Thoughts Are Free

by Max Hertzberg

  Turning my attention back to my fellow prisoners, I slapped each gently on the cheeks again, hoping for a reaction. The man stirred, groaned, his eyes trying to focus on me.

  “Are you OK?” I asked him. The man just stared at me, his eyes unfocussed. “Listen, can you get up?”

  Obediently, he stood up. He winced in pain, but he managed it.

  Standing up, he didn’t look in bad shape. He looked much fitter than I felt. That was good enough for me.

  “Do you smoke? Have you got any matches?”

  The man just stared at me, not understanding what I wanted. I patted down his pockets, finding a soft-pack of Juwel cigarettes. Tucked inside was a brass cigarette lighter. Perfect.

  “Listen, get Evelyn on her feet, we need her awake,” I told the man, speaking slowly, trying to get through to him.

  I hobbled across to the boxes of leaflets and pulled out handfuls of the paper, scrunching them into a big pile on the floor. I tugged at the stack of torches, trying to drag them into the centre of the room. They toppled over with an echoing clatter. The man’s scared eyes fixed on the door, listening for any sounds from the other side.

  A pause, nothing happened, nobody came. I carried on dragging the torches over to the pile of leaflets, laying them around and over the paper, keeping a couple back.

  Exhausted for the moment, I sagged down to the floor again, holding my side and trying to ignore the pain of breathing. The man was holding Evelyn up, he still didn’t look particularly aware of his surroundings, but he was doing a good job. Evelyn’s head was lolling, but her eyes were open. More progress.

  Back onto my feet, trying not to breathe too deeply, I made my way around the pile of paper and torches on the floor. I picked up a couple of the placards and tore the hardboard messages off the poles, letting the black-red-gold propaganda fall onto the pile already spilling across the floor.

  A moment to gather myself, then back to the man. I gave him one of the poles and looked him in the eye.

  “We have two chances,” I told him, still speaking slowly, checking to see whether he understood me. He nodded in a vague but committed way, the way a drunk would. “If we can’t get out that way,” I pointed at the window, “then we have to shout and make noise. When they come to see what’s going on …” I shook the pole I was holding in my right fist, and for good measure picked up a torch with my left hand.

  He nodded. He didn’t ask any questions, like how do we get Evelyn out of the window? Or how do we manage to get past whoever comes to find out what’s going on.

  It was a crap plan, but in his concussed state he didn’t realise it.

  Another pause for thought, the song still going around in my head. Ich zünde mein Laternchen an, das leuchtet hell im Dunkeln dann. Am Kindertag, beim Fackelzug könnt ihr es alle sehn. ‘I light my little lantern, so it glows in the dark. On Children’s Day, at the torchlit parade, you’ll see it then.’

  I used the brass lighter to light one of the torches, thrusting it into the pile of placards and leaflets. Another torch caught fire, and a few leaflets started curling brown at the edges before bursting into a blue and green flame. I watched for a few seconds. The fire was going well, dark smoke was gathering into a fine column, mushrooming out below the ceiling. Already the wooden poles of the placards were starting to catch fire here and there, adding to the smoke.

  It was time. With one of the poles I smashed the window, quickly knocking the remaining shards of glass out of the frame.

  “Get her through the window! Now! Come on!”

  The man heaved Evelyn up onto his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. He was strong, and that’s what we needed.

  The smoke was filling the room, flowing and ebbing. I was choking, each cough a stab in my side.

  Evelyn was through the window, the man had lifted her onto the sill and she managed to get through by herself. He was climbing after her. I was right behind him, I could see his head and shoulders as he stood outside, holding his hands out to me, waiting to help me through.

  “Fuck’s sake!” Swearing, coming from behind me.

  I looked over my shoulder, the door was open, and in the cross draught the fire climbed higher, the leaflets and placards flaming upwards.

  “Get the sand buckets!” Behind the flames and smoke a figure impotently waved at the heat. Other skins came, forearms over faces, trying to push through the blaze. “They’re fucking escaping!”

