The bus which parked beside Kiwi’s Dakota twenty minutes later had about fifty children on board, but more adults than usual. He soon realised why; these weren’t orphans, and many of the adults were taking tear-filled leave of their children. Kiwi could hardly watch as an ancient couple clung to their granddaughter, all three sobbing miserably. The little girl was shaking her head and clearly saying she didn’t want to go; her grandparents were insistent. He needed no interpreter to understand that the grandmother, stroking the little girl’s blonde head, was saying it was for her own good. Equally distressing was a single mother, streaming tears as she tied a scarf more firmly around her daughter’s neck. Kiwi was reminded of similar scenes that had played out all across England when children were sent out of the cities to avoid German bombing at the start of the war.
He registered a difference, too. Most of the parents and children here were dressed practically in rags, and the children were tiny and frail. Although this would be Kiwi’s 26th flight carrying children, the other children had been labelled “sick” and “abandoned.” These children, in contrast, had loving families around them and that underlined just how widespread the malnourishment in Berlin had become.
Just then, one of the boys stopped to stare up at him. “Bist Du der Pilot?” he asked.
Kiwi understood the word pilot. He went down on his heels. “Ja. Ich bin der Pilot,“ he answered. It was one of the handful of phrases he had learned in German.
The boy’s eyes grew wider. “Hast du viele Flugstunden?”
Kiwi looked helplessly at the boy’s mother. “He asked if you have many flying hours,” she translated.
“More than four thousand,” Kiwi answered, and the mother passed the information on to her son.
The little boy’s eyes widened in wonder, and he gazed up at Kiwi with open hero worship. “Du warst im Krieg Pilot?“
“Did you fly in the war?” his mother mumbled.
“Yes,” Kiwi admitted, feeling guilty about it for the first time in his entire life.
“Welche Flugzeugtypen? Hast du den Lancaster oder den Halifax geflogen?”
Lancaster and Halifax required no translation, and Kiwi was impressed that the boy knew which aircraft were RAF and didn’t ask about Flying Fortresses or Liberators. Without awaiting a translation from the boy’s mother. Kiwi answered with a proud smile, “Spitfires.”
The boy’s eyes widened further, and he started jumping up and down in excitement, jabbering, “Wirklich? Spitfires? Du warst Jagdflieger?“
“Yes,” Kiwi confirmed. The word “Jagdflieger” was familiar from the war.
The boy’s excitement made him speak louder and he was beaming as he exclaimed. “Mein Vater auch.” These words were followed by a flood of German far beyond Kiwi’s limited capabilities. The boy’s mother seemed embarrassed and summarised rather than translated the boy’s words, “His father flew Me109s in France and the Mediterranean until 1941, when he was transferred to the Eastern Front and shot down. He is still being held prisoner by the Russians,” she concluded. The hardness of her face revealed her bitterness over this fact.
“It must be hard for you to part with your son.”
“In the West, the children will get extra milk and meat rations, they said. I want him to grow strong and big.”
“How old is he?” Kiwi asked, estimating that he was about six.
“Ten,” his mother answered.
Shocked, Kiwi turned to address himself to the little boy again. “What’s your name?” he asked, and the boy’s mother translated, “Er fragt, wie Du heist.”
“Uwe,” the boy said solemnly. “Uwe Bildhauer.”
“Well, Uwe come with me, and you can ride in the cockpit all the way to Hanover.”
When his mother delivered this message, Uwe gave Kiwi a look of pure adulation. “Danke! Danke! Das ist das Schoenste was ich mir je haette wuenschen koennen.”
His mother said more simply, “Thank you, Captain,” and held out her hand. Kiwi shook it. The other passengers had already boarded and the Dakota beside them was starting up its engines. Kiwi shook Uwe by the hand and led him to the cockpit.
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