Chemnitz contemporary witnesses: Wolfram Hoschke
A small tin sign made of aluminium reminds me of my early childhood and probably the worst experience I had on 5 March 1945.
At the time, my parents and my four siblings lived in Chemnitz on the Kaßberg at Ludendorfstraße 25 (later Rudolf-Harlaß-Straße and now Barbarossastraße) on Hindenburgplatz (formerly Kaiserplatz) - called "Kaikai" by us children - on the second floor. The flat was large, but not very comfortable by today's standards, with stove heating and an "outhouse" with a "gear shift" next to the stairwell.
I remember that more and more often, threatening knocking sounds from the small black radio, a so-called "Volksempfänger", followed by the wailing of sirens, were the reason to quickly visit the air-raid shelter in the house. The occupants of the house would sit there wrapped in blankets with a piece of luggage at their side, which contained the most important papers and also items of clothing in case the cellar had to be evacuated quickly - if it was still possible.
If I remember correctly, my father showed me a house on the Kaßberg driveway that had been destroyed by an explosive bomb and once, from the attic, a glowing red sky at night - the reflection of Dresden, which had been destroyed on 13 and 15 February and was in an inferno of flames.
On 5 March 1945, the wailing sirens again drove everyone into the cellar, and this time Chemnitz really was the target of the American and British bomber units. The detonations of the bombs and aerial mines caused the lights to flicker, the walls to tremble and the plaster to trickle off the walls. The neighbouring house, which faced the "Kaikai", was hit by bombs and set on fire. We had to leave the cellar through a narrow exit that belonged to a shoemaker's small workshop that had been put into storage. The entrances to the house - to the street or the courtyard - were no longer accessible. I was afraid to go through the exit, reddened by the glow of the embers, and then looked into the sea of fire in the burning neighbouring houses.
I saw women carrying cooking pots tied to their heads with cloths to protect them from falling and sometimes burning objects. My parents had gathered their five children around them and ran with them in the stream of fleeing people to Weststraße and along it towards Altendorf. I remember that we were initially accommodated in a mass dormitory on the ground floor of a house in Roonstraße (now Horst-Menzel-Straße) and spent the night there, crowded together on the floor. My father went back and, together with a few brave men, averted the danger of the fire spreading from the neighbouring house to Ludendorfstraße 25. They knocked holes in the wall to the neighbouring house and poured water down the fire wall through them. They probably fetched the water from the fire-fighting pond that had been built on the meadow at Kaiserplatz.
I still remember the night of 5 March 1945 and think of it when I look at the little tin sign. It was supposed to show me the way to my great-aunt in Tharandt if my parents were no longer able to do so.
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