Slowly the consequences of the war made themselves more and more felt. Not only was public dancing forbidden, but also listening to foreign radio stations was prohibited. We were made to believe that censors could listen in and find out who broke the rules. The Swiss broadcasts were the easiest to get and at times we tried Zürich or Bern, turning the volume way down with our ears close to the radio. One was never sure of one's neighbors and everybody kept to himself. Never was loud criticism heard. Names of concentration camps were not mentioned and those who worked there refused to talk about them or answer any questions. Susi's friend, Kaete, lived with us for a year and her brother, a priest, had criticized the Nazi Regime from the pulpit. He was interned in the Dachau concentration camp and no communication was possible until he was released two years later, shortly before the war ended. Meeting his sister, he told her, "Don't ask me any questions, I can't tell you anything. I am trying to cross into Switzerland and then I will talk." He left Germany, avoiding trains and buses, and with the help of the "underground" made it safely over the border.

During the first year of the war we still could go hiking in summer and skiing in winter. The local trains still traveled to the Alps. Most private cars had been confiscated, so we were using bicycles, public transportation and our legs. One Easter holiday I went skiing with some student friends into the Stubai Alps near Innsbruck. While we were there, we heard that skiing was now declared an antiwar demonstration. We did not dare to go with our skis on the train and left them in the attic of the farmhouse where we had stayed.

In l941 the Red Cross had new plans for me. My enlistment papers stated that I would serve at one of their soup kitchens at a train station. Since I had an "Abitur," they mentioned a possible leadership assignment. It scared me. I always had hated soups, never cooked any and now should cook for the crowds? Dressed in an ill-fitting uniform, I was sent to a leadership camp in Berlin. Jürgen had been drafted in December 1940 and it was now already April 1941 with the war extending into the Balkan countries and Greece. I knew he would not be back for a long time. He had told his parents about our friendship, and his mother and I had exchanged some letters.

The camp was housed in a very luxurious villa in a parklike setting. I wondered who might have owned this place previously but did not dare ask any questions. During one lecture the secretary tapped me on the shoulder and led me to the phone. Jürgen's mother had traced me through the Red Cross headquarters and invited me for Sunday to their home in Spandau. "Oh, I am going to be looked over," I thought, and I felt awkward and dowdy in my uniform with my hair pulled back under the Red Cross cap. Nevertheless, the family were all very friendly and made me feel at ease.

"Please keep in touch; we'd like to hear where they send you. Maybe we can share the news from Jürgen," Mrs. Otto said as we parted at the city train station.

In June 1942 Hitler surprised everybody with the invasion of Russia. All the Red Cross draftees were interviewed extensively to see where we would fit in before sending us home to await our final marching orders. To my surprise I had to travel to northern Germany again to a camp where crafts were taught. We learned to carve, saw and paint mainly wooden objects, such as lamps, signs and decorations. Our woodwork instructor explained, "We are establishing craft centers on the front when there is not much activity. We already have homes where the soldiers can go and have a warm meal, hear music, play cards and get away from the bunkers and tents. You will furnish a craft room in these homes and supervise, teach and give the soldiers a nice break. You know there are always stretches on the front where both armies are dug in and the soldiers get bored and restless."

It seemed to me far better than cooking soup. Moreover,arts and crafts had always been my hobby.

It was fall when I was called to be outfitted for the Russian front. I boarded the train for a two-day trip, destination Riga, Latvia. We pulled into the deserted station at 2 a.m. I asked a soldier who was patrolling the platform how to get to the Red Cross headquarters.

"You have to wait until 7 a.m. and then we will give you an escort," he said. "It is not safe here." So I sat, cold and drowsy on my duffel bag and waited for daylight.

The Red Cross leader was very friendly and invited me to stay in her quarters for a couple of days before continuing on to the front.

"You will join the Red Cross unit at Krasnowardeisk, the last train station. It is just a few miles to Leningrad from there." It still was a long way to go, another day's journey.

The next morning my legs were so swollen that I could not get into my knee-high boots. The Riga army of bed bugs had attacked me during the night, the first sign of things to come. Days grew very short and the temperature sank.

It was the end of November when I arrived in Krasnowardeisk. The Red Cross leader was an old pro and could handle anything. I was glad that I did not have her responsibilities. The Red Cross draftees came from all kinds of backgrounds. The soup kitchen was manned day and night, and the leader had to worry that the night shift would not hide with the soldiers in the back room.

Our three-story wooden house was an old Russian mansion, heated by tiled stoves. Each two rooms shared a stove which was fed with wood from the hallway. We woke up every morning when a young slender Russian fellow would stoke our fire. After lighting all the stoves, he would split wood outside. There was a rumor that he had been a dancer with the famous Leningrad ballet. We felt sorry for him, but maybe he was one of the luckier ones since he was well fed by our staff.

