by Heinz Rein
Gregor, who was leaning against the stove with his arms folded, straightens himself up. ‘How do you mean?’ he asks.
Dr Böttcher smiles over at him. ‘I have no intention of insulting you, Gregor, but the comparison that comes to mind is not without a certain logic. A devout Christian can sometimes despair (and even Jesus said, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!” at such a moment), but he will repeatedly return to his faith and take his bearings from it. A soldier, however violently he might rebel, will finally, when it comes to the crunch, obey the order, and that’s why I don’t believe in drawing conclusions from the mood of the troops.’
‘Or at most that the fighting force of a demoralized army is likely to be reduced,’ Wiegand says from the window.
‘I agree,’ Dr Böttcher says. ‘And incidentally, the mood in a state like our Third Reich has no significance whatsoever. I remember very clearly many conversations I have had with my patients when reports of retreating movements at the front came at us with the force of an avalanche, I’m sure you will remember the opinion that was expressed even in our circles, to the effect that …’
‘Just wait until German place names appear in the army reports,’ Wiegand cuts in, ‘then the mood will change pretty quickly.’
‘Exactly!’ Dr Böttcher says. ‘That’s what I mean. I still remember very clearly how all of us, even though we considered the mood factor on its own to be an unimportant quantity in our calculations, all fell for the magic of this moment, which I am sure is not insignificant. And what happened?’
‘Nothing at all,’ Gregor says. ‘The man in the street, as the English say, has seldom had much influence in Germany, and in the Third Reich not at all, the mood of conscience and reason did not warn him, because National Socialism had imposed upon him the role of accomplice. We have heard the Wehrmacht report mentioning German place names as cold-bloodedly and as naturally as it once mentioned Russian and African places, and it is accepted with a kind of grimly humorous indifference that the Remagen bridgehead could only be extended step by step, just as we once received stereotypical phrases like “Malta was successfully bombed”.’
‘In physiology there is such a thing as a law of diminishing stimulation,’ Dr Böttcher says. ‘From “roast goose every day” to “bad news every day” it is basically only a small step, by which I mean that the psychical reaction, such as the mood, to a chain of setbacks and adversity arouses not rage, but only dull subjection, particularly in a people which is essentially addicted to obedience, and whose reactions can no longer be measured by human, only by mechanical standards.’
‘May I add something?’ Lucie Wiegand asks, resting both hands on the tabletop and with her eyes lowered. ‘I don’t see things with your scientific thoroughness, Doctor, or with your –’ she glances at Gregor – ‘objectivity, I see them in quite personal terms, I only listen to the voice inside me.’
‘And what do you hear?’ Dr Böttcher asks with a fleeting smile.
Lucie Wiegand’s eyes are still fixed on the tabletop. ‘A few years ago a shed of ours burned down,’ she begins, ‘and two rabbits died.’
‘So?’ asks Schröter.
Lucie Wiegand raises her eyes and looks absently at Schröter. ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking, Schröter,’ she says, and nods very slowly. ‘Only two rabbits, what does that matter?’
‘They’d have faced the knife sooner or later anyway,’ Schröter adds. ‘Wouldn’t they?’
‘Of course,’ Lucie Wiegand confirms, ‘and it still went straight to my heart, I even wept, I couldn’t sleep for a few nights afterwards, and every time I saw the burnt-out shed I was overwhelmed with grief. But now’ – she shakes her head – ‘I read about the terrible air attacks on Dresden, I walk through the burnt-out streets of Berlin, but nothing stirs in me any longer, my heart doesn’t flutter with horror, no tears rise to my eyes. The death by fire of those two rabbits left me shattered, but the mass death of human beings leaves me entirely cold.’
‘Between the burning of your shed and the destruction of our cities lie denunciation and ostracism, Gestapo interrogations and concentration camps, nights filled with bombs and deaths on the scaffold,’ Dr Böttcher says slowly, ‘events that have so absorbed your capacity for emotion that the destruction of people and cultural values, because of its indescribable extent, prompts only a fleeting reflex in you.’
