The Dancing Bear

by Frances Faviell

  Many of these were forged in the large and notorious displaced persons’ camps. These former Nazi concentration camps had a bad name as being the centre of the Black Market and of all kinds of racketeering. They were slowly being broken up, as the inmates were being sent to those countries which would accept them. It was Stampie’s opinion that Fritz would either have obtained new papers from this source or that the Russians themselves had fixed him up with a new name and identity for their own purposes. They had been known to do this for Germans if it suited Soviet interests to do so. They had already ended de-nazification in the Russian Zone, and a number of wanted Nazi criminals had taken refuge there. Fritz was a wanted man in our Zone and although I found it difficult to believe that he was of any importance to the Russians, his letter to his mother and the one to Stampie seemed to prove otherwise. My friend from Leipzig promised to look out for Fritz, but he was not sanguine.

  The blockade of Berlin by the Russians was now assuming ugly proportions. The tension had been growing ever since Sokolovsky had walked out of the A.C.A. quadripartite meeting on March 20th, after accusing the other three Powers of trying to make the Control Council’s position impossible. Russia was in the chair for the month of March and this was the climax of many complaints by her that the three Western Powers were trying to undermine the quadripartite control of Germany.

  On the 31st March Sokolovsky warned the Allies that more stringent traffic regulations would come into force with respect to rail and road traffic. He also stated that all members of the Allied Administration in Berlin, both Military and Civil, would have to produce proofs of their identity at the Soviet frontier, and that no baggage except purely personal belongings would be allowed through Soviet check-points unless it was searched by Soviet authorities. This applied to both the entering and leaving of Berlin.

  General Brownjohn, the Deputy Military Governor of Berlin, denied the right of the Soviet to enter British Military trains between Berlin and the British Zone, or that they had the right to decide what goods should or should not be taken out of the city.

  The train by which I had recently travelled from Berlin on my way to London had been detained at the Soviet frontier at Marienborn. There was only one other British traveller besides myself, and we had both been ordered out of it for questioning as to why we were not in possession of the new visa required by Marshal Sokolovsky. The Americans on the train had them; we had not.

  The incident had been very unpleasant, and we had been marched away from the train surrounded by armed guards. The production of a recent invitation card to Marshal Sokolovsky’s Red Army Day reception with my husband’s and my name on it in Russian had helped matters considerably, and after a careful comparison of the name on my passport they had allowed us to rejoin the train, which we found still in the station with guns barring its progress. I was ordered to go to the Soviet Embassy in London and get the new visa. Without it I could not return to Berlin through the Marienborn checkpoint. At the Soviet Embassy I was told that the visa would take from ten to eleven months to grant. I had been obliged to fly back to Berlin to avoid the checkpoint, and found it in a turmoil at the beginning of April, all rail traffic having been cancelled by the British and United States Authorities and a special airline being operated for passengers and freight from Gatow and Tempelhof airports.

  Tension mounted higher when the U.S. took their first reprisal for the stopping of their trains by throwing a cordon round the Soviet-controlled railway system, the headquarters of which were situated in the American sector. The division of the city into four sectors had made several such anomalies—the Soviet radio station in the British sector being one of the most awkward.

  The Berliners, although outwardly calm, were now brought up with a shock to realize what the closing of the corridor connecting them with Western Germany could mean. They were thrust into further despair. The last year had shown a slow improvement in many things. Overcrowding was still appalling, as was unemployment, food was still terribly scarce, but one could buy anything “black” if one had money. Simple things were beginning to appear again in the shops, and meat and fat rations were now sometimes honoured. Bread was better, although fuel, except for stolen wood, scarcely existed. The sudden forcing upon them of their perilous position shook them from their apathetic acceptance of conditions.

  We were discussing it at the Altmanns’ one evening while planes roared overhead. I shuddered at the sound, and said that they reminded me of the Battle of Britain, and that some memories of the Blitz and of being rushed to the air-raid shelter were undoubtedly being stirred in John’s memory by them. He would not go to sleep at night.

