Surviving the bombs
OTILIA Castellvi
From the English Civil War and the Second World Otília life Castellví became a drama which ruined the ideals of his youth in the POUM. In the posthumous memoirs of the citizen (Cliff) are offered here extracts from exile in France and Germany, and his testimony on the war stocks under
The floor was sand and not growing not a blade of grass. On arrival the wind blew so strong that it was impossible to walk with open eyes. The sand we whipped the legs and face like the bones of the damned fence.
French camps for women were more tragic than those of men. In the latter had no children or elderly
On January 29, 1944 bombing was so strong on Frankfurt which we almost completely buried
We were convinced that Hitler's fall would lead the overthrow of Franco and his dictatorship
justice punishes a isolated crime. Who judges the criminals who commit thousands of crimes in the wars? We
in the concentration camp Argelers (1). A woman who was in the barrack of the gendarmes told us we had to take refuge in one of the barracks site. Then note that, in effect, that ungrateful sands were some scattered huts. We went to see one of them, which seemed newer, but we left right away, thinking it was just the worst, or was not yet finished. We tried another and another ... but all were equal, four ill-fitting wooden walls, with one door and no windows.
Everything was coming and going, anguish and cries, lamentations, packages and creatures in an infernal whirlwind. It seemed that the cabin was so much pressure to explode. No ventured out, not only because the wind was blowing hard and cold, but also for fear of losing the site. Isabel and I were leaning against a wall in front of us had left the two little bundles that we had, to mark the "spot" reserved. We were horrified at such confusion and almost regretted having left the jail, where despite the bugs and rats, had to lie on the mattresses, and tables and benches, despite being dirty, greasy and be miserable, served to remind the body that people do not sit on the floor and eat on the tables.
Sad and huddled in "our" site, we watched with compassion the plight of the poor mothers who were arriving with their children. Without doubt, our misfortune was negligible compared to the tragedy of those unfortunate women. There was no child who does not cry of hunger, cold, discomfort, illness, or all at once. The desperation of those mothers was indescribable. So the fields of women were more tragic than those of men, where there were children or elderly. Without this family burden, the country life was not so hard. In our case, the lamentations of the old and the crying of children, apart from the rest of calamities, were like a surreal hallucination (...) protest did not know where to let off steam, because the office was accessible to those who were entering, but was sealed for those who were inside. Who wish to flee from the inferno would meet with the sea at a hundred yards. The rest of the field was enclosed with barbed wire and thick black Senegalese armed the other side. (...)
had to think about it again. On the one hand we had that beautiful Luxembourg, neat and full of good people, where we were not allowed to reside. On the other promised us jobs and a decent life, but in the country most had always feared. After much thought we chose the second route. Thus, in the spirit of one who, in desperation, pulled down a well, went to register office employment that would lead the country Nazi. (...) During the first week I spent in Frankfurt, with the help of my friend and her little brother, did the necessary steps to legalize my stay in Germany as independent worker in the field of sewing.
(...) On Saturday September 14, 1940, Melitta's brother went to the front. View to death from a young intelligent and full of life I was terrified. The hideous reality of war contributed, and not a little, my moral leeway. I had no preference for any country at war, only a deep sympathy for the thousands of people of all peoples who suffered and died because of war ... And why?, I asked again and again. For surely to benefit a ambitious and ruthless rulers who were smart enough to make the ideals of youth into hate. I understood it, it would cease to be young, but poor Waldfried, at twenty, not yet.
Even then, the tragedy of the war, the painful experiences I had accumulated so bitter disappointment caused annihilated the romanticism of social equality and fraternity among human beings that had excited me so candidly. In my thirties just wanted to convince others of the truths I knew from my own experience. But it is true that nobody chastens with the experience of others. Let alone the young! (...)
started in 1943 surrounded by rubble and misery, living the constant panic that caused the many enemies of the Nazis in the cities where most people were against Hitler. What a mismatch!
the night of September 23, 1943, the same day that Linus [co-author] turned thirty years, we were in bed reading a letter he had received from Catalonia when sirens sounded. (...) We had just enough time, not to enter, but to throw into the basement of the house at the time that it almost had befallen us completely. How to describe the horror of that moment? I confess that I can not even trying. (...) I do not know how many hours we sheltered under that underground, where we asomábamos from time to time by the small opening, waiting for the fire and crumbling walls come crashing down. When we finally decided to leave, we were appalled at the immense tragedy that our eyes beheld. And through it all, the maddening despair of those who sifted through the remains of their loved ones, the cries of the wounded, the careers of those who offered help ... War! What fucking men selfishness inspires so many crimes? Where was the civilization? What justice would normally punishes an isolated crime? Who will judge the criminals, far and coolly perpetrated thousands of crimes? What contradictions! What nonsense! How cynical!
