more »

The farmer waits in his kitchen with a newly-filled bottles on the kitchen table. The soldiers arrive and make noises about searching the farm. Maybe one or two soldiers actually make a half-hearted effort of poking into the surrounding barn and immediate fields: the farmer tells my father that these are usually the soldiers that have pissed-off the leader of the troopers somehow - they are not allowed to drink this time and are sullen. They sometimes break things and are disciplined by the troop leader. He doesn't want to jeapordize his alcohol supply. He knows that he could take the bottles by force: but if he's nice to the farmer he knows that he will get the better blends and a larger quantity every week than if his men ransack the place. Golden goose eggs indeed...

Germans, Russians - the soldiers get drunk just the same no matter what language they speak...The farmer expects that soon he will have to deal with American soldiers, for of course the Americans will push the Russians back. They just have to. The Americans and Britons cannot let Communism spread over all of Eastern Europe. The allies will have a falling-out and the Russians will be pushed back to the Urals...It made perfect sense to everyone in Eastern Germany occupied by the Red Army. They just have to wait. Even when at war, the Germans knew that America shared their distaste of Communism. It was only a matter of time.

When Kurt returns from the fields in the breaking dawn the soldiers have left and the farmer's face is grim: "You'll have to leave." he says to my father.

"What have I done wrong?" Kurt asks, fear gripping him now. Though hard, this life was better than most, better than lots of homeless youngsters wandering the countryside with no food, family or possessions.

"The Americans are not coming." spits the farmer. "The war will end soon. The Russians will stay and they shall have my farm. They will take my land, but allow me to work on it for next to nothing - all for the glory of Mother Russia!" My father has told me that the farmer looked more grim and resigned to this than anything else: as if he knew that the Americans would turn on their allies was a story the villagers were telling themselves to give themselves hope.

"The soldiers said this?" my father asks.

"No they didn't have to...I had family in Russia. I know what Communists do. It's too late for me to start over. But you: you're young and you can make it to the West. The Russians and Americans will meet in Berlin and then they will carve us up as so much veal. The Soviets will get their share: they suffered in the war too much to not make us suffer afterward."

The farmer looks at my father. "Come let's bake some bread for your trip."
« less