Funeral service for Manfred
Event ID: 397
Categories:
02 May 1918
Source ID: 10
‘We travelled to Berlin, Albrecht, Ilse, Bolko and me. A funeral service is to be held for Manfred in the Garrison Church. It’s 2 May – and today is Manfred’s birthday! At one o’clock, Excellency von Hoeppner, the commander of the air force, paid us a visit. I asked him about a lot of things that were on my mind, first of all about Manfred’s death. He thought he could assure me that Manfred had been hit from the ground. He said: ‘We have no replacement for your son in the entire air force.’ Lothar has arrived in Berlin from Dûsseldorf. How miserable and changed he looks, I realised with great pain. He is still deeply depressed about the death of his beloved and honoured brother. Shortly before four o’clock we travelled in two cars to the old Garrison Church. The audience lined up in thick rows. The bells rang out solemnly. General Manfred von Richthofen, a cousin of my husband, a cavalry general in the war, and Excellency von Hoeppner received us in front of the church (on behalf of the Kaiser). We took the places of honour reserved for us. The altar in front of us is lined with black cloth, only the image of Christ in the centre remains uncovered. Bronze basins stand on four floral pedestals, from which blazing flames flare up. A catasal-like structure with a black velvet cushion with Manfred’s medals in the centre. He never wore them all; I am seeing them myself for the first time today. The barrels of four machine guns protrude from the centre of the catafalque to the right and left, and a huge wreath of black pile is wrapped around a shattered propeller beneath the medal cushion. On the right and left, as if cast from ore, are eight airmen in black leather jackets and crash helmets. Meritorious non-commissioned officers, each of them has the E.K. 1 and the airman’s badge. One airman is also positioned to the right and left of the catafalque. During the entire ceremony, which probably lasted more than an hour, they stood without moving, without batting an eyelid – an unforgettable picture in its austerity. At four o’clock the Empress appeared together with Prince and Princess Sigismund of Prussia. They took their seats to our right in the box. The ceremony began. The priest said that we should be comforted by the achievements and the work of the deceased. It was not the dying of ordinary life that had approached him, but death in all its heroic beauty. When the glow of the play of colours was at its most colourful, when the force of the actions was at its most powerful, the process rushed down upon this life. Only a poet could do it justice. ‘He passed away in spring – what he was deprived of was a long, hot summer and a withering autumn.’ The Requiem by Brahms… The beautiful old cavalry signal, the Retraite – as if blown at sunset over a lonely battlefield… A farewell salute to the young cavalryman. * A soft, barely audible voice spoke to me, expressing its apologies. I looked into kind eyes. The empress’s face was motherly and deeply troubled. ‘I had wished,’ I said, ’that Manfred could have served his fatherland even longer.’ The tall woman mumbled quietly, a trace of pain was around her mouth, she knew well what suffering was; fate had also given her much to bear, she too knew the agony of nights spent awake. She began to talk on, still in a soft, gentle voice. She spoke of Manfred’s visit to Homburg; I replied how delighted my son had been at her kindness. This incident immediately came to life in my mind: It was exactly one year ago, on a bright May, on his birthday, that he was to present himself to the Empress. Victorious in fifty-two battles, he flew to the Grand Headquarters in the old leather jacket he never parted with in the field. The Empress received him as soon as he landed, and when he made a gesture of apologising for his clothes, she stroked the unadorned garment and said: ‘The good jacket – it has seen fifty-two air victories.’ It was probably time to go now, we turned to leave the sacristy; then the Empress, who had been busy with my children and Albrecht, approached me again. Once more our eyes met, once more she pressed my hand, and I bent down and kissed hers. We drive back to the hotel. Many friends have gathered there. I am delighted when some of the gentlemen from Manfred’s squadron come forward. We face each other. I scrutinise these serious young people, Manfred’s comrades. I try to read in their faces what was also in Manfred’s features, the experience of the front. One narrow, well-cut face in particular catches my eye. The very young Uhlan officer is very agitated. Sorrow works in his fine, delicate features. His name rings in my ear. So this is Hans Joachim Wolff, of whom Manfred told me so warmly; who wrote the beautiful letter to Lothar when his honoured and admired cavalry captain had died an airman’s death… ‘…I in particular am deeply unhappy. I have lost more in him than just the great role model he was to everyone. I loved him like a father. I was happy when I could be with him…’ Now he was standing in front of me, and it was as if I had to comfort him. It was as if I was talking to my own son. He said he had always felt a special obligation to watch over the life of his great commander, as a shield-bearer does. But in the hour when the terrible thing happened, he himself had been involved in an air battle and had lost sight of his leader…Now he reproached himself most bitterly. I was touched by so much love and loyalty; I took him into my heart. May he remain with his parents – he is their only child. * We talked some more. I was grateful to these young people. Manfred lived in them. They told me many comforting things. Manfred had been happy, satisfied; he had been admired, even idolised. The Kaiser had intended – so they said – to award him the Oak Leaves for Pour le Mérite after his 80th aerial victory and to issue a hand letter forbidding him to fly. Manfred was already on holiday and his sleeper ticket was already on his desk. He had been invited to go capercaillie hunting with Mr Voss in Freiburg, the father of the dead air hero. His visit to the German crown prince had been announced beforehand. The comrades also said that Manfred had wanted to be available to all the squadrons; he then wanted to sign up with this or that squadron and fly with them against the enemy. The gentlemen also told how they did not want to admit their dismay to each other when their commander did not return. They hoped he had landed somewhere and would suddenly be back. Excellency von Hoeppner added that Manfred had asked after his 63rd aerial victory that from then on his victories should be credited to the squadron and no longer to him personally; but this was never done under any circumstances. A motherly friend of ours had attended the funeral service. She had taken Lothar particularly close to her heart – he was to be her heir one day. Deeply saddened by Manfred’s death and Lothar’s second wound, she came to me and asked me to submit a petition so that Lothar would stop flying. Her concern was dictated by true motherly love. But – hadn’t thousands of mothers sacrificed their sons like me – weren’t there thousands with the same anxious concern for the living? Only recently, one of my acquaintances had lost three brave and flourishing sons within four weeks. We all bore the same fate. Our sons protected the homeland with their bodies, with their blood. Who should claim an exception for themselves? And above all – what would Lothar himself say? My eyes wandered over to him. He, who perhaps felt the blow most terribly, spoke seriously and calmly to his comrades. Lothar simply wouldn’t have done it, he would have found such a move on my part embarrassing. – No, I didn’t do that to him. ‘God willing, Lothar will live,’ I replied to my faithful old friend. God willing – – – As I shook hands with the young officers to say goodbye, I thanked them once again for this hour. It had done me good. I took with me the realisation of how happy Manfred had been in his brave life as an airman; how he would not have swapped this life for any other in the world. * We drove back to Schweidnitz; it was only now that I realised how tense my nerves had been over the last few days. Now that I no longer felt that all eyes were on me, I could see how I was coping with myself. I sought solitude and feared it at the same time. Once Menzke stood in front of me. He brought his dead cavalry captain’s things. We knelt by the suitcase, sorting and organising. Menzke could hardly speak for grief. I told him to choose something as a farewell gift. The good man chose a modest piece of the equipment Manfred had worn in the field.’
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