Fire and Steel, Volume 2

by Gerald N. Lund

  When I woke up, I realized that all my stuff—my civilian clothes, my toilet items, etc.—are still back at the hotel where I’m staying. It’s a cheap flophouse that I have to pay for day by day. I fear that if I don’t come home before dawn, the clerk will toss my stuff into the street.

  That wasn’t quite true. The hotel did allow payment night by night, but when he’d come in from Pasewalk the previous night, he’d paid for two nights just in case it took longer than he hoped to get his check.

  It’s at least an hour away from here, so I think that when I get there, I’ll probably grab some more sleep and then take a bath and shave.

  Don’t look for me before noon. Maybe later.

  Hold that thought on being cold.

  Love, H.

  Hans stopped and stared at his note for a long moment, a little shocked at how brazen it sounded. Frowning even more deeply, he flipped the pencil over and erased the last three lines, careful to leave no trace of what he had written.

  He sat back, blowing out his breath in exasperation. This whole thing was getting more and more complicated. What did he do now?

  He laid down the pencil and reached inside his jacket pocket. Withdrawing his wallet, he extracted the bills from it and laid them on the table. Then he patted his pants pockets. Nothing in one, something in the other. He fished for a moment and brought out a five-mark note, three one-mark coins, and a handful of Pfennige. Wincing as the throbbing in his head exploded again, he counted out what lay before him.

  When he finished, he swore softly. Thirteen marks and a few Pfennige. Hans was stunned. The money he had received from Dr. Schnebling, along with the money his parents had given him—gone? He counted it again, unable to believe what he was seeing.

  He hadn’t been too concerned about keeping track of his funds before, because he had three thousand marks coming in. He did a quick calculation. His hotel was two marks per night, and he was spending about that same amount on food each day. At four marks a day, he had until Saturday before he ran out of money. Three days!

  That can’t be right. His eyes suddenly narrowed. He read Katya’s letter again, focusing on her comment about taking money out of his wallet. Had she . . . ? Then he shook the idea off, ashamed for even thinking it.

  Someone turned the vice in his head a notch tighter.

  Hans got up. He needed to get out of here before Katya woke up. She was as intoxicating as the liquor in a way, and he needed to sort things out in his head before he did something foolish.

  Reaching out, he picked up the pencil, pulled her letter closer to him, and began to write again.

  Not sure when I will get back next. May have to return to the dairy farm for a time while I sort out my life. Sounds ghastly, but I’m running out of options. I know it is the same for you. I hope you can find work with another government ministry, but if you are forced to move, please leave a forwarding address with your landlady.

  I promised I would tell you about that “other person,” the one in Pasewalk, when I found out if it was going to work. No decision yet, but not entirely hopeful. If it doesn’t work out, I will be back. You can count on that.

  He reread the addition and then wrote one more line.

  With warmest affection, H.

  He laid the letter and pencil on the table and stood up. A minute later, he had his boots and overcoat on and was out the door, being careful not to make any sound as he slowly shut it behind him.

  7:35 a.m.—Hotel Lindenberg, Prenzlauer Berg District, Berlin

  Hans smoked steadily as daylight gradually lightened his room, revealing the water stains on the ceiling and the patches of missing wallpaper. He had slept only fitfully. As usual, the radiators cracked and popped all night but produced very little heat. But his thoughts were not on the dismal room, nor the dismal day. They were on his dismal life. Three days, and the money would be gone? How did he tell Emilee that? And that there would be no severance pay? And no university? And no job? Nothing. He brought absolutely nothing to the table.

  On the way back to the hotel his headache had gradually subsided and his thoughts had cleared. He knew that what he wanted—what he needed—was Emilee Fromme. Thoughts of her constantly filled his mind—the sound of her footsteps on the tile floor, the faint smell of flowers in her perfume, the softness of her touch, his first sight of her sweet smile and upturned nose when they had removed his bandages, the lilt of her voice as she had read Pride and Prejudice to him. Katya was exciting, enchanting, intoxicating—but she didn’t fill his thoughts like this.

