As the radio began to play sturdy and inspiring music, the hall fell into complete silence…the audience eagerly awaiting the night’s events to begin.
The Muller family sat around their small fireplace in Kassel, the flames flickering between the coals and occasionally spitting against the iron grate. The room was sparsely furnished with stools and chairs, the family having just completed their evening meal before the radio was switched on.
Elsie Muller glanced at her middle aged husband, the man pressing tobacco into his pipe as he sat on the left of the fire, his son of fourteen years knelt on the carpet next to him. Sat in her own easy chair, Elsie turned the sturdy knobs on the radio, the surge of marching music announcing they had reached the frequency they sought.
The small girl next to her nudged her leg, her voice pleading, ‘Mummy…can I play with my doll?’ The family’s small terrier dog stirred next to the warm grate, his fitful dream disturbed as the small girl shuffled across the worn rug.
Elsie smiled as her husband grinned, her voice low and comforting as the reflection from the fire sparkled in her eyes, ‘You can hold your doll Marlisa…but you should not be playing at the moment, Mummy and Daddy need to listen to the radio…and so do you…this is very important, we are all required to hear…’ The music lowered in intensity, then silence fell across the airwaves, a crackle of static as her husband leant forward to listen intently.
Curt Messner slumped back in his easy chair, candles flickering around his drab bedsit room in Potsdam as he swigged from a large beer bottle. At fifty-eight, he struggled with a heavy limp, a shell fragment from British artillery still wedged in his right thigh and lower back, the injury sustained in 1917 on the Western Front during World War I.
Listening to the music fade, he sipped from the beer bottle once more, picking up a cigarette and matches, he struck a match against his boot and drew in the harsh smoke, silence descending into the speaker of his large radiophone.
The speaker crackled, then a shrill voice burst through the silence, a man’s tone burbling through the static, ’Only three weeks ago I stood in this place to read the Führer’s proclamation on the 10th anniversary of the seizure of power…’
Curt listened as the voice continued for some time, sipping slowly from his beer and smoking continuously, ‘…It was a moving experience for me, and probably also for all of you, to be bound by radio with the last heroic fighters in Stalingrad during our powerful meeting here in the Sport Palace…’
He grinned as the voice seemed to shout with pride, ‘…I do not know how many millions of people are listening to me over the radio tonight, at home and at the front. I want to speak to all of you from the depths of my heart to the depths of yours…’ The man continued talking, murmurs from the vast audience encouraging him further as his tone rose and fell.
Curt drank further, removing his boots and raising his feet to rest on the hearth before him, the glow from the fire warming his toes as he grinned, relishing the eagerness of the voice in his mind, his thoughts tainted as to what a spectacle there must be in the vast auditorium, the dazzling lights and Party officials staring mesmerised at the stage.
In the beer hall, the men sat in silence, occasionally sipping from their tankards as the voice echoed across the walls, each individual deep in thought as the speech continued, ‘…When the Führer ordered the army to attack the East on 22 June 1941, we all knew that this would be the decisive battle of this great struggle. We knew the dangers and difficulties…’
The soldiers shifted uneasily in their seats, two lighting cigarettes from the candle as the orator continued, the voice unwavering as it reached new heights, ‘…We also know our historic responsibility. Two thousand years of Western civilization are in danger. One cannot overestimate the danger…’
Elsie Muller stroked her daughter’s soft hair, the orator continuing after cheers from the large selected crowd of, ‘No One!’. The man had asked and they had replied, motivated by ushers to the sides of the Sports Palace, ‘…Only the German Reich and its allies are in the position to resist this danger. The European nations, including England, believe that they are strong enough to resist effectively the Bolshevization of Europe, should it come to that. This belief is childish and not even worth refuting. If the strongest military force in the world is not able to break the threat of Bolshevism, who else could do it?’
