Vicki M. (vmachapy) reviewed The War of Our Childhood: Memories of World War II on + 215 more book reviews
Wolfgang Samuel deserves our thanks for bringing to us the childhood memeories of these twenty-seven suvivors of the World War II, touching stories of little girls and boys who had the misfortune to grow up during that most infamous period in the history of mankind. As successful adults, these German and German American men and women recall, at times reluctantly, the horrors of war, and the heroism, perseverance, and ingenuity of those who wished all to save their children. Their stories are unique and unforgettaable.
Tony Vaccaro, author of Entering Germany, 1944-1949
I don't remember being afraid, or being aware that something awful could happen to me. But I can recall that some people held towels or handkerchiefs in front of their mouths to filter the smoke that began to fill the shelter... When they opened the door all I could see was fire. Lots of fire. And I thought the people all jumped into the fire. That's what I thought at the time as a four year old child...Later, I learned that the people didn't jump into the fire, that the suction of the fire pulled them into it. Still, I wasn't afraid of the fire. I didn't know it was dangerous, nor did I understand what was happening to the people and my mother.
Ingrid Frohberg, Dresden
Tony Vaccaro, author of Entering Germany, 1944-1949
I don't remember being afraid, or being aware that something awful could happen to me. But I can recall that some people held towels or handkerchiefs in front of their mouths to filter the smoke that began to fill the shelter... When they opened the door all I could see was fire. Lots of fire. And I thought the people all jumped into the fire. That's what I thought at the time as a four year old child...Later, I learned that the people didn't jump into the fire, that the suction of the fire pulled them into it. Still, I wasn't afraid of the fire. I didn't know it was dangerous, nor did I understand what was happening to the people and my mother.
Ingrid Frohberg, Dresden
