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The entire village of Olingen
was still asleep on that Friday morning of the 10th of May 1940 when my mother
started her daily routine at a quarter past four. It was hard for a railway
signalman's wife in those days. They had to share their husband's duties
as well as look after the station house where the family lived beside the
level crossing. As usual she reported by phone to the Roodt railway station.
Around five thirty the first goods train from Roodt passed by. The first
regular passenger train, known to locals as the 'Bommeler' (the Dawdler)
was due to arrive from Wasserbillig on the Moselle - the river separating
Luxembourg from Germany - a little later.
But this morning the train, normally
on time, was late. My mother received a call from the station at Wecker
to tell her that the train had not yet left Wasserbillig station. The caller
added that the telephone lines seemed to have been interrupted. Mom hurried
up to the bedroom, where dad was still sleeping, and woke him up to tell
him what was happening. Their loud voices woke me up and I listened to
their excited conversation. They were confused. Neither of them had the
vaguest idea what was going on.
The phone rang again. On
the line this time was the Wecker stationmaster, who made a general announcement
to all the stations on the line from the German border that the German
army had crossed the border at Wasserbillig and entered Luxembourg. He
added that the normal schedule would be disrupted, but that all station
staff should remain on duty and be prepared for whatever might occur.
Mother rushed upstairs
again, but this time with the awful news. Dad got out of bed at once and
stood there looking shocked: "Damn, this means war!" A moment
later I jumped out of bed too, quickly opened the window and looked outside.
"What's going on? Where is the war?" I still remember how puzzled
I was. For me there was nothing special to see or hear.
The sky was bright and
clear. The sun had just risen over the forest and was sending its first
golden rays into my bedroom. The surroundings were bathed in a deep almost
uncanny stillness. Not a living soul moved; not a dog barked. Only our
neighbour's rooster crowed while a bird twittered here and there in the
orchards round our house and a fresh May day scent wafted into my room.
There was not a hint of war in the air.
My mother then came into
the bedroom and told me that the Prussians, as we usually called the Germans,
had invaded our country. "What does that mean?" I asked, very
frightened. She didn't reply. She just told me to stay in bed. I obeyed
but was much too excited to go back to sleep.
Mother and father then
went downstairs. She put the coffee pot on the kitchen stove and he went
to the laundry house for his morning toilet and shave. Suddenly we heard
a terrible noise from a distance. Dad shouted: "Marguerite, Marguerite,
come quickly. There they are - the Prussians are here."
Mom rushed to the front of the
house, where dad was pointing up to the sky, while I jumped out of bed
and stuck my head out of the window. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"
mother cried. The sky was black with what looked like giant grasshoppers
swooping down on us, one after the other, coming from Betzdorf along the
railway and the old Trier rural road, straight in the direction of our house.
"Mom, mom! I screamed.
My five-year-old brother, Marcel, rushed into my bedroom and started to
scream along with me. The monsters approached and passed right over us,
making a terrific noise and shaking the whole house. The windows rattled
and the level-crossing gates trembled. I crouched behind the corner closet
while my brother jumped into my bed and hid under the covers. Mom rushed
upstairs to protect us, shouting something about "Prussian airplanes".
As the deafening noise
died away, mom and I looked out of the window. Dad was standing near the
corner of the house and our neighbour the grocer on the other side of the
railway line in front of his shop. His sister Lucy shot her head out of
the window and back again just as quickly, slamming the window shut as
she did so, performing the whole operation in almost one movement. But
she was not alone. We were all scared to death.
A little later came a second
wave of those frightening-looking planes (today I realize they were the
famous "Stukas"). They were flying in the same direction as the
first wave, straight over our house and very low. They even had to fly
up and over the electric line on the other side of our street. We could
clearly see the heads of the pilots and the soldiers in the planes. As
before, noise thundered all around us. I put my fingers in my ears and
hid behind mom while Marcel dived back under the sheets. Then came wave
after wave of these "black crows" as the massive airborne invasion
continued to build up.