Her husband puffed quietly on his pipe, staring into the flames of the fire as his son drifted to near sleep next to him, a father’s thoughts now far from his family…thoughts now of what exactly the situation could be like hundreds of kilometres to the east.
In the Sports Palace lavish reception, SS honour guard troops stood in inspired silence listening to the words, their gloved hands holding the exclusive left over food of the audience inside as the voice got louder, ‘…The German nation knows that. Its healthy instincts have led it through the daily confusion of intellectual and spiritual difficulties. We know today that the Blitzkrieg in Poland and the campaign in the West have only limited significance to the battle in the East. The German nation is fighting for everything it has. We know that the German people are defending their holiest possessions: their families, women and children, the beautiful and untouched countryside, their cities and villages, their two-thousand-year old culture, everything indeed that makes life worth living…’
Curt Messner grunted, lowering himself back into his chair, a fresh bottle of beer in his hand, the cork cast onto the worn carpet. He swigged deeply, shaking his head as he reached for the small packet of cigarettes once more, his mood becoming despondent as he listened further, ‘…There are therefore a series of measures that take account of the war’s optics. We have ordered, for example, the closing of bars and night clubs. I cannot imagine that people who are doing their duty for the war effort still have the energy to stay out late into the night in such places. I can only conclude that they are not taking their responsibilities seriously. We have closed these establishments because they began to offend us, and because they disturb the image of the war. We have nothing against amusements as such. After the war we will happily go by the rule ‘Live and let live.’ But during a war, the slogan must be ‘Fight and let fight!”
Curt spat into the fire with contempt, his whisper hissed for fear of the neighbours overhearing, ‘Hmmph…’live and let live’ you say…then why do people disappear?’ The speech continued for some time as Curt continued to drink, his smoking becoming more continuous as he listened to the orator words become more desperate and raised, the crown cheering and clapping as encouraged.
Beer mugs were quietly lowered onto the sparse table tops of the beer hall as the men continued listening, the soldiers eying each other in wary silence as the speech seemed to get louder, ‘…The problem is freeing soldiers for the front, and freeing workers for the armaments industry. These are the primary goals, even at the cost of our standard of social life. This does not mean a permanent decline in our standard of living. It is only a means to reaching an end, that of total war. As part of this campaign, hundreds of thousands of military exemptions have been cancelled…’
Several older men in the hall glanced in alarm at each other, three soldiers raising their mugs to their mouths quickly to conceal smirks, their eyes meeting to pass a knowing message. At the table near the front, two robust and red faced local Nazi officials glanced across the assembled men, scrutinising their behaviour and expressions as their own personal nervousness rose.
The speech continued, the applause and cheering becoming more regular and orchestrated, ‘…Our enemies maintain that German women are not able to replace men in the war economy. That may be true for certain fields of heavy labour. But I am convinced that the German woman is determined to fill the spot left by the man leaving for the front, and to do so as soon as possible…’
The SS Honour guard was now moving slowly outside, allowing members of the other unit to sample the food. The speakers continued at the entrance, the black
uniformed soldiers glancing up at the spotlights that illuminated the impressive structure above, numerous red swastika flags adorning the front of the building. The auditor continued speaking, the tone rising and dropping in response to the audience, motivating them and ensuring the maximum response was received, ‘…I am firmly convinced that the German people have been deeply moved by the blow of fate at Stalingrad. It has looked into the face of hard and pitiless war. It knows now the awful truth, and is resolved to follow the Führer through thick and thin…’
Loud cheering from the crowd broke out, chants of ‘Führer command, we follow! Heil our Führer!’ The crowd continued cheering and chanting, the SS soldier’s chests swelling with National Socialist pride as the men listened to the roars of encouragement, their young thoughts unaware of the controlled environment they were listening to.
Curt Messner’s eyes were glinting with emotion from the reflections of the fire, his breathing heavy as he swigged from the beer bottle again. Sucking greedily on the cigarette, he shook his head with despondency, his eyes staring into the flames as the tears rolled down his cheeks.