‘I am convinced, Frau Wiegand,’ Gregor adds, ‘that the fate of one individual, singled out from among the mass of the killed and the burnt, would still move you, while we can no longer make intellectual contact with the fate of the mass, the gassing of the Jews and the Poles, deaths on the battlefields or the suffering of the civilian population.’
Dr Böttcher returns to his chessboard, however he is looking not at the pieces but at Lassehn. ‘Something has occurred to me, Lassehn. Weren’t you saying this morning that you bumped into an old friend who is deployed somewhere near here?’
Lassehn nods. ‘Yes, I wanted to bring him to see you, but so much has happened in the meantime, and you’ve been bombed out too.’
‘What sort of friend is he?’ Schröter asks.
‘He’s a lieutenant with an intelligence section,’ Lassehn replies.
‘And what’s he doing now?’ Schröter wants to know.
‘He’s got a unit over by the goods station,’ Lassehn answers.
‘Just you be careful, son,’ Klose says, sitting by the radio, ‘if you get caught they’ll get the lot of us.’
‘Don’t worry, Herr Klose,’ Lassehn says, ‘he’s not a Nazi.’
‘… but he’s a soldier!’ Schröter says in a hostile tone. ‘And an officer!’
‘Calm down, Schröter, don’t get so heated,’ Dr Böttcher says calmly. ‘Let’s not reject this young stranger out of hand, even if he is an officer. Is he your age, Lassehn?’
Lassehn nods.
‘So he’s in his early to mid-twenties. That’s the age group the Nazis had completely under their influence, but we have to depend on them and have to approach them at all costs.’
‘And why is that?’ Schröter asks.
‘Because one day when we step down (and that moment cannot be so far off, because none of us are getting any younger), they will be the leaders,’ Dr Böttcher says seriously. ‘Because we know that our parties, when they are, as I hope, revived one day, will be outdated.’
‘But the young workers …’ Schröter begins.
‘… have passed through Nazi school, the Hitler Youth and labour service just like all other young people, and like them they are now in the Wehrmacht and the SS,’ Dr Böttcher says quickly. ‘The young workers are no more immune than the workers generally. In my view there is only one option, and that is a general amnesty for German youth.’
‘Quite right!’ Gregor says. ‘It would be nonsense to damn the young. You can’t just eliminate a whole generation from the life of the nation, exclude it from the shaping of its own future. When this disastrous war is over, by and large among the young there will only be two directions: one will be unteachable and still National Socialist-minded, seeking the sources of mistakes in technical and military inadequacies, but not in the intellectual and political sphere, while the other trend, probably greater, will be nihilistic, intellectually and politically nomadic and vegetative, because the foundations of their previous life, their faith and their, for want of a better word, philosophy, have suddenly been pulled out from under them. It’s clear that we can’t just stand by and leave young people to their own devices, but neither can we’ – and now his voice is raised, and he is turned towards Schröter – ‘attack them with fully formed philosophies, programmes and dogmas. That would mean taking someone who wanted to learn to do sums and immediately plunging him into differential calculus, it would only increase his intellectual confusions …’
Schröter leans far forward. ‘And what prescription do you suggest?’
Gregor’s serious, ascetic face springs to life, a sligh
t flush rises to his gaunt cheeks. ‘The prescription, if that’s want we want to call it, is not for the young, it’s for us, and it’s a mixture of impartiality and forbearance.’
‘And self-criticism,’ Wiegand says. ‘Yes, Schröter, you heard correctly, self-criticism. Because the blame – in so far as we can speak of blame – for what happened, Germany’s youth falling into the hands of Nazi criminals and failing to recognize the madness of their teachings, lies not with them, but with those who let it happen.’
‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,’ Gregor says solemnly. ‘Bring your friend, Lassehn.’
Lassehn gets to his feet and stands irresolutely in the middle of the room for a moment. ‘Your argument with Tolksdorff will doubtless resolve many questions for me,’ he says.
When Lassehn has left, the silence hangs in the room like a dark cloud.