Finally, after about a
quarter of an hour, it all seemed to be over. But everyone still felt very
anxious, and my father and two of our neighbours, Jang and Jemp, got into
a lively conversation about it all outside our house, wondering what lay
behind the violation of this neutral country of ours. only dad seemed to
realize exactly what was happening: "Those planes carrying the Prussian
soldiers are preparing to occupy our country." He was right.
Mother stayed inside with
us children. She told us to put on our Sunday clothes as we would probably
have to be evacuated. She started to pack clothes and underwear into a
large suitcase and then went to get our new passports and tied them round
our necks with string. When I asked her once more what would happen to
us in this war, tears came into her eyes and she told us to pray. Later,
when I got ready for early mass and school as usual, she insisted that
I stayed home that day.
When dad tried to phone the Roodt
station for more information, the line was dead. "Typical Prussian
tactics", he said. Stopping the flow of news and keeping us in the
dark. Then the man next door came into our house shouting that motorcycles
and all sorts of vehicles were coming up the old Trier way. Uncle Jemp,
as we children called my father's friend, then ran off along the ditch,
the shortest cut to his house. The other neighbour, Jang, disappeared too.
Everyone seemed to be in a panic. Mom, dad, Marcel and I found ourselves
left standing alone at the window, staring in disbelief as a whole division
of soldiers on motor cycles with sidecars bore down upon our village at
full speed.
They stopped at the level crossing
and studied the maps they had hanging round their necks. Jesus! How ugly
those Prussians looked, I thought, in their long grey-green overcoats,
their bucket helmets and their oversized motor-cycle goggles. Then they
continued on their way, using a rural path behind our house.
Suddenly there was a banging
at the door and to my horror one of them stepped into the house, his rifle
over his shoulder. We all froze. I almost wet my pants. My brother ran
to my mother and start screaming in fear. The soldier approached dad and
started talking to him, but we couldn't hear a word because of Marcel's
screaming, so mum took him into the living-room and shut the door behind
her.
The German asked for the local
authority. For a second or two Dad was completely lost for words, but he
eventually managed to blurt out: "The village authority? That's our
priest." Now it was the soldier's turn to be taken aback: "What
- a parson!?" he replied almost contemptuously. By this time my father
had recovered his wits and replied in Luxembourgish: "Ay, the community
alderman, Jampir Buurg." Dad then left the kitchen with the German
and, from the doorway, pointed out the alderman's house and told him how
to get there. The German thanked him, jumped back on his bike and roared
off over the Syr bridge to the home of the alderman.
Mother returned with my
brother, still scared and still crying. I tried to comfort him while she
and dad talked. Mum looked worried as dad told her how he had been taken
by surprise and had answered the German stupidly: "What will become
of us?" she asked. "The devil only knows", dad replied.
Dad wanted to go to see
our neighbours the Wagners, on the other side of the creek, to find out
what they thought about the situation. They were the only people in the
village who had a radio at that time and dad was hoping to get some news
that way. But mum didn't want him to leave the house, feeling that something
was about to happen - and she was right. Suddenly two soldiers came down
the track in a railway car, which they braked just outside our house. They
looked straight at us, unsmiling, and holding their rifles as though ready
to shoot. Dad and mum remained calm, however, while Marcel and I ran into
the house. Then to our great relief they carried on in the direction of
Roodt.
Shortly after another neighbour
called my dad. He said German troops were pouring down the road from Betzdorf.
From my window I could see them, a long moving caravan of vehicles and
troops. Dad joined me. He swore softly: "Damn it! What will become
of us!"
Suddenly we heard mother scream
from outside the house. We looked down and saw her pointing towards the
old Trier road, which was packed with more columns of German troops, the
cavalrymen looking so unfriendly with their helmets tightly fasten by leather
straps under their chins. "Jesus, Jesus!" she cried. Soon the
entire force arrived at the level crossing and moments later were swarming
over the entire village. Olingen was occupied, by the Prussians, by the
army of the "Wehrmacht".
Additional German troops soon
followed, all of them coming down the old Trier way. We wondered who had
told them about this former road, which was really only a track across
fields and woods.
