The City in Flames Read Online Free PDF

grandparents alive shrank more and more.
    We reached the public shelter, which was the soldiers’ destination. Another group of military personnel already arrived carrying the bodies they found in the shelter to the street. An entire block was already lined with victims.
    Our family occasionally used this shelter. It was only a block away from our house. We went there especially in the winter, when our own cellar became too cold.
    Is it possible Oma and Opa decided to use this shelter last night? Dear Lord, I hope they didn’t! I thought.
    My mother must have had the same thought. “We are looking for my parents,” she said to one of the soldiers who emerged from the shelter, carrying a dead child.
    “There are only a few bodies left down there, but they all look like children,” he said, breathing heavily as he lowered the lifeless bundle to the ground.
    “This child,” I said as I stared at the little girl on the ground, “looks familiar.”
    “It’s Ingrid!” my sister exclaimed. “Oh, Ingrid! Ingrid!” she cried to the little body, as if she could awaken it.
    I looked over the rest of the bodies as I walked past them. “Oh God!” I cried. “Don’t let me find them here. No! Not here.” I reached the end of the lineup and turned around. Again, I looked over the lifeless remains before me. “Anneliese,” I said, recognizing another of my playmates. She, too, had died, like her little sister, Ingrid.
    My father walked toward me. “The rest of her family lies over there,” he said, pointing to the other side of the street.
    “Why?” I sobbed. “Why did they have to die? They didn’t hurt anybody.”
    “Come!” my father said, his voice choked-up as he led me away, his arm around my shoulders. “We’ll go to our house now,” he added, turning to see if my mother and sister were following us. We were all in tears, even my father, although he tried not to show it.
    More people looking for their family members came toward us, heading in the opposite direction.
    “How does it look over there?” my father asked one of them, pointing to our street.
    “It’s all gone!” the man said wearily. “I doubt anyone got out of there alive.”
    “Oh no!” my mother said tearfully. “I won’t believe they’re dead. We must find them!”
    Rubble cluttered the street, leaving only a narrow path. Soon there was no street at all—just piles of stones and smoking lumber between rows of ruins. Single file, we paced our way over mounds and climbed carefully around twisted beams of steel.
    “Don’t touch them,” my father cautioned us. “They might still be hot from the fire.”
    There it was! Our house—our family’s home for generations. Or was it a house? No! Only the four walls remained intact, though burned. The graceful furniture, delicate china, and polished silver were destroyed. A lonely chair leg peeked out from crushed stovepipes, broken tiles, and chunks of smoldering mattress.
    “The cellar did not collapse,” said my father.
    “Maybe they are still down there!” we all exclaimed. Feverishly we began to remove stones and dirt from the entrance to the cellar, but every time we pushed the rubble away, more came rolling down.
    “It’s no use,” my father said as he brushed the dirt from his hands, which began to bleed. “We’ve got to get a pick and shovel.”
    “Ja! And perhaps some soldiers,” my mother said with hope in her voice.
    We did not take the route by which we came. Instead we walked to the other end of our street, but soon reached a point where passage was almost impossible. Heavy, yellow-colored smoke rose from a cavity in the ground. It looked like something exploded there. The strange odor made us cough. Hastily my father buckled his gas mask back on his face and, still coughing, he motioned for us to do the same. We removed them earlier, because the hot air made the rubber stick to our skin, causing us to perspire.
    Soon we reached the end of our street. We took a