‘I hope you don’t expect too much from this,’ Klose says at last, and turns the buttons of the dead radio. ‘Young people today are different from the ones who came back from the First World War. They were soldiers too, with Prussian drill and obedience in their bones, but they hadn’t yet unlearned thinking, they weren’t automata, and they wouldn’t just have stubbornly carried out any order that was given to them. But young people today …’ He gestures dismissively.
‘Yes,’ Gregor says from his corner. ‘You’re right, Klose, we were soldiers, but even in our grey uniforms we were individuals, and remained so, in spite of the unison roaring of the NCOs, and under the crust of mud and dirt we came back from France, Poland and Macedonia as rough front-line fighters, but we pounced like wolves on civilian life, to burrow deep into knowledge and discoveries and experiences, to occupy a space and fill it, to taste the real life that we had not yet encountered.’
‘On the other hand young people today believe,’ Dr Böttcher says, ‘that they have been cast in a perfect mould, they see the true human in the figure of the warrior, and they don’t think they have to find their way into civilian life, but rather fill civilian life with the habits of the barracks. Respect for intellectual achievement has been drilled out of them, intellectual Athens means nothing to them, the barbarian biceps of Sparta everything.’
The silence that had for a moment been lifted falls over the men again, every now and again the sounds of exploding shells can be heard, the groans of wounded soldiers come through the door, and the harsh, commanding voice of a doctor.
‘Still no juice,’ Klose murmurs, sitting by the radio.
‘Get your crystal set working,’ Schröter says, ‘you can hardly bank on electricity any more.’
‘You’re right,’ Klose says, ‘but then we should take the thing into the back room. Walls have ears …’ He points with his thumb to the connecting door.
Lucie Wiegand comes in and puts a tray covered with slices of bread down on the table.
‘A little snack, gentlemen,’ she says. ‘Pease dig in. Where is Lassehn?’
‘On a reconnaissance trip to an enemy wigwam,’ Klose says and pulls his chair up to the table.
‘Please, no jokes for once,’ Lucie Wiegand reproaches him. ‘Where is Lassehn?’
Klose looks at her, smiling, and then turns to Wiegand. ‘Look out, Fritz, your wife’s in love with Joachim.’
‘Stop that nonsense,’ Lucie Wiegand says irritably. ‘I wish Joachim were my son, rather than …’ She doesn’t finish the sentence and turns round abruptly.
Klose glances quickly at Wiegand, whose face suddenly darkens. In an instant the shadow of Robert Wiegand has passed over them again, but Klose is already filling the gap with a coarse joke. They start eating, and when the door to the flat opens a few minutes later, the event has almost been forgotten again.
Then Lassehn comes in, followed by an officer in a grey uniform which reveals the work of a good tailor, with a peaked cap and black riding boots, which are dirty and dusty and certainly haven’t been taken off for days. Lassehn tries to introduce the officer with a few obliging words, but an embarrassed silence follows.
In fact it is a strange meeting in that small, dark back room of a pub in the east of Berlin. There stands a Wehrmacht lieutenant with the Iron Cross First and Second Class, the gold German Cross, the eastern medal, the infantry general assault badge, and the Narvik Shield, with the insignia of Hitler’s Reich on his uniform jacket and cap, and here, sitting in a semicircle, are a worker, a pub landlord, a trade-union secretary, a doctor and a stranger who is believed to be a theologian, in their shabby and unremarkable civilian suits, underground fighters against that very state whose uniform the officer wears, and between them, almost as intermediaries, stand a music student and a woman, both members of the underground, but also open to the young officer.
The men turn their hard, forbidding faces to the polite expression of the officer, and they sit there as if ready to jump.
‘Please, sit down,’ Dr Böttcher says at last, gesturing with his hand.
The officer sits down on a chair near the window, takes off his cap and looks at their faces in turn. ‘I would like to reassure you, gentlemen,’ he says in quite a coarse voice, ‘that I have come here as a private individual, and anything said here I will keep to myself. So you don’t need to fear any repercussions.’
Schröter chuckles to himself a few times. ‘My dear man,’ he says menacingly, ‘if we thought anything else, you would not leave this room alive. That is the reassurance I have to give you.’