  Karo

  We’d just managed to get everyone to calm down, but some tosser was arguing with me, the kind that talks shit and never actually does anything.

  “Look, it’s under control—we’ve got our own mission here!” I told him. “And if you don’t like it then why don’t you go to Frankfurter Tor and help out there?”

  Schimmel was doing a better job, he and a few other people from the squat were going around, telling people what was happening, why we were delaying the march down Weitlingstrasse.

  Ignoring the argumentative tosser I looked around, it was going to be OK, people had calmed down, and somebody had brought a guitar out and a group was sitting in the middle of the road, singing Give Peace A Chance.

  Bloody hippies, can’t take them anywhere.

  I was keeping an eye on the station, waiting for Bert and Rex and the others to come back, and that’s why I was first to notice the skins come up the steps from the U-Bahn. There were about ten of them, and they looked like they fancied their chances against forty assorted hippies, grandmas and punks.

  Martin

  Using a placard I shovelled against the heat, pushing the burning torches and leaflets towards the door, towards the skins.

  “Martin! Come on!” Evelyn was shouting from the window. The smell of scorching hair, the hot tingling of eyebrows sizzling, pushing a bit further, pushing the fascists back out of the room. The placard ignited, flames running up the pole towards my hands.

  Chucking the burning pole towards the doorway I twisted round and stepped over to the window. Evelyn’s colleague was reaching in, he grabbed my forearms, dragged me over the sill. The window frame pressed into my ribs but I didn’t feel any pain. I was panicking, trying to get out. I fell down the outside wall of the building, but strong hands held me up. With an arm around my shoulder I was half pushed, half carried down the road. I didn’t look round, but behind us I could hear the drumming of boots on the pavement, almost feel the ground shivering beneath my legs.

  “Get the fuckers!”

  They sounded close, too close.

  I was only holding the others back. I willed power into my legs and tried to shrug Evelyn and her colleague off, but they held fast, dragging me on.

  Karo

  Everyone had seen the skins by now, but they were just standing around like a load of muppets. If I didn’t act soon then we’d lose this battle before we even started it. I had to buy time for the Antifa to get back here.

  But how?

  “Right everyone, just like the plan.” Schimmel was by my side again—he’d climbed up on a railing so that everyone could see him. “Move down Weitlingstrasse, nice and slow. Don’t worry about the skins, we’re gonna deal with them.”

  Like how the fuck are we gonna deal with them? The fash were standing just outside the station entrance, taking their time, enjoying the smell of fear.

  “OK, you get the people away,” he said to me. “I’ll stay here and …” But Schimmel didn’t finish his sentence. The fash were watching him, he was marked.

  “Like fuck you will! Anyway I’m staying,” I told him.

  We shared a scared grin as the people around us melted away, moving down Weitlingstrasse in one big block.

  “C’mon Bert, c’mon Rex—we need you!”

  Martin

  “Shit! It’s like 1989 again! Martin, we’re going to need your help.” Evelyn’s voice was calm, almost slow. But it carried a brittleness that made me try to look over my shoulder, catch sight of our pursuers.

  “No, the other way.” Evelyn
turned my head with her free hand, lifting my chin so I could see the mob blocking the road ahead.

  I sank down to the pavement. I’d failed. We were sandwiched between two gangs of skins.

  “Martin!” Evelyn’s voice was more urgent now, “Martin, come on, help us out one more time.” Evelyn was crouched down next to me, why wasn’t she running? She could make it without me, she’d get through somehow. I turned my head, looking back down the road, wondering how long we had, how many seconds before boots and fists smashed into us.

  Karo

  It wasn’t Bert, or Rex, or any of the Antifa crowd that came—it was Erika.

