47 Days

This narrative nonfiction novelette, based on the true experiences of the author's father, is set during the final weeks of World War II. Narrated in first person by Günter, a 16-year-old boy in the bombed-out German city of Solingen, it traces his defiance of Hitler's last conscription order and his 47 days as a fugitive.

The story opens with Günter reflecting from more than 70 years later on the events of spring 1945. The middle of three brothers, with Hans about a year older and Siegfried eight years younger, Günter grew up in a household ruled by his strict father. When the war began and his father left for the front, life became a struggle for survival. Günter declares that he clearly remembers the day everything started: the day they were ordered to die for the Fatherland.

On March 5, 1945, Günter sat in his frigid vocational school classroom. His elderly teacher, Herr Leimer, who had been pulled from retirement, entered visibly shaken and read an official order: Every male born in 1928 or 1929 had to report for muster and travel roughly 200 kilometers southeast to Marburg by March 12 to find the Hitler Youth office. These orders were part of the Volkssturm, Hitler's last conscription decree organized by the Nazi party (NSDAP) rather than the military, drafting all able-bodied males between 16 and 60 to defend the Fatherland. There was no official transport. Günter was stunned; a previous muster the prior fall had deferred them, and he privately believed the war would end soon, based on whispered talk at home. Some classmates eagerly planned to travel together, but Günter declined, saying he would wait for his friend Helmut.

That afternoon, all the boys received marching orders after a cursory examination. Günter visited Helmut, his best friend since elementary school, who lived with his mother in the old neighborhood of Unnersberg. Günter proposed that they travel together but deliberately stall, waiting for the war to end rather than reporting promptly. Helmut agreed reluctantly, warning that deserters faced execution. Back home, Günter told his mother he had been drafted. She was devastated, having already watched her husband leave nearly five years earlier and Hans the previous fall. She warned that the SS (Schutzstaffel), the Nazi regime's paramilitary and security force, would shoot him if they suspected desertion. His eight-year-old brother Siegfried asked if Günter would find their father and Hans. Günter knelt and promised to look, though he had no intention of following them into combat.

That night, Günter sneaked out into the freezing darkness. Each boy carried a small sack with spare clothes, a blanket, bread, and a few potatoes. They headed south into the Wupper River hills without a map. Tension flared immediately: Helmut voiced his terror of execution, while Günter insisted they stay in the local area rather than head toward Marburg. They sheltered in a hunting stand, unable to make a fire, and Günter lay awake tormented by doubt. Over the following days, they traveled cross-country, avoiding roads, sleeping in barns, and stealing food from farms.

After a week, the boys were barely speaking, worn down by isolation, hunger, and filth. Cut off from all news, they had no idea how close Allied forces were. They rehearsed cover stories and argued about their plausibility. When they washed in a freezing stream, Günter noticed Helmut's protruding collarbones and ribs, evidence of severe weight loss.

On day 10, they approached a small farm. A large dog charged them and an old farmer appeared with a rifle, but after hearing their story, the farmer softened, invited them inside, and set out a generous spread of bread, butter, cheese, jam, and sausage. He told them they were too young to fight, let them sleep in his barn, and sent them off with provisions.

On day 13, they dove into brush as a massive, retreating German military convoy crawled past, full of exhausted and injured soldiers. Günter refused Helmut's suggestion to reveal themselves, fearing one zealous officer could turn them in. By day 15, Helmut insisted on going home, his shoes falling apart. Günter sneaked into his house and found his mother thinner than before. She warned that the SS had recently shot people for picking up leaflets urging surrender. He slept in the coal cellar and left the following evening.

On day 20, the boys found a frozen pigeon and risked a fire. As they waited for it to roast, wondering what the pigeon had died of, an unexpected fit of laughter overtook them, their first in weeks. Three days later, a wild sow charged from the trees and bit deep into Günter's right calf. They stumbled through darkness to a village, where a woman took them in and a retired veterinarian stitched the wound. Helmut reported the prognosis: an ugly scar, but full recovery.

After two days of rest, they moved on, but four weeks of deprivation had broken something between them. Helmut accused Günter of ruining them by refusing to go near Marburg, and after their worst argument, they stopped speaking entirely. Retreating soldiers whispered to them to go home: There was no ammunition left, and the Americans were close. Refugees streamed past with wheelbarrows and small children.

On day 35, Günter hitched a ride on a German military truck and spotted a provisions vehicle loaded with Kommissbrot, dark military bread. A young soldier agreed to let him take two loaves. As Günter climbed the truck, enemy planes strafed the convoy. Machine gun fire shredded vehicles, and Günter jumped into a ditch. When the attack subsided, he witnessed graphic carnage and searched frantically for Helmut, convinced his friend was dead. Helmut called out, muddy but unharmed, and they fled into the woods. That night Günter woke and watched Helmut sleeping, recognizing that their friendship was the one thing Hitler could not take from them.

By day 40, the boys found a village with an intact pub. Günter entered to offer work in exchange for food and discovered three SS officers at the bar. One, an Obersturmführer (roughly a first lieutenant) named Kummel, paid for their dinner. When the officers offered to drive the boys to Marburg, Günter realized this meant certain discovery and execution. The officers retired upstairs, and the barkeeper locked the doors, trapping the boys inside. Günter planned to escape through a window before dawn, but Helmut, assigned the first watch, fell asleep. Günter woke at 4:15 AM, pried open a window, and they crawled into darkness. Someone exited the pub, and the boys flattened themselves behind the outhouse, holding their breath. They stumbled through fields and barbed wire, reaching a forest at dawn.

On day 47, the boys hiked toward home. As they neared the Wupper valley, they noticed white sheets hanging from windows. Günter associated them with the November bombing, when white fabric had marked where corpses awaited pickup. When he spotted a white sheet at his own family's window, he was convinced his mother had died. He entered the empty apartment with the spare key and sank down in despair.

Then his mother walked in carrying water buckets. The sheets did not signal death; they signaled surrender. American troops had entered Solingen, and the city had capitulated. She touched his cheek and told him the war was over.

In a brief epilogue, Günter reflects on freedom: no more hiding, no more running, no more fear. His mother calls him to eat and asks for help with firewood, and a chuckle bursts from his throat. He is finally free. But the narrator acknowledges that the happiness does not last. Postwar Germany brings pressing new questions: how to survive in the rubble with no food, no work, and no money, and above all, what happened to Father and Hans.