Horrible day, most horrible day of my life.
Event ID: 395
Categories:
23 April 1918
Source ID: 10
‘Horrible day, most terrible day of my life. The phone rings incessantly from early in the morning. The rumour that Manfred had ended up with the enemy spread like wildfire. Not only acquaintances, but also complete strangers rang and wanted to know what was true about the circulating rumours. The reports are becoming more and more fantastic. It was a nerve-wracking few hours. At around six o’clock, a lady comes to me, pale and distraught. She just wanted to find out from me what had happened to Manfred. She couldn’t believe it yet. I would like to forgive her for intruding here – but – she had heard from her daughters… ‘What then? What have you heard?’ The visitor turned pale: ‘Oh, there are all sorts of rumours floating around town’ – as a mother, I would be the best informed. I show her my telegram, my heart beats restlessly, I am overcome by a sense of horror… The doorbell rings again, a young officer we know comes rushing into the room: ‘Baroness – what’s happened?’ he asks tonelessly. I am still standing there as if made of stone, the telegram, which I still firmly believe in, in my trembling hand. He reads it in silence, looks at me almost uncomprehendingly and stammers that this information is of course the most important. ‘Wasn’t it? – That must be the case! Have dinner with us.’ We endeavour to be calm and controlled, to wrestle down our foolish nerves; it works out reasonably well. During the meal, a young girl, a nurse, is reported as wishing to speak to Ilse. She did not want to disturb us, but wanted to wait in the parlour. The meal is over; my heart is still under pressure. Now just a moment’s rest and solitude, just a moment out into the damp, cool spring air. I open the front door and step out into the garden. The ream crunches under my feet. The clouds are low, heavy with rain; they press down on the roofs from the mountains. There are cattle outside at the garden fence. They peer through the fence with big, round eyes. Suddenly it strikes my ear – loud and audible – a bright boy’s voice has called out: ‘Is it true, Baroness, that the Herr Rittmeister has fallen?’ My foot faltered, mortal terror paralysed my limbs: ‘What nonsense are you talking? The Herr Rittmeister has been captured – but has not fallen.’ The child persists, in a pitiful little voice: ‘But it’s written large on the ring, with a thick black border around it.’ I cry out: ‘Who said that? Did you see it?’ The child: ‘My brother told me.’ I rush to the phone: ‘The “Rundschau” please!’ It’s past eight o’clock, the newsroom is already closed, no one is answering. I enquire at the post office. No, no such telegram has got through at the post office, nothing is known here.’ That had sounded hesitant, reserved? Almost with a tone of pity or sadness? – ‘Give me the Lord Mayor, please!’ And now I learn the terrible truth. It was painful for him to have to tell me this, but unfortunately he could only confirm that both local newspapers had published extra pages with the news of my son’s death… The voice goes away…I stand by the phone completely frozen. Then the young girl who had come during dinner approaches me. Silently and with deep sorrow on her face, she hands me an extra sheet of paper. I read: ‘Captain Freiherr von Richthofen killed in action. Berlin, 23 April 1918, officially. On 21 April, Rittmeister Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen did not return from a fighter flight on the Somme. According to the concurring observations of his companions and various earth observers, Freiherr von Richthofen was in pursuit of an enemy fighter aircraft at a low altitude when an engine malfunction apparently forced him to land behind enemy lines. As the landing went smoothly, it was hoped that Richthofen had been captured unharmed. According to a Reuter report of 23 April, there is no longer any doubt that Freiherr von Richthofen was killed. Since Richthofen, as a pursuer, could not have been hit well by his opponent in the air, he seems to have fallen victim to a chance hit from the ground.’ According to the English report, Richthofen was buried with military honours in a churchyard near his landing site on 22 April.’ * I stare down at the page for a long time until I realise what it says. Manfred is dead… My boy is dead… I am alive… Manfred is dead. * There are many telegrams… many, many… I sense from them the pain of the loss mourned by an entire nation, the fervent desire to console. The Supreme Warlord – Hindenburg, Ludendorf – the Commander of the Air Force – the Emperor of Austria. They stand beside us today in their heartfelt, succinct radio messages and our great grief; and with them countless strangers from all walks of life. They all think the same thing: irreplaceable – unforgettable – immortal! The flag has sunk to half-mast, the swords are lowered, silent fires burn over his name. And I know that I must overcome myself in my grief and find consolation in the thought of the whole, the holy, the eternal…’
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