by Elly Welt
I ran into the next building, where Sonja lived, and knocked on her door. When she didn’t answer, I pounded, then began to yell and shout. She wasn’t there, either, and nobody came out of the other doors to complain of the noise I was making. That is when I realized that something terrible must have happened.
I tore down the stairs and across the park to the main building. To my relief, I was greeted by a swarm of little escapees who wanted to rejoin their pure-bred colleagues inside. Research on the Drosophila, then, was still going on. I shooed the little fellows in with me, then ran, my heart pounding from anxiety and from the unaccustomed exercise, through the deserted lobby and up the stairs of the right wing to the Biology Laboratory.
In any case, no one would be there this early. I checked the mass grave: fresh bodies. The flies had been sorted and dated the day before and marked April 18. This, then, had to be April 19. I looked at a calendar to discover the day—Thursday—and at the clock on the wall—6:50. It was Thursday, April 19, 1945, at 6:50 in the morning. I had been gone for three and a half months.
My Greenough binocular sat on my worktable, just as I’d left it. I opened the top drawer of the table and found the terrible cigarettes I’d left, lit up, and inhaled deeply. If I were found, it would be dangerous for the Chief and everyone else—if they were still at the Institute. But if not, who was doing the sorting? Bach? Very faintly, I could hear the fugue, delicate, passionate, and joyful, wafting up the stairwell from the first floor. My good Lord, Rabin.
I disposed of the cigarette, then slowly, cautiously, walked down the stairs and across the empty lobby toward the music, stopping at the parlor door. Rabin did not take kindly to being disturbed when he was practicing. I entered quietly, but he heard me.
“Yosup!” He jumped up from the piano, ran to me, embraced me, kissing me three times on each cheek, then pound-pound-pounding me on the back. “Yosup! Yosup!”
I was overwhelmed by his joy at seeing me. “Rabin! Where is everybody?” I hugged him and pounded him on the back.
Unfortunately, I spoke no Russian, and Rabin, although he had been at the Institute longer than I, had learned hardly a word of German.
“Tatiana,” I said. “Tanya? Where is Tatiana?”
He nodded, beaming, made a circle with the thumb and first finger of his right hand, and said, “Goot. Pfery goot.”
“Tanya’s good? Very good?”
He nodded again, smiling broadly. “Tatiana—Mommá, Poppá.”
“Tanya’s with her parents, her mama and papa?”
“Da, da. Mommá and Poppá. Pfery goot.”
“The Chief? Professor Kreutzer? Krupinsky?”
Still nodding. “Pfery goot. Chief, Professor, Krupinsky. Pfery goot.” Rabin then pointed to the ceiling and made flying motions with his arms.
I looked puzzled. “Birds?”
He shook his head, pointed again to the ceiling, made an airplane of his right hand and arm, and flew about the room. “Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”
“Ah, the Luftwaffe.”
“Da, Luftwaffe.” He saluted briskly. “Bzzzzzzz. Pffft.” And he blew them all away.
“Gone? The Luftwaffe is gone?”
He nodded vigorously. “Pfffffffttt.”
“All of them? All?” I indicated many numbers with my fingers.
He nodded, then held up five fingers and then ten.
All gone but ten or fifteen. My God, the air force people comprised two thirds of the entire staff of the Institute—some 130 or so people out of the 200. That would explain why the apartment buildings were empty. Most of the space had been taken up by Luftwaffe personnel.
“Why?” I pointed to the ceiling, extended my palms up, with a look of amazement on my face.
Rabin marched ten paces forward and ten back. “Russkies,” he said gleefully. “Red Army.”
“Here?” I pointed to the floor, to the walls.
He laughed and held up one finger, then two, and marched again.
“One day? Two days. They’ll be here?”
“Da! Khoroshaw! One day. Two day.”
My good Lord, talk about relativity—seven kilometers by train, seven more on foot, the war was over, winter was gone, and it was spring.
“Trusov!” said Rabin. “Pfffft.”
“Grand Duke Trusov? He’s gone, too?”
He nodded.
“Where’s Sonja? Sonja Press?”
His expression changed to one of great seriousness, and my heart jumped into my throat.
“Madame Avilov,” he said sadly.
“Yes, Madame Avilov. I understand. Ponimayu.”
Rabin pretended to slit his throat from ear to ear, slash both wrists, and swallow two fistfuls of pills with water. “Mitzka,” he said.
I nodded that I understood. Madame was dead. Sonja, had, most likely, moved in with the Chief.
He played an arpeggio on an imaginary piano, then embraced me again before returning to the Bechstein.
It had not occurred to me that anyone would be overjoyed at my return.
