“This picture shows Manfred von Richthofen as a child, around the age of seven. He is wearing a sailor suit, which was very fashionable at the time.”

“When he was eight years old, he climbed the largest apple trees on the estate, which hardly anyone else could reach. But then he didn’t let himself down from the trunk, but from the outside on the branches, grasping them with the greatest dexterity. My parents often watched him do this, but never had the feeling that anything could happen to him, so sure were all his movements. My mother was never at all anxious with us boys. She was of the opinion that children could only be really skilful and able to cope with all dangers if they were given every conceivable physical freedom of movement. Only then would they be able to judge as accurately as possible what they could trust themselves to do. Of course, this has not always been without incident, but nothing more serious has ever happened.”

“Because from the earliest days of his youth, Manfred had already shown samples of unusual energy. As an eight-year-old boy, my parents were expecting him one day from the railway in Wroclaw. He was to return from a long stay in the country with two large suitcases. The boy was sent to the railway station to be picked up and returned alone. Manfred was nowhere to be found. What had happened? There was no telephone back then. The excitement grew. While my parents were still discussing it, the doorbell rang and Manfred was standing safely at the door with both suitcases. ‘You must have taken a taxi?’. ‘No, I didn’t have any money.’ ‘Who carried the suitcases for you?’ ‘I did that myself.’

My parents were speechless and incredulous, because the suitcases were so heavy that Manfred would have had trouble lifting just one. But then they got the answer. ‘I was already able to lift one, I always carried it a bit and looked after the other one in the meantime, then I picked up the second one, and that’s how I gradually got there, unfortunately it took a bit of time.’

And all this with such natural calm and confidence that even then my parents could confidently leave Manfred to look after himself on the whole.”

“An easily terrified mother is a great obstacle to the physical development of children,’ Mrs von Richthofen said. ‘When Manfred was a little boy, I believe many of my friends considered me rather a careless mother because I did not forbid the two boys to engage in some of the feats they liked, but I was then, and am still, convinced children can only become agile if they are allowed such freedom as will enable them to judge what they can safely demand of their bodies.”

“Manfred was extremely truthful. Even today, my mother cannot praise the extent to which my parents could always rely on him. He gave precise and clear answers to every question, regardless of what the consequences might be for him. As a twelve-year-old boy, he was once unable to curb his passion for hunting on his grandmother’s estate. When he couldn’t find any wild ducks on the Weistritz, he shot some tame ones, which were then missing from his grandmother’s duck pen. Manfred was put under strict interrogation, but it only lasted half a minute. It didn’t occur to him to deny or even gloss over what he had done. And the good grandmother gladly forgave her grandson, who could not lie. Manfred’s first ‘hunting trophies’, three drake feathers, still hang in his parlour in Schweidnitz today. Visitors will not be able to look at them without emotion. Manfred’s mother summarised these feelings and this conviction of Manfred’s nature in the short words: ‘He stood firm, wherever he was placed.’ This belief in his own ability, coupled with inner nobility and self-evident modesty, enabled my brother, I believe, to be a real leader. His Uhlans, when he was a lieutenant, and later all his subordinates in the Richthofen fighter squadron could trust him implicitly. He did not flatter them, but he protected them and kept his word, and serving under him was made easier by the cheerfulness and cheerfulness, indeed often by the exuberance with which he showed himself equal to even the most difficult tasks. For in one thing he was a perhaps unparalleled example to all who had to follow him in war: in the bravery of his spirit, in the absolute lack of any fear, indeed in the complete impossibility of being able to imagine any process or impending event that could be associated with any feeling of fear for him.”

“He didn’t underestimate the danger, but it didn’t play a role in his life. That was the case from an early age. The girls claimed that the manor house was haunted. A servant had once hanged himself on the floor upstairs and it had been haunted ever since, so they said in the servants’ parlour. Thirteen-year-old Manfred wanted to experience this haunting. He asked to be shown the exact spot on the floor where the accident had happened and had his bed carried to the spot to sleep. My mother knew Manfred’s fearlessness, but she decided to put him to the test. She crept upstairs with my sister and gradually began to roll chestnuts along the floor. At first Manfred slept soundly. But the thumping increased. Then he suddenly woke up, jumped up, grabbed a truncheon and lunged at the troublemakers. My mum had to switch on the light quickly, otherwise she would have had a bad time. But there was no sign of fear in Manfred. And that didn’t change until his last flight, from which he was never to return alive to his squadron and his own.”

