From the Ashes

by Marion Kummerow

  Werner gave the other man directions to Norbert’s office in Prinzenallee 80 and said, “I hope to welcome you to the student board soon.” Then he waved the next waiting applicant into his office.

  The afternoon progressed and Werner grew curious whether Georg Tauber had passed the test. If the young man turned out to be a toad, Norbert would rub it in until the end of his days. On the other hand, the moment Norbert approved the nomination, the responsibility was taken from Werner’s hands. Sometimes playing by the rules was comforting.

  Late in the evening after processing several dozen prospective students, he finally took his hat and briefcase and locked the door behind him. Just as he stepped onto the street, a car was stopping at the curb and Norbert stepped out, which was quite unusual.

  “You weren’t already leaving, were you?” Norbert asked.

  Werner sighed. The Russians habitually turned night into day and rarely woke up before noon, but he adhered to the German nine-to-five schedule, although in his case it more often than not was nine-to-nine. “In fact, I was because I interviewed prospective students for the past twelve hours.

  Norbert didn’t address the issue and instead said, “Get into my car.” Once both of them settled in the back of the car, Norbert ordered the driver to take them to the Café de Paris and then said, “About Georg Tauber, he’s a great find. One-hundred percent anti-fascist and hates the Nazis with a passion. He believes in a social democracy and has the potential to become a great leader.”

  Werner’s soul warmed with pride. Tauber was his find, and if he became an asset to the communist party, it would strengthen Werner’s own position.

  “…but his Christian affiliations might pose a problem. You know how Stalin thinks about religion.”

  Naturally, he did and nodded.

  “So, I want you to become friendly with him, keep an eye on him, make sure he knows which loyalties are in his best interest.” Norbert looked utterly pleased with himself. Werner, not so much. Befriending a German wasn’t usually encouraged by the Soviet administration, after all they were the underlings.

  “If this is your wish, I will certainly befriend him,” Werner said, suddenly feeling a heavy burden on his chest. Thankfully, they reached the Café de Paris within minutes and he decided to follow the Russian model and drink himself into oblivion.

  Chapter 11

  Zara had fully recovered and Dr. Ebert told her she couldn’t stay at the hospital any longer, because the bed was needed for other patients.

  “What shall I do?” she asked Marlene.

  “I’m so sorry. You know that I can’t offer you to stay at our place, because my parents would never allow this.” Marlene wrinkled her forehead in deep thought. “We could ask Bruni.”

  “Bruni? Over my dead body! She’s living with a that Russian captain, right?” Zara was trembling with fear.

  Marlene looked at her friend with empathy. Zara had yet to overcome the traumatic shock. “She’s not living with him…but he’s visiting on a regular basis.”

  “I will not set foot into the same apartment with one of those depraved monsters,” Zara said, pressing her lips into a tight line.

  “I’ll ask her if she knows of another place for you. You know Bruni, she has connections everywhere.” By Zara’s helpless shrug Marlene knew that she didn’t like the idea, but wasn’t in a position to be too proud to ask Bruni for help.

  After finishing work, Marlene rushed off into the French sector, where Bruni lived. Her friend opened the door, dressed in a glittery, full-length gown other women could only dream about. Marlene’s mouth hung agape and for a moment she couldn’t form a single word.

  “What a surprise!” Bruni hugged her, expensive perfume lingering in the air. “How are you?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” Marlene replied with a shrug. Complaining about the awful living conditions in Berlin made them only worse.

  Bruni laughed out loud. “Sweetie, I’m running late for work. Come with me? Then we can chat.”

  Marlene agreed. Together they walked to the Café de Paris. Marlene had never been inside a nightclub, but she’d heard plentiful rumors. It wasn’t a place for decent women to go. Her heart beat faster and involuntarily she closed the buttons of her coat despite the warm evening.

  Bruni picked up on her uneasiness and said, “Don’t worry about it. You’re safe with me.”

  Sometimes Marlene wondered where Bruni got her exceptional self-assuredness. She was so different from everyone else, and while many people found her selfish and superficial, Marlene knew her to have a big heart for her friends.

