Chemnitz contemporary witnesses: Christian Richter
At first, the fathers and husbands were absent from home. Life was organised according to strict rules. My first class teacher wore a uniform and spoke of heroes at the front. The wailing of the sirens during air raids left an indelible impression of fear. The siren on the roof of the Brühl School alone was a hideous image when looking out of the window. I remember a Whitsun trip to Ebersdorf in 1944, when a group of bombers left a wide trail of vapour trails and flew over the northern part of the town. The sirens were wailing more and more frequently and we people had to flee to the cellars or bunkers. Fear became a constant companion. And when one day a downed German fighter plane crashed into the railway station area, it was finally clear that air supremacy seemed to belong to the British and Americans. For us, the war was now inevitably close. The Americans bombed during the day, the British flew their raids at night. Each family was assigned an identification number so that, in the worst-case scenario, you could keep your belongings separate from those of your flatmates. I still remember our number today: 31/2926, and I also know that I was allowed to draw it on the back of the furniture with grease crayon.
Chaos broke out on 5 March 1945. Fresh snow had fallen in the evening. At the latest when we heard "The English are planting Christmas trees!" we knew what was coming. And it came ... During a break in the attack, the furniture was dragged out into the street. Incendiary bombs had hit the rear building, and one was stuck in the fire extinguisher box in the attic of the front building - brave men carried it outside. Martin the baker also urged the men to at least save the flour from the burning rear building. In the chaos, my brother and I had managed to get our toys out of the flat on the third floor. A small flat box made of sheet zinc, which had served its purpose as an ammunition container, contained my belongings. Then came the second wave of attacks. We went back into the air-raid shelters. The incendiary bombs were now followed by explosive bombs and air mines. A bursting and crashing sound shook the air. The cellar door came flying. Everyone sat petrified. There was no all-clear that night. It would have been a mockery of the blazing city anyway.
We were among the luckier ones. We even still had a roof over our heads. The row of houses had remained intact, but behind them it looked desolate. The stock spinning mill was on fire, the opera house had been bombed to ruins and the acrid smell of burning lingered in the city for days. Grandmother had been bombed out in Frauenstraße and lived with us. From then on, we were no longer allowed to leave the house on our own. At times, the potato shed in the coal cellar became the night quarters for us children. The agonising nights of bombing were followed by artillery fire on the town, which had long since become defenceless. The danger was present without interruption.
Today I can no longer say how I took it all in, it was a picture of a world that had changed completely and abruptly. Only someone who had to experience this horrific event can appreciate the immense loss and how much pain was involved. It has left its mark on our lives.
Contemporary witness brochures
The eternal March
Memories of a childhood during the war
The last witnesses
When the old Chemnitz died in a hail of bombs