‘How was the visit to headquarters?’ I ask. Manfred gives a humorous account; I learn a lot of interesting things. Ludendorff made a particularly strong impression on him with his terse, matter-of-fact manner. ‘He’s not a man for a little chat; he goes all out,’ Manfred says. Not so Hindenburg, at whose right side Manfred sat during the dinner. He asked in his good-natured, jovial manner: ‘Well, tell me, Richthofen, were you also a cadet?’ – Manfred told him that he had started his military career in the 2nd Company in Wahlstatt in parlour six. Hindenburg replied: ‘Well, you see, I also started in parlour six.’ On the whole, I think Manfred was glad when he had the Grand Headquarters behind him again. For him, the sworn front-line soldier, receptions like the one he was ordered to on 1 May were no duel of edification. He was no friend of polite airs and (as he remarked with a droll sigh) ‘totally unsuited to the job of a wing adjutant’. He longed for the roar of the propellers, the laughter of the machine guns, the taut but fresh life with his comrades out there in the barracks and tents. He wanted to conquer each day anew, at the cost of his life. That was in his nature.’

“Manfred von Richthofen was in the company of some of the most important people in Germany on his 25th – and last – birthday. In the morning he reported to the luxurious Hotel Oranienhof, which had become the General Staff Headquarters. For an hour he sat outside the office of Gen.d.Inf Erich Ludendorff, watching aides enter and depart with great bundles of paperwork. Albert Ballin, Generaldirektor of the Hamburg-America Shipping Line, sat nearby, completely unaware of Richthofen in his drab service uniform and uninterested in the Pour le Mérite at Manfred’s collar. Ballin was absorbed in a discussion in hushed tones with a high-ranking member of the General Staff. Then came Foreign Minister Arthur Zimmermann, followed by Chancellor Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg and then Karl Helferrich, Secretary of the Imperial Treasury.

After several generals had been escorted in, it was Richthofen’s turn. With a wave of an adjutant’s hand, he was slipped past the other dignitaries and ushered into Ludendorff’s office. The stern-looking Quarter-Master General had no time for pleasantries, and immediately asked about air operation on the Arras front. As Richthofen recorded in a reminiscence too candid to have been published during his lifetime: “I began to tell him and drifted into a little chat that had little military importance. Then he simply cut off my conversation and came to things I had already mentioned. One noted he went all-out. After he elicited from me what he wanted to know about operations on the main battlefront at Arras, I was abruptly dismissed. I must say that I was quite satisfied, for this serious, professional, dispassionate-thinking person was strange to me.

Richthofen was relieved to leave the Hotel Oranienhof and get out into the sunshine and fresh air of Kaiser-Wilhelmstraße. It was a short walk to Elisabethenstraße, at the end of which was the Kaiser’s residence, with a commanding view of the Nahe river.”

‘The next day, I had to introduce myself to Hindenburg and Ludendorff. As usual, Hindenburg was swamped with civilians and uniformed personnel during visiting hours, so I spoke little with him.

I sat in Ludendorff’s anteroom for an hour and had the opportunity to observe how busy this man was. There were a lot of high-ranking and important personalities in the room where I was sitting. Ballin was sitting there, next to him a high-ranking general staff officer with a thick bundle of files; then the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Bethmann had also announced his visit, Helfferich was just coming out; so many generals were still waiting for an audience, and then I arrived.

