Berlin Finale (Penguin Modern Classics)

by Heinz Rein

  ‘Fall in again?’ the section leader says. ‘I’d rather not do that right now, listen to the tanks rolling, they’re getting closer.’ He pricks his ears. ‘They can’t be far from the Tax Office. Why isn’t the assault gun shooting? He should have opened fire ages ago! Do you understand that?’

  Schröter looks him carefully in the face, but he doesn’t reply straight away, he has his ears pricked too, his eyes are narrowed to a slit, the tips of his bushy moustache quiver under the hurried panting of his breath. The rattle of the tracks on the cobbles becomes louder and louder but not a shot is fired, the assault gun is silent, the tanks aren’t firing, they just rattle on.

  ‘No, I understand this,’ Schröter says firmly, and takes a few steps back. ‘Listen everyone, Comrades from the Hitler Youth and the Volkssturm!’ he calls in a loud voice.

  They all turn round, Wiegand and Lassehn follow a wave of Schröter’s hand, they step up beside him and take the carbines from their shoulders.

  The rattle of the tanks becomes a roar.

  ‘The big moment has come!’ Schröter shouts, trying to catch his people’s eye. ‘Let us remember the heroes of Stalingrad! Yes, sir, of Sta-lin-grad!’

  Lassehn, Wiegand and Schröter shoulder their carbines.

  ‘Hands up, lads!’ shouts Schröter. ‘Enough of your war games! Hands up!’

  The roar of the tanks swells to a thunder.

  The Hitler Youth members and the air-force auxiliaries are completely taken by surprise, they don’t understand the situation and laugh.

  ‘He must be joking!’ says one of the auxiliaries.

  ‘He has a sense of humour!’ says one of the couriers.

  Only the section leader has turned pale, he is the only one who has looked into Schröter’s grimly resolute face and understood that neither joking nor humour are involved here. He stands there as if ready to jump, his hands already reaching for Schröter’s throat.

  ‘Hands up!’ Schröter shouts again.

  Dr Böttcher and the two Volkssturm men pull the boys away from the barrier, and they raise their hands uncertainly.

  ‘Right, to the guardroom!’ Schröter orders.

  ‘Never capitulate!’ the section leader shouts, leaps to the barrier and grabs a rocket launcher, but immediately Lassehn is on him, encircling him from behind with both arms and holding him in a tight grip.

  The first tank slows down and then drives on the pavement, further tanks break out of Oderbruchstrasse, arrange themselves in a diagonal line and roll slowly towards the bridge.

  Ducking heads, hands still held high, the Hitler Youth members walk to the guardroom. Lassehn and the section leader are rolling around in the street, and the thunder of the tanks becomes a roar of iron.

  Then a white flag is raised above the anti-tank barrier at Landsberger Allee S-Bahn station. And, just as lights previously went on in the windows, here and there, and over there, now white flags appear on the houses, here, there and everywhere. The dark, cold, forbidding street is suddenly swathed in white cries of joy.

  X

  23 April

  The morning of 23 April breaks under an overcast sky. The light of the dawning day is merely faint greyness, which drives away the darkness only very slowly and hesitantly lifts the streets out of darkness, those streets which were once radiant with lights, and filled with countless people, which echoed with laughter and merriment, and which are now the most advanced supply lines of the front, and lead directly to death. The night has been relatively calm, it was an oppressive, anxious night that was spread out around the city, the night of a city on the front line. Every now and again artillery fire twitched into the silence like a distant storm, night fighters rumbled over the houses and dropped the projectiles from their weapons like exploding shooting stars, but beyond those noises, invisible, disturbing, menacing, were the legions of enemy soldiers, the columns of their tanks and the squadrons of their bombers were ready to charge at any second, to launch a hurricane of fire, to start the motors of the tanks and aircraft, to break over the city like a mighty wave and engulf everything.

  The people in the cellars spent the night dozing, they didn’t notice the change in the light, only the hands of the clocks showed that the daylight hours were over and the hours of night had begun, and that a new day had taken over from the old one. The minutes dripped away with infinite slowness, each one becoming desolate and running as viscously as oil, only hesitantly, reluctantly, have they lined themselves up into hours. Impenetrable darkness has spread across the cellars, they contain only breathing, wheezing, groaning, snoring, run through only by the wails of a baby or a cry caused by a nightmare, illuminated only for moments by the flickering of a candle stump. Lungs breathe like bellows, hearts beat like pumps, in brains thoughts melt formlessly into one another like molten lead.

