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Reshaping Remembrance

 

Today, images of dead and maimed children amidst the ruined streets of Gaza shock us regularly. From Sarajevo to Iraq to Syria to Ukraine and now Gaza and Lebanon, we have all seen how shells, rockets and bombs can destroy. Older images from World War II show similar destruction in German cities like Berlin, British cities like Coventry, and Japanese cities like Tokyo which were devastated by fire-bombings which killed many hundreds of thousands more people than the nuclear weapons dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Do we really understand the significance of this devastation? Or are we seduced by our own national narratives and social-military myths? Remembrance Day is the ideal time to recall the worldwide toll – the 100 million dead human beings – who perished in the mass conflicts of the 20th century. Separately, on Anzac Day we remember those 100,000 Australians who fought, served and died.

Cultural memory matters, but often it’s only now, generations later, when it emerges. My father served in the Australian Imperial Force (AIF). But after the war, he did not talk about the Middle East, Greece, Africa or the Pacific and the mates he lost, with one exception: on occasion he would compare his noisy children to the Stukas’ scream as they dive-bombed the Sixth Division in Greece.

My German friend Gunther, a former distinguished professor of English, did not talk about the war either. That is, until a few years ago when he told me his story. Gunther was born in 1939, the same year my father joined the AIF, and he lives in a small village in south-western Germany just outside a beautiful historic town that was once a Roman capital. Sitting in his family home in his village felt like an island of serenity, having come from the great European metropolis of Paris, which was marked by terrorism, traffic, noise and overcrowding. During World War II, this region of south-western Germany suffered the ravages of mass bombing usually associated with Berlin and the industrial Ruhr. Further east, the fire-bombing of Dresden killed nearly as many people as the total loss of the Australian forces during World War II, the second mass slaughter of the 20th century. (The Australian story of loss was on a much smaller scale compared to the over 60 million dead worldwide; however, the costs of war were deeply felt by families who lost sons and husbands, and by soldiers who lost mates.)

Gunther was six years old when the European war ended on 8 May, 1945. ‘I was one of three children in a family which was anti-Nazi,’ he said. In the manner of his telling, he was matter-of-fact, quietly recalling the horrors ingrained in his memory. ‘We listened illegally to American radio as the war was coming to an end.’  Unfortunately, after he had too casually quoted some phrases in the street, the Nazis investigated the family. Fortunately, they had a copy of Mein Kampf in the house, not unusual at that time. His grandfather also ‘said too much’ in public and was arrested. Only a defence of age and drunkenness led to his release. ‘One day, we were in the family vineyard when light [Allied] warplanes strafed us. We survived by lying flat… Our horse saved itself by running away into the nearby forest’.

‘My father was in the German army,’ Gunther recalled.  Eventually, he and two friends deserted and returned to Mannheim, an industrial city targeted by bombing raids. When they returned, at great risk, Gunther’s mother hid them in the large wine barrels in the cellar, one man in each barrel, without telling the children. ‘I had no idea,’ Gunther said. When the Nazi authorities searched the house looking for the men, they opened every cupboard and door, but they did not search the wine barrels. Discovery of the deserters would have meant public execution.

Ideally, the war’s end might have seen a partial end to the local German people’s suffering, from both the repressive Nazi regime and from the Allied bombing. But that was not how Gunther remembered it. When the Americans came, they offered chewing gum and chocolates to the children. However, his mother, overtaken by wartime fears, remained cautious. ‘Don’t eat it!’ she ordered, assuming that it was poisoned. Victors, after all, do not always come bearing gifts. On another occasion, ‘the American soldiers made all of us [the family] put our hands in the air while they pointed machine guns at our chests.’

When Gunther’s father and the two other men responded to an American demand to give themselves up, they were not released. Instead, they were incarcerated and taken to a camp in the distant French port of Cherbourg, for over six months. ‘My father waved at us from the truck as he was being taken away. It was the only time in my first six years that I had ever seen him.’

The Germany of 1945 was war-destroyed, as well as defeated. And the experience of six-year-old Gunther was far from playful. Meat was rare, and the family lived on potatoes and bread. They survived through growing vegetables in their small garden and exchanging them with neighbours for milk and eggs. And with time, and an improved food supply, the family expected their situation would improve. But south-west Germany was occupied by French soldiers, an ‘occupation’ that would continue in some form until 1992, with the Cold War. And in 1945, after their difficult experience of German occupation, the French did not come offering croissants.

