Gertis
War
A Journal of Life Inside the Wehrmacht
By
Lois Buchter
Gertis War is a true story taken from Gertis journal and stories relayed to her cousin. For the writing of this story however, some minor creative license was taken in its telling. This story relays the stories of how civilians suffered and the manner in which lives were affected by difficult times, which happened to coincide during a difficult period in history. All references to events, organizations, governments, persons, or locals are intended only to relay the experiences and feelings of Gerti during her life as they affect her story.
Copyright 2017 by Lois Buchter
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020935264
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part by any means without prior written permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal. These rights also pertain to any form of electronic transmission, copying or uploading to free download sites. Please discourage piracy.
Published by Evershine Press, Inc.
1971 W Lumsden Rd #209
Brandon, FL 33511
ISBN: 978-0-9975108-4-3
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9975108-5-0
First edition: 2020
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Dedication
GERTIS WAR
Dedication
Gertis War wouldnt have happened without the urging and support of Jack R. Tarvin, Jr., and Mark Murphy, past editor with the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Both of these incredible men kept urging me on as I started my literary journey. I was blessed to have time with both of them.
You truly grow when you accomplish something you thought only a dream.
I humbly bow to those team members of the writing groups I attended. I thank you all.
Thank you to my children, Eric and Jill, as well. They had to put up with me during the weeks where my head was in Berlin, and rationing and food shortages filled my dialogue.
And, finally, thank you to Gerti and Sigi, who taught me the real meaning of love.
GERTIS WAR
September 1937 Near Arnbach, Black Forest, Germany
Tag, youre it, said Rolf as he hits me on the shoulder and disappears into the shadowed canopy in front of me. Ahead, the darkened floor of the forest lightens as the meadow comes into view. Sunbeams streak through intertwined Linden branches illuminating a hidden footpath. Thick caramel-colored trunks guard the majestic grove in front of me.
Rolf! I call out, but the words melt into the air. Long braids flying behind me, I take off running in Rolfs direction.
We know these woods with our eyes closed. We have played the same game for years.
Papa called out, Dont go far. I heard him but doubted Rolf did. At fourteen, I adore my older brother and want to do everything he did.
Once, just once, I must beat him to the Madonna shrine. My muscles pump faster and faster as I dive under branches and leap over bushes. Holding my blue jumper up over my knees gives my legs the room they need. To win, I must take a short cut. My chest burns, and I feel scratches on my calves as I blaze a new trail through the brush. A broken branch slices cleanly into my arm. I dont even feel it. Dashing through, I spy a raspberry bush loaded with fruit. In the glade ahead, I can see the small roof of the chapel covering the shrine. It is clear.
I focus on the hallowed enclave at the back of the meadow.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement to my left. Rolf runs like a pantherswift and with purpose. His long legs have ample room to move in his loose shorts. Knee socks keep his legs free of scratches. He moves in a blur.
My legs and chest burn with exertion, reaching my arms out, I lean toward the shrine willing my arms to grow.
I will win, Gerti, he calls out and then laughs easily.
His feet barely touch the ground as he sprints. I can hear muffled giggles as he begins to taste victory.
I dont respond to him. I ache to get enough air into my lungs. It will be closecloser than it ever has been before.
Blinking back tears, I reach out further, fingers spread wide. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. One more jump and I will be there, but Rolf has taken the clear path with no obstacles before him. Only inches ahead, he touches first.
He cheers out Hauptkerle! (I am what I am King!) Bending to pick up a large stick off the path, he holds it up with one hand and carries it like a scepter. Sweat marks his white shirt with long streaks. Honoring me, he lowers his head and bows deeply before me. He raises his head and smiles. I catch a twinkle in his eye as he says, Next time, Gerti, maybe next time. You are getting faster. Skipping, he takes off back down the path.
Falling back against the carpet of pine needles around me, I slump down, and pull my knees toward my chest. I mutter out loud, I cant believe he didnt even look winded. Inhaling the heavy pine scent and closing my eyes for a few minutes, I listen to the canopy above sway in the breeze. I try to match my breathing to the melody the trees call out to me and dont hear Papa and Rolf approach.
Gertie, Rolf tells me you almost won this time. Das istgut, says Papa. He drops his backpack on the floor next to me.
Rummaging through the contents of the bag, he pulls out a small carving Rolf made at a meeting and a bit of Muttis blueberry cake, she has carefully wrapped in brown paper. Papa sighs as he kneels by the wooden altar at the shrine and closes his eyes. I watch his thick short mustache dip and rise with each breath as he says a prayer. He leaves the offering of cake and the carving in front of the worn Madonna statue before sitting down beside me.
Rolf doesnt waste any time digging through the bag. When he looks back at us his cheeks bulge with the rest of the blueberry cake. He had just eaten a huge meal and two helpings of cake at lunch. At sixteen, Rolfs appetite causes much laughter in my family. Humming a little song, he grabs one of my long braids to brush the crumbs off his face.
I try to get away from him by scooting over closer to Father.
With a loud Harrumph, Rolf sits down next to me and uses my braid to make a mustache on his upper lip. Secretly I love his attention.
Papa ignores Rolfs foolishness. He leans back on his hands and begins to sing. His massive chest expands, and his song lifts to the horizon of pine above us. Papas voice is a source of wonder for me. His tenor voice, always perfect in pitch and volume, reverberates into my being. He can hold a note forever.
As lead vocalist in the mens choir group, he constantly rehearses. Todays selection includes an Old Russian folk song-one of Grandmother Omas favorites. The song starts out slowly.
The words drip off the ocean of green around us. As the volume of the song rises, so do Rolf and me.
We danced around the small shrine. Rolf grabs me around the waist and we spun. Faster and faster, we move as the song increases in tempo. Three times the song goes back to a slow and quiet melody before it returns to the electric pace. We muffle our laughter against Papas chest as we collapse in a pile on top of him. He lets out a loud belly laugh and holds us in a strong embrace. His brown eyes pool with tears of happiness. I command time to stand still, right now, right here. My old Papa is still in there somewhere. I havent heard him laugh in months.
