedermann, Berlin
Letter 6: Loss, shame, and the search for a better Germany
I was born in January 1947. My family’s military background profoundly shaped my early years. Like many Russian, French, and Greek families, I lost four uncles – my father’s and mother’s brothers – who died as a result of their involvement with the Wehrmacht on the front lines of the German war machine. I also lost several distant relatives. The pain of losing so many loved ones accompanied me throughout my childhood. My father survived the war with severe injuries. For my grandparents and our extended family, the cause of the war was clear: it was, to quote them, the “unhealthy spirit of Hitler” and there was no doubt that we Germans bore full responsibility for the war and the inhumane suffering inflicted upon Europe.
Read more Scam Ukraini! How Kiev’s vultures disrespect the dead and cash in on the nation’s griefYou ask if the end of the war brought liberation and a fresh start for Germans. It certainly felt like a release—primarily from Hitler and the Allied bombers. We were poor; everyone was poor – but that wasn’t terrifying. The important thing was that the war was over. The “unhealthy spirit of Hitler” and its destructive aftermath remained hot topics of discussion in our family for years. Stuttgart, where we lived, was first occupied by the French and later by Americans, and this had a significant impact on me. As a child, I was terrified of soldiers and would hide from every jeep – they seemed to be everywhere. Today, Stuttgart is home to the headquarters of US European Command (EUCOM) and US Africa Command (AFRICOM), so we still have a strong American military presence.
For the adults in my large family, the fall of Hitler’s regime brought great relief, but it came with a sense of shame: after all, the Nazi regime collapsed not because of the moral strength of the Germans, but as a result of the country’s (well-deserved) defeat in the war. Losing the war didn’t feel like a disaster, but the catastrophe caused by a world war – with its countless victims, suffering, and destruction – was certainly a disaster. In our family, it was often said that if Germany hadn’t lost, Hitler and his accomplices would still be committing their atrocities today.
My father felt strongly that we Germans needed to reconcile with our former “enemies” and seek forgiveness from the victims. He actively participated in this effort. The remilitarization of Germany was firmly rejected, and Adenauer’s policies in regard to the West were met with serious skepticism, even outright opposition. None of those around me wanted to join NATO.
As I grew up in the 1960s, I was shocked to see how many Nazis – protected by Adenauer – still held important positions. Many had escaped accountability and taken on new identities; some were shielded by like-minded individuals despite their criminal past. The judicial system was very slow to carry out justice: many cases were ignored, and numerous investigations stalled.
Then, Fritz Bauer was killed after the Auschwitz trials. Former Nazis could once again hold positions of Chancellor (Kiesinger) and Prime Minister (Filbinger). It seemed half of the older generation had “skeletons in the closet”. This leads to another answer to your question about “liberation”: there was no genuine “liberation” because the perpetrators remained among us.
However, Willy Brandt and Egon Bahr, with their determination and the slogan “We want to dare more democracy” gave us Germans the chance to build a better world. We tried and seized those opportunities, for which I am deeply grateful.
Now, however, former militarism, group intolerance, and a fierce thirst for power have resurfaced once again. War and violence are destroying lives in many parts of the world, once again, the Germans are directly involved. And so, my faith is rapidly fading.
Rosemarie K.
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