  The radio was on, and we were trying to listen to the news while Stampie and Max endeavoured to mend a chair which had collapsed under Ursula the previous evening. Frau Altmann had remarked acidly that the chair had been strong enough for the family for years and she didn’t see why Ursula should have broken it.

  “Probably had to take the weight of two,” said Stampie with a chuckle. “I bet Joe had something to do with it.”

  Frau Altmann looked disapproving, but Max’s face was expressionless as he put down the hammer and listened to the announcer giving the latest news of the air-lift.

  “Looks pretty sticky,” whistled Stampie, pausing in his work to demand some glue. “Trouble is that the blokes who made that Potsdam Agreement hadn’t learned enough geography.”

  I reminded him mildly who the makers of the Potsdam Agreement were, but he stuck to his opinion.

  “No one could be a greater Winnie-fan than me,” he declared, “but I still say that none of them except old Joe Stalin knew their geography—and he knew his all right.”

  Frau Altmann, who was darning socks, remarked stiffly that there must have been a great many things to be considered in the Potsdam Agreement which Mr Stamp could not possibly understand. She could never get used to our British habit of making jokes about our political leaders, and she said this so disapprovingly that Stampie roared with laughter.

  “I stand rebuked, M’m,” he said sheepishly, “but the fact remains that your capital is an island in the Russkies’ Zone, as you are finding out now that Uncle Joe is displeased with his former allies.”

  “Former allies!” repeated Max. “Don’t forget they were once our allies—that epithet applies to us too.”

  The radio announcer droned on in his oily unctuous voice which somehow made things as black and ominous as possible.

  “Switch it off! I can’t stand any more of that sanctimonious soft soap—let’s have some music,” said Stampie suddenly. He had caught the look of acute naked fear on Frau Altmann’s unguarded face and couldn’t bear it.

  “The British will surely feed us somehow. They are very correct,” she said firmly as if to reassure herself.

  “I hope they will,” said Max, “for certainly no manna is likely to fall from heaven as it did for the Israelites.”

  But here Max was wrong, for it was indeed from the heavens that the food did come, from planes operated by the Allied Air Force. The planes now roaring overhead were the beginning of that magnificent bridge formed so quickly and so efficiently between Berlin and the outer world. Even as we sat there, Ursula and Joe came rushing in excitedly.

  “There’s been a plane shot down—a British plane shot down by a Russian Yak fighter just as it was going to land at Gatow!” cried Ursula. Her eyes were brilliant in her excited face.

  “No!” breathed Frau Altmann. “It isn’t possible—you’ve got it wrong, Ursula.”

  “It’s a fact,” Joe insisted. “Saw it myself with my own eyes when I was out at the airport just now. The plane, it’s a Viking of BEA, was just going to land when out of the clouds this Yak lunged at it from underneath and they collided in mid-air. It was no accident—it was deliberate—saw it with my own eyes.”

  “And the plane?” faltered Frau Altmann.

  “Crashed—and all passengers are dead,” said Joe glumly. “Gee, I’d like a go a
t those Russians and teach them where they get off!”

  Stampie and I looked at each other. Neither of us believed it; we got up to leave, for he was driving me tonight as Karl was off duty, and we were due at a party where I had to meet my husband. That evening, which was the fifth of April, there was a large quadripartite reception given by a British friend at the Gatow Club. It was a brilliant affair, and our host was, I thought, commendably charming to his Russian guests, although the atmosphere was slightly strained; for Joe’s report of the collision of the two planes was fairly accurate. Both had crashed—there were fourteen deaths from the British plane, and the pilot of the Yak had been killed in his crash into the British sector. It was difficult to keep the conversation clear of this burning topic. We were all surprised the next day when Marshal Sokolovsky dined with General Robertson to meet his old friend Field-Marshal Montgomery. True, the arrangements had been made before their recent disputes, but it did the Russians credit that their Marshal kept his date, accompanied by Lieut.-General Dratvin, and we were told that it was a very jolly dinner party.