  They entered the nightclub and went backstage to the dressing rooms. As soon as Bruni settled in front of the huge brightly lit mirror and used an eyelash curler on her long lashes, Marlene blurted out, “Zara needs a place to live.”

  Bruni left her arm hanging mid-air, before she continued her beauty program and stared at Marlene through the mirror. “You’re not expecting me to take her in, are you?”

  “Actually, this was what I was hoping for.” Marlene didn’t mention that Zara had already declined this possibility.

  “Not on any account. Feodor would never approve.” Bruni completed her eyelash-curling and continued with painting her plucked eyebrows into a perfect curve.

  “You need his permission to have a friend stay over?”

  “Of course, I don’t. But he’s arranged for the apartment, so I’d rather not upset him. Besides, how would we go at it with Zara around?”

  Marlene felt the blood rushing to her face. She still couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that Bruni was basically selling her body for food, shelter and clothing.

  “Just for a few days, until I find something else. Please,” Marlene begged.

  “Wasn’t her father commandant at Mauthausen?” Bruni pursed her lips to apply a bright red lipstick – another remnant of a more glorious past not many women in Berlin possessed.

  “Yes, but what does this have to do with her?” Marlene was getting angry.

  “It’s just, she wouldn’t be safe at my place. Not if Feodor finds out. The Russians strongly believe in clan liability and would whisk her away to a prison faster than you can blink. And before you cry murder, there’s nothing Feodor can do about it. He’s just a captain.” Bruni made a sad face, as if suddenly regretting her choice of male companion, then she smiled into the mirror and blew a kiss. “But I’ll ask around.”

  Marlene sighed.

  “Don’t look so sad. Why don’t you and Zara visit my performance one day? I promise, we’ll have a lot of fun.”

  “Thanks, Bruni, we’ll certainly stop by.”

  “If you ever change your opinion about morals, I can introduce you and Zara to a couple of handsome officers,” Bruni generously offered.

  “Thanks. But no thanks.”

  “You’re missing out big time. I gotta go.” Bruni laughed and finished the make-up on her face. “See you soon.”

  Marlene shook her head. As much as she loved her friend, she hoped Bruni would one day grow up and take life seriously. Maybe if she found a man who truly loved her, she’d stop using them for her own advantages. On her walk home, Marlene grew increasingly desolate. What should she do if she couldn’t convince her parents to let Zara stay with them?

  As she had feared, her parents would hear nothing of it. How mother was adamant and her father ended the discussion with one sentence. “I will not allow this woman to enter my house ever again.”

  Marlene was close to tears. Wasn’t there any kindness left in this world?

  That night she was plagued by nightmares and woke up in the morning, feeling like she had been run over by a train. She snatched a piece of bread from the small table they used as a kitchen and fled from the oppressive presence of her parents, whom she didn’t understand anymore. Couldn’t fathom their transformation from caring people to the whining stonehearted complainers they had become.

  Two blocks from the hospital, she met Georg and grum
bled, “Morning.”

  “Hey, Marlene, you look awful,” he said.

  His honest remark made her laugh despite herself. “That’s because I slept like hell. Dr. Ebert has said Zara must leave the hospital, but she has nowhere to go. Even my parents refuse to let her stay with us.”

  Georg’s brown eyes became pensive. “I could ask my cousin. She’s living in the American sector and I’m sure she would receive your friend. But I have to warn you, her place is in a shambles.”

  “Which place isn’t?” Marlene asked, her heart suddenly much lighter.

  “Even by war standards it’s an awful place to live in.” They had reached the hospital and he opened the heavy door for her.

  “I’m sure Zara won’t mind. As long as it has a roof and four walls she’ll be fine.”

  “Then let’s go and tell her.”

  Marlene flinched. “Shouldn’t you ask your cousin first?”

  “No. She’d never turn down someone in need and Zara’s a friend.” Georg’s smile brightened the place and warmed Marlene’s soul.

