Science that resonates

Voices of 1944:A Personal Essay

November 10, 2024

BY Ingo Titze

This year we have been celebrating the 80th year of the beginning of the end of World War II. D-Day occurred on 6 June,1944. The United States of America began to liberate Europe from Nazi Germany.  Voices of liberty and freedom sustain the memories of those days.

In that eventful year, 1944, I was three years old. We lived in East Germany, in a little city called Hirschberg, Southeast of Dresden. Twice my father was deployed to Russia as an infantry soldier, forced to fight in a war that he hated from its first day. His brother was shot and killed in 1939. There was little hope for my father’s return from Russia. Miraculously, he made it back after having been shot in the knee.

In 1944, I was injured with a small grenade and lost all vision in my left eye. My body healed from shrapnel wounds, but my eyesight did not return.  Ironically and unpredictably, reading and writing with one eye at a slow pace became my profession. It is still a challenge today to read the many articles of my colleagues.

My mother was protected and (miraculously) was able to nurture three boys through six years of war. A Polish soldier, technically the enemy, protected us in our home while my father was forced to face the ugly days of defeat. In the last year, 1944-1945, my father Kurt spent most days away from home to find food for us wherever and whenever he could through bargaining with his artistic skills as a sculptor.  

In 1945, our family of five fled as refugees to West Germany. By the grace of God, we all stayed together and survived a transport in cattle cars, scrunched together like sardines in a can. As a four-year old, I could hardly breathe as dirty coats and dresses were rubbing my face from all directions. The stench from rotten food and filthy clothes was unbearable.

Many days and nights were spent in refugee camps, waiting for a temporary house assignment in West Germany. Two old ladies in Werdohl-Eveking, near Lüdenscheid, were assigned to take us in. We lived in two small attic rooms as a family of five, with no kitchen and no bathroom. All meals were cold, and toilet use required permission from the owners.

As quickly as possible, my father built a house from scrap materials on a rented lot, fully expecting it to be torn down soon after the post-war refugee crisis days. Miraculously, the house is still standing today, 70 years later. In fact, it has become a historic site in the small village called Altenmühle, as a reminder of the difficult recovery days after WW2.

 In 1955, amazingly, we landed safely in America as immigrants, humbled by the fact that thousands of American troops never returned. 2,500 of them gave their lives on D-Day, June 6, 1944, to save the world from tyranny. We were the direct benefactors of that sacrifice.

About 20 years ago, my wife’s father Robert Pittard, who also fought in WW2, took us all to Normandy Beach, where his brother survived a military plane crash into the sea. To give some honor to our troops, I was compelled to climb the embankment at Omaha beach. On a bright day, carrying no armor, with dry clothes, wearing tennis shoes, with no enemy fire, I pulled myself up the embankment by grabbing weeds, bushes, and rocks. I barely made it to the top. How could American troops do it in a wet uniform, carrying armor, at night, facing gunfire head-on? Many did not. We visited the memorial where nearly 10,000 troops are buried. In the life to come, I hope I can embrace one or two of these heroes and thank them.

My message is formed as a question: How many events occur “miraculously” in a person’s life before it is recognized that good fortune alone cannot explain the order of events? A belief of extraordinary intervention emerges. Why were some lives terminated so quickly while others were preserved by their sacrifice? How can I express my gratitude to those who gave all? What more can I do to preserve freedom and divine guidance of a nation? In the least, my voice must become louder after 80 years.

As an immigrant and naturalized U.S. citizen, my voice does get louder for the love of my adopted country, and for those who fought for it. I am saddened by some who disrespect this great nation, knowing little about other nations. Some come to partake, but only to change our culture to the one from which they escaped.

Twenty years from now, all voices regarding WW2 will come only from history books, not from people who speak from personal experience. Let me therefore shout for America while I can, not only on Veterans Day and Memorial Day, but every day.

Ingo Titze

Dr. Ingo Titze, educated as a physicist (Ph.D.) and engineer (M.S.E.E.), has applied his scientific knowledge to a lifelong love of clinical voice and vocal music. His research interests include biomechanics of human tissues, acoustic phonetics, speech science, voice disorders, professional voice, music acoustics, and the computer simulation of voice. He is the father of vocology, a specialty in speech-language pathology. He defined the word as “the science and practice of voice habilitation.”

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