In February 1945, we joined the fortunate few, who were able to catch the last train out of the ancient German city of Breslau. Russian artillery was already pounding the city, and Russian infantry and armor units almost had the city surrounded.  In haste, my mother and grandmother loaded my sturdy baby carriage with two wool blankets, a small metal milk can with lid, and my father's army canteen, filled with water. We also took my father's camera and a good set of dinner silverware, just in case we needed to trade these items for food or shelter.

While the remnants of a vastly outnumbered German army fought desperately to keep the last escape route from the doomed city open, our locomotive raced toward the west, toward Dresden.  One or two brave German fighter pilots engaged several Russian aircraft to give us a chance to dash for a heavily wooded section of the line, where the treetops almost touched.  The coals in the steam locomotive were quickly extinguished, and there we sat, sitting ducks if discovered, anxiously awaiting the night, when we could continue our journey in relative safety. The adults spoke only in whispers, and did their best to calm the crying children, as if the enemy fighter pilots could hear them from above. After restarting the engine, we reached Dresden safely a few minutes after midnight.

One of my earliest and most vivid childhood memories is of the crowded train station, and the masses of humanity everywhere. Despite the overwhelming army of refugees which had descended on them, many of the residents of Dresden gave what food they could spare to those refugees with young children. I remember a few compassionate, friendly faces so clearly that I could paint them today, had I the talent of an artist. 

Because all of the available shelter was occupied by previous arrivals, we were forced to seek refuge in a small village outside the city, and therefore we survived. 

The Allied bombers came on February 13, 1945, at 10:10 PM. They must have begun their attack from our direction, for the mighty roar of their powerful engines filled the farmhouse in which we had found shelter, so that we could not hear even the words our landlord shouted at us. Concerned that the planes would target the houses in our tiny village, he has trying to persuade everyone to go outside and run for the shelter of a nearby forest.  As he tried to shout above this apocalyptic crescendo, even the pictures on our walls resonated with the wooden paneling, sounding like the roar of an enraged lion. 

Instinctively, I crawled under the bed, but my mother dragged me from that shelter by my heels, and carried me with her to a heavy oak table. Oblivious to the well-intentioned advice of the farmer, she refused to move. Her still fresh memory of the Russian fighter planes that tried to hunt for our train hiding in the forest during our escape from Breslau made her fear open spaces more than anything. Nevertheless, she screamed at me that she feared that the house would collapse, and that the only safe place in that room was that enormously heavy table. It seemed as though we spent almost an hour there, while my mother hugged me ever more tightly whenever I began to cry. 

Eventually, she was convinced that no bombs would fall on our insignificant village, and she led me a few hundred feet away from the house. There we stood, just the three of us, staring at the tragedy unfolding before our eyes.

Illuminated by the intense light of the dying city,  thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of aluminum foil strips - dropped by the British bombers to confuse any German radar operators- descended from the heavens. To a child, it was a beautiful sight, as they landed on the nearby fir trees.  I asked my grandmother, who had now joined us, whether it was Christmas. She seemed unable to speak, and only her sobs told me that this was a very sad occasion.

Thankfully, in my youthful ignorance, I could not fully comprehend the enormity of this human tragedy, which Mr. Crossman, who served in a secret department attached to the British Foreign Office (see the link above) describes with such eloquence. His story was first printed in Esquire Magazine in November, 1963.