I was now only about five hundred metres from the River Spree, which I needed to cross. The fact that there were two bridges in the immediate vicinity, Michael Bridge and Schilling Bridge, was a matter of supernatural indifference to me. If the bridges had been bombed, then I couldn’t use them. If the bridges were intact, they would have Soviet guards, so I couldn’t use them. I was going to have to swim across during the night!
That meant I had the rest of the day to reconnoitre the area and perhaps find a suitable hide to rest until nightfall. I knew the exact spot I wanted to cross. It was a stretch of the waterfront roughly equidistant from the bridges, close to the sewerage pumping station. Opposite were several commercial wharfs with waterfront cranes. Iron ladders attached to the sheer sides of the wharfs allowed the stevedores to climb down onto the barges. As a boy, I had watched in awe as the dockers, agile as monkeys, shimmied down the ladders, attached the crane hook to the load and then made a circling motion with their hand to tell the crane operator to start hauling up his cargo. I needed one of those ladders to be intact, otherwise I might not be able to get out of the river.
I didn’t go down as far as the waterfront—that would have been to invite suspicion—but I did find the ruins of a school only two hundred metres or so from my ‘drop off’ point where I could lay up until nightfall.
In the early hours, I moved slowly and quietly to the waterfront, stopping frequently and listening. My overcoat was wrapped in a bundle, in the centre of which were my shoes, belt with water bottles, knife, pistol and watch, the walking stick strapped to the outside. I had secured the bundle with cord I had obtained from the remains of a curtain I found in the church, and fashioned the whole thing into the form of a backpack. With this slung onto my back, I lowered myself into the Spree.
The water was freezing! It took all of my self-control not to call out. Pushing off slowly from the side wall, I employed a very gentle breaststroke in order to minimise noise. The width of the Spree here is only about fifty metres—the length of a swimming pool—but it was the longest fifty metres I have ever swum. Apart from the bitter cold, my nerves were as tight as a bowstring. I thought at any moment a searchlight would swing down on me from one of the bridges. I had to manoeuvre myself along the wall of the wharf until, to my relief, I found one of the iron ladders and slowly, again pausing often to listen, I pulled myself up, crossed the open space and hid between the buildings that lined the wharf.
Once I was certain I had not been seen, I undid my pack, put on my shoes and overcoat, strapped on my belt under the suit jacket and slid my precious Luftwaffe watch into my pocket. Carrying my walking stick, I then glided under the railway bridge and up Krautstrasse.
I needed to get undercover as quickly as possible, and soon located a workshop and store on Mark Strasse that had suffered some damage but was largely intact. I entered through the damaged area and found a hiding place among large coils of cables and other electrical items. The cable looked like the type used in overhead power networks and, as such, would be classed as valuable military material. This was not a good hiding place.
I spent a miserable night shivering in my wet clothing, not daring to remove anything in case I needed to make a rapid exit. I hoped that the next day would be fine, to give me a chance to dry out. Just before dawn I left the store and silently stole back to Krautstrasse. Walking north, I slipped into the first open door I found in an apartment block. The entrance lobby was still too visible from the street, so I softly climbed the stairs and sank into a dark corner. I felt safer here than I had in the cable store.
How long I stayed there I have no idea, but when I climbed to my feet I could hardly move, I was so stiff from sitting hunched up. As I stood stretching and bending, one of the apartment doors opened a crack.
“Who’s there?” a female voice whispered.
“Sorry,” I said quietly, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just sheltering.”
The door opened wider and a young woman, perhaps in her late twenties, stood in the doorway gazing at me. She was wearing a simple print dress and was very thin with unkempt blond hair hanging on her shoulders. Her eyes seemed to be set deep and were rimmed with dark shadows. Even so, there would have been a time when she was beautiful.
“I was just leaving,” I said lamely.
She shook her head. “You had better come in. You look a mess.”
As I stepped into the room, the woman took a step back and threw her hand up to cover her mouth and nose.
