EVA. My mother always told us the most curious anecdotes when we asked her about the war. She preferred to talk about funny anecdotes, rather than mention the atrocities she saw. 

    We borded the last train that left Prussia before it was taken by the Russians. I was fine, I was always fine because I was in my mother's lap. I had a stuffed animal made of plaid fabric, with big ears and a trunk: it was an elephant. Before falling asleep, I would run the thin strip of fabric that was the elephant's tail across my mouth. Several times, the elephant fell in the middle of the train; my mother then hurried between people's feet, legs, and suitcases to find my elephant.     When we fled, it was almost Christmas. Temperatures were very low. The train was completely occupied, it was almost impossible to breathe inside. People even stood inside the bathrooms. Whenever the train stopped passengers rushed to relieve themselves in the meadows, turning their backs to the train carriages. My mother fondly remembered that scene of bare bottoms in the snow. She would rather tell us about this, than about the mothers that carried along the corpses of their dead kids to their unknown destination. 

    Everyone knew each other in East Prussia, and my mother spoke to one of the soldiers who was related to a neighbour, and they allowed us to travel in the ammunition car, even though it was forbidden. It was either that or walking for days in the middle of the snow.