Dr Böttcher raises an appeasing hand. ‘That is not a good introduction to a discussion,’ he says. ‘I think we’ve assembled in a friendly manner, isn’t that right?’
‘That’s how I saw it,’ says Lassehn, who is standing uneasily beside the table.
‘Me too,’ says Lieutenant Tolksdorff, turning the cap in his hands, ‘I should add that I wasn’t the one who introduced the abrasive tone.’
‘You are completely right,’ Dr Böttcher says, ‘see yourself as a peace negotiator who has been taken blindfolded into the enemy fortress, and who will in due course be released again.’
The lieutenant lowers his head in agreement.
Then silence falls on the room again, the men sit facing one another like boxers in their rings, waiting for the bell to sound, casually leaning back on their stools, but with the potential speed of a coiled spring.
It is Lassehn who rings the bell.
‘When we last spoke, Dietrich,’ he begins, ‘you said that it wouldn’t come to Berlin being the front, that you were fighting to ensure that no more territories would be drawn into the war. Have I quoted your words more or less correctly?’
Tolksdorff nods. ‘You’re right, Joachim.’
‘You see,’ Lassehn goes on, ‘that further resistance has only held up the enemy temporarily and has not spared the population the sufferings of war, on the contrary has increased them.’
Now Schröter intervenes in the conversation again. ‘What excuse can you give, Lieutenant,’ he shouts at him, ‘for continuing this pointless war?’
Tolksdorff turns towards the little man. ‘I could refer to orders from above,’ he replies, ‘but I can’t do that any more. I have understood, albeit belatedly, that there is no longer a regulating will behind the orders that are issued to us.’
‘Behind the orders stands the Satanic will for destruction,’ Gregor says in his corner, his voice sounds quiet, as if he were only speaking to himself, ‘the will to self-annihilation and the destruction of all order, our own end is supposed to be the end of a whole people, that is the only thing that the gentlemen who call themselves the government of the Great German Reich are still jealously guarding. If they had the chance to blow up the whole globe, they would do so with the heroic gesture of a redeemer.’
‘It is a battle with the Hydra,’ the officer says.
‘Stop,’ Dr Böttcher says excitedly, and raises his hand. ‘Either you are misrepresenting your own new insight, or you don’t have a new insight. It seems to me that you only see the hopelessness of mili
tary prospects.’
‘Primarily,’ Tolksdorff confirms.
‘But that insight is already quite an advance,’ Wiegand intervenes.
‘And does your so-called military honour not decree that you should cease this senseless battle, or will it be replaced by a hara-kiri?’ Schröter butts in.
‘We’re taking the conversation in the wrong direction,’ Dr Böttcher says. ‘If your doubt consisted only in an insight that military prospects were hopeless, as Wiegand says that would already be quite an advance, but it doesn’t take us to the heart of the matter. You must learn, Lieutenant Tolksdorff, that they have succeeded in drilling out of you your ability to distinguish between good and evil, justice and injustice, and in consequence a fundamental element of your moral conscience has not only been deactivated but practically turned into its opposite. I am happy to attribute good faith and honest intentions to you. You knew or thought you knew what was good and right and noble. You were enthusiastic and confident, but today …’
Tolksdorff looks thoughtfully at his nervously interlocked fingers. ‘… And today there is no confidence and no enthusiasm in me, and no faith and certainly no knowledge of good and evil, right and wrong.’
Gregor rises to his feet and looks seriously at Tolksdorff. ‘You have good eyesight, Lieutenant Tolksdorff,’ he says slowly, ‘and even if your brain was numbed, your eyes have not been blind, and your heart must have beaten wildly with horror. Did you not then become aware that you were acting on the basis of fatally false premises, and that good was evil and right wrong?’
‘Yes,’ Tolksdorff says quietly, ‘but – and this is perhaps my great shortcoming – but I acknowledged that insight only in connection with the great military collapse.’
‘That’s exactly it,’ Schröter says furiously, ‘if you had won, then you wouldn’t have cared in the slightest about injustice, oppression, murder and tyranny, you wouldn’t have been bothered about the fact that other peoples …’