“My God!” she exclaimed. “… I’m sorry, but you stink. You smell like a dead man!”
“Funny you should say that,” I replied laconically, “you should have smelled me before I went for a swim in the Spree.”
She looked at me quizzically. “What are you talking about?”
I tried to smile but without much success. “I took these clothes from a man who had been dead for some time, and last night I swam across the river. The clothes are still damp. I think that makes them smell worse.”
Her look was now one of astonishment. “Why didn’t you use the bridge? Some of them are crossable.”
“I … I didn’t want to be questioned.”
She narrowed her eyes and moved closer. “Yes, I can see why. You’re a young man, aren’t you? A soldier?”
I nodded. “Fallschirmjäger.”
“Oh my God!” she said, covering her face with her hands. “What have I got myself into? Have you any idea what the Russians would do to you if you were captured?”
“Thanks, but I don’t need reminding. Look, I can leave.”
“You’ll do no such thing! You’re safe here until five this afternoon, but you need to leave by then,” she said with finality.
“What happens at five?”
She dropped her eyes and spoke quietly. “The Russians might come back in the evening.”
“Come back?” I asked incredulously. “They’ve been here before?”
“Twice,” she said without looking at me.
“Why?”
She looked up at me, her deep, shadow-rimmed eyes full of sadness, then looked down at herself before facing me again. “Am I so ugly that you have to ask?”
The implications hit me like a thunderbolt. “They … they raped you?”
“Twice so far, but who’s counting?”
I was seething with anger and slammed my clenched fists down on the table. “Didn’t you fight them?” I cried.
She flared up, her pale face flushed and her eyes alight. “Yes, Fallschirmjäger! I knocked two of them out with right hooks, broke the leg of a third, but the fourth one overpowered me!” Her voice was full of scorn. “Of course I didn’t fight them, do I look stupid? Furthermore, I’ll tell you something, Oberführer or whatever you are, I’d rather have a Russian on my belly than an American bomber over my head!”
I was so taken aback that I was lost for words. Her face softened. “What’s your name?” she asked quietly.
I hesitated. “Horst … Horst Manteufel,” I stammered.
“Sit down, Horst,” she said and indicated a chair at the table. As I sat, she sat down opposite me and took one of my hands in hers. “The first time they came, I knew what they were going to do, and I knew that no matter what I said or did, they were going to do it, so I climbed up on the bed and let them. I didn’t struggle, I didn’t plead and I didn’t scream. I just lay there. Yes, I felt disgusted and violated, and after they finished, I felt so very, very dirty, but I was alive! And I wasn’t beaten to a pulp. They didn’t hang around, and after they left, I washed myself and dressed, and tried awfully hard to get on with life. And can you believe, the next morning there was a parcel of food outside my door. My first reaction was to throw it away in disgust, and then I thought, why shouldn’t I have it and use it? They used me! Why take my spite and anger out on perfectly good, and very scarce, food? Next time they came, there were only three of them and they brought the food parcel with them.”
“Couldn’t you move aw
ay?” I asked.
“Where do you suggest, the Adlon Hotel? This is my apartment—my home—and I won’t be driven out. Do you want me to find some disgusting little rat-infested cellar where I can slowly rot and end up smelling like you? No! This apartment holds many happy memories for me. The Russians can implant some unhappy memories, but they can never remove the happy ones. They’re forever.”
“What happens when your husband comes home?” I knew as soon as I asked it that it was not a good question.
Her eyes misted over and her voice broke. “He won’t be coming home anymore. You don’t get leave from a military cemetery. He was one of the first.” She volunteered, “Poland.”
I mumbled my condolences.
She sprang up with a brave smile. “I expect you are hungry?” I didn’t need to answer; the look on my face was enough. “I have some leftover soup from yesterday, mainly vegetables but with a little canned meat. While I’m warming that up, you see that door? That’s the spare bedroom. You’ll find some towels on the bed. Take off all of your clothes, underwear included if it’s damp, wrap some towels around yourself, then go into the bathroom and clean up. Then, and only then, you can eat. I’ll sort out your clothing later.”
