Berlin Finale (Penguin Modern Classics)

by Heinz Rein

  His thoughts wander backwards and then thrust again into the future. He isn’t the kind of man to immerse himself in the past, as if into a warm bath, or refresh sentimental memories to brighten up the bleak, grey colour of the present. For him the past is the sum of experiences, it serves to acknowledge errors and also to shape the future, a future that must soon become the present and towards which both emotion and intellect impatiently strive. Wiegand himself can’t quite believe how close he came to venting his fury in the hallway a moment before. If he has survived twelve years of Hitler’s dictatorship so far, and reined himself in many times, he isn’t about to put himself in unnecessary danger right now.

  He has learned to be silent when silence is required, and to talk when talking is necessary. He thinks of the day when he was released from Sachsenhausen after two and a half years. He had not despaired in the camp, even though the abuse and humiliations were almost unbearable and no end to the torment was in sight. The concentration-camp inmates weren’t prisoners who had been put in jail or a penitentiary for a certain amount of time established by the judgment of an ordinary tribunal, for whom the certainty of freedom came closer with each passing day, the concentration-camp inmates were in a state of timelessness, the grey days flowed into uncertainty. Today he knows what in those days he only guessed, that that uncertainty is part of the infernal system, because in the writing room in Sachsenhausen he happened upon a memorandum from the Ministry of the Interior which said:

  The prisoner must under no circumstances be told the duration of his imprisonment, even if the Reichsführer SS and the head of the German police or the head of the Security Police and the SD have already established it.

  Even now, after almost ten years, he feels a shiver down his spine when he thinks back to that life, that life led an inch from the edge of reason, almost in the shadow of death, and a hot wave of rage wells up in him time and again when he thinks of the martyrdom of Ernst Heilmann, Member of Parliament of the Social Democratic Party, who for some reason was particularly hated by the bandits of the SS, and with whom they played a brutally cynical game, putting him in a kennel, making him wear a collar and fixing him to a chain, forcing him to crawl on all fours, to eat from a bowl without using his hands, to bark and sit up and shape figures out of his own excrement. Wiegand has forgotten nothing, not the terrible beatings and the hours of roll-call, the hangings from lamp posts and the sadistic torments, but still he has never felt a second of hopelessness and despair until …

  Yes, until the day of his release. It happened quite suddenly, quite out of the blue, it surprised him almost more than his arrest during the night of 28 February 1933, when the Reichstag went up in flames. Before he had really come to his senses he was already standing outside the barbed-wire fence, and in front of him lay open countryside, with no fences, no posts, no roll-calls, no beatings. He was in a daze, he didn’t know how he had reached Oranienburg, he had run out into freedom as if intoxicated, but he hadn’t run quickly away, he had put one foot slowly in front of the other as if walking on unsteady ground. In Oranienburg he had boarded the S-Bahn and travelled to Stettin Station, even though he should have changed at Gesundbrunnen. First he had run back and forth among the streets of north Berlin and the city centre, he had looked around and stared into the eyes of the people, and the initial apprehensiveness that had settled on his chest like stale air had turned to horror.

  He could hear that there was still laughter and jollity, that insouciance and nonchalance still lived, and in the end he had acknowledged that that had existed too, while the barbed wire of the concentration camps had cut deep into the flesh of innocent people. During those moments he became painfully, deeply aware that life had gone on and stepped over them, and that it would go on even if thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands more hung like men crucified in the fences of the camps. While people whose only crime had been to refuse to submit to National Socialist exclusiveness writhed in torment, blood, fever and excrement, they would laugh their high-pitched laughter and wipe from the corners of their eyes a moment’s emotion over Zarah Leander’s glycerine tears. While they would sway to the music of Blonde Kathrein and produce sublime feelings at the sound of the Horst Wessel Song, Rilke’s Book of Hours would carry them to unearthly heights and they would believe in Hitler’s proclamations about Germany’s vocation in the world, they would know nothing or claim to know nothing about the pustule in their midst, and if they did become aware of something they would shake it off as one shakes dust from one’s clothes. In that bitter hour Wiegand understood that the people had made peace with their new master and their new order long ago, even if it was the order of an enormous prison.

