Chemnitz contemporary witnesses: Harry Albrecht
I was 8 years old when the war began. When it ended, I had almost reached the age of 14. The war robbed us of our father. It brought us misery, hunger, hardship, fear and anger. Anger at Hitler and his criminal plans to conquer the world. What remains are traumatic memories.
That's why my motto remains as it was written in the Buchenwald inmates' declaration: Never again fascism - never again war.
That's how it was for us on 5 March 1945, when the wailing of the sirens made us shiver as usual. Mum grabs Ali, I take Eva by the hand. Kurt and Jürgen grab their bags. Air raid siren! Dulled, we trudge down the stairs to the cellar. The long corridor is already occupied.
We take shelter in an alcove. The gruesome roar of the bombs drowns out all other sounds.
Loud moaning and whimpering in the room. Shouting prayers and repeated "We just want to eat dry bread - if only the war is over." We are gripped by deep terror, a howling and piercing whistling freezes us in frantic fear. What was that? A bang follows. The roar of the aeroplane engines diminishes. The air raid warden calls for me. We have to check the attic. We actually throw two unexploded stick bombs through a glassless window. Outside, the Christmas trees are still gently gliding down in the sky. When I leave the house with my brother Kurt, there are surprises. A mass of snow has fallen in the last three quarters of an hour. This has dampened the fires somewhat. Secondly, we realise with stunned horror that there is a massive unexploded bomb less than 50 metres from our house. It later turns out to be a hundredweight bomb. We run to Annaberger Straße. The houses on the side of the street leading out of town are on fire.
At the junction of Annaberger / Olbernhauer / Schneeberger Straße stood the most imposing building in the whole of Oberaltchemnitz. The "Rotsteiner". A house made of red Main sandstone. The façade was decorated with marvellous stonemasonry and sculptural elements. It was an architectural work of art. What we see now is a smoking pile of rubble. Our hairdresser lived in there and the pub was the most interesting in the neighbourhood. (...)
We come home completely exhilarated. Mum and siblings are in their beds. We couldn't sleep that night.
Uncle Karl arrives late in the evening at the beginning of April. He was a window cleaner at the bread factory. He and his colleagues manage to steal a sack of flour and a few loaves of bread. He brings us three. We slaughter one immediately. When the radio announces that Hitler has died, we are overjoyed. Mum takes the iron reserve out of the suitcase. A loaf of bread and a tin of liver sausage. A feast! The food was bad. Always too little. Butter, which we got on stamps, was exchanged for bread at the Öhme bakery. This grease was taboo for us. Snot soup was our daily diet: grated raw potatoes, put in boiling water, add a little salt and the meal was ready. It tasted awful - just snot soup.
(...)
Our stance against Hitler, against fascism, left its mark on mum. It wasn't easy. School and "Jungvolk" taught us Nazi propaganda every day. But mum taught us red songs. We sang the Internationale quietly at home, long before we were allowed to belt it out loud on the streets for demonstrations on 1 May. Reading and singing were part of mum's everyday life. She passed this on to her children as a legacy. When the war was over, we rejoiced with the vast majority of people. However, years of hunger and deprivation followed.
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