In 2009 I had a book published called Wildflowers, wilderness and wine which tells readers about a year on the Granite Belt – a wine tourism district of Queensland, Australia – where Eberhard and I manage a busy Bed and Breakfast home called Das Helwig Haus B&B.

In that book I introduced Eberhard with the words: Eberhard is not a tall man and he thought he was using this to his advantage when he told an SS recruiting officer in 1943 that he wasn’t sufficiently tall to meet the height requirements of the elite Waffen Sturm Staffle. For his impertinence he was drafted into the Wehrmacht, but that’s another story.

Now I am going to share with you weekly that other story. It is an account of Eberhard’s first twenty four years – as a child, a youth and a man – until he arrives in Australia in December 1950. I have set his account of those years against a German backdrop as I saw it on visits to Germany, beginning in 1990. The story will be illustrated with my photographs of Germany.

THE FORGOTTEN ONES

‘We are the forgotten ones!’  Abruptly, Eberhard pushed his coffee cup aside. I saw the pain in his eyes, before he rested his arms on the cloth and buried his face in their shelter. I could only guess at the anguish crushing my husband. Reaching out a hand I offered a brushing touch of consolation, while glancing around the room. It seemed no one was watching us. Two men were speaking in a soft murmur as they spread jelly on croissants and another was sipping coffee while he read Der Spiegel. A fourth man was paying his bill and exchanging pleasantries with the proprietor.

‘Eberhard, what is it?’ I implored.

‘They wiped us out!’ He lifted his face and I saw the glow of anger behind the tears. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, shook it deliberately and dried his eyes. ‘The bastards obliterated us from the records.’

‘Who did what?’ I was bewildered by his hostility.

‘These damn townspeople. They always saw us as an elite group. Now they’re pretending we never existed.’  Eberhard straightened his back, composed his features and half turned in his chair to call, ‘Zwei Kaffee, bitte.’ He made no further comment until the waiter refilled our cups. ‘It was here in Idstein that my life was changed forever.’  With careful concentration he sipped his coffee. Only the involuntary shaking of his hands, causing the empty cup to rattle against the saucer as he set it down, betrayed his passion. ‘It was those plaques on the walls. They’re so busy patting themselves on the back, these righteous German citizens. They’ve obliterated a generation who gave their lives for this country!’

I began to understand his rage. Earlier he had paused near the great grille of the gate to read the brass plaques recording the history of the ancient castle. Translating the words into English, he related a chronicle beginning in the days when the castle served as a medieval stronghold to its present role as a gymnasium.  A gymnasium, he explained was a secondary school, which prepared students for university. I had noticed his disgust as he turned away from the plaques.

‘They ignored the forties. The history that’s written on that wall now for youngsters to read doesn’t mention the war years.  There’s a gap. They hated us so much they forgot us!’

‘Who forgot who?’

‘These Idstein Burghers! We were the elite. The common people felt our presence had been foisted on them. They took our pocket money readily enough, but they hated us.’ He looked up and smiled, ‘We were the best Hitler Youth company in all the south-west of Hessen.’

I heard the pride in his voice as he continued.

‘We had a superb band of fanfare players and drummers.’ Eberhard drummed his fingers in a rapid tattoo. ‘We were taught precision marching and how to comport ourselves, for it was our duty to set a good example. We were expected to be the future leaders of the nation.  These people never appreciated the renown of our Hitler Youth company.’ He frowned again, remembering the resentment. ‘It was of no consequence to them that we always won the most medals at sporting carnivals. Ach Fay, when our company marched behind the band, we were a magnificent sight. Can you imagine two hundred and eleven young men marching through this city?’

I pictured them in their brown and black uniforms; these boys aged fifteen to seventeen, with sun glinting from the instruments as their boots resounded down the length of the narrow cobble-stoned streets.  In my imagination I saw the merchants coming to doors and glowering, women sadly looking down from the upper windows, shoppers clearing the street to stand on the skimpy sidewalk.

The column had right of way.

Once on the open roadway they would have begun to sing. The exultation vaunted in the lusty voices as they belted out the familiar hiking songs was merely the innocence of youth. Little did they know, as they sang of girls in the spring time, that another song – their national anthem, was perceived to be a warning as it echoed around the world.

Deutschland, Deutschland uber alles

Uber alles in der Welt

Wenn es stets zu Schutz und Trutze

Bruderlich zusammenhalt!

Von der Maas bis an die Memel

Von der Etsch bis an den Belt

Deutschland, Deutschland uber alles

Uber alles in der Welt!

They were young and pure of heart then, these graceful youths.

Eberhard and Fay, 2009 at the launch of Wildflowers, wilderness and wine.

See www.australia-book.com.au

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