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Manfred alive in English captivity

Event ID: 394

Categories: 

Die Erinnerungen der Mutter des roten Kampffliegers Kunigunde Freifrau von Richthofen. Im Verlag Ullstein - Berlin, 1937.

22 April 1918

49.95364549447138, 2.3132999619283954
Poulainville

Source ID: 10

Die Erinnerungen der Mutter des roten Kampffliegers Kunigunde Freifrau von Richthofen. Im Verlag Ullstein - Berlin, 1937. p.  162 

‘We’re sitting at our afternoon tea, having a snack, when a telegram is handed to me. Before I open it, I have to sign my name to confirm receipt and state the exact time: 4.15 minutes. So I’m holding a telegram in my hands, which must contain an important message from the field. I have often acknowledged such telegrams. I have received joyful messages in this way – but I have also been informed of my sons’ wounds in this way. Not without palpitations I open it: ‘Manfred alive in English captivity. Major Richthofen’. My hands tremble; for a moment the room seems to spin. What had happened? Manfred had fallen into enemy hands? They must have recognised him, le rittmeister des quatre Esquadrilles rouge, immediately by the red plane. What might his reception by the English have been like? This restlessly creative spirit – now condemned to slow idleness! Suddenly and glaringly, this sentence stood before me: ‘The worst thing that could happen to me would be to end up with the enemy…’ Again I saw his foreboding, forward-looking gaze, again I felt the unspoken, withheld word. – What Manfred had feared had come true. But immediately another voice inside me spoke: ‘Of course it’s hard for him, hard for us – but we’ll see each other again after the war; he’ll stay with us. This thought came over me like a great comfort. The phone goes. The Schweidnitz ‘Tägliche Rundschau’ enquired whether it was true that I had received a telegram with unfavourable news about my son Manfred. I replied that the telegram was from my husband and contained a private message. As it still needed confirmation, I did not want the contents to appear in the newspaper. I go to my room, want to be alone, and keep repeating to myself: ‘We’ll meet again after the war.’ I lie on my bed, the trees creaking in the wind. Won’t this night pass? Restless dreams mingle with my half-slumber.’

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