  The new morning remains outside, it doesn’t penetrate the cellars through the iron doors. Exhaustion, stiffness, torpor, helplessness cling like shadows, and only the mechanical aid of the clock makes people aware that outside their catacombs light is flowing onto the city and seeping through the windows into the empty flats. With the new day, rising somewhere a world away, fresh torment falls upon the people, uncertainty grows, the waiting is protracted, the end of night brings no light, it does not revive the spirit, it does not stretch the limbs, with growing brightness the artillery fire resumes, the air attacks start up again, the front line, which had congealed on the dark edges of the night, starts moving once more.

  In the kitchen of Klose’s flat Lucie Wiegand and Klose are busying themselves and Lassehn sits on the windowsill, doing nothing. Since there is no gas left, a fire burns in the stove.

  ‘Just past seven,’ Lucie Wiegand says. ‘Shall we let the men go on sleeping?’

  ‘I think so, yes,’ Klose replies, splitting a piece of wood. ‘They’re exhausted. I’ll go and fetch water in the meantime.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Lassehn says and jumps to his feet.

  ‘Be careful,’ Lucie Wiegand warns, ‘the shooting is starting up again already.’

  ‘Being careful on its own isn’t enough,’ Klose says, ‘you also need to be lucky, not every bullet hits a target. Go with God, Joachim, but go.’

  When Lassehn has gone, Lucie Wiegand walks quietly down the corridor, carefully opens the doors and looks into the rooms. In the room immediately adjacent to the restaurant Dr Böttcher, Schröter and the new man who arrived with the others last night, the one they call Gregor, are still sleeping. The sofa where Lassehn slept is empty, Schröter is sleeping sitting up in two armchairs, his head hanging lifelessly to the side, the tips of his moustache stirring as he breathes. Dr Böttcher and the new man are lying on two mattresses, they have rolled up their coats and put them under their heads like pillows. Wiegand is lying in the bedroom, his arms crossed under his head and his eyes wide open.

  ‘Awake already?’ Lucie Wiegand asks, and walks into the room.

  Wiegand slips from the bed. ‘I’ve just woken up,’ he answers. ‘Good morning, Lucie. Are you working already?’

  ‘Good morning, Fritz,’ Lucie Wiegand replies. ‘Making coffee, slicing bread, I have three men to feed.’

  Wiegand pulls his wife to him. ‘The mother of the underground brigade,’ he says, stroking her hair. ‘Are the others still asleep?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lucie Wiegand says, ‘Lassehn has gone to fetch water. Who’s the man you call Gregor?’

  Wiegand shrugs. ‘We don’t know his real name, Schröter says he used to be, or perhaps still is, a lecturer at the university, and that he teaches canon law, he’s supposed to have strong contacts with the old Centre Party, but we don’t know exactly. At any rate he has so far proved one hundred per cent reliable, and that’s the main thing. Where’s Klose?’

  ‘In the kitchen, tending to the fire,’ answers Lucie Wiegand. ‘I’m going into the kitchen.’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ Wiegand says. ‘Is it possible to have a wash?’

  Lucie Wiegand l
aughs as she walks down the corridor. ‘Washing is a serious business these days, because water is scarce,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to wait for Lassehn to get back.’

  After greeting Klose, Wiegand falls heavily onto the kitchen chair. ‘It’s pretty noisy out there again,’ he says, ‘and a good number of planes seem to be on the way.’

  Lucie Wiegand puts a few pieces of wood and a briquette into the stove, then she sits down too and lets her hands hang limply in her lap. ‘Ah, Fritz,’ she says in a low voice, looking through the window at the little piece of grey sky above the side wing of the building. ‘Do you think we’ll ever have our own house again, a regular, unworried life?’

  Wiegand stares at her, stunned. ‘Are you discouraged, Lucie? I don’t recognize you.’

  ‘A little sigh lightens your mood,’ Klose says. ‘Isn’t that right, madam?’