  She appeared behind the fascists, and she’d brought a whole bunch of very angry looking refugees with her. They just surrounded the skins, disarmed them, just like that. Erika had gone to the refugee hostel near the station, told them what was happening, and brought them all out here: Russian Jews, Roma, Sinti, Croatians, Serbians, Montenegrins. They’d all been on the receiving end of fascist violence. For them it was payback time.

  Behind us the original crowd were still marching down the street. There were more of them now, local residents had come out and were marching too. I wanted to go and join them. But first I gave Erika a hug.

  “You rock!”

  Erika blushed and looked away, but before she could say anything Rex ran out of the station.

  “Karo! Message from your neighbour, Frau Kembowski! I saw her go into the U-Bahn, she says she’s going on the march over in Berlin-Biesdorf!”

  Frau Kembowski? Going up against the Nazis in Biesdorf? “Is anyone with her? She’s not going by herself?”

  He nodded, and I knew what I had to do, I had to go and be with Frau Kembowski. But I wanted to take the Weitlingstrasse house. I was standing there dithering, not knowing which way to go.

  “You go to your neighbour. I’ll help out here.” Erika gently pushed me towards the station.

  Martin

  Four skins were behind us, ten, twenty yards away. Behind them, smoke was billowing out of the house on the corner, flames licked the window frames, glass littered the pavement. But the skins stood there, not making a move. They weren’t staring at us, but past us, towards the big group on other side of us. I looked the other way, focussing for the first time on the larger group.

  They were people.

  Ordinary people.

  And they looked very pissed off.

  They were nearly upon us, most were concentrating on the skins, but a few were glaring at Evelyn and her friend.

  “Martin, tell them!” Evelyn was no longer calm, she was frightened. She shook my shoulder as about twenty people surrounded us. They were young, old, men, women, punks and workers—there was no common feature, other than determination.

  “Call an ambulance.” Evelyn had stood up again, she spoke with authority. “This man needs an ambulance. We rescued him.”

  A figure from the back of the group split off and ran across the road to a shop, I could see him through the window, talking to the shopkeeper. The rest of them stood around, staring at us. They didn’t do anything, just held us with their eyes.

  “Martin, if you don’t say something soon then it’s going to get nasty,” Evelyn hissed into my ear. “They think we’re skins.”

  “These people.” My voice croaked, I struggled up, and Evelyn held my arm, supporting me as I stood there. My throat was raw and what sounds came were rasping out of my mouth. “These two rescued me. They’re not skins. They’re in disguise …” I looked to see what was happening behind us. About twenty people were surrounding the skins, a further group was standing at the end of the street, waiting for anyone fleeing the burning house. Evelyn’s words from a minute ago penetrated the smoke that still fogged my mind: It’s like 1989 again.

  My head dropped until my chin was on my chest, I was exhausted, I had no more to give.

  Karo

  We got off the U-Bahn and ran down the road, Rex seemed to know where he was going. Turning off into an alley, it was obvious that we’d arrived. A crowd of people swelled out of a gap between some garages. We pushed our way through until we were standing in the forgotten garden of a ramshackle old villa. There must have been about a hundred people, and they’d made space for about half a dozen skins whose eyes darted around, trying to find a way through the mob.

  “What’s happening?” Rex asked.

  “We cornered them, in their nest, and now they’re trying to fly!” A middle aged woman in a pinny laughed. “Fly, little birds, run little rabbits!”

  I was trying to spot Frau Kembowski—what was she thinking of, coming here, she’d be crushed by the crowd! Standing on tiptoes, craning my neck, scanning the crowds, but no sign of her, she was too little, she’d be hidden by all the people around her.

  There was a sudden hush, and my eyes switched to the front. One of the skins had a knife, he was holding it out, threatening the people closest to him. The blade was already red, he’d already slashed someone. Shit, what to do? This was going to turn nasty. I grabbed Rex by the arm and pushed my way through the crowd.

  There she was! Frau Kembowski was standing in front of the Nazi with the knife.

  “I’m Frau Kembowski,” she said. “I lived here in Biesdorf for sixty years. I know you, and you know me.” She stared at the skinhead until his arm dropped.

