January 1945. But even during the last months of the war there were always little miracles. I often slept very badly, dreaming of bombs and Russians attacking us, and I didn’t miss a sound on the street.
Once in the middle of the night I heard the trampling of army boots on the cobblestones of our sidewalk. Even before the doorbell rang, I knew it could only be Uncle Walter. He suddenly appeared in his grey and blue air force uniform. As always, he had something to eat in his knapsack and even a few metres of fabric that my mother would use to sew all sorts of things.
Somehow he had managed to get Sonneberg written on his marching orders. He could only stay for one day, and he spent it with us in Aunt Fanny’s kitchen. On such occasions we children no longer played the leading role with her. She was completely absorbed in caring for her nephew. Behind the kitchen she had a large pantry with every imaginable cupboard and box. She would conjure up a piece of meat from somewhere and make dumplings in no time at all, and then she would beam from ear to ear when she heard from her nephew that nowhere in the world did food taste as good as it did at her place.