| Subject: Bavaria 1940-45 |
Author:
E M
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Date Posted: 12:06:47 06/21/09 Sun
I was fourteen in 1940. The war did not trouble us much on our estate on Chiemzee. Father had volunteered for his old regiment but was disqualified by injury. I had no older brothers or cousins of fighting age. There was plenty of food on the farms and fish in the lake. The bombs and tanks passed us by even at the end.
Of course we were proud nationalists, but land-owning families like ours would hardly support national socialism. As viewed by the aristocratic families, Hitler was just a coarse Austrian peasant. Later we would know he was also a murderous madman who could not be controlled.
The railway line was intact and I could travel to school in Munchen every day. Mother had decided it might be dangerous for me to board at Father's old school in Berlin as had been planned.
I say I went to school every day. But there were some days when I did not go. I liked freedom. I walked slowly to the station in the mornings, sometimes to find the train had gone. The next train would be bound for Salzburg across the border.
I liked Salzburg. I could spend a pleasant day there. I made friends in the military academy. It was exciting to meet young men in uniform, and some of them liked to entertain me.
But my carefree mood was always tinged with the knowledge that, next day at school in Munchen, I would be questioned about my absence. I never lied or made excuses, so the principal, with apparent sadness, would bring out his cane, and I would bend over a chair for six painful strokes across the seat of my trousers.
But, of course, a caning was not the end of it. A letter would be sent to Schloss Ubersee politely explaining why I had been punished.
I would be summoned to Father's study after dinner, when such a letter had arrived. I would not try to excuse myself. Father would send for his chief groom, who would arrive prewarned, immaculately dressed in his best uniform for the occasion, and bearing a riding crop.
Father would inspect the whip. "It seems a little heavy. How old are you now? Ah, well, I think I had this one when I was your age."
I would lower my trousers and bend over with my hands on father's desk for the groom to whip me. The weals of my school caning would be still fresh on my backside. The whipping, however, was much harder to endure.
Father would say, "twelve, if you would, please," to the groom, who would lay the riding crop into me with relish. Whipping me was the high point of his existence.
The groom was gentle and considerate with the animals, but the backside of the young baron could be whipped as forcefully as possible. There was no finesse. The riding crop would land anywhere from the small of my back to the top of my thighs. As long as each lash drew blood, the man was happy.
Most of the lashes did hit my backside, and with the riding crop there was always that very unpleasant extra bite around my right flank, from the leather flap sewn on the end.
The groom, I'm sure, would never have beaten his own sons so severely if they were as young as me. But remembering my station in life, I would endure the twelve lashes almost in silence. And I would keep as still as I could, gripping the end of Father's desk.
After the whipping the groom would look at my father for approval. He would inspect the man's work on my backside and say, "that is quite satisfactory, thank you.
I could then stand up and pull my trousers up, thanking the servant and shaking his hand before he left the study.
I never learned my lesson though. The weals of the whip would fade from my backside and my memory. And then it was too easy to miss the morning train to Munchen and make for Salzburg instead.
The old groom had an active war.
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