Berlin Finale (Penguin Modern Classics)

by Heinz Rein

  The artillery fire rages and whines in the air, the government district is under constant fire. Couriers run, backs bent, leaping like hares over the embankment, supply and ammunition columns dash at breakneck speed along the rutted streets, in which curtains flickering with flame are stretched and a heavy rain of shell splinters crashes down, while the wounded press themselves along the walls of the houses.

  The Tolksdorff group also receives supplies and a few copies of the new edition of Panzerbär.

  In the faint glow of the light the young tank gunner pulls a newspaper to him and reads the leading article under his breath.

  ‘Sacred Word: Berlin

  The capital of the Reich has become the capital of the battle. From Berlin came the Führer’s orders which turned a deep German divide into a single Greater Germany, and gave the people the foundations of an exemplary social order. From Berlin came the Führer’s orders that brought peace to Europe step by step. From Berlin came the Führer’s orders which, during the war, in the face of all difficulties, brought the Europe that we had occupied peace and order, work and bread. Berlin was the capital of the profound German order, Berlin was the capital of the European order.

  Today Bolshevism is striking at its hated Berlin. It wants to strike fatally at the head of the German order, of the European order. We dedicate ourselves to this battle. That is why the Führer is in Berlin. With us he bears all the burdens of the harshly embattled front city. He stands with us in our raging battle. Once more from Berlin come his orders in the fight for freedom that is making world history. In Berlin it will be decided whether in future Bolshevism will put all peoples under its yoke, or whether the peoples will keep their right to self-determination. In Berlin we will defeat Bolshevism once and for all. It stands in the most savage battlefield that history has ever known. Around it throng the most fanatical soldiers of all time.

  The Führer is in Berlin. The global enemy will be defeated here.’

  When he has finished reading he looks up, distressed.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Lassehn asks.

  ‘This language … I’m completely confused,’ he says. ‘There must be something in it.’

  ‘Of course there’s something in it,’ Lassehn says, ‘a common lie hangs on every word. Break the article down into its component parts, right of self-determination of the peoples, bringing peace to Europe, European order, and then think about it.’

  The tank gunner shakes his head.

  ‘And here, the headline of the army report: “Heroic battle for Berlin. Arrival of reserves from all sides.” You hear that, arrival of reserves on all sides. And yesterday, according to Panzerbär, Secretary of State Dr Naumann said …’ He takes the newspaper from his pocket. ‘Here.

  “Berlin, 26 April

  The Secretary of State in the Reich Ministry for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, Chief of Staff Dr Naumann, delivered the following speech on the radio on Thursday:

  The Führer at the Head

  At the head of the defence of Berlin is the Führer. This fact alone gives the battle for Berlin its unique and crucial face.”

  ‘That’s not the right place,’ the tank gunner says. ‘Here, this is the bit I mean.

  “The German soldiers fighting under the eyes of the Supreme Commander are convinced that their fortitude must be suitable to the situation, and that they will succeed in defeating this enemy where they have defeated him over the last few years. In the whole waging of the war they feel the personal hand of the Führer.

  Supreme Generals Personally Leading Units to Relieve Berlin

  The Chief of the General Staff oversees every detail of the defence of Berlin. The victory of the Bolsheviks planned for 20 April has been prevented. But the word of the Führer will persist: Berlin remains German and Europe will not become Russian. Forces have already arrived in different zones and made themselves ready, supporting Berlin, bringing the Bolsheviks a conclusive defeat and thus fundamentally changing the situation of Germany. But the defenders of the Reich capital have taken heart at the news of the rapid arrival of battle-ready troops, and are fighting with stubborn defiance in the firm hope that they will soon hear the roaring guns of the approaching reserves.”’

  The tank gunner puts the newspaper away. ‘There must be something in it. No one can lie like that.’

  ‘You can lie like that,’ Lassehn replies, ‘they can, but the worst thing about it is that you still believe them.’

  The tank gunner sits down on the kerbstone of the doorway and rests his sub-machine gun on his knees. ‘Even you don’t know everything,’ he says after a while. ‘Let’s see what it says in the army report.