  I managed to get through, and I stood by Frau Kembowski’s side. Her hand clasped mine, it was shaking, but she stood there, as tall as she could.

  “I know you, and I knew your father and your mother. Ashamed they’d be, ashamed of you. And so are we. We’ve all had enough.” Frau Kembowski was pointing at each of the skins in turn, using her stick. “Young men, listen to me: you’ve got a choice, either you bugger off and leave Biesdorf—no, make that: you leave Berlin. Or you stay, you make amends. Your choice. You want to stay, you come to the Round Table. Tonight at eight.”

  Frau Kembowski shook her head in disgust, then reached forward and took the knife off the skin.

  “Come on, young Karo,” she whispered to me. “Time for us to go.”

  I tried to fix the skins with a stare, but they were all looking at their feet, and Frau Kembowski was pulling me back into the crowd.

  “Run hares, run like rabbits! We’ll catch you!” The crowd was chanting, but they made way for the skins. They legged it, shitting themselves all the way.

  Martin

  “Goodbye, dear Martin, I doubt we’ll meet again.”

  I opened my eyes. A blue light lunged at me, swept on then came round again.

  “It’s a shame, really. We never did get together, did we?” Evelyn whispered. She was holding my hand, her face was close to mine. I felt something soft touch my lips, pressing on them, the smell of Florena hand cream. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it didn’t feel right either.

  A kiss.

  “Come on, get him to hospital—we haven’t got all night!”

  The last thing I saw before my stretcher was loaded into the ambulance was Evelyn’s silent friend.

  “Dmitriy Alexandrovich peredayet privet,” he said as he lifted his hand in a clenched fist salute: greetings from Dmitri Alexandrovich.

  Days 16–20

  Tuesday 29th March

  to

  Saturday 2nd April 1994

  Berlin: Across the Republic celebrations are being held after yesterday’s extraordinary events. Last night, in spontaneous demonstrations across the Republic, communities took over buildings used by right-wing groups and parties. The events have been compared to the Monday demonstrations of 1989.

  Martin

  For the first day in hospital I refused all visits, knowing that K1 would be the first in the queue. I wanted to wait until I had a clear head before tackling them.

  “Could you describe the one they called the boss?”

  “Comrade Captain Neumann, I’ve told you twice already. I know how this works, but I’ve given you descriptions, and now I’m feeling tired. It’s time you went.” I reache
d for the button that would summon the nurse.

  It was true, I was tired, but Neumann was also taking an unhealthy interest in getting an exact timeline of my imprisonment.

  I’d decided not to tell him about the gun. The whole thing had been a set up—they’d been trying to frame me for murder, or maybe they had intended to blackmail me at some point in the future. I knew how to deal with such Stasi tricks: just tell everyone. And I would, but I’d start with my colleagues, and not with K1.

  And with any luck it might not come to that. The gun was probably still in the building when it went up in flames, burning off my prints. The powder residue on my hands had long since been removed by careful nurses treating my burns. My burnt and sooty clothes had already been disposed of.

  “Just one more thing, then I’ll go. A body was found on the premises. It was another of our IKMs,” Neumann continued. At this stage I wasn’t particularly surprised that he’d had another informant in there, but I wasn’t particularly interested any more either. “He died before the fire, shot several times. Can you tell me anything about that? Did you hear any shots?”

  I was saved from answering by an efficient nurse who ushered the policeman out.

  Karo

  I went to see Martin again today. They wouldn’t let me in yesterday, even when I told them we were best mates. I guess he must have been in a serious state.

  “Yay—my favourite old fart! Look, I’ve brought you some oranges.”

  “Yay—my favourite punk.” Martin was trying to be witty but he didn’t have the energy.

  He looked pretty done in. Eyebrows burnt off, hair singed, burns on his hands and arms, bandages around his chest and a nasty cough.

  “You look like shit,” I told him.

  “So what have you been up to?”