What we could see, was total destruction. Nothing more than rubble as far as one could see. In between that, some ruins of apartment buildings with empty windows. The sun was going down and the red rays of the sun shone through the dead windows. It was an eerie sight. The people on the train became silent. The silence I hated so much.
A woman’s shout broke that stunned stillness “The Michel! The Michel is still standing!” The beloved landmark of Hamburg was clearly visible and cheers broke out. It was only the tower that had survived, but from our view, we could not see it. To those on the train, he welcomed us home as he had done so many years to any ship that came into the Hamburg Harbor. The train rolled into the badly damaged, but fully operational, main station; Hamburg Hauptbahnhof. An announcement over the loudspeakers informed us that due to the numerous delays, the last two trains had arrived too late. We did not beat the deadline of the curfew that was imposed on the city. No one was allowed on the streets until the next morning.
This must have happened many times before, because the officials in the station knew exactly what to do with the crowd of people disembarking the trains. We were herded into a vacant side-tunnel. The dim lights on the walls helped me see the greasy stones that lay on the ground between the deserted rails. I still found it dark and scary and was so unhappy that I cried. I could not stop crying even so Mom held me tight in her arms. “Mutti, is this our beautiful Hamburg?”
“Illa, first thing tomorrow morning, we are going to see Oma and Opa. It will be grand, you will see!”
I cried myself to sleep. The next thing I felt my Mom shaking me gently.
“Illa. Wake up. We are going home now.”
We, along with the other people, left the tunnel. Above ground the streetcars and subways were all running. Mom was amazed at that. We took the Hochbahn (elevated-train), so named because it was built above street level. From that train we could see more of the devastations of war. Wandsbek-Gartenstadt was our destination. From there we walked about ten minutes to Oma and Opa’s place. Down a small pathway lined with hedges on one side, and a stand of about thirty big oak trees on the other, we passed little garden gates that led into the different garden-homes.
As we came down the path, we could see someone already working in one of the gardens. It was Opa! He stood up and saw us coming. He gave out a loud bellowing shout that filled the neighborhood. “Fine! They are here!” (Fine is Oma’s nickname).
Opa throws the spade he was using on the ground and came running towards us. Oma could run faster and got to us first. Mom and Oma holding on to each other in a big embrace, and I am standing in front of this impressive big man that is my Opa. I am not sure how to behave. I thought it cannot hurt to be polite and I curtsied, as it was still expected for well-behaved girls to do. Very formally I said; “Welcome to you Grandfather. I bring you greetings from the people in Schopflohe.” Then I mentioned each person by name. Opa laughed and laughed. His beautiful blue eyes got full of tears. I was not so sure if it was just from the laughter. Opa picked me up from where I was standing and swirled me around. I held on to him by putting my arms around his neck. Oma and Mom’s eyes widened as they stood still, watching the two of us. My Opa: the most caring, good-hearted man, always had a hard time showing his emotions. “Mein Mädelle,O’ mein Mädelle" (my girl) he repeated a few times.
*“Fine, did you hear the Girl talk? Not only does she speak Schwabish, what she said was hilarious and in a typical Schopflohe dialect”. *
That was when my Oma understood. I was speaking his language, the one he had not heard for a long time, and above that; about his own family and friends. When Opa put me back onto the ground, he realized he had not yet greeted my Mom. He did it then, asking her how the trip had been and told her about our little hut. He apologized for not saying Hello earlier. “That is perfectly alright”. Mom said. “I saw you with Illa and that makes me very happy.”
“Illa?” Opa asked. “What kind of name is that? She is going to be my Gretchen!” (He was referring to Gretchen in Faustus: Gretchen or Gretle is a short form for Margret or Margerete. In England or Ireland, they say Maggie or Marge.) From then on, my Opa called me Gretchen and he never called me anything else.