 

'Over a century after the treaty that ended the first of those most awful wars, we need to recognise not just our national story but the millions who died in the two great modern wars, and all those who died after. Perhaps what we need is a different approach to commemoration, shorn of its mythic narrative and any suggestion of celebration.'

 

When the French found the family copy of Mein Kampf, they saw it as ‘evidence’ that Gunther’s was a Nazi household. One afternoon the house was taken over by a French officer and his family, with only a few hours warning. Gunther’s family were forced to live at their grandfather’s place, where fortunately there was room, but were unable to take cutlery, crockery or bedding. French soldiers lived in their house for over two years, until the winter of 1947-48.

For Gunther’s family, the final months of the war and the immediate period after the surrender were especially nasty. The destruction, the food shortages and the overall situation for civilians (including being expelled from their home) drove a powerful desire for revenge. Being forced from their home also had grave consequences for the family. The children were exposed to tuberculosis by an older member of their grandfather’s family. ‘Sadly, one of my brothers died from the disease,’ Gunther recalled.

When the French occupiers returned to France for a few months, Gunther’s family visited the old house, the very same house where Gunther and I sat while he told me his story. ‘I put my hand on the large wooden sideboard, that one to your left,’ Gunther said, his voice cracking with emotion as I wrote on my notepad. ‘My fingerprints left a mark.’

The French military police eventually took his mother in for interrogation, kindling fears of what retribution might happen. After decades of fearing the Nazis, the Europe of 1945 was still a scary place. It was completely removed from the relatively calm and peaceful Australia in 1945, even despite continued rationing and the mass return of men from the front. Even further removed was Tasmania, where I grew up. There, entirely ignorant of the human impact of the world wars and then the Cold War, I could live in a boy’s dream world. I played soldiers with a wooden tommy gun, painted blue; I played cowboys and Indians, footy and cricket. Mine was a world of play; of sport and games, including war.

Gunther was not so lucky. His scars were deep and had remained with him. And writing his story, I couldn’t help but think about children in Gaza, who would similarly bear lifelong scars.

Perhaps Australia’s splendid isolation from war on an ‘island continent’ is significant in the way we remember. Perhaps that is why nearly all Australians – except those who have served – have no understanding of the bloody horror of war nor any direct experience of bombs thudding into their own town or suburb. I wonder if that is why, in our Australian romantic imaginings, war commemoration can become mingled with celebration, however unintended? Now, over a century after the treaty that ended the first of those most awful wars, we need to recognise not just our national story but the millions who died in the two great modern wars, and all those who died after. Perhaps what we need is a different approach to commemoration, shorn of its mythic narrative and any suggestion of celebration. This approach would remember all those affected by the wars that have shaped our world, including those innumerable children like Gunther, who will bear the memories and the scars.

 

 


Dr Stephen Alomes is a poet, painter and Adjunct Associate Professor of history at RMIT University.

Topic tags: Stephen Alomes, WWI, War, Peace, Commemoration, Remembrance, Germany, France, Australia

 

 

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Existing comments

Being a freelance moraliser is a dangerous pursuit, Stephen, someone could call you out. Your father was one of many who served on the Allied side in WW 2. You are quite correct, Australia was mostly very far from the action people in the UK and Europe saw, until the Japanese came close and then it was saved by the US Navy in the Battle of the Coral Sea. My family served in both World Wars. My father was an officer in the Indian Army, when he, like 60% of the officers, was British. This was, of course, part of the dying imperial governance. What a dreadful slight to brave Indian officers, like the future Field-Marshal Sam Manekshaw, who were just as capable as any Brit. Two of my uncles were Chindits in Burma - another part of WW 2 not normally mentioned in this country. Re your friend Gunther: there was much opposition to Nazism in Germany, much more active than in his family, like the heroes of the White Rose. Nazi ideas seemed to persist long after WW 2 in certain Germans. I remember a very beautiful but troubled German lady I was once engaged to aeons ago. Her family were from Prussia. Her father was killed on the Russian front. Towards the end of her life she kept raving about how 'Jews were ruining the world.' How dreadful this nonsense still exists. I celebrated Armistice Day by gently remembering our family members who went through the muck, mud and blood. There was no 'triumphalism' but I am glad the Allies defeated the Axis in WW 2. It would have been a far nastier world if they hadn't.


Edward Fido | 11 November 2024  

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