“But I need to get on …” I started to say.
“Not until you’ve had a good meal and have some dry clothing. That’s my final word!”
I did as I was told. When I emerged, a good deal cleaner and dressed in two towels, I could hear her singing softly in the little kitchen, accompanied by a hissing noise which I couldn’t place. Curious, I popped my head into the kitchen. She was standing at the stove using a plumber’s blowtorch to heat the soup pan. She looked towards me and smiled.
“No electricity or gas. I hope the Russians get it sorted soon, it’s a real nuisance.”
“Lucky you had that blow torch.”
“I didn’t, but when the bombing started to get serious, I went to the local hardware store and bought it, along with as much fuel as I could manage. I could see the writing on the wall after the first power failure.”
She brought the soup out in a large dish, along with a sizable chunk of bread.
“Eat!” she said curtly. And eat I did.
While I was doing so, she was busily mopping the suit with a cloth dipped in some evil-smelling substance, which I assumed was disinfectant. At the same time, my shirt and underwear were soaking in the sink.
“Your overcoat is okay,” she called, “a little dusty, that’s all. I’ve given it a good shake and a brush. It will be fine.”
“You are truly kind … er … em … You didn’t tell me your name?”
“It’s Gretel, but I’m not the dreamy little girl in a Grimm story. This Gretel is a big girl, firmly anchored in the real world, here and now.”
“I have to go out now to get bread,” she added. “Go into the spare bedroom and stay until I get back. Don’t worry, the Russians have already searched this building and cleared it, they won’t search it again. You’ll need to stay the night to allow your clothes to dry. There’s an empty apartment on the top floor—you’ll be safe there.”
As my clothing was now hanging from an improvised line in the spare room, I didn’t feel as if I had much option.
The afternoon meal consisted of slices of tinned meat covered in breadcrumbs made from stale bread, fried in margarine, and served with a vegetable puree seasoned with a generous drizzle of ‘Maggi’. A sort of mock schnitzel, and it was delicious. After a very weak coffee and a kiss on the cheek, I was given my marching orders.
“Go to the very top floor, turn left and the apartment is the one facing you. The door is unlocked. Use the main bedroom, there is a mattress in there but no bedding so you will need to use your overcoat. And promise me something …”
“Anything,” I said.
“No heroics! I don’t want some Teutonic knight riding to save his damsel in distress. This particular maiden is perfectly capable of looking after herself.”
I nodded.
“Promise!” she demanded.
“I promise,” I said reluctantly.
She drew me close and embraced me. “I want you to survive this night, and more importantly, I want to survive it. The Russians are not a threat to me. You, on the other hand, are a very serious threat. Remember that.”
With that and another kiss on the cheek, I was sent upstairs, my overcoat buttoned as best I could to hide my nakedness, carrying my belt and weapons.
When I entered the apartment, I discovered why it was empty. The roof section above the living area had been severely damaged and was open to the stars, however the bedroom was sound, albeit with not a single pane of glass remaining.
The following morning, I listened carefully at the door before opening it a crack. It appeared all clear, so I opened it up further. On the floor in front of the door, clean and neatly pressed, were my suit, shirt and underwear, and resting on top, my walking stick.
I made my way down to Gretel’s landing and paused, unsure whether to knock. As I stood there, the door opened a few centimetres. “Good luck!” she breathed, and closed the door.
Home
By the time I reached the end of Krautstrasse, I had changed my mind about the route. It had been my original intention to make for the Friedrichs-Hain Volkspark and walk through the trees, but in order to get to the park, I would need to pass close to the police HQ. It was probably now a Soviet security unit. Also in that vicinity was the Horst Wessel Hospital. I assumed that it had now been commandeered for the treatment of the Russian wounded and would, in all likelihood, be crawling with military personnel.