  She instantly loved his cousin. And him by affiliation.

  Chapter 12

  The friendship with Georg was getting along as planned. In fact, Werner liked the other man a lot. Georg was intelligent, a good conversation partner, had humor, loathed the Nazis and possessed natural authority.

  Although they were the same age, Werner often saw his younger self in Georg, before disillusion about the upcoming proletarian revolution had taken possession of him. Compared to the idealistic Georg, Werner was but an ancient cynic.

  He shrugged. Realist, not cynic. The revolutionary heat of the youth has to be guided by real life experience. Catching up to his inner dialogue, Werner broke out into a fit of hilarious giggles. What kind of man is telling himself party propaganda -- and expecting him to believe it? He shook his head, preferring to occupy his thoughts with Georg rather than with his own deficiencies.

  The other students looked up at Georg for guidance. With just a little re-education, he’d be a valuable asset to the long-term plan of molding a unified communist student board. Because, whatever Norbert and the others still might believe about Stalin’s wish for a demilitarized and democratic Germany, Werner had come to the conclusion that it was nothing but a midsummer dream. Too big were the cultural differences between the Soviet way and the Western way. A peaceful coexistence wasn’t possible.

  Several days later, he and Georg were on their way back to university after visiting with an American education official in the American sector.

  “It went quite well, the meeting,” Werner said, when two visibly drunk Russian soldiers approached a German Fräulein with the words Komm Frau . Instinctively Werner turned his head, as he wanted nothing to do with their shameful behavior.

  But Georg elbowed him, “They are going to rape her. You need to do something.”

  “There’s nothing I can do,” Werner said, hot waves of shame coursing through his body. Both of them knew that as a German citizen Georg wasn’t allowed to interfere with an Allied soldier, whereas Werner technically belonged to the occupying force.

  “But you are a Soviet government official!” Georg exclaimed.

  “I may be, but I am not a Red Army member. These men obey only orders from above.” Werner looked away as the two Russians grabbed the girl by her arms and dragged her across the pavement into a nearby building. At least they wouldn’t do their ghastly business out in the open where everyone could watch and humiliate the poor woman even more.

  “You measly coward! I won’t stand by and watch.” Georg yelled at Werner and ran off. Despite knowing better, Werner rushed behind his friend. After about a block Georg came across a group of Americans and shouted breathlessly, “Rape. Russian. There.”

  Unfortunately, the GIs were quite accustomed to such occurrences and despite Georg’s bad English, it didn’t take them longer than a few seconds to react and run in the direction Georg indicated.

  Werner pointed wordlessly at the building where the Russians had taken their victim, but preferred not to follow them inside. He argued with himself whether he should stay and wait or quietly disappear. Nothing good ever came out of getting involved.

  While he pondered the best course of action to take, several shots rang through the air and made his predicament even more precarious. Damn Georg for getting the Americans involved .

  He certainly didn’t want to be caught up in a diplomatic turmoil and furtively glanced around, before he took his leave and disappeared into the next underground station. The entire way home, he had a nagging feeling that this incident would have consequences. Since he couldn’t risk being connected to a Russian encroachment in the American sector, he needed an alibi. The first-best thing he could think of was the Café de Paris.

  The smoke-filled nightclub was buzzing with uniformed men. Werner was glad of the crowd. His eyes narrowed as he peered around, looking for a familiar face to back his alibi. Beautiful women abounded, and the unattached females tried to vie for a position on the arm of an officer or a gentleman, especially one as handsome as this tall blond man who had just entered the room.

  Werner was not interested when they zeroed in on him, and he continued to scan the place for someone he knew. There was a resounding sound of applause for the singer who stepped onto the small stage. In the glare of a spotlight, Werner spied Captain Orlovski with a group of officers and squeezed through the crush of bodies, making his way over to their table.

  “Ah, Comrade Böhm, you’re not leaving, are you?” Orlovski asked.

  “I’ve been here for almost an hour, but my colleagues needed to attend another party,” he lied.