  Which only added to his sense of hopelessness. Emilee already had three people she was caring for—herself, her mother, and Heinz-Albert. He couldn’t go back to her with nothing but a few marks in his wallet.

  He stubbed out his cigarette and sat up. Well, there was Graswang and milking cows. But the thought of going back home with the same bleak news was even more depressing than the thought of seeing Emilee.

  Putting on his boots, Hans went out in the hall and down to the toilet. He wet his hands and ran them through his hair, combing it back into some kind of order. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin but decided he didn’t want to take the time to shave. An idea was starting to form in his mind, and he decided to act on it immediately.

  Back in his room, he rejected the temptation to change into his civilian clothes. The government might be throwing their men to the wolves, but the people knew what the soldiers had gone through—almost everyone had lost someone in the war. He hoped the uniform would get him at least a foot in the door.

  Downstairs, he paid the pimpled clerk with fuzz on his cheeks for two additional nights. That took a chunk of his remaining funds, but at least he had a roof over his head for a couple of nights and didn’t have to carry his rucksack with him everywhere.

  8:20 a.m.—Bayerischer Biergarten, Prenzlauer Berg District, Berlin

  The Bavarian beer garden was much more crowded than when he had stopped here before. He paused for a moment before crossing the street, checking things out. The last time he had been here it was still dark, but now, in full daylight, he could see the restaurant better. It was a two-story building, the main floor being the restaurant itself and the upper floor being the residence of the owner, judging from the curtains and flower pot with red geraniums visible in one window. Now he could also see the garden part of the Biergarten. He had guessed right. It was tiny, barely large enough to fit four tables.

  Turning his attention to the windows, Hans watched the small crowd for a moment. Mostly working class. That was evident. Several old men drinking coffee at one table. He crossed the street and moved to where he had a clear view of the hall leading to the kitchen in the rear. About a minute later, he saw the man with the white chef’s hat and huge beer belly that he had seen the first time he was here. He brought out a tray of cheeses, bowls of diced red cabbage, and a few cold cuts of meat. He spread them out on the long serving table next to several round loaves of bread. There was no one else waiting tables, Hans noted. The cook was doing it all. That was good.

  He waited until the cook was out of sight and slipped inside. By this point he was ravenous, but he held himself to one mark thirty, which bought him half a loaf of bread, four slices of cheese, and a small carafe of water at no extra charge. All together it took only one of his ration cards.

  The crowd was thinning when he finally stood up. He looked around, making sure the cook was nowhere in sight, and then began clearing the dishes off his table. He moved to the next one and added those to his stack before heading for the back.

  The cook came out with another tray of food just as Hans set the dishes in the sink. He stopped, taken aback, and then his face instantly darkened. “What are you doing?”

  “I just want to help,” Hans said.

  The man swore. “Get outta here. This ain’t no charity hall.” He started to push past him, but Hans blocked his way. The cook was powerfully built, but it had gone mostly to flab, and he was three or four inches short
er than Hans.

  “I’m not asking for a salary,” Hans said earnestly. “Just one meal a day, and for that I’ll bus your tables, do dishes, scrub out pots and pans. Whatever you need.”

  He swore again. “Move it!” he snarled.

  Hans stood his ground. “Look,” he said, trying to sound as meek as he could. “Have you heard about the closing of the War Ministry?”

  “Yeah. What of it?”

  “I’ve got three thousands marks in severance pay from the Army coming, but with the Ministry closing, it’s going to take me a few days to get it. Please. Just breakfast. That’s all I ask, and I’ll work three hours every day.”

  For a long moment they locked eyes, and then the cook thrust the tray at him. “Put these on the serving table, then we talk.”

  10:47 a.m.

  “Hey, Fritzie,” Hans called, sticking his head into the kitchen. “Things are slowing down now. Mind if I take a smoke break?”

  “Five minutes,” the cook growled, without looking up from the grill.

