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Tuesday, September 13, 2011

April 1942. Leo is drafted.

Leo was always the sensitive one, the one who was least robust of the four children, the one that everyone worried about. He had bouts of moodiness as a child and teenager, and was probably overshadowed by his boisterous and confident twin sister and his talented elder brother.


The first letter here is written by the mother to her husband. In it she describes her reservations about Leo's future in the army. Following this is the first letter from Leo.



April 20th, 1942

Vienna

Dear A


Enclosed is Leo’s first letter. It just arrived today, though it was written on the 15th. He had carried it around in his pocket. He’s so absent minded--I can just imagine his state of mind. He’s such an unlucky boy, he’ll probably have to shoot someone straight away, and I can imagine what sort of miserable expression he’ll have on his face when he has to pull the trigger! In every respect he will struggle, much more so than Andreas--who had his boot camp as a preparation, and was in much better shape. I feel sorry for Leo because he will suffer terribly, and in addition to that the hunger, the cold, etc. Yesterday the Attems and Galen boys were on leave and they rang up as they had their driving school elsewhere. They weren’t able to see Leo, and wanted to visit him today instead. That will cheer him up a bit. I gave them a little care package to take with them, which will also do him good!



April 15, 1942

Leo to his mother


Return address on letter reads “Pt Sch Winkelbauer, 2. Pz.Ers.Abt 4; Wien Mödling


Dear Mami


Just a quick letter! I have a couple of requests-- 1. please can you send me some dry shaving creme, and 2. Please if at all possible can you please send some shoe polishing materials--here we have nothing! Please send as much as possible.


Do you know Franzi’s address yet? I am known here for being a glutton. Today the staff sergeant praised me. If things continue that way, I’ll be fine.


Best wishes and a kiss

Leo


[on one of the reverse side flaps]

Dear Mami, many thanks for your sweet note which I found in my suitcase. Please don’t praise, as that makes me soft. And then sometimes that hurts.


March and April 1942, a recent recruit writes home


These letters were written quite early on, while the eldest boy Andreas--he signs himself Alter, meaning the "older one"--is on training. They still has something of letters home from a summer camp, despite the references to lung worm and hard labour. The tone is cheerful, and he's very pleased to have been singled out for services as a draughtsman, since he had hoped to be an architect. The locker is also a matter of some pride.


The watercolour above probably dates a little later than these letters, but I include it here to show what his talents were as a caricaturist. The long arms and legs were a family feature, and the title of the picture as "healthy optimism".


March 28, 1942

Andreas to Parents

Frankstadt (training area)



Dear Mami and Papi


I was so pleased to be able to speak to Mami on Thursday. It was unfortunately not possible this Saturday and Sunday to get to Zanchtel because I was on duty. I shall look forward to the Sunday after Easter all the more!


So, what should I write to you about. Everything is the same here, and Frankstadt is, and remains, a pig-headed and tough kind of a place. Something did happen however which was wonderful for me. I think I wrote to you already that I had done a couple of drawings which I thought were quite good, and they not only gained the praise and approval of my superior, Lt. Dr Gerhold, but also the company chief and my former company chief. For this reason, I have been offered the honourable job of making fresco-type caricatures of the entire unit. Because I am short of both time and practice, I had to decline. However, what I will do is make sketches, and then produce them at 1:1 size and paint them, and then pass them on to a new recruit who is architect by profession, and he will complete the work. So you can imagine that I am walking around with a song in my heart, and on the other hand feel nervous that I may not be up to the job. So please keep your fingers crossed. This would be my first real commission.




April 2, 1942


Dear Mami and Papi


First of all I’d like to send you my very best wishes for Easter, and thank you for the two wonderful Easter packages you sent. I am going to try to control myself and open them on Easter Saturday, since I’m hoping to be together with Clemens Wainbold and von Hornstein at the Seilerns in Millatitz. I’m not even sure if I can go, since we have to go at 12 noon, and apparently need to be back in the afternoon for a rehearsal to be standard bearers in the parade for the swearing in ceremony. Hopefully I’ll get leave and be able to go, otherwise I’ll be sitting here--in which case I’ll be extra grateful for the package and the RM 50. Many thanks; my wallet is feeling replenished, and therefore I’m feeling much better.


As we’ve been having driving school since last Tuesday I have more time to write. I’d like to describe to you my locker. I do this as I am quite proud of it (when it’s tidy and ready for inspection!). The top shelf is my pride and joy! A bookshelf that looks like something from a library: Brockhaus, Goethe, HDVs and piles of drawings. Then my neatly folded laundry, and behind it my piles of letters and more drawings. My peaked cap finishes off the row of items on the top shelf. After the first shelf, the shelf with my toiletries, then then come the uniforms. Makes for impressive viewing! To the front is my gun, my very well polished ammo bag, a belt with a polished buckle, which I use as a mirror to shave, and my good shoes, which are the envy of all as they are so well polished. Then I have the so-called magic bag (the bag that used to hold my ski boots), in which I keep 10 large boxes of matches which I have bought for you. I’m not allowed to post them because of the fire hazard, so I’ll give them to Mami when I see her.


The door of the locker is also a matter of great pride. Now, now, you needn’t think that I’ve decorated it with photos of attractive girls...no, it’s been done with taste! Drawings, photos of home, things to inspire me. That’s my locker. By that I mean that’s what’s good about my locker. Behind the magic bag there is a little space where I keep dirty socks, filthy handkerchiefs, khaki shirts, and the dark coloured undershorts and almost black neckkerchiefs. All these things that need washing lurk in the dark and produce an unpleasant atmosphere for the rest in the locker, until I give up the dirty things on Mondays for washing, and receive it clean on Fridays.