  That realization had brought him to despair for the first time, he had walked along the streets of the city and asked himself over and over again: Why? What was it all for? ‘There are days when I am pursued by an emotion, blacker than the blackest melancholy – contempt for humankind,’ Nietzsche’s terrible words from the Antichrist had tried to whisper to him, but he had not in the end succumbed to them.

  Wiegand thinks of the long series of victims, beginning with Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg, continued via Eisner, Rathenau and Erzberger, taking in Scheer, Mühsam and Klausener and ending with Breitscheid and Thälmann. Neither does he forget the infinite number of nameless links in the chain, which were joined each day by new victims of National Socialist justice and Himmler’s barbarism, who died terrible deaths, hanged, guillotined, tortured, drowned, shot, gassed, slaughtered, massacred, fatally infected. What happens in the prisons and penitentiaries, the concentration camps and labour camps and at the fronts is nothing but murder, cold-blooded and ingenious murder.

  Wiegand has probably noticed that a man has sat down very close to him, but he has taken no further notice of that man. Suddenly he feels a hand on his arm, not a grip but an intimate contact, he turns to the man and looks into the wrinkled, weathered face of an elderly worker with the eyes of a sparrow-hawk under thick, dark eyebrows.

  ‘This is a strange coincidence, Comrade,’ the worker says quietly.

  Wiegand is dumbfounded for several seconds but he gives no sign of it, he has learned to control every muscle in his face. There is neither fear nor dread in him, he has good, correct papers with him, which have withstood precise checks on several occasions, he is Reichsbahn worker Franz Adamek from Ratibor. What startles and puzzles him for a few moments is being called comrade. A worker is calling him comrade, not national comrade or Party comrade, just comrade pure and simple, after twelve years of Hitler’s terror, pressure from the Gestapo, spies and corrupt sets of ideas. Nonetheless, Wiegand is too reticent, the years in hiding have not passed him by without leaving a trace, they have left him with an almost psychotic caution.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Wiegand asks.

  ‘A curious coincidence,’ the worker says again.

  ‘What is a curious coincidence?’ Wiegand asks.

  ‘That we should meet here, Comrade,’ the worker replies, almost with a hint of impatience.

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ Wiegand says frostily. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Of course you don’t remember me,’ the worker says, ‘but I know you very well, except that your name escapes me right now.’

  ‘I’m sure you are mistaken, sir,’ Wiegand replies.

  The worker gives a start and a shadow of displeasure runs across his face. ‘I’m not mistaken,’ he says, his voice losing its vigour. ‘It’s you, and yet it isn’t you, because …’ He doesn’t finish his sentence, and turns away with a gesture of his hand.

  Wiegand explores his memory, but he can’t remember the man. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, because he used to speak at hundreds of meetings and his picture appeared in newspapers and magazines from time to time, it’s actually strange – and only at that moment does he realize – that nobody has never recognized him or said that they did.

  ‘You are mistaking me for someone
else, my dear sir,’ he says, and hopes that this is the last word on the matter.

  The worker turns to him again and looks him quizzically in the face. ‘No, I’m certainly not mistaken, you don’t forget a face like that, particularly when it’s connected with such memories, but I can see that I had far too good an opinion of you …’ He doesn’t stop talking, his voice simply seeps away into a furious grumble that is caught in his bushy moustache.

  ‘Who are you talking about, sir?’ Wiegand asks.

  The worker twitches at this form of address. ‘Yes, of course,’ he says sarcastically, and a contemptuous smile plays around his lips, ‘the comrade has become corrupt as well, he has cosied up to the Nazis, perhaps he has become one himself. Did he maybe end up with a nice position on the Labour Front? The hell with it.’

  ‘Won’t you explain to me …’ Wiegand begins.

  ‘Yes, I will, you wretch,’ the worker says bitterly. ‘I called you comrade, and the word contained everything, confidence, solidarity, a set of beliefs and hope, and you called me sir and sir again. It’s clear that you don’t want to be reminded of it, that you were once a comrade, that you believed in Marx and Engels, in class struggle and historical materialism and workers’ solidarity.’