  “Danke.” Hans headed for the back door but stopped just before he reached it. Quickly checking to make sure no one could see him, he reached behind a barrel of flour and took out the sack he had hidden there earlier. Holding it in front of him so it couldn’t be seen, he opened the door and stepped out into the alley. It had started to snow, but he barely noticed.

  Again checking quickly to make sure he wasn’t being observed, he reached in the sack and brought out the scraps he had salvaged from three different tables—three or four crusts of bread, a two-inch length of bratwurst, and a cup of raisins that had barely been touched. Those last two were godsends. In these times, finding anything left on someone’s plate was unusual.

  He wolfed them down and then reached over and scooped a handful of snow off of one of the garbage cans, put it in his mouth, and let it wash it down his “second breakfast.”

  Refusing to even acknowledge the shame gnawing at his gut, he quickly lit a cigarette, took three long, deep puffs on it, and then stubbed it out and put the butt in his pocket. As he went back in, he paused momentarily at the opening to the kitchen. “Three minutes,” he called.

  “Who’s counting?” Fritzie snapped. “Take these eggs out.” But as Hans took the kettle of boiled eggs, he saw that there was a touch of grudging acceptance in the cook’s eyes.

  4:09 p.m.—Post office and telephone exchange, Mitte District, Berlin

  “Emilee?”

  “Hans!” Her voice was filled with joy. “Is that you?”

  “Yes. Hello. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. But how are you? I’ve been so worried. I thought you were going to call yesterday.”

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “Nein, nein. I only sleep until three. I’m preparing supper at the moment.”

  Hans winced. Funny how the mere mention of food could hit you so hard. Gut. Gut. How are things there?”

  “Things here are fine, Hans. But what about with you? How did things go at the War Ministry?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Hans?”

  There was no getting around it, so he told her. When he finished, her voice was tight with shock. “Oh, Hans, no.”

  “Yes, Emilee. There’s no money. The whole Ministry is shut down.”

  A long silence, then, “What are you going to do?”

  “Look for work. I did manage to find a part-time job this morning, but I’m still looking. It’s not very hopeful. There are a few jobs listed in the paper, but by the time I find where they are, they’re either filled or there are huge lines waiting for them.”

  “Ja, ja. They say the unemployment rate is approaching thirty percent. Nearly fifty percent for men of your age.”

  Earlier that morning Hans had asked himself what else could go wrong. Now he had his answer.

  There was another pause, and Hans could sense Emilee’s hesitancy. “Did you go—”

  He cut in quickly. “Yes. I spent about an hour at the University of Berlin yesterday.”

  “And?”

  He told her.

  “Then you must begin studying to retake the tests,” she said.

  His voice was bitter when he answered. “Emilee, I think I’ll probably concentrate on finding employment first.”

  She was instantly sorry. “Of course, Hans. I’m sorry. It’s just that I feel so bad for you.” Another pause. “Do you need money, Hans? I’ve got a little saved.”

  “No!” Then more softly. “I’m fine. I’ve still got some left from what Dr. Schnebling and my parents gave me. I’m okay. Really.”

  “Promise you’ll tell me if you need it?”

  “Promise. Are things any better in Pasewalk?”

  “For jobs, you mean?”

  “Ja.”

  “No, worse actually. A large clothing factory in a nearby town, which was making uniforms for the navy, just closed. The military canceled their contract, of course, and they finally shut their doors just before Christmas. Four hundred workers are now looking for work here.”

  Neither of them spoke for several seconds. When Emilee finally did, her voice was soft and filled with concern. “Hans?”

  “Yes?”

  “You may have to go home for a—”

  “No, Emilee. I’m not to that point yet.”

  “Have you called them?”

  “No.” He almost said, “I don’t have enough money,” but he let it pass. “But I did write them today.” Or, I will later.

  “Gut.”

  “Emilee? Just . . . just don’t give up on me, all right?”

  “Give up on you? Hans, I pray for you every night and morning.”

  “Oh, your prayers are a big help, I’m sure.”