For now, the driving school is a relaxing break from the normal grind, and a time to recharge batteries. I have time to look after my poor feet, and let them heal. My cough is also much better because of it. Thank God it will go completely now, since up to now I simply couldn’t get better with all that I was doing. Before this we had hard sweaty training in the mornings, so much so that our shirts stuck to us, then we had to stand around and listen to a lecture, during which your every effort was inspected. Under such circumstances no one can rid themselves of a cough. Now I’m on the road to recovery, and hope to rid myself of my lung worms soon.


I’d also like to write about something else. At Easter I am hoping to go to the Seilerns, as you know, with von Hornstein and Clemens. I spoke about it with von Hornstein. The poor fellow, he’s very upset. Today he learned that as an officer-hopeful he’s been removed from the list--no chance. Why, I am not entirely sure, he just said the following: “it’s because of my parents”. He can still make the rank of officer, but he will only ever be a reserve officer.


Well, time’s rushing on, and I have to get ready for duty.


1000x love and happy Easter from

your Alter

Monday, September 12, 2011

Finding the resting place of Leo Winkelbauer


On the 27th of August 2011, a ceremony was held to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the opening of the German Soldiers' Cemetery in Gontscharnoye, a small town located between Sevastopol and Yalta on the Crimean peninsula. The cemetery was opened as part of a cooperative effort between the Ukrainian and German governments, to provide both a suitable memorial as well as collect up as many remains as possible from unmarked graves across the country where they laid unrecognised and in some cases entirely lost. Under the Soviet Union, organised war cemeteries, such as can be found all over Europe, were not possible. The Ukraine, a young country that gained independence in 1991, put the tract of land in Gontscharnoye--one of several--at the disposal of the German government, and it is maintained through the German War Graves Association (VDK -- Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge e.V), largely by voluntary contributions.

I received notice of this memorial celebration in June from the VDK. My contact details were on file as a result of my enquiry about my uncles earlier in the year. The letter said that Leo Winkelbauer's name appeared on the list of soldiers who were remembered in the memorial books contained within the "House of Remembrance" at the cemetery, but no further information was given. I had received other advice, obtained through the local museum in Melitopol, saying that it was unlikely that any of the bodies buried after the battle of that town would have been moved, and neither were any of them marked with individual headstones.

Despite there being little reason to believe that Leo's remains were at the cemetery in Gontscharnoye, we decided to attend the ceremony.

On a glorious burnished late summer afternoon, some two hundred people gathered in a clearing in an oak forest, a sunny flank surrounded on three sides by oak forests covered hills, facing south towards the Black Sea. From our gathering place there was nothing to be seen except a panorama of forest going gold and purple in the gathering evening. A brass band from the Sevastopol navy stood to attention on a rise above the main memorial, and a colour guard lined the walk as the family members, local officials, embassy staff and other participants gathered to the sunset service.

As I walked up the path to where the benches had been put out for the attendees, I stopped to look at the rows of standing granite slabs that faced the path, each carved with the names of the soldiers who are now buried there--some 25,000 to date. There are groups of of them at several locations on the cemetery grounds, but these greeted the visitor as they made the climb to main memorial, and my eye fell to those on the left. Walking up, I followed the names alphabetically, the As, the Bs, and so on, searching through the alphabet, not bothering to look at the backs of slabs, where names were also inscribed, but just looking--generally--for the last part of the alphabet, the way you do when you pick up a dictionary and flip through the pages an inch at a time to find your part of the alphabet.

Then my eye fell onto the Ws, the sun shining on them and drawing me in. Weber, Weinfurtner, Wertheimer, Wilke, Winkel.....Winkelbauer. There was his name. Leonhard Winkelbauer, born 25.5.1923, a twin in fact, fallen in battle on the 21st of October twenty years later. I was able to find someone who knew about the planning of the cemetery, and the transferal of human remains to it over the past ten years. We consulted the memorial books in the House of Remembrance and discovered that his remains were taken from a mass grave in Melitopol, the occupants of which were documented, and moved to a section of the new cemetery for the unnamed. He was moved to Gontscharnoye in 2003, the same year his twin died.

The memorial service was conducted in German and Ukrainian, and included brief speeches by the director of the VDK, the German ambassador, the representative from the Austrian Black Cross (the VDK equivalent in Austria), members of the clergy, and the major of Sevastopol. A youth group made up of young people from Germany, Ukraine, Belarus and Russia made a presentation about one of the soldiers, reading his letters, telling of his life, a story as ordinary and poignant as the one described here. Every speaker had an interpreter by their side, so that each part of the ceremony could be equally appreciated by all.

A former German soldier, 91 years old, attended with with his children and grandchildren. A crowd gathered around him. Then the group stepped back to allow a Russian soldier, also over 90 and wearing his medals, and another comrade, this time a Ukrainian. They embraced and shook hands. The Russian saluted his new German friend, now wheelchair bound. One of the event helpers struggled to keep up as interpreter. "He says you are now my friend" explained the interpreter to the German. "To friendship" he replied.

By the time the service ended the sun had fallen behind the hills, leaving the gathering to descend the slope to the picnic tables which had been set up with traditional fare: chicken and pilaf prepared in a field kitchen, platters of locally grown produce on the table, and loaves of fresh bread, the local ham, and for each a small glass for a toast of vodka.

I let the others go ahead and remained a little longer on the meadow in the dusk. For the first time in 68 years, this boy--I cannot think of him as a man, as he was younger even than my own son is now--was close to his family. Rest in peace, Leo.