After an hour, the adjutant waved me over and ushered me in. Ludendorff stood up, shook my hand, and instead of asking, ‘How are you? You look so plump and lively,’ he simply waved his hand toward a chair and asked, ‘How are flight operations at Arras going now?’ I began to tell him and probably went into a little chatter that contained less military information. Then he simply cut me off and started talking about things I had just mentioned. It was immediately apparent that he was going all out. After he had got out of me what he wanted to know about flight operations on the main battlefront at Arras, I was dismissed after a short while. I must say I was quite satisfied, because this serious, sober-minded man was uncanny to me.

On the evening of 2 May, Hindenburg was invited to the ‘Kogen’. The event was arranged in my honour. Ludendorff also appeared. I sat to the right of Hindenburg. At the table, he gave a speech about me. Everything went down smoothly! In the course of the conversation, he asked me in his good-natured, calm manner, which inspires unconditional trust: ‘Tell me, Richthofen, were you also a cadet?’ I told him that I had begun my military career in the 2nd Company in Wahlstatt, in room 6. Then the old gentleman said: ‘Well, you see, I also started playing soldier in room 6, and I gave the room my picture as a souvenir.’

‘We travelled to Berlin, Albrecht, Ilse, Bolko and me. A funeral service is to be held for Manfred in the Garrison Church. It’s 2 May – and today is Manfred’s birthday! At one o’clock, Excellency von Hoeppner, the commander of the air force, paid us a visit. I asked him about a lot of things that were on my mind, first of all about Manfred’s death. He thought he could assure me that Manfred had been hit from the ground. He said: ‘We have no replacement for your son in the entire air force.’ Lothar has arrived in Berlin from Dûsseldorf. How miserable and changed he looks, I realised with great pain. He is still deeply depressed about the death of his beloved and honoured brother. Shortly before four o’clock we travelled in two cars to the old Garrison Church. The audience lined up in thick rows. The bells rang out solemnly. General Manfred von Richthofen, a cousin of my husband, a cavalry general in the war, and Excellency von Hoeppner received us in front of the church (on behalf of the Kaiser). We took the places of honour reserved for us. The altar in front of us is lined with black cloth, only the image of Christ in the centre remains uncovered. Bronze basins stand on four floral pedestals, from which blazing flames flare up. A catasal-like structure with a black velvet cushion with Manfred’s medals in the centre. He never wore them all; I am seeing them myself for the first time today. The barrels of four machine guns protrude from the centre of the catafalque to the right and left, and a huge wreath of black pile is wrapped around a shattered propeller beneath the medal cushion. On the right and left, as if cast from ore, are eight airmen in black leather jackets and crash helmets. Meritorious non-commissioned officers, each of them has the E.K. 1 and the airman’s badge. One airman is also positioned to the right and left of the catafalque. During the entire ceremony, which probably lasted more than an hour, they stood without moving, without batting an eyelid – an unforgettable picture in its austerity. At four o’clock the Empress appeared together with Prince and Princess Sigismund of Prussia. They took their seats to our right in the box. The ceremony began. The priest said that we should be comforted by the achievements and the work of the deceased. It was not the dying of ordinary life that had approached him, but death in all its heroic beauty. When the glow of the play of colours was at its most colourful, when the force of the actions was at its most powerful, the process rushed down upon this life. Only a poet could do it justice. ‘He passed away in spring – what he was deprived of was a long, hot summer and a withering autumn.’ The Requiem by Brahms… The beautiful old cavalry signal, the Retraite – as if blown at sunset over a lonely battlefield… A farewell salute to the young cavalryman. * A soft, barely audible voice spoke to me, expressing its apologies. I looked into kind eyes. The empress’s face was motherly and deeply troubled. ‘I had wished,’ I said, ’that Manfred could have served his fatherland even longer.’ The tall woman mumbled quietly, a trace of pain was around her mouth, she knew well what suffering was; fate had also given her much to bear, she too knew the agony of nights spent awake. She began to talk on, still in a soft, gentle voice. She spoke of Manfred’s visit to Homburg; I replied how delighted my son had been at her kindness. This incident immediately came to life in my mind: It was exactly one year ago, on a bright May, on his birthday, that he was to present himself to the Empress. Victorious in fifty-two battles, he flew to the Grand Headquarters in the old leather jacket he never parted with in the field. The Empress received him as soon as he landed, and when he made a gesture of apologising for his clothes, she stroked the unadorned garment and said: ‘The good jacket – it has seen fifty-two air victories.’ It was probably time to go now, we turned to leave the sacristy; then the Empress, who had been busy with my children and Albrecht, approached me again. Once more our eyes met, once more she pressed my hand, and I bent down and kissed hers. We drive back to the hotel. Many friends have gathered there. I am delighted when some of the gentlemen from Manfred’s squadron come forward. We face each other. I scrutinise these serious young people, Manfred’s comrades. I try to read in their faces what was also in Manfred’s features, the experience of the front. One narrow, well-cut face in particular catches my eye. The very young Uhlan officer is very agitated. Sorrow works in his fine, delicate features. His name rings in my ear. So this is Hans Joachim Wolff, of whom Manfred told me so warmly; who wrote the beautiful letter to Lothar when his honoured and admired cavalry captain had died an airman’s death… ‘…I in particular am deeply unhappy. I have lost more in him than just the great role model he was to everyone. I loved him like a father. I was happy when I could be with him…’ Now he was standing in front of me, and it was as if I had to comfort him. It was as if I was talking to my own son. He said he had always felt a special obligation to watch over the life of his great commander, as a shield-bearer does. But in the hour when the terrible thing happened, he himself had been involved in an air battle and had lost sight of his leader…Now he reproached himself most bitterly. I was touched by so much love and loyalty; I took him into my heart. May he remain with his parents – he is their only child. * We talked some more. I was grateful to these young people. Manfred lived in them. They told me many comforting things. Manfred had been happy, satisfied; he had been admired, even idolised. The Kaiser had intended – so they said – to award him the Oak Leaves for Pour le Mérite after his 80th aerial victory and to issue a hand letter forbidding him to fly. Manfred was already on holiday and his sleeper ticket was already on his desk. He had been invited to go capercaillie hunting with Mr Voss in Freiburg, the father of the dead air hero. His visit to the German crown prince had been announced beforehand. The comrades also said that Manfred had wanted to be available to all the squadrons; he then wanted to sign up with this or that squadron and fly with them against the enemy. The gentlemen also told how they did not want to admit their dismay to each other when their commander did not return. They hoped he had landed somewhere and would suddenly be back. Excellency von Hoeppner added that Manfred had asked after his 63rd aerial victory that from then on his victories should be credited to the squadron and no longer to him personally; but this was never done under any circumstances. A motherly friend of ours had attended the funeral service. She had taken Lothar particularly close to her heart – he was to be her heir one day. Deeply saddened by Manfred’s death and Lothar’s second wound, she came to me and asked me to submit a petition so that Lothar would stop flying. Her concern was dictated by true motherly love. But – hadn’t thousands of mothers sacrificed their sons like me – weren’t there thousands with the same anxious concern for the living? Only recently, one of my acquaintances had lost three brave and flourishing sons within four weeks. We all bore the same fate.  Our sons protected the homeland with their bodies, with their blood. Who should claim an exception for themselves? And above all – what would Lothar himself say? My eyes wandered over to him. He, who perhaps felt the blow most terribly, spoke seriously and calmly to his comrades. Lothar simply wouldn’t have done it, he would have found such a move on my part embarrassing. – No, I didn’t do that to him. ‘God willing, Lothar will live,’ I replied to my faithful old friend. God willing – – – As I shook hands with the young officers to say goodbye, I thanked them once again for this hour. It had done me good. I took with me the realisation of how happy Manfred had been in his brave life as an airman; how he would not have swapped this life for any other in the world. * We drove back to Schweidnitz; it was only now that I realised how tense my nerves had been over the last few days. Now that I no longer felt that all eyes were on me, I could see how I was coping with myself. I sought solitude and feared it at the same time. Once Menzke stood in front of me. He brought his dead cavalry captain’s things. We knelt by the suitcase, sorting and organising. Menzke could hardly speak for grief. I told him to choose something as a farewell gift. The good man chose a modest piece of the equipment Manfred had worn in the field.’