  “From the Führer’s headquarters, 27 April

  High command of the Wehrmacht announces:

  The focus of the combat operations in North West Germany …

  At the Elbe front the Anglo-Americans remained quiet …

  At the centre of the fighting yesterday was the battle for Berlin. Shoulder to shoulder with all men capable of bearing arms our troops waged a heroic battle against the Bolshevik mass attack, defended every house and repelled the enemy with counter-attacks from the inner defence ring of the city.

  From the zone to the south of Fürstenwalde our combat units thrust westward into the deep flank of the Bolsheviks operating in the south of Berlin, and broke through their main supply connection on the Baruth-Zossen road. Our zestfully aggressive young divisions reached the zone around Beelitz and stand there in fierce forest fighting with the Soviets.”’

  ‘Here comes the courier,’ Lassehn cuts in.

  ‘He’ll probably bring the lieutenant back to the briefing,’ the tank gunner says.

  The courier darts them a quick appraising gaze and disappears into the house doorway. A few minutes later he reappears with Lieutenant Tolksdorff.

  ‘I said you didn’t know everything,’ the tank gunner says, resuming the conversation. ‘It says quite clearly in the army report that the reserve armies are advancing from the south and west.’

  Lassehn shakes his head. ‘Those aren’t reserve armies,’ he says, ‘those are the divisions of the Ninth Army who have been encircled for a week, and now they’re trying to free themselves.’

  ‘You’ve got an answer for everything,’ the tank gunner says irritably.

  ‘And you’ve been placing false hope on each defeat,’ Lassehn replies.

  The young tank gunner shrugs wearily and pokes out his lower lip. ‘I don’t care about anything.’

  For long minutes they don’t speak. The air thunders and whines, aeroplanes dart low above the houses, their weapons rip a chunk of plaster from the walls, four-barrelled machine guns rattle, a few Tiger tanks rattle along the cobblestones, heavy anti-aircraft ammunition is fired on Wilhelmstrasse and the barrels are turned to fire horizontally.

  ‘It seems to be kicking off here,’ Lassehn says.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ the tank gunner says indifferently, ‘it’ll have to come to an end sometime. Here comes our relief.’

  They are relieved, they walk through the vault of this former hallway and climb a dozen crumbling steps down into the cellar. It is plunged into a vague semi-darkness, because it receives its light only through the hole in the ceiling. The hole is the size of a sheet of newspaper, but you can see through five storeys to the sky, the layers of beams have either been burned or stretch charred from wall to wall.

  A few minutes after them the lieutenant comes back. He doesn’t jump down the steps like someone hurrying to take cover, he climbs down slowly, almost clumsily, step by step. He waves Corporal Schumann away when he jumps up and shouts ‘Attention!’ into the cellar, he leans against the wall by the door and hangs his steel helmet on a hook. His blond hair hangs sweat-drenched on his forehead, he brushes it lifelessly back and runs his hand over his forehead, his chin lowered deep over his chest. He gives the impression of someone completely exhausted, his chest goes up and down in quick, spasmodic jerks.


  Everyone looks in horror at the lieutenant, because it’s clear to everyone that the exhaustion to which he has succumbed is not physical in nature.

  ‘The Sturmbannführer has ordered us to the corner of Wilhemstrasse and Anhalter Strasse to take part in the counter-thrust towards Blücherplatz and Belle-Alliance-Strasse,’ he says, his voice quiet and toneless, without a commanding tone.

  Take part in the counter-thrust, he thinks, counter-thrust to reconquer one block of flats from the many thousands of blocks of flats in Berlin, a block of flats that is supposedly strategically important. But how many times has he taken part in a counter-attack with his company, always being told it was strategically important, but in those instances it was always a commanding height or an important river crossing, and even there they always had to move to more favourable, previously planned reserve positions to be able to meet the pressure of the enemy more flexibly. And the furthermost point of the front, which still had to be widened at all events and regardless of possible losses to create a greater basis for the counter-attack, was cleared the next day, unnoticed by the enemy, to straighten the front line. Back then there might have been military necessities, although everything that seemed clear and necessary at the time has now been called into question, since he has gained distance and is overwhelmed by defeat, but the things that have been going on in this city the day before yesterday, yesterday and today, and which will be taken to their conclusion tomorrow and the day after – those things are the hysteria, cranked up into blindly raging delirium, of a megalomaniac individual.