  “Their loss. The evening has just begun, please sit with us,” Orlovski said.

  “Thank you, Comrade Orlovski, it would be a pleasure,” Werner fell into one of the plush seats next to Orlovski who introduced him to his two colleagues. The singer on the stage was announced as “the amazing chanteuse Fräulein von Sinnen”.

  The moment she began her first chanson, the teeming place fell completely silent, every man in the room mesmerized by her beauty and her impressive voice. When she ended the song, deafening applause filled the place. During the short break, a young waitress arrived, “Champagne?”

  “Yes, please.”

  One of the officers in his group guffawed. “The pansy’s saying please, hear that? The Fräuleins here prefer a more hands-on attitude.” To emphasize his words, he squeezed the waitress’s ass.

  Werner dutifully joined into the rowdy laughter, despite the nagging voice inside scolding him for being such a sycophant.

  After her performance, the singer stepped down from the stage, gracefully accepting the thundering applause and throwing kisses into the crowd. Her figure-hugging green gown with delicate fine straps clinging to her smooth shoulders turned heads as she came directly toward their table, dismissing over-eager men with a simple raise of her brow and a scathing glance.

  “Bruni,” Orlovski stood up, his eyes shining with pride as the singer kissed him on the cheeks and graciously accepted a glass of champagne. “May I introduce you to Werner Böhm, responsible for education and culture in the city administration.”

  She stretched out a perfectly manicured, slender hand. “It’s my pleasure, Herr Böhm.”

  Werner dutifully stood up and kissed the back of her hand, “I’m impressed by your talent. You have a voice one will not easily forget.”

  She smiled at him and then took her place next to Orlovski, leaving Werner wondering just how intimate the two of them were.

  “How’s that university doing?” Orlovski asked, pouring more champagne into the half-empty glasses.

  “Going along well, thanks to your kind intervention.” Werner looked at Fräulein von Sinnen and said, “the captain here rescued me from quite the predicament.”

  Between chitchat, more champagne, and plenty of vodka, the time passed and it was after midnight when two Soviets arrived.


  “Why so late?” one of the officers at Werner’s table slurred, beckoning the newcomers to sit down.

  “Fucking Americans, sticking their noses into our business,” Petrov, the burly one with a thick Stalin-like mustache said.

  “What have they done now?” Orlovski asked, downing the last of his vodka and signaling for another bottle.”

  Petrov gasped. “Yes what? They have only shot dead two of our soldiers on trumped up charges!”

  “Shot? Trumped up charges?” Werner didn’t need to act to show his shock. He couldn’t be sure they were talking about the same incident that had happened earlier this afternoon, but it was very likely.

  Fräulein von Sinnen rolled her eyes at him as if saying ‘you don’t fool me with your phony agitation’. Then she whispered something into Orlovski’s ear and returned to the stage. This time her lovely voice was drowned out at Werner’s table as the men heatedly discussed the murder of two innocent Russian soldiers by the vile and aggressive Americans.

  Werner listened silently while the others were livid at the outrage. That the Russian soldiers had been caught in the act of raping a German girl was not a matter of concern, whereas, the shooting stirred fierce indignation among the men.

  “Do we walk around shooting Americans? No! So, what right do these assholes have! Wicked imperialist devils!” Petrov slammed his fist on the table.

  “And for what? I bet that German slut has done it before, probably with the whole brigade!”

  “Right! Since when do the Germans have rights all of a sudden? We’re the conquerors and we can do as we please.” Petrov was talking himself in rage, and even the whores in the nightclub who normally clung to every unattached man, retreated from the vicinity of their table.

  “Didn’t you say it happened in the American sector?” Werner interjected in the hopes to cool down the exuberant emotions. “It’s not the first time the Americans have issued a warning that they won’t allow these things in their sector.”

  The men erupted in a roar of disapproval and anger, hotly disagreeing with his statement.

  “Are you a friend of the imperialists, Böhm?” Bagrov, a red-faced officer retorted. “Perhaps you are the one who reported our soldiers to the Americans.”