The Little Holy Water Kettle

Lydia Brauer (nee Gretz) was born in Kleinliebental on August 27, 1927 as the daughter of Adam Gretz and Adelheid Adler. In the following text she tells about her memories of her childhood as well as about the expulsion to Siberia after WW2.

"I had a difficult childhood. From 1930 until 1940 were mainly years of starvation and in 1933 there were really people who starved to death. But we had much warmth in the house of my parents. Both parents were musically talented. Dad played in the brass band. I could also play piano at an early age. One Christmas we visited some friends of ours and I was allowed to play "Grosser Gott" for them. I was so proud at the time and received an extra piece of bread from my parents. At that time, bread was strictly rationed.

In the year 1941, the first after Germany declared war against the Soviet Union, 41 German men from Kleinliebental were arrested. My father was among them. He was in the prison in Grossliebental together with seven other men from Kleinliebental. The first bombs that fell hit the prison. Seven men were dead immediately; my father survived. I don't want to describe how. But those people were not brought to a hospital.
My mother and three of my siblings fled to the Russian village of "Alexandra" which was about one mile away. Every night (it was too dangerous during the day) my mother and I went back home and treated father's wounds as well as we could. One day they said to us, "Your father was arrested again by the police and he is in the parish hall temporarily." My mother and I took some food and went to the parish hall immediately. My father cried and said: "I don't want to eat; I would like to have ointment for my wounds." But where should we get some?
In October 1941 our father was shot at the age of 47.

I became an orphan at the age of 14, and alone with my brother who was just seven years at that time, I had to go through the war, the Kommandatur [exile] in Siberia, and the cold. I was asked to work as a spy and was then arrested. O God, it was all so horrible! Often I ask myself, "How did you survive all this?"

Another memory: It was 1955. I had three children (one already died). At the agronomist of the village, I took potato skins from the garbage pile. I rinsed them and cooked them with turnip leaves and grass so that the children would not starve to death. One day I saw his housekeeper and I asked her to make the skins a little bit thicker. And she did it; even little potatoes were among them. Oh God, how much I thanked this woman!

Before the war our house was often searched by the police. Even they probably did not know what they were looking for, but afterwards the entire house always looked like after an earthquake. One day they came again and tore up all the holy pictures (my mother was a very pious woman) in front of us. We also had a very nice little holy water kettle that my mother inherited from my grandmother. How much she loved it! On purpose, my mother let it fall. A policeman said: "Good, otherwise we would have thrown it out of the window." Luckily, the beautiful kettle broke only in two pieces. Then, during the war, all the people of the village had to take German soldiers in their houses and my mother told the story about the kettle to a German soldier. He glued it so that you can hardly see the break. And I still keep this expensive kettle with me (see left).

In May 1995 I was with a tour bus in Odessa. There I was shown a mass grave where 308 Germans had been shot, and one of them was my father. With much trouble and many tears, I succeeded in learning how and when it happened. My father was shot on October 11, 1944. It is hard to believe. I have read his last words and his signature is still before my eyes. It is indescribable. But the dear God heard my prayer, and at least my children and grandchildren will have it better here in Germany."

May 1999 - Translated by Peter Mock (pmulm@hotmail.com), Jo Ann Kuhr and Doris M. Dickenson

Comments and suggestions are always appreciated!
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© 1998 Peter Mock
Version 3.0