  The lieutenant’s words are followed by a burdensome silence. Everyone knows what a counter-thrust means, in these streets raging with a hail of steel and blocked by curtains of flame, everyone knows that no counter-thrust will be able to loosen the grip of the mighty enemy even slightly, and everyone knows that a counter-thrust can only postpone the agony by a few short breaths.

  ‘Out of the question,’ Schröter is the first to say.

  The lieutenant waves away any further objections.

  ‘I have no intention of carrying out this order,’ he says slowly, but in a clear voice. I shall never again in my whole life carry out another order that goes against conscience and reason, he thinks, I will never carry out any more orders.

  Again there is silence in the cellar. This young man there against the wall is a human being like any other, but that has not been obvious until now, since he has previously covered his humanity with special sorts of epaulette, a few strips of silver braid and a few stars pressed out of light white metal have elevated him to a level that has made him unassailable from below and given him power that he would never have had in civilian life. None of the soldiers in this cellar is capable of appreciating the almost superhuman deed that this young man has just performed now that he has divested himself of his unapproachability with a few simple words, on the contrary, they think they see in his actions a snag in his normal brain activity, and even though they have no wish to take part in this pointless counter-thrust that has been ordered from above, the breakdown in the chain of command brings them face to face with an almost insoluble task.

  ‘And what are we supposed to do?’ Corporal Schumann says at last.

  ‘Whatever you like,’ the lieutenant replies wearily, ‘you can follow the order, gathering on the corner of Wilhelmstrasse and Anhalter Strasse at ten-fifteen, or you can stay here or do something else. I’ve ceased to issue orders.’

  ‘Clearly you haven’t told the Sturmbannführer?’ Dr Böttcher asks.

  The lieutenant smiles very faintly. ‘No, I haven’t done that, it would have put not just me but the whole group in danger.’

  Dr Böttcher and Wiegand communicate with a glance. ‘Then we must leave this cellar immediately,’ Dr Böttcher says.

  ‘Straight away,’ says Schröter.

  Corporal Schumann looks, perplexed, from one to the other. ‘What is going to become of the group, Lieutenant?’ he asks.

  ‘You can clear off,’ Schröter says, ‘only if you want, of course.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you,’ the corporal snaps at him, and then looks at Tolksdorff. ‘Lieutenant …’

  ‘You are at complete liberty, Schumann,’ the lieutenant says. ‘Isn’t that enough for you?’

  Schumann shrugs. ‘I don’t know where to start, Lieutenant, I really don’t know …’

  ‘Just think very slowly, son, about what you want to do,’ Schröter says ironically, ‘at any rate let’s slip away, because once they notice we’re missing, they’ll arrest us.’

  ‘Then I’d rather go on my own,’ Schumann says. ‘What are you doing, Ruppert?’

  Ruppert slowly shrugs his shoulders. ‘That’s quite a quandary,’ he says. ‘If they hadn’t issued the order for the counter-thrust …’

  ‘Oh, you poor sod,’ Schröter says scornfully, ‘want to play it safe, do you?’

  ‘Come on,’ says Dr Böttcher, ‘let’s go through the ruins, not along the street, we’ll find some sort of dank cellar.’

  Dr Böttcher, Wiegand, Schröter, Gregor and Lassehn head for the exit, Tolksdorff stands still by the iron door, his eyes half closed and his arms folded over his chest.

  ‘And you, Lieutenant?’ Dr Böttcher asks, touching him gently on the shoulder.

  Tolksdorff looks at him as if he hasn’t understood the question. ‘Dietrich,’ Lassehn says, and shakes his shoulder. ‘Come with me!’

  The lieutenant shakes his head. ‘I’m fine, it’ll soon be too late.’

