Cold February nights often take me back to when I was almost 5 years old.

We lived east of the grimy industrial city of Chemnitz in Germany, a strategic target of Allied air raids, which had become a regular event. When the sirens sounded, mother, grandmother, six children and cats, Sascha and Minka, went to our basement garage, which had a steel door.

Because I was the youngest, my brothers and sisters piled on top of me to protect me. I felt warm and cozy, our cats purred so loudly that sometimes we mistook it for the distant sound of the bomber squadrons.

Before the bombers arrived, other planes would drop flares to stake out the target. One night a bomb hit in the neighborhood and the explosion made the garage door swing open, revealing floating lights drifting around in the sky. It was a marvelous sight and we called them Christmas trees.

The windows of our house blew out from the explosions, and my oldest brother found ways to board them up.

Furniture was reduced to a minimum; what was not absolutely essential was turned into firewood.

Survival depended on food and warmth. Farmers in the surrounding countryside were a primary source of food, and my mother traded what she had for potatoes or whatever else was available. Despite her attempts to trade her fur coat for millet, my canary died of hunger.

And yes, we stole to survive. The potato fields were guarded by armed men, and I was posted to watch out for them while my older brothers and sisters dug potatoes in the night. Imagine my terror when a strong hand grabbed me by the scruff of the neck. Luckily the guard was kind and simply shooed us off.

Yet, for a child this was a time of some exhilaration. The rules of normal life were suspended and what had been forbidden was suddenly allowed.

Once we six kids were turned loose on the cache of preserves and jams my mother had stashed away in the basement. Later I understood that this was a gesture of resignation. She had given up hope that we would survive, and this was her carpe diem.

One night — it turned out to be the night from Feb. 13-14, 1945 — my mother took us all to our upstairs balcony, pointed to the east and said: “Da brennt Dresden.” (There’s Dresden burning.) We could see a glow of white light on the horizon. Little did we know that this signified the death of thousands.

It was also the night Kurt Vonnegut survived in slaughterhouse number five as well as the night Professor Victor Klemperer, cousin of the conductor Otto Klemperer, stumbled through the burning debris searching for his wife. His diary — “I Shall Bear Witness” — gives a breathtaking eyewitness account.

One of the landmarks of Dresden, the Frauenkirche (Church of Our Lady), collapsed a few days after the bombing when the supports of the dome gave way. The 22,000 tons of rubble were left as a “monument” for the next 45 years. Not until Feb. 13, 1990, was the idea of reconstruction born.

Architects used computer simulation to place the blocks of rubble and other architectural elements where they likely belonged. The result is an irregular checkerboard of dark original blocks here and there among the pale new filler blocks.

Sixty-five years later, my wife and I visited Dresden. Little evidence of the 1945 conflagration survives, and on a sunny summer morning the atmosphere was festive. We took a horse and buggy ride through the city while our guide reeled off jokes in Saxon, his local lingo.

That same day we attended a Sunday service in the gorgeously reconstructed Frauenkirche and heard transportingly beautiful organ and choral music.

Afterwards, we took another look at the church from the outside. As we stood there, I thought about that dark night long ago on the balcony. To be sure, it had been 65 years ago, but memory foreshortens chronology, and the shadows of the past were there. Architects may skillfully reconstruct buildings, yet nothing can ever be the same.

Michael Bachem, Ph.D., of Portland is professor of humanities, emeritus, at Miami University in Ohio.