Family Memory (VII) –March, 1945

I’ve written several posts on my family’s history.  You can find them all here on the blog, all with ‘family’ and a Roman numeral…that’s how you know this is the 7th of them.

My mom’s side of the family came to the U.S. from Germany a few years after World War Two ended.  When the war started, my grandfather had two older brothers, Karl and Heinz.  All three were in the Wehrmacht by the time war began.  Karl was an NCO in the infanterie, my grandfather was a private in the Pionere (the assault engineers; for Americans, they are a sort of elite infantry used to handling demolitions and special weapons), and Heinz was a young lieutenant in a panzer battalion.

(Note irrelevant to the story: My grandfather was also trained as a ski trooper and as gebirgsjaeger–mountain infantry)

Ultimately, a nation that spends years at war will suffer for it and inevitably, the highest price is paid by the young, those sent to fight on distant battlefields.  For parents, they live in fear of a telegram delivered by an officer or a black car pulling up in front of a house.    That’s not a German or American thing–it’s universal.  It’s not something from just World War Two, but all wars.

And so, in the middle of May, 1940, my great-grandfather received word that his second son, Karl, the sergeant, was killed in a firefight in France, leaving two sons fighting.  My grandfather fought in the Greek campaign, Crete, and then in Russia through the winter of 41-42.  Heinz remained with the panzers, but did not see combat again until June, 1941, with the invasion of the Soviet Union.

In early 1942, my grandfather, now a sergeant, was removed from the front lines due to the effects of extreme cold (he was never specific with where he served, but from his description, I think he was assigned to a unit involved in the fighting in/around the Demyansk Pocket.  This was the last time he saw combat.

Heinz remained with units in Army Group North near Leningrad.  In January 1944, Heinz was a major and was killed during the lifting of the siege of Leningrad/the start of the Leningrad-Novgorod Offensive.  He died commanding a panzer brigade (…this illustrates how brutal the fighting was; a brigade would normally have a brigadier as commander, three ranks higher than a major).  But for my great-grandfather, that was no solace.  He now had only one son remaining.

While serving at home, my grandfather met my grandmother.  They married on Christmas’ Eve, 1943.  They wound up in Frankfurt, living there with my great-grandfather and were still there in 1945 as Germany was collapsing.

In March, the Nazis were intent on self-destruction, Gotterdammerung.  In many cities, SS units rounded up any and all able-bodied men, sending them east to slow the Soviet advance.  Anyone who resisted was summarily executed.  At this point, it was obvious my grandfather would soon be sent east.  At the same time, the family house suffered severe bomb damage during an Allied raid.  While cleaning rubble, a crossbeam  broke free, falling on my grandfather’s ankle, breaking it.  He was unable to walk for at least eight weeks.  It was a providential lucky break because the Americans were expected to capture the city soon (and did so on March 29, 1945).  For the rest of his life, my grandfather thanked God for that fortuitous ankle break.  If he had been sent east, he, most likely, would have been killed or never returned, sent to camps deep in Russia for who-knew-how-long.

When my grandfather died fifty years later, my grandmother gave me his war medals (except for one my Uncle Karl lost in 7th grade–he took it to school and had it stolen…or traded it away….).  She also told me a story.

She mentioned the accident–and a promise she made to my great-grandfather  immediately after the accident happened.  She promised to say nothing for as long as my grandfather lived.  You see, it wasn’t an accident.  My great-grandfather waited for an opportune moment where my grandfather would not suspect intent…and dropped the crossbeam on his leg.  My grandfather’s “lucky break” was intentional.   Gross-Opa Haas told my grandmother “I have already lost two boys in this war.  I will not lose my last boy now.”

Think of the pain, think of the love involved in dropping a massive wood beam onto your own child–because that was the only way to guarantee he would live to see age 24.  I’m thankful for what my great-grandfather did.  I’m thankful my grandmother shared the story with me.

Take time to talk with your family, find out the small stories–they matter.  They’ll matter to your own kids and their kids.  It’s through stories we keep those who have died alive.