  Corporal Schumann is still standing irresolutely in the middle of the cellar, the light from the hole in the ceiling falls obliquely into his face, it is pale green, his eyes keep darting helplessly from one to the other. ‘It’s already twenty past ten,’ he says, looking at his watch. ‘For now let’s act as if …’

  Behind Wiegand, who is the last to go, the corporal and the other soldiers climb the cellar steps.

  ‘Let’s cross the ruins at an angle,’ Wiegand says, ‘there are still a few houses standing on Saarlandstrasse, we’ll find somewhere.’

  ‘You lot are fine,’ Private Poppe says morosely, ‘you just have to chuck away your Volkssturm armbands and you’re civilians.’

  ‘Right,’ Schröter cuts in, ‘we have no time to chat.’

  They climb over a pile of debris, the grave of a collapsed house, Corporal Schumann and some soldiers are still standing uncertainly in the courtyard between the looming, burnt black walls of the empty ruin, the fire from the Russian artillery and the mortars raging incessantly over their heads.

  ‘Where is Lieutenant Tolksdorff?’ a voice shouts suddenly. ‘What’s going on here?’

  Sturmbannführer Wiegand is standing in the gateway. ‘Fall in!’ he roars. ‘Where is Lieutenant Tolksdorff?’

  Corporal Schumann and the soldiers immediately stand to attention, Dr Böttcher and the others slow down slightly.

  The Sturmbannführer looks menacingly around. ‘And what about you lot up on that rubble? Where do you think you’re off to? Stop where you are!’

  Schröter raises his carbine and lowers it again. ‘Damn it all,’ he murmurs to himself. ‘This fellow would have to be Wiegand’s son, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Permission to speak …’ Corporal Schumann begins.

  ‘I want to know where Lieutenant Tolksdorff is!’ the Sturmbannführer yells at him.

  ‘Lieutenant Tolksdorff is still in the cellar, Sturmbannführer,’ Schumann replies. ‘He has …’

  At that moment a shot rings out in the cellar, followed by the dull sound of a falling body.

  The Sturmbannführer purses his lips. ‘Right, you at the back, over here. What are you waiting for …’ He pauses, his mouth suddenly collapses lifelessly in on itself, his expression becomes stubborn, his hands, holding a sub-machine gun, start trembling, then he strides fiercely towards Wiegand and thrusts his head forward. ‘You’re here?’ he says, a strange menace in his voice, his mouth tightenes again, his eye explores the
faces. ‘And you too, Mother?’

  Wiegand breathes heavily and draws his wife more firmly to him.

  ‘Now I’m starting to understand what’s up with this group,’ Sturmbannführer Wiegand says with a keenly incisive voice.

  ‘Robert …’ Lucie Wiegand says quietly.

  ‘No sentimentality,’ the Sturmbannführer interrupts.

  ‘No,’ Wiegand says, ‘no sentimentality.’

  ‘Now you have the chance to prove yourselves,’ the Sturmbannführer says, ‘all of you, in line …’

  Ruppert, who has thrown off his field-grey coat, takes a step forward. ‘You mad dog!’ he roars. ‘Make your war on your own!’

  The Sturmbannführer raises his sub-machine gun. ‘I order you …’

  Ruppert takes a step back, pulls the hand grenade from his belt and throws it at the Sturmbannführer. Explosion, double, ringing echo, splinters flying around, clouds of smoke and dust, nothing else. The man who was standing there a moment ago is gone, as if the earth had opened up and swallowed him. If someone had looked more closely … But no one looks at the spot where a young man in an olive-green uniform had been standing a moment before, with a steel helmet and SS runes, holding a cocked sub-machine gun, no one looks around for the traces of this young man.

  ‘I’d been saving that one,’ Private Ruppert says triumphantly, ‘for a special occasion.’

  XVIII

  29 April

  One cellar is very much like another, the earth was dug out, a hole was cast in concrete or walled around with bricks, a low ceiling, without light or warmth, held down by the weight of a house. What escapes the eye in the flats, where it lies within the walls or is covered with plaster, in the cellars is laid bare, ugly and undisguised, gas pipes, water pipes, sewage pipes, the intestines of a Berlin apartment block, but what was once only an unnoticed appendage, a storage space for old furniture or other junk, is now the centre, the refuge of life.