He was crying for his lost friends of many years before, and more recently, the young men of his neighbourhood that had marched past his worn and dilapidated apartment just months and years earlier. He had seen very few of them again, some returning wounded or on leave, the other families simply receiving a visit from a party official or a basic almost clinical telegram…that their son or husband had fallen whilst performing his duty ‘fur der fatherland’ in foreign lands. He had sat with many a bereaved wife or mother and father, taking them each some of the bread from the local small bakery where he worked, the owner and his employer agreeing to his small comforting gesture, encouraging his only employee to offer a small supplement to the residents that supported his business.
Sniffing heavily, he swigged from the beer bottle and lit another cigarette, his head sinking back into the worn cushion as he listened in silence. The voice was rising further with intensity, the speech reaching its climax, ‘…We are all children of our people, forged together by this most critical hour of our national history. We promise you, we promise the front, we promise the Führer, that we will mould together the homeland into a force on which the Führer and his fighting soldiers can rely on absolutely and blindly. We pledge to do all in our life and work that is necessary for victory. We will fill our hearts with the political passion, with the ever-burning fire that blazed during the great struggles of the party and the state. Never during this war will we fall prey to the false and hypocritical objectivism that has brought the German nation so much misfortune over its history.
When the war began, we turned our eyes to the nation alone. That which serves its struggle for life is good and must be encouraged. What harms its struggle for life is bad and must be eliminated and cut out. With burning hearts and cool heads, we will overcome the major problems of this phase of the war. We are on the way to final victory. That victory rests on our faith in the Führer.
This evening I once again remind the whole nation of its duty. The Führer expects us to do that which will throw all we have done in the past into the shadows. We do not want to fail him. As we are proud of him, he should be proud of us.
The great crises and upsets of national life show who the true men and women are. We have no right any longer to speak of the weaker sex, for both sexes are displaying the same determination and spiritual strength. The nation is ready for anything. The Führer has commanded, and we will follow him. In this hour of national reflection and contemplation, we believe firmly and unshakably in victory. We see it before us, we need only reach for it. We must resolve to subordinate everything to it. That is the duty of the hour. Let the slogan be:
Now, people rise up and let the storm break loose!’
The Sports Palace erupted into cheering and stormy applause, the orator stepping back on the platform and raising his hands in adrenalin fuelled glee and intoxication, his uniform soaked in sweat. Then the figure slowly turned to stare across the assembled dignitaries behind, a fleeting smile crossing his face. The Reich Minister of Propaganda, Paul Joseph Goebbels had just delivered the most powerful speech of his career.
Curt Messner bit his lip, drawing blood and leaning forward to switch off the radio before spitting into the fire, his hand tightening around the bottle neck as he drew on his cigarette again, his voice a low sneering hiss, ‘Giftzwerg (poisoned dwarf/evil little devil)! You have taken this nation to the gates of hell…and now you are inviting us in to save your own skins!’
He slumped back, tears flowing uncontrollably down his face once more as he thought of the lost men, the youth of the local area that had fallen. Curt smiled faintly to himself as he sombrely remembered the energetic characters of some of the children and then youths that he had met with their mothers at the bakery, then served them as teenagers when their parents trusted them to go out alone.
One by one he discounted them, realising their young bodies lay across Russia and most in the city furthest from them, the frozen hell of Stalingrad, the last and final resting place for the 76th Infantry Division, a unit drawn from the youth of his beloved Potsdam neighbourhood. Then his body stiffened, a small number of facial images sweeping into his mind, their fates uncertain and unknown, even though suspected as lost, the mail from the front long overdue due to extensive censorship.
Curt swigged from the beer once more, becoming more resolute. Tomorrow, he would deliver some bread to the families of the boys that he could remember and may not be lost, a brief comfort to their grieving or worried mothers and families. He nodded to himself, thinking it a worthy gesture, his mood more comforted as he considered which families to visit first…there was the Fischers, Schmids, Mayers, Werners and many more…then his grin widened in fondness as another tear slipped down his cheek…there were at least two more families to add…their adventurous and mischievous boys difficult to forget…the families of Hausser and the younger boy, Udet.