The supply officer furnished tools, wood, papers and paint, and I got busy opening up a room in the "Soldiers' Home" for arts and crafts. At first the soldiers just came to look, while I made various samples and encouraged the soldiers to give it a try. The first one to sit down was a young flyer. Since there was no flying weather, he had lots of time on his hands and decided to make some angels for Christmas. I provided the pattern and he got busy with jigsaw and paint. In no time he had a good production going by nailing several pieces of plywood together and sawing out several angels in one operation. Soon others were joining in, some coming up with their own ideas and designs. Many decided to decorate their quarters for Christmas or send some little creations home. One began to hum Christmas carols and soon everyone joined in the singing.

Christmas was not easy for most of us, but we made the best of it and tried not to show our worries. Mail was scant and often months old when it came from other fronts. Many things could have happened between mail deliveries. I tried not to think about that.

My stay was only weeks long. Orders came for me to go to Hilversum in the Netherlands, a clean little town where the tulips were blooming. Here my duties expanded. With my coworker, Baerbel, we trained other Red Cross workers to set up craft centers in the West. At that time the Netherlands, as well as Belgium and part of France, were occupied by the German Army. On the surface, life seemed almost normal and organized, except near the front. On the way, airplanes were headed either from Germany to England or from England to Germany to drop their deadly loads. There existed no great danger for us to travel and, with a special pass, we even made some Sunday excursions. After a few months in Hilversum we moved to Brussels and set up our workshop in a beautiful villa outside of town. The highlight of this stay was a trip to Bruges, a quaint old city with many canals and arched bridges. A large Gothic cathedral with a soaring tower dominated the town square. We stood in line to see Michelangelo's "Madonna and Child," one of his famous marble carvings. For protection the statue was placed in a special bomb shelter underneath the cathedral and only three people could enter at one time. The tender expression of motherly love moved everyone and seemed to show a great contrast to the things happening outside in the world. The reason I was sent to Cap Gris Nez escapes me now. This most westerly tip of France lies just across from Dover on the Channel. The area was heavily fortified around an old lighthouse. There were no appropriate quarters for women, so they let me sleep on the ground floor of the lighthouse, where it felt like a dungeon with tiny windows set high into the thick walls and only earth as a floor. Since it was not exactly a place to set up a craft room, they sent us to Paris. We stayed outside of Paris in a wing of the Versailles Palace. The original ornate furniture had been stored and replaced with plain chairs, tables and cots. From here it was easy to take a train into town and a joy to walk among the chestnut trees, all in bloom in May l944. The Louvre with its famous paintings was open but void of most art work. We visited the Paris landmarks, such as the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral, the Opera House and the artist's quarters

During all this time from 1942 until 1944 I kept the soldiers during their recreation period busy with arts and crafts.

Our engagement had taken place in a strange fashion. Communication, while he was my fiancee and a prisoner of war, had been almost non-existent. He was only allowed one form letter and two postcards a month and sometimes these were held up through censorship. Half of the text was usually blacked out. Several months old, news was hardly news any more.

I was in Paris on assignment with the Red Cross in the spring of l944. My coworker Baerbel had received one of these strange-looking postcards from Jürgen. She had kept quiet about it, but a few days later she blurted out, "You never tell me anything, do you?"

"There is nothing to tell, you know everything I know," I said puzzled. Then came a package and a letter from Jürgen's mother. She welcomed me into their family. We had never talked about marriage. "Did I give her a wrong impression?" The thought troubled me. The answer came a full week later in Jürgen's letter from the United States. He asked me to wait for him and marry him at the end of the war. "In case you consent," his letter continued, "I have asked Baerbel to give you an engagement party and I have informed my parents also."

I never knew whether my answer of consent reached him.

Two days before the Normandy invasion I was called to the office.

"We are sorry to inform you that your oldest sister Gretl died in childbirth," the secretary said. "Your brother-in-law has requested your discharge so you can take care of the children. You may travel to Munich tomorrow." I went to the funeral of my sister in Hanau, a little town near Frankfurt, where my sister had found refuge with a girlfriend. Munich was being heavily bombed at that time and mothers with small children were urged to leave town and find shelter in the countryside. I picked up little Renate, not quite two years old. Hanns-Jochen,age four, would stay another few days in Rothenburg with his grandmother until we had found a place to stay. My sister Susi had married in fall 1941.and by now had a two year old son. She already had left Munich and was living with her baby at her in-laws home in Diessen, a small town on a Bavarian lake. She now had to look for a place where we could stay with the three children.

In Diessen the two separate fateful routes led Jürgen and me together in late April 1946 after five years of separation.