Operation Gomorrah

I remember that the summer in Hamburg in 1943 was unusually dry and hot. Three of us now lived in the fifth-floor apartment on Hasselbrook Strasse: my mother, my baby sister, Renate, and me. I was eight years old and a respectful, obedient child. But one day in late July my mother asked me to do something and I disobeyed her, and I shall be forever glad that I did. She asked me to take my baby sister to my cousin Inge’s apartment in another part of the city and wait for her there. We set off. I was thrilled to be outdoors, unsupervised, in charge. A cooling salt breeze from the North Sea blew through the streets and seemed to calm Renate as I pushed her along inside a grey wicker carriage with spoked wheels and a handle as high as my chin. But after a while I turned back and then began to hurry. Something wasn’t right with my mother. She had cried for most of the night and hadn’t told me why.