  He had tried to say it lightly, but from her soft intake of breath, he knew he had hurt her. “Look, Emilee, my time’s almost up. I’ll call you again when I hear something. But it might be a while.”

  “Hans, I would like to say one last thing.”

  He braced himself. “All right. What?”

  He could sense her sudden embarrassment. “I hope you don’t think this changes things with me. I don’t plan on giving up on you—not so long as you don’t give up on yourself. You’re not giving up on yourself, are you?”

  He didn’t answer. It had caught him totally off guard.

  “Hans?”

  “No, Emilee. I am not giving up.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. Call me as soon as you can.” And she cut the connection.

  January 9, 1919, 9:10 p.m.—Bayerischer Biergarten,Prenzlauer Berg District, Berlin

  “That’s it,” Fritz Kharkov called as the last couple exited the restaurant. “You lock doors, put up closed sign, turn out lights. Then come. We have nightcap before I start on books.”

  “And before I put up the chairs and sweep out the place.”

  Fritz waved a hand. “Do that in morning.”

  Hans shook his head. “I’d rather do it tonight and sleep in a little longer.”

  “Cooks don’t have such privilege. I am here always two hours before you.”

  “You should talk to the owner about that,” Hans said as he locked the door.

  “I am owner.”

  “I know. And you have an ogre for a boss.”

  “Ja, ja.” Fritz laughed. “I try to talk to him, but he won’t listen.”

  Hans grunted and joined his boss at the table, where he had a bottle of schnapps and two cups waiting. This was Hans’s third day since he had weaseled his way into Kharkov’s good graces. At the end of that first day, Fritzie had grudgingly offered him two meals a day for six hours of work. It was a good deal for him—no cash laid out—but Hans jumped at it. It wasn’t just getting two full meals a day, which was significant, but Hans had sensed that if he worked hard and well, it might turn into something more. And he had been right. By the end of the second day—yesterday—Hans had a full-time job for ten marks a week and all the food he could eat.


  And he and Fritz Kharkov had become friends. It had surprised Hans last night when Fritz had asked him to join him for a schnapps and conversation. He had also invited Hans to call him Fritzie, as everyone else did, including his wife.

  As Hans returned to join his employer, he saw there was something else. There was a newspaper on the table beside the glasses. Fritzie poured two generous portions, and then they touched cups together—a salute to the day. Neither spoke until both cups were empty. Then Fritzie tapped the paper. “You are Bavarian, no?”

  “Yes. From a little village near Oberammergau, which is south of Munich.”

  “Ah, ja. I know this Oberammergau.” Kharkov sobered. “You know about the troubles in Bavaria?”

  “Troubles?”

  “Ja, ja. Have you not seen?” Kharkov turned the paper over and shoved it at him. It was the Munich Observer, and Hans saw that it was dated two days before. That surprised him.

  “You subscribe to a Munich newspaper?” Hans asked.

  “But of course. Many customers from the south of Germany. They like to read local news.” He reached out and opened the first page, spreading it out before Hans.

  POLITICAL UPHEAVAL IN BAVARIA

  Hans rocked back as he read the headline

  “Read it,” Fritzie commanded. “I go tell Liliya I work late tonight.” And with that, he slipped away and went upstairs. Hans pulled the paper over and began to read.

  Kurt Eisner, Prime Minister of Bavaria, is facing increasing pressure from both right-wing and extremist left-wing parties to step down. It is unlikely that his “People’s Republic,” created on November 7 of last year, will survive the general elections set for later in the month. Political pundits predict upheaval and chaos to follow if that occurs.

  Eisner, 51 years old, was born in Berlin to Jewish parents.

  On November 7, Eisner led a bloodless coup that finally toppled the Wittenberg monarchy after nearly eight centuries of rule. This was just one more example of socialist and soviet republics that spontaneously arose all across the Fatherland at war’s end. It is a trend that threatens the very existence of our nation, and events in Munich suggest that it is not over yet.