I made my way instead through the back streets south of the park and the Prenzlauer cemetery to Prenzlauer Allee.
From my position opposite Metzer Strasse, I could see Belforter Strasse, my street, with my apartment, my wife, my child, my hopes, my dreams. I crossed Prenzlauer Allee and made my way up towards Belforter Strasse. My heart was thumping in my chest, and it was taking monumental willpower not to throw away my stick and sprint to the door.
I turned into Belforter Strasse and stopped in front of the door of our apartment block. It had been over three months since I had managed to wangle a weekend’s leave. The apartment block had already suffered some minor damage at that time but was still sound. It didn’t seem to have incurred any further damage since then. After saying a silent prayer, I entered the lobby and made my way up to the first floor. My apartment was on the second. It was incredibly dark on the stairs and, through force of habit, I flicked the light switch. Nothing. I remembered what Gretel had said: no electricity and no gas. I started climbing to the next floor and found myself crunching over broken glass. It appeared to be scattered on three of the steps. After stepping over this, I reached the top of the stairs and turned right.
I now stood in front of the door to our apartment, my mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions: fear, hope, joy, anxiety. Particularly anxiety. My stomach felt as though it had fallen to the first floor below.
I pushed the door. Unlocked. Tiptoeing over the threshold, I immediately banged my head on a set of loud wooden wind chimes. I remembered buying them on a holiday in the Black Forest. Silly place to hang them. At the same time, I was assailed by a particularly pungent odour of spoilt food. In the living room I found the source of the bad smell. A piece of rancid cheese and a slice of stale mouldy bread lay on a plate on the dining table, along with a cup, the coffee from which had long since evaporated leaving a hard, brown resin in the base. The table was covered in dust, and one of the dining chairs lay on its side. Someone had left in a hurry and hadn’t returned. I dropped my stick and moved quickly to the bedroom. The rear wall of the room had sustained damage; there was a gaping hole of about three-quarters of a metre wide and a metre in height. Shrapnel from a high explosive shell, I would guess. The damage extended to the partition wall of the adjoining apartment, where a gap had appeared. The bed had been made but was crumpled and untidy, and lying on the floor
near the bed was an open suitcase, a few items tossed carelessly into it.
Gone! My precious child and my beautiful, loving wife, the only two things left in my miserable life to cherish.
My anxiety level had now gone through the roof. I tried to calm myself and think rationally. Maybe she had gone because of the shell damage, but then why not pack properly? It was unlike Gudrun to leave the place in a mess. Perhaps the shelling had frightened her, and she had simply grabbed Hellie and fled? I tried to think where she could have gone. Her sister in Charlottenburg? I hoped not, the bombing there had been worse than here in Prenzlauer Allee. Perhaps the Russians had taken her, or she had refused to yield, and they had killed her. My mind was running away with me now.
I sank onto the bed and buried my head in my hands. “Oh, Gudrun,” I moaned despairingly.
The Granite Guardsman
“Horst?” A timid, frightened voice, but unmistakable Gudrun’s.
I shot upright. Peeking at me from the gap in the partition wall was my dear, dear wife, with our son wrapped in a duvet and cradled in his mother’s arms. She deftly stepped through the gap and we fell into each other’s arms, Hellie between us, the pair of us unashamedly sobbing our hearts out. We sat down on the bed, holding hands like two star-crossed teenagers finding love for the first time.
“What’s happened here?” I asked.
She looked puzzled for a minute and then smiled knowingly. “Oh, you mean my anti-Russian system. Did you notice the broken glass on the staircase and the wind chimes? They are early warning one and early warning two. I sleep lightly now, so as soon as I hear the glass crunching, I grab Hellie and the duvet and dive through my bolt-hole into the next apartment. The chimes are a backup in case I don’t hear the glass. The mess on the dining room table is to give the impression that the occupants have gone. Likewise, the made-up bed and suitcase.”
Shadow Of Evil: Cold War Espionage Thriller (Dragan Kelly Book 2) Page 9