Around 8 o'clock the mechanized
infantry passed the first house in Olingen. Very soon the whole village
was alive with soldiers, horses, trucks, artillery pieces, anti-aircraft
guns, field kitchens and Red Cross vans. Thousands of German troops passed
through Olingen on that fateful day in May 1940.
Around noon, shortly after another
column had come from a different direction and joined the other troops
at the heart of the village, a soldier rushed right into our kitchen. Without
a word he filled up his canteen with tap water. We all stared at him in
astonishment, at his field-grey uniform, his knee-high leather jackboots
and his heavy steel helmet. Dad dared ask him when and where they had entered
the country. He got a clipped answer: "Whatever lies behind us is
over. We strive only forward." On the metal buckle
of his belt mum read out loud: "God is with us."
Deep snow covered the villages
and fields. Thick icicles hung from the roofs and the Syr creek was almost
completely frozen over. The church bells rang out solemnly, breaking the
calm of the small village as they signalled the end of the Christmas Eve
Mass, which, because of the war, had been held in the late afternoon instead
of the traditional time of midnight.
The villagers hurried homewards,
cold and shivering from a chilly church but warm and deeply moved in their
hearts from what they had experienced there. The church had been packed
with American soldiers at prayer, thanking God for having escaped the hell
around Bastogne, in Belgium, where some of the fiercest fighting had been
taking place.
The joy of liberation aside,
however, the villagers had a very good reason to hurry home. They were
anxious about what lay ahead, for during the service the council chairman
had been obliged to agree to billet some thousand or so GIs in the village.
No one resented that, but the village had no more than 200 inhabitants
and was already overcrowded with just as many Luxembourgers - and their
cattle - evacuated from the border towns along the River Moselle, where
the Germans were making a desperate last stand in defence of their own
territory.
Up until then Olingen had
not been directly involved in the fighting. However, just outside the village
the Americans had positioned their heavy artillery and during the night
they laid down a thunderous barrage in the direction of Echternach and
the surrounding area, attacking the German border positions. The inhabitants
of the village were scared to death. At each roar of the guns, they shook
in their beds and just couldn't fall asleep.
US jeeps barricaded each
street and pathway. Trucks stood in every farmyard and beside every house,
shed and barn while big tanks secured all the roads leading out of the
village. Red Cross vans were parked in front of the public laundry house.
In the school yard a large tent had been set up to accommodate the field
kitchen, and the school house was filled with military provisions. At the
mill fierce-looking black soldiers stood on 24-hour guard over the officers'
quarters, rifles in hand and looking as though they couldn't wait to use
them. They frightened the life out of me and I ran home terrified.
Out of every habitable structure
peered an American GI. Even the attics, the cellars and the hay stacks
had their quota. All you could hear spoken in every street was American
English. If a village girl happened to walk by, they were at her side in
a flash, whistling, laughing, joking and shouting: "Hi there, girl!
Come on, give us a kiss." It was more like a Hollywood stage setting
than my quiet sleepy little village.
On returning home from
church my mother, brother and I - my father had stayed at home - were shocked
to find five GIs installed in our living-room and three more in the small
railroad guard house next door. My mother was horrified when she saw the
mess.
On the kitchen stove steamed
our huge laundry pot, serving to heat up the water for the boys' bath,
which they filled with water scooped up with their helmets, and their brand-new
soiled underwear was thrown in a pile in front of the house, sprinkled
with petrol and set on fire - to the dismay of my father. We couldn't understand
such waste after years of deprivation. Once washed and dressed, the boys
treated themselves to a dab of cologne and and a dash of brilliantine to
shine their hair. They whistled, joked and generally rejoiced in the feeling
of being civilized men once again.
Then they introduced themselves:
Master-Sergeant Bernard Bonk, Nick George, Bob Longfellow, Delbert, Jim,
Tom, John and Jack Campbell - all of them young redblooded boys.
My father had already become
friendly with them and somehow, with his double-Dutch English, had been
able to make himself understood. on the kitchen table stood the bottle
of prune Schnapps and tiny brandy glasses. The boys all patted him on the
shoulder and said: "Oh, very good Schnapps, Papa! As the glasses
clinked they all cheered and wished one another and every one of us a Merry
Christmas.
