Bombed ruins form the skyline
Burnt places - all around
People trading their possessions
A keepsake for some bread
Crowded trains full of people
Remindful of a cattle transport
Families get separated
On the way to their new homes
Still the children search for cover
When they hear the airplanes
Their bags are always packed
Just with dolls, books and pencils
The first black men they ever saw
Were among the foreign soldiers
Some of them were really kind
Bringing food and sometimes sweets
No more sirens in the night
Which made you run into the basement
No more fear of foreign soldiers
Who came to search the house
CHORUS:
It is the summer of fourty-five
Black-market dealers are in the streets
But we all feel so alive
Now we get again what we need