  ‘Stop,’ Wiegand says furiously. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, and you’re talking far too loudly.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ the worker says angrily, but brings his voice down a little. As he speaks, folds and gulfs, lines and corners appear in his face, in which all his thoughts slide back and forth as if on tracks. ‘It’s all been pointless, those twelve long years of perseverance, when even someone like you makes common cause with the criminals. It would make you want to take a rope and hang yourself.’

  Wiegand feels his heart thumping painfully, the words of this unknown worker are producing a bitter division inside him. There is the caution he has produced a hundred times, warning him not to get involved, ordering him to stay hard and dismissive, but again there is also a feeling of connection, of affection, of fraternity towards this man, who spent twelve years resisting the phrases of Robert Ley, who refused to let his socialism be watered down either by the addition of the word ‘national’ or by the concessions of organizations like ‘Strength through Joy’ or ‘The Beauty of Labour’. And there is something else that is almost more important: can he allow this man’s disappointment to take root? It is not about him, Wiegand, it is about the fact that he, the workers’ leader, has seriously disappointed a worker who remained staunch for twelve years. He gives him a sideways glance. No, this is not a spy or a traitor, his words sounded too genuine, his behaviour is too convincing. While he is choosing his words, the other man goes on talking.

  ‘Now I know who you are, highly respected national comrade and perhaps also Party comrade in the National Socialist Workers Party,’ the worker says, and looks Wiegand scornfully in the face. ‘You are Mr Friedrich Wiegand, former revolutionary trade unionist and now boss in the German Labour Front …’

  The man’s scorn causes Wiegand an almost physical pain. ‘Stop that,’ he says severely. ‘You are talking far too loudly, I am Reichsbahn worker Franz Adamek.’

  The worker looks steadily at Wiegand. ‘The same old story,’ he spits contemptuously. ‘Someone who wants to erase his past is furious with the man who forces himself to remember it.’ He presses his lips tightly together. ‘But be under no illusions, you are …’

  ‘I am Franz Adamek and no one else,’ Wiegand says quickly. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘No, you are …’

  Wiegand grabs the worker firmly by the arm. ‘Be quiet,’ he whispers. ‘No one is to know who I really am, you know because you recognized me by chance. Now do you understand?’

  The worker gives him a darkly penetrating look for few seconds, his eye is focused rigidly on him, then a flicker of understanding twitches in his eyes.

  ‘In hiding?’ he asks excitedly.

  Wiegand nods. ‘Now you’ll understand that I can’t have everybody chatting to me, and I also think …’

  ‘It’s fine,’ the worker says, ‘let’s not waste another word on the subject.’

  ‘And how do you know me?’ Wiegand asks.

  ‘I knew you before, always from a distance,’ the worker answers, ‘but in April or May 1932 you came to us, the Frister factory in Oberschöneweide, you spoke at a strike meeting when they were going through the place with a stopwatch and wanted to cut our wages. I’ll never forget how you inspired my mates, at the time I was in the Frister workers’ council, I even sat next to you. Of course you won’t remember, it’s too long ago, but you were in great form at the time, Friedrich Wie …’ He clamps his hand over his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not supposed to say that. What’s your name now?’

  ‘Adamek, Franz Adamek,’ Wiegand says. ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Richard Schröter,’ the worker replies. ‘I thought they’d finished you off in the camp long ago. What are you doing now?’

  ‘I work in the Karlshorst depot,’ Wiegand replies, ‘or rather I worked there until this morning, but I’m not going there any more.’

  ‘Bad atmosphere?’

  Wiegand nods. ‘Very bad. What about you?’

  Schröter smiles, his lips pursed. ‘I’ve had myself written off sick, I’m not working for the war effort. You can do it if you know how, you just have to want to and have a good doctor, and I’ve got one, if they have a medical check he’ll give you a salt injection, or you take a decent dose of Pervitin, and they won’t have a clue about what strange thing ails you.’

  ‘And otherwise …’ Wiegand says.

  ‘You don’t think I’m sitting at home twiddling my thumbs?’ Schröter says quickly. ‘You don’t know what we’re capable of. Have you heard about flyers, about sabotage and everything? There’s a small group of us … watch out, brown peril on the way!’