  Lucie Wiegand looks back into the kitchen and slowly shakes her head. ‘Discouraged? No, it’s not that, but I do need some rest, I’m desperate for peace and quiet, to be free of work, fighting and persecution. You get tired, Fritz, and then there’s worry about the children …’

  ‘I’ve always been in favour of complete openness, Lucie …’

  ‘Your preamble is worrying, Fritz …’

  ‘Very alarming,’ Klose agrees.

  Wiegand smiles faintly. ‘Back when we met each other I didn’t promise you anything, no bourgeois marriage, no home sweet home, bower of bliss, I wanted to let you know that my life is and will always be the struggle, and I promise you nothing even now, because it is certain that after the fall of the so-called Third Reich there will be even more work and even more of a struggle, except …’

  ‘Except?’

  ‘… we may be able to do it without the persecution.’

  Lucie Wiegand smiles back at him. ‘You are as you are, and I wouldn’t have you any other way. Where could Lassehn have got to?’

  ‘The fountains are besieged in the morning,’ Klose reassures her, ‘particularly early in the morning while the artillery fire is still weak. Then comes …’

  Dr Böttcher appears in the doorway and blinks short-sightedly. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘Not at all, Doctor,’ Lucie Wiegand says, ‘it’s not as if we’re on honeymoon.’

  Dr Böttcher comes in and shivers. ‘I feel very uncomfortable, unwashed, unshaven, my clothes crumpled and – frankly – hungry too. I see, Lucie, you have already prepared a mountain of slices of bread. May I?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ she says with a smile, pouring coffee into a cup and pushing it towards him.

  Böttcher starts eating hastily and pouring coffee into himself, but his eyes will not rest, they blink uneasily, circle around the kitchen as if looking for something, they linger for a moment on the wall calendar and then return to an old newspaper lying on the stove.

  ‘Is it good?’ Lucie Wiegand asks.

  Böttcher looks at her as if he hasn’t understood the question.

  ‘To look at you,’ Lucie Wiegand says, amused, ‘the question of whether it’s good actually seems superfluous.’

  Dr Böttcher nods. ‘I’m sorry, Lucie,’ he says at last, ‘but I really don’t know if it’s good or not. That was always a great disappointment to my landlady, that I’ve never been able to tell her whether something tasted good or not, whether it was too sweet or too salty or anything else. I only eat to assuage my hunger, and I don’t really care how and with what that happens, it’s simply impossible for me to concentrate my thoughts on food. I know’ – he raises his hands, defending himself in advance against a possible reproach – ‘that this means not acknowledging the work of the lady of the house, and I do apologize for that. I am also aware’ – he laughs briefly – ‘because I am a doctor after all, that it is not healthy to read or think when eating, but then in life we often act contrary to our knowledge and understanding.’

  ‘You look so … how can I put it? You look unusually lively today, Doctor,’ Klose says. ‘Even though I’m sure you haven’t slept very much, or very comfortably.’

  ‘Really, can you see that?’ Dr Böttcher asks with a smile. ‘Yes, I’m contented, even though my house has burned down and I should really be sad and out of sorts.’ He thinks uncertainly for a moment, turning his hand back and forth. ‘I said contented a moment ago, but that isn’t really the correct term, it is an inner equilibrium that smooths the wrinkles from my face, and I also know why that is the case. Hitherto we have carried out our underground activities without visible success, we were barely able to touch people through our secret transmitters, and our words always dripped away into the darkness, they disappeared into the desert sands, our flyers only ever fluttered in the void, we were never able to observe their effect because we had to leave the people who received them before they had unfolded them, our acts of sabotage often seemed ridiculously tiny, like a mosquito bite on an elephant; we have never had any response, and in the end it was only out of faith in ourselves that we didn’t despair in the face of the wall of silence that we were all running into. But last night something really happened, a success was visible, we had a response from many voices, and our activity, which was perhaps only a way of justifying ourselves, became a concrete action for the first time.’