  Stampie had got the evening off to go and “take a look” at Monty. “Tougher than he looks,” was his verdict on him. “Just because he’s fond of his comforts there’s no call to say he’s softening the army. I like my breakfast in bed myself—and I like my old cat on my bed.”

  Stampie had acquired a cat. Its name was Lenin. He had found it in some ruins. It was starving and he had taken it to the Mess. “And now,” he grinned, “Lenin follows me around like Mary’s lamb.”

  I asked him why the cat was called Lenin.

  “Didn’t know its name—tried it with all kinds of names—the only one it answers to is Lenin.”

  “It must be a Russian cat,” I said gravely.

  The cat indeed became so rapidly attached to Stampie that he had several times found it hidden in the car he was driving.

  The Berliners were very excited about the Viking and Yak incident. I found Dr Gaupp and Dr Annemarie discussing it with the two men doctors when I went on my weekly visit with parcels to the hospital. They had no illusions at all about the truth of the incident, and were positive that the Yak’s action was deliberate. They expressed great satisfaction at the news that Mr Bevin had made a statement in the House about it, and that General Robertson had ordered that all passenger planes in future were to be escorted by fighters. At the same time it brought home to them the peril they were in, and the fear of war loomed nearer. Dr Gaupp had been terribly ill this winter, and had undergone a serious operation in the Russian sector. She was thankful that she had returned for her convalescence to her own hospital. The hospital was still full of children suffering from malnutrition and chest complaints, but they were getting supplies of the sulfanilamide drugs now, and also some penicillin, and these were making all the difference. The doctors all expressed concern about the milk supplies now that transport was so vital a question. Their babies depended entirely on milk.

  “The British will arrange it,” said Dr Annemarie confidently; “there is no need to worry.” She was always calm and confident and efficient, and soothed everyone’s fears by her cheerfulness. The planes filled the sky with their drone, day and night, as they flew backwards and forwards with their freight of food, and from the airports at Gatow and Tempelhof fleets of lorries waited to carry it to the populace.

  II

  THE feeling of intense excitement was heightened from day to day by repeated incidents and disputes over the Berlin question. People in the streets had a new look of fear and strain on their dispirited faces, but they were calm and very restrained in their comments. In the homes, arguments and disputes were more open, and there were fierce ones in Frau Altmann’s between Ursula, Joe and Max. Joe, who had been put on to air-lift duties, was now frequently at Frankfurt, although he was still stationed in Berlin. Many of the returned prisoners like Max were in favour of the Allies taking a much more aggressive line, and even thought we should risk war to force the Russians to keep to the Potsdam Agreement. At the same time it was impossible not to notice that they were jubilant that the Allies were now quarrelling among themselves. The innocent game of halma played between the four Powers over the German territory was assuming exciting proportions.

  The former Guards officer, Karl, who now drove us in place of Stampie, was eloquent and vehement on the subject. “Why don’t you drive the Russians back now, before they have had time to recover from the war effort?” he kept urging. “If you leave it too long it will be too late—they have endless resources and are building them up rapidly.”

  “Give us all some weapons and we’ll fight with you to the last man to drive them out of Germany. They’re no friends of yours—they’re no friends of anyone’s. Hitler was quite right to fight them—they are a danger to the whole world.”