Chapter Five: Rest and Food?
The driver gunned the lorry engine, an increasing whine as the wheels skidded and slewed sideways, the soldier spinning the wheel to avoid the ditch to the side of the track, the heavy vehicle bouncing back onto the narrow rutted road as the metal tyre rims screeched against the high iced sides.
Helmets bounced in the back of the lorry, the seven great coated men’s bodies jolting awake as they instinctively grasped for the sides of the wooden seats to steady themselves. Tatu sniffed and grunted in distain, indicating to the front cab as he slapped Petru’s shoulder, ‘This driver is not getting a tip!’
Hausser grinned grimly as the vehicle swayed from side to side again, his hand reaching into his great coat and retrieving a battered packet of cigarettes, extending his arm to offer them round. Each man helped themselves, the smoke drifting around and slowly filling the tarpaulin covered back compartment, the cold seeping through any slight opening.
Petru was staring at the hobnailed boots at the end of the truck near the cab, the body respectfully covered in a heavy jacket and some sacking, the lower legs moving as the lorry tyres bounced across some more iced snow. Slowly the Romanian turned to Hausser, his voice lowered to a whisper, his eyes heavy with emotion, ‘Herr Leutnant…shall we bury him tomorrow?’
The young commander nodded, knowing Petru’s struggle with the loss of such a young man, Tatu beginning to stare down at the covered body of the nineteen-year-old despondently, the old Sergeant grimacing as he patted his countryman’s thigh comfortingly, ‘We will all do it together Petru…show our last respects.’
They glanced round as the lorry slowed, the tyres gaining grip on frozen cobblestones as the vehicle slowed for two sentries ahead, the driver’s muffled voice heard outside, ‘Returning reconnaissance patrol…I have a despatch from Major Wolff of the Gross Deutschland Division.’
The sentries stepped back, observing the frozen front vehicle marking and waving the vehicle through, the lorry picking up spe
ed briefly before slowing and turning into a courtyard. Jolting to a halt, Petru and Udet unbuckled and dropped the rear tail gate, the soldiers jumping down onto the cobblestones.
The courtyard was surrounded by one storey stone buildings, the snow laden roofs bowing from the weight as a cold breeze swept across them. The main building was skirted by a frontal wooden platform, three steps leading to the double doors as they opened inwards. Smoke rose gradually from two chimneys, the lights flickering in the windows and opening as two soldiers stepped out and descended the steps, an officer emerging behind them in padded uniform.
Leutnant Hausser caught his breath, realising Captain Fuchs was moving towards them, his voice rising nervously in the cold, ‘Form line…’ The six men behind shuffled together, stiffening to attention as Hausser joined the end of the group, saluting as the officer approached, a thick scarf round his neck.
The captain stamped his padded boots, his tone demeaning, ‘Leutnant Hausser…it appears you got lost in the dark…your transport waited for you for over an hour!’
Hausser stared forward grimly as the young captain drew level, ‘We were engaged by the enemy Sir, got disorientated in the forest and emerged further west…’
The officer drew close, staring into Hausser’s eyes, ‘What else do you have to report…the edge of the forest is less than one kilometre to the west from here…how could you lose your way?’
The young German bit his lip nervously, ‘We observed the track Sir and intercepted some Russians…they warned us we should leave immediately, that there were many partisans and deserters nearby…’ He swallowed as the thirty-year-old officer stared into his eyes expectantly, ‘I decided we should move from the forest as quickly as possible and return Sir…we became disorientated in the trees and then witnessed numerous Russians before being attacked, losing one man.’ He nodded towards the truck, ‘His body is inside Sir!’
Rise of the Bloodied Phoenix Page 5