  ‘There you are saying something, Doctor,’ Wiegand says, ‘that I didn’t wish to know until now, and if it ever did arise in me I would never under any circumstances have admitted it to myself. Our activity primarily gave us an alibi for ourselves, assuaging our consciences, and everything else came after that. We are, as we know, also egoists when we are selfless or loving without benefit to ourselves, but it is a special kind of egoism, which satisfies ourselves first and foremost, but …’

  ‘Philosophy at break of day?’ Lucie Wiegand asks.

  ‘… leads to evening dismay,’ Klose joins in. ‘But now, gentlemen, answer one question for me. Why did you even come here? The war could have been over for you at eight o’clock in the evening.’

  ‘I came back, if you really want to know, because …’ Wiegand begins.

  ‘… because your wife is here,’ Klose finishes quickly, ‘that’s clear even to me, but I didn’t mean you. I meant the doctor, Joachim, Schröter and the stranger.’

  ‘Schröter and the stranger saw their task as being to strengthen our group,’ Dr Böttcher replies, ‘and I am one of you as well, particularly since my house is now a ruin adorning the Frankfurter Allee. You probably didn’t seriously assume that I consider my work at an end once I have regained my own personal freedom?’

  ‘No, I didn’t assume anything of the sort, you old sawbones,’ Klose says and laughs broadly. ‘But Lassehn?’

  ‘I told Lassehn he could go now, because no one was going to call him to account for desertion,’ Dr Böttcher replies. ‘He looked at me as if he didn’t grasp the meaning of my words straight away, then he shook his head and said something along the lines of: “I’d almost forgotten my desertion, I stopped staying here with you just to seek refuge a long time ago. Now, for the first time, I’m carrying a gun for the cause of justice and against tyranny, and am I supposed to put that gun down before the struggle is finally over? Don’t imagine that I’m going to do that!” No, we didn’t imagine he could do that, but we also wanted to indicate that there was a possibility of leaving without putting himself in too much danger.’

  ‘He’s a great lad,’ says Klose, ‘he knows where he belongs.’

  ‘Even if he doesn’t know why and what for,’ Dr Böttcher says. ‘You can fight something from a nihilistic or negative point of view, but after the struggle that point of view must be replaced by something positive, otherwise nihilism or negation become a habit. Lassehn and all the other young people who despise the Nazi Reich seem to me like a building that has only a few weak supports, hatred, revulsion, disgust contempt, but no foundation. And we have to build that foundation very quickly.’

  ‘Well, build it, then,’ Klose says, and slides down from the wi
ndowsill, ‘now I’m going to hunt out those two other gentlemen and give them the Sleeping Beauty kiss.’

  ‘Someone’s knocking at the door,’ Lucie Wiegand says and dashes out of the kitchen, ‘that will be Lassehn.’

  It is Lassehn, he sets the two buckets down and takes a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘This is stuck up all over the place,’ he says and unfolds the page. ‘Listen to this:

  “Remember:

  Anyone who propagates or even approves of any measures that weaken our resistance is a traitor! He will be shot or hanged on the spot!

  23 April 1945

  Signed: Adolf Hitler.”’

  ‘This is anarchy,’ Dr Böttcher says after a moment’s silence. ‘Conscription to the eastern front has spread anarchy among the soldiers and, with a stroke of the pen, erased that thing that the Prussian military was once so proud of: absolute deference to one’s superior, and this proclamation is aimed at achieving the same effect on the civilian population. There is no mention of a court or a trial, or field courts or drumhead courts martial.’

  ‘If we weren’t such old friends,’ Wiegand says, abruptly pushing away his coffee cup, ‘I might be tempted to say that it took you a long time to realize that the Third Reich wasn’t based on the rule of law.’

  Dr Böttcher smiles. ‘My dear Wiegand,’ he says slowly, ‘this fact is by no means unknown to me, but – yes, here comes the big but – previously it was a privilege of the state, the Party and its various organizations, to break the law, to lock people up without a legal arrest warrant and to kill without sentence from a court. Now that right to killing and violence has passed to everyone, there are no principles attached any more, everyone can act as his so-called national sentiment decrees. Anyone can kill, hang, shoot anyone without fearing that he will be called to account, and reference to this appeal will constitute sufficient reason. No accusation or verdict is required, assertion is both proof and death sentence. It is probably the first time in history that a state has officially given the right to kill, and proclaimed total lawlessness.’