The City in Flames Read Online Free PDF Page A

again. “I can’t look anymore,” she cried. “I can’t stand the sight of it anymore!”
    Some people stopped to rest, to sit beside us by our fence. They gratefully accepted the water we offered. The people on the road became fewer as the hours elapsed. But still no sign of my grandparents.
    “Please, Lord! Please don’t let them die!” we prayed to heaven and cried. “Please spare them!”
    When the last weary survivor passed by our gate, the sun had already risen.

    The city of Wurzburg in ruins but a steeple remains untouched

 

    Divine Intervention left Madonna and child unscathed
    Back to front

Chapter Eight
Search for Grandparents
    We left for the city, determined to find my grandparents. Soon we reached the asphalt road we traveled on the night before with our cart. The fear we felt then was replaced with desperation as daylight revealed the results of the previous night’s holocaust.
    A new wave of refugees trekked up the hill, passing us on our way to the burning city.
    “You’re crazy! You can’t go down there!” a man shouted at us in disbelief. “It’s hell down there,” he said, more to himself than to us, as he resumed his walk uphill. It was a great risk to enter the city, we all knew that, but we hoped that God was once again on our side and would let us find my grandparents—alive!
    The smoke became more intense as we neared the foot of the hill. We crossed a small park near one of the bridges connecting the suburbs to the inner city. The bridges were still intact. A small calculation by the bombers, perhaps, as they might be useful for invaders someday.
    We began to cough as smoke filled our lungs, and we had to don our gas masks. Everybody in sight wore one now; it would have been hazardous to go without one.
    A truckload of German soldiers, also wearing masks, passed us on the bridge. A row of houses that collapsed into the street was still in flames. The truck could go no further. The soldiers dismounted and equipped themselves with shovels, picks, and other tools for use in rescue. Their leader saw us, and with a wave of his hand he motioned for us to follow them.
    “Where are you going?” he asked my father with a frown.
    “My Oma and Opa!” I exclaimed before my father could answer. “We’ve got to find them! Please can you help us?” The soldier turned toward me and said, “I am sorry, little girl, but we have orders, and they are to lay free the exit of the public shelter in the Adolf-Hitlerstrasse.”
    “We are going toward Oberthür-Gasse,” my father interrupted. The soldiers were not familiar with the streets of the city, as they had come from a garrison in a nearby town. The two streets ran parallel to one another. My father led the soldiers toward their rescue mission.
    “What a waste!” my father lamented as he scanned the fiery surroundings. The soldiers remained quiet; they were not allowed to voice their opinions, but their faces reflected their thoughts.
    “This way!” my father said and pointed to the next corner, leading us into a narrow street. Mounds of stones and debris blocked passage, and the hollow structure of a burned-out house leaned dangerously to one side.
    “Let’s try the next one,” my father suggested, gesturing to a side street ahead. But it, too, was filled with fallen debris, and burning lumber blocked off any remaining openings. A cry came from a cellar beneath one of the still-burning houses. There it was again! In minutes the soldiers cleared a window leading to the cellar below the street level. One of them lowered himself on a rope held by the rest of the soldiers. When he emerged, a child clung to his body. Nobody spoke—we were too moved.
    “The rest are dead,” the soldier reported as he untied himself. The child was a girl, about seven years old. How she survived while the others with her had died was beyond our knowing.
    With every step we took through this giant pile of stones and ashes, our hopes of finding my