Creative Writing - Crossing the Frontier

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Crossing the Frontier

Berlin, April 23rd 1945

Katherine Meyer stood in the doorway of what once was her beautiful 18th century town house. The hard struggle of six years of war had reduced her home to little more than a skeleton of its former self. Her threadbare kitchen had no roof. The window frames still stood, but the glass had long since been blown out. The lack of heating made the house deathly cold, as if trying to replicate the atmosphere outside. She stood in the alcove and surveyed the desolate landscape that once was bustling Berlin. She used to complain about the amount of noise and traffic that passed her house every morning; she used to detest the loud waiters and musicians that played in the cafés on the pavement. That was such a long time ago now, long replaced by the dead, crumbling city that lay before her. Death was so apparent here, it hit Katherine in the face every time she looked out at her town. Derelict buildings lined every potholed street, many without roofs or floors. Sometimes Katherine would stumble upon a house completely intact by the chaos surrounding it, and it would remind Katherine of a happier time. But as soon as she looked around again she would sink further into the depression of war. She could not remember the last time she had slept throughout the night, as the relentless pounding of shells and incessant chattering of gunfire resounded throughout Berlin, penetrating even the thickest walls.

        Katherine Meyer had heard that the Soviets had arrived two days ago, which was now obvious as the amount of shelling and gunfire had increased tenfold. All of her friends had left Berlin years ago to seek safety in the countryside, but Katherine’s seriously ill father had kept her in Berlin. She had not heard any news of her father since the Soviets had captured that area of Berlin, and she feared the worst. She realised, standing in the doorway of her home, that if she intended to leave Berlin alive, then she must leave straight away. No news from her father in this case meant bad news, and she wasn’t going to stay in Berlin to find out. Remaining in the city meant certain death. She ran upstairs, and changed into her khaki clothes that she had stowed away. She quickly filled a small bag with what remaining food and water she had left. As she stepped out onto the street, it’s surface scarred by years of warfare, she realised that Berlin was surrounded, and the only way she was going to get out was to go straight through the Soviet lines. She was either going to get out of Berlin or die trying.

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        She walked swiftly, for she dreaded the sound of an oncoming shell or the sound of a Soviet tank coming in her direction. Unfortunately she knew much more than she should about how to keep out of the way of enemy fire. Her plan was to try and cross the Soviet lines at its narrowest point, which she thought would be the eastern side of Berlin. She paced down side streets and alleyways, following a map she had carefully drawn in her head. She turned into the Bäckerstraße, famous for being the street with the best bakery in Berlin. She ...

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