  A small, gaunt man comes down the corridor in the brown uniform of the Nazi Party, a brown jacket with light-brown collar points, two gold braids and three gold stars, a swastika armband with a tress of golden oak leaves, a brown holster, brown riding boots and shiny brown knee-length boots. Beneath his brown cap with its blue edging is a pinched, wrinkled face, bulging eyes with brown rings underneath them, a pointed nose and a small, dark moustache. He walks slowly down the corridor, his eyes darting into every corner.

  All of a sudden there is a deadly silence in the air-raid shelter, no one says a word, some people force themselves to smile subserviently, others pretend to be asleep. Outside the dull, hollow crash of the anti-aircraft guns.

  ‘Heil Hitler, National Comrades!’ shouts the brown-clothed man. It is not a greeting, it is the order to bow before this exclamation.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ the tribute comes from many mouths, clear, murmured, whispered, spat, some people only move their lips, but no one fails to deliver the tribute.

  Wiegand is choked with impotent rage. Having to watch sixty or seventy people, manual workers, office workers, shop workers, women, men, old men and old women, children, be silent and duck down as beaten dogs skulk and whine their submission, subordinate themselves, fall in line, smile subserviently, just because some puny man with the face of a ruler wears his brown uniform through the corridors. Having to watch as otherwise honourable people suddenly become hypocrites, toadies, arse-lickers and cowards, because behind that shit-brown uniform there is still an uncanny power, master over death and life, better or worse, is beyond Wiegand’s power.

  The brown-clothed man stops in front of Wiegand. ‘You’re a stranger here! Who are you? Are you carrying papers?’ he snaps.

  Wiegand silently takes his Reichsbahn papers from his pocket and holds them out to the brown-clad man.

  ‘Stand up when I’m speaking to you!’ the man barks, and looks first at the papers and then at Wiegand’s face.

  Right in the mouth, Wiegand thinks, in the mouth, you damned brown toad, I’m not going to stand up in front of you. He sit
s where he is, the muscles in his cheekbones are playing constantly, his teeth hurt, they are pressed so firmly together. ‘And here is my military passbook,’ he says, and holds out the little dark-brown book.

  The brown man takes the military passbook and flicks through it.

  ‘Exempt? Why exempt?’ he asks.

  ‘Reichsbahn,’ Wiegand replies, ‘it’s just as important as the front.’

  The brown-clothed man snaps the book shut again and gives it back to Wiegand. ‘Why don’t you stand up, Adamek?’

  An ungovernable feeling of defiance rises up in Wiegand, he has to summon all his will to stay calm, his hands twitch with suppressed rage at not being able to go for the throat of the enemy, who is within grabbing distance. Yes, he will stand up, but in a very special way. He leaps up, clicks his heels together and brings his hands down against the seam of his trousers. ‘Reichsbahn worker Adamek reporting for duty!’ he shouts into the cellar.

  Suppressed laughter rolls around the cellar, and someone burst out laughing loudly. The brown man turns crimson, his wrinkled cheeks twitch up and down, he stands there uncertainly for a moment and then takes a step back. ‘Be quiet!’ he roars.

  It is immediately deadly silent, some people even fearfully draw their heads between their shoulders. The brown-clothed man stands there with his legs spread and studies the faces from narrowed eyes, then he turns to Wiegand, who is still standing there as stiff as a ventriloquist’s dummy, hands against the seams of his trousers, and gives him back his papers. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Adamek!’ he says severely.

  ‘At your command!’ Wiegand says, and puts his right hand to his cap by way of salute.

  ‘Stop it, damn you!’ the man shouts at him, and turns round, walks away a few steps and turns round again. ‘You’re in good company,’ he hisses. ‘This anti-social character, Schröter … gentlemen, we will speak again!’

  The brown-clad man walks slowly on and stops in front of a young woman. She is sitting quite still, with her head leaning against the wall and her hands slackly in her lap, her face, once doubtless radiantly beautiful, is lifeless, her eyes are wide open, but in them is the expression of someone ignoring the here and now, and instead gazing into the past or the future.