As for me, the little girl, I
gave those boys a big surprise when they discovered that I spoke some English.
Not of course that I understood everything that emerged from their back
of their American throats - especially the slang - but we got along pretty
well.
On our kitchen table lay a great
pile of boxes and cans filled with cakes, chocolates and candy they had
received from home as Christmas gifts. Mmmm, we could smell Santa Claus.
My brother and I couldn't believe our luck when those wonderful American
guys filled our hands with all the candy, chocolate and chewing gum we
could eat and said: "Here, this is for you. Take it and eat it".
We were so happy. We had never seen so many sweets since the war began.
In the meantime night had fallen.
Father brought the petroleum lamp and placed it on the living-room table.
There was no electricity anywhere in those wartime days. We lit up the
Christmas tree with three or four candles - no more, as they were scarce
at the time and we had to save them.
Our Americans ran in and out,
shivering every time they came in and going immediately to the stove to
warm themselves up. Then Bob Longfellow and Nick went to my mother and
asked her to cook them a Christmas dinner with what they called "American
fries". She didn't understand a word, of course, so I was recruited
to do my job as interpreter and eventually worked out that they wanted
"French fries". Well, potatoes we had plenty of, but where could
we get the grease? Mother reached into her pantry and came up with her
last precious pot of grease. The boys peeled the potatoes and cut them
up in slices - and then proceeded to use the whole pot of grease. Mother
almost burst into tears. She just looked at her hoarded grease melting
away and cried out "What a waste!" When I told the boys they
should be more economical, they just laughed and shook their heads.
Father then brought in a whole
smoked ham from the smoke house. He slit it open and cut off a platter
full of thin tender slices, crowning his efforts by producing a big jug
of cider and some bottles of good Luxembourg Moselle wine. The boys were
delighted. As soon as mom had set the table everyone eagerly sat round,
except for Sergeant Bernard Bonk, who was on Christmas Eve duty guarding
the level crossing. It was a tight fit, with the four of us plus the eight
GIs, but no one seemed to care. This promised to be a very special meal.
The boys loved the American fries
and our delicious Luxembourg ham, but found the wine a little sour. Not
enough to put them off though and it disappeared quickly enough. As time
went on they got merrier and merrier and became more and more talkative.
They told us they had come from St Vith, in Belgium, and had been in the
nearby village of Schuttrange for two days, doing nothing, it seemed, but
collecting the addresses and photos of all the beautiful girls in the area,
which they were only to eager to show us. They also proudly showed us photos
of their families and shots of where they lived in America. We just couldn't
get over the big cars they all seemed to drive over there and the wooden
houses they lived in. It opened a whole new world and way of life for us.
After dinner and the dessert
of the tiny plums we call mirabelles, which the boys all loved, father
surprised our GIs by starting the traditional Christmas carols with "Stille
Nacht, Heilige Nacht". They then joined in with the English version,
"Silent Night, Holy Night". When we had finished, John Campbell
suddenly rose and, with his beautiful and strong young voice, sang the
stirring hymn "Adeste Fidelis, Venite Adoramus" ("Come all
Ye Faithful, come let us adore him"). A hush fell over the entire
company as the words and melody filled the house, the street and our hearts.
So it continued, with songs from
both sides of the Atlantic, the Old World and the New. Then my little 10-year-old
brother, with his wonderful choirboy voice, plucked up his courage and
joined in. I noticed more than one GI wipe away a secret tear or two. Even
Sergeant Bernard Bonk came in to listen, as he recognized the very same
voice of a singer-boy of Vienna
he had heard in church earlier that day. Afterwards John Campbell
lifted him up to the ceiling and called out: "Merry Christmas! God
bless you. God bless us all."
When it was all over two of the
GIs crept into my brother's bed, but three of them had to make do on the
cold floor in their sleeping bags. Then to their delight they discovered
that mom had slipped in a hot water bottle and heated bricks. They were
really touched and called out: "Thank you, good Mama. We won't forget".
(25) THE 'PRUSSIANS' ARE COMING
(47) A CHRISTMAS EVE TO REMEMBER, 1944
Drawing: Paula Antunes