Melitta (...) My good friend had taken refuge in a village with her mother and daughter a few months he had. When we learned that bombing had left the attic where we were staying, offered us his small apartment in Frankfurt. While living in this great city was dangerous, it was more than any other. He was also a ground floor, very important feature, given the frequent runs to the basement. These advantages, along with something as important as being able to live together and alone in a simple but well-fitted floor, while tempted us, despite our sincere gratitude to the Weber family, we moved to Hindenburg Strasse 142, E. Frankfurt am Main. (...)
Area station offered a sad aspect of mass destruction. But we do not stop to contemplate the deplorable change in the same city that two years earlier had walked with absolute confidence. In a streetcar operated as best they could, we went to the house of Melitta, so familiar to me. But even that cute floor looked miserable with all the broken glass, the windows covered with black cardboard, the dry and abandoned garden, shrapnel marks on the facade and a few neighbors who lived in the other floors. With depressed mood, let us feel like we just fall into bed, exhausted and demoralized, trying to get some sleep. But the gloomy sirens wake up one soon and so many times that night. And the next day and other days and nights. And every time! It was like a constant game, obsessive, which drove us crazy. There was no way to do anything in good condition, or sleep, or eat nothing but move stunned with the brutalization of a constant panic.
(...) In the midst of this unfortunate situation was Waldfried a permit from the front. Your Urlaub (permit) was also cause for sadness for him to find his family out of town and find his house in ruins. It was the same guy always affectionate, but it was easy to guess their bitterness about the destruction of all Germany, which he confirmed and was more than anyone. Waldfried Poor! Which friendly smile and sad goodbye to us to leave for the front ... never to return! What a life young, healthy, intelligent and sensitive spoiled! War Damn! Waldfried spoiled!
As life in the cities was so distressing and difficult, as we are better, it will shake the relentless Linus to leave the city. For this purpose he wrote to several wineries offering Mosel Valley to work in the famous wine cellars in the region. Like almost all Germans were in the front and scarce labor, Linus soon received an offer to work in a small town called Kinheim. Encouraged by the idea of \u200b\u200bleaving Frankfurt, did not think twice about the preparations for the move. On January 29, 1944, the eve of our cherished trip, so strong was a bombing on the city of Frankfurt that we almost completely buried. (...) The horror of these bombings, in which the elderly, women and children out of the basement mad burning like torches living has been written in history as a great and shameful crime of which he is ashamed of the world. This was another of those air strikes called Teppichbomben, which combined with incendiary bombs to raze everything explosion. In February of 1945 destroyed Dresden in the same way.
(...) In early 1945, around the Mosel valley atmosphere was chaotic, a sign that the German cause was wearing thin. In a small radio that Linus managed to install hidden behind the bed, every night we listened to French and English stations that kept us abreast of the Allied victories. As our principles were one hundred percent democratic and therefore anti-fascists, this news makes us very happy because we were convinced that Hitler's fall would lead to the overthrow of Franco. But alongside the political pleasure felt with the fall of totalitarian regimes, an intimate sadness came over us when thinking about the good and peaceful people of the village and remember the thousands of Germans who had nothing to do with the Nazi dictatorship, very conversely, suffered the same hatred with which thousands of others endured Franco liability despotism in our peninsula.
(...) The morning of Tuesday 13 March 1945, the first group of American soldiers entered Kinheim. (...) Most of the soldiers who had come was English speaking. Indians unhappy half the U.S. border with Mexico. It was the unfortunate soldiers who are uneducated to be played at the forefront of all wars, while the "civilized" places reserved for lower risk. Too bad they gave those kids between sixteen and nineteen years turned into cannon fodder! They had a mother too, like others, perhaps even more tender and sensitive than women frivolous city. We felt a great pity for those victims forced. Speaking in English, some moved, we threw in arms crying joy. They felt so helpless in those distant lands, from calamities not understand anyone ... Neither foes nor "friends"!
(...) Three days after my operation, the Americans told us that the French prisoners who were in that town would be repatriated over the week. How we longed to return to Catalonia, we agreed with them to make the trip together to their country, believing that at any moment would end the war and to defeat the democracies, Franco and his dictatorship would not hold any longer and we could again Barcelona. (...) The appearance of this group of people of all nationalities, loaded with luggage impaired, anxious to escape the German lands, was a real embarrassment. Freedom to enjoy a disorder was the most chaotic. Everyone wanted to give orders and be the first to take the trucks, the first step towards France, took people of Wittlich to Trier. (...) Once again, problems arose. The leaders of that repatriation center (half American, half French), all with an obtuse political knowledge, were not able to understand that despite being English, did not want to send back to Spain while Franco ...
1. Catalan name of the French town of Argelès-sur-mer. From Barcelona to Czech Nazi Germany, Castellví Otília. The original version in Catalan, Castilian. Editorial
Cliff. Price: 20 euros.
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