  Karl had never been anything else but a Guards officer, and had never been a member of the Nazi Party. The regular army had hated the Nazis, he told me. I did not think that Karl had been averse to the régime, in fact he said as much. He was violently anti-Russian, and his antagonism came from fear, as I soon found out. His father and step-mother were in the East Zone, and he had quickly come to Berlin and obtained work with the British because he could not bear to live under Soviet conditions. After our car had once suffered two punctures on the autobahn between Helmstedt and Berlin, and it looked as if we would have to stay in the forbidden Russian Zone all night, I had discovered just how great was Karl’s fear of the Russians. He had been utterly craven with terror, unable to think or to do anything until I had given him all the brandy in my flask. Thank heavens John and I had had an Englishman with us. He had forced Karl to pull himself together until help came. Karl was physically a fine young man, standing well over six feet and with broad shoulders and slim hips, but he lacked the courage of the average German, although he had not suffered much during the war. After Stampie heard of the incident on the autobahn he was quick to shut him up whenever he talked about “giving the Germans a gun to help us drive the Russians out of Berlin.”

  “Tell that to the Marines!” he would say with a grin—and to me he said solemnly, “You don’t want to go believing all that he says to you; just take him out in the Russian Zone and see how he changes. Why, he won’t drive one yard into the Russian sector if he can help it.”

  This was true. I had noticed his reluctance to go there when I wanted to go to the Opera or to shop there. He always had a dozen excuses as to why we should not go through the Brandenburger Tor. When I really wanted to go there it was still Stampie who took me. He had been annoyed and upset at having to give up driving us regularly, and still “wangled” it so that he could drive us whenever possible. He was now driving an Intelligence Chief, “all amongst the cloak and dagger boys,” he told me whimsically.

  “Not,” he reflected, “that there is so much cloak about them. They seem to think I’m a ruddy dummy the way they talk as if I don’t exist. Do they think I’ve no bloomin’ ears? How do they know I’m not a Communist?”

  He didn’t like the job, and was agitating to get put on to the fleet of lorries driving the food from the airports.

  He had struck up a friendship with Max immediately. They both liked engineering and tinkering about with engines and radio sets, and spent many evenings together in Stampie’s Mess where they were building a super wireless set which was to cut out all Soviet interference. Stampie had an enormous attraction for Germans, both men and women—and a gift for friendship. He was, I had discovered, extremely popular with everyone with whom he came in contact, and was still supporting several entire German families.

  The British were already moving many of their Governmental departments out of Berlin into the Zone, and this was causing great hardship and even greater fear to the Germans, who were being told on the Russian radio that we were going to evacuate Berlin and leave them to their fate. Until the end of April 1948 it was still possible to get through the Russian frontier post at Helmstedt by the autobahn if one ri
sked being refused exit at the whim of the officer in charge, who might refuse you on two successive days and wave you through with a smile on the third. As cars were not allowed to remain in the Soviet Zone overnight, it meant returning the two hundred kilometres to Berlin and trying again next day if one were refused.

  I asked Stampie if he didn’t think that Frau Altmann was looking very ill, and he said thoughtfully, “You’re right, her collar’s getting looser now I come to think of it, and she’s very quiet these days.”

  She was now teaching quite a number of adults as well as taking a children’s class, and although it was true that Max had made life much less empty for her, she was, as Stampie said, very quiet. She was not so afraid—her courage always amazed me—but there was something more than the present political situation on her mind. Ursula gave me the clue to what it was when she came to ask me to lend her my camera one afternoon. It was a lovely spring day, and she had a few hours free. I asked her if she had a film for it. Joe had given her several. He was away in Frankfurt and had his camera with him.

  I asked her what she was going to photograph, and she replied that she wanted some snaps of her mother and of the house, and that she would like one of me and one of Stampie. She said suddenly, “I shall like them when I’m in the States.”

  I was astonished; there had been no talk for a long time of Joe returning to America.

  “Is Joe going home soon?” I asked.

  “His father’s sick—and there are other reasons,” she said evasively.

  “And are you going with him then?”

  She nodded.

  “When?”

  “In about two months,” she said laconically.

  I asked her if she had told her mother. No, she had not. Joe was going to do that when he returned from Frankfurt.

  “And Max?” I asked.

  “Max?” she repeated, “what’s it got to do with Max?” and burst into tears. Unlike most German girls, she did not cry easily.