With the Russians so close, the S.S. would not come as far east as Hagen to hunt me down. I knew I would endanger no one by being there, so I returned to the Genetics wing—to the kitchen in the greenhouse. There was no polenta on the stove, no cornmeal or molasses, but bowls and bowls of sunflower seeds, vats of vodka, and canisters of the milled tea. I made myself a cup of tea laced with vodka, cracked a mound of sunflower seeds—tedious work—before I began to eat.
I must admit, I was looking forward to the welcome from Krupinsky and the others. I decided that I would be hard at work when they walked in and that I would act as though nothing had happened.
At nine, Krupinsky wandered in with his wife, Kirsti. Both of them ignored me completely—not even a nod or a “good morning.” I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting, so I just sat at my microscope sorting flies. Finally, Kirsti could stand it no longer. “Abe,” she said, “this is too cruel,” and she threw her arms about me and wept. “My dear, my dear, how wonderful to have you safe!”
Krupinsky rolled back on his heels and grinned.
“Rabin told us,” Kirsti said. “He came running out into the lobby. And Abe insisted we tease you.”
“Where have you been? Nobody knew where the hell you disappeared to after you left Farben.” Krupinsky looked even thinner and not at all well.
I shrugged. “Rabin tells me the war is over here.”
“Who knows? The German troops came through in a big hurry a couple of days ago—said the Russians were only ten, fifteen miles to the east.”
“That close?”
“That’s what they said. Nobody knows where the Americans are. Anyway, did Rabin tell you that most of our people left? Almost all the Luftwaffe.”
“He mentioned the Luftwaffe—and Tanya.”
“Just a few civilian doctors left up in Brain Research, and a few Mantle chemists, and all the specials: Rabin, Bolotnikov, Ignatov, François Daniel, the Yugoslav. Who else is here, Kirsti?”
“The Chief and Professor Kreutzer.”
“Tell him something he doesn’t know.”
“George Treponesco and Latte—that Gestapo.”
“Tell him something he wants to hear,” said Krupinsky. “Frau Doktor and Sonja.”
“Gunther the gardener?” I asked.
“Yes, he’s here, and the janitors and kitchen help—although there’s nothing much to eat. I’d say there are fifty or so people in the whole place, plus some wives. Monika’s gone, and Marlene and her husband. Did Rabin tell you that Trusov left?”
I nodded.
“The Duke thought we should all leave. He said he’s more afraid of the Soviets than he was of the Nazis. They killed all his family, you know, during the revolution.”
“What did Professor Kreutzer think of that idea—of leaving?”
“He said that Berlin was in chaos.”
“It is.”
“We heard that there are barricades and fighting
in the streets, and that the S.S. are hanging people on lampposts. I haven’t seen it myself—we moved out here right after you left.”
“Our building was bombed,” said Kirsti.
“I can’t believe how peaceful it is,” I said.
“The food’s mostly gone,” said Krupinsky. “All the rabbits, and no fresh fruit or vegetables yet—it’s too early. All we have is the dried corn and sunflower seeds—no molasses. But we have water and electricity still, and lots of vodka.”
“And tea,” said Kirsti. “Enough tea. Most of the apartments are empty, so you can just take one.”
“Tanya is with her parents?”
Krupinsky and Kirsti exchanged meaningful looks, and Kirsti said, “That’s right. Her father came out and got her.”
“Did she get a summons, too?”
“No. They just thought she’d be safer with them. She was upset. Professor Kreutzer said you could have kept in touch—at least at first. She was quite angry with you.”
“So what else is new,” said Krupinsky. “She was always mad at him.”
I shrugged. Krupinsky was right. “She never approved of anything I did.”
“That’s not fair, Josef. How would you have felt if she’d been taken?”
“That’s just the point. Tanya would not have let herself be taken.”
“I think you’ve grown taller,” Krupinsky said, “three inches or so.”
“One and a half!”
“And fat. You are positively gross.” He slapped my back. We all three laughed. I now weighed one hundred and twenty-seven pounds, and I was almost five feet ten inches tall.
“Come on, where the hell have you been?”
“I’ll tell you Krup, it’s like this. The first week at Farben I got into trouble.”
He nodded, his lips pursed. “Yes, go on.”
“I noticed that the bread rolls were getting smaller each day, and I began to complain to the baker, ‘The bread is getting smaller.’ Well, to make a long story short, they had a meeting of the bakers’ association and got a petition to have me thrown in jail for saying ‘The bread is getting smaller.’”
Krupinsky nodded again. “Uh-huh,” he said, cupping his chin in his hand.
“So I was thrown in jail. As you can imagine, the food was so terrible, I almost starved, but for one of the bakers, whose conscience began to bother him.”
“I’m with you,” said Krupinsky.
“So he smuggled in bread to me, every day, through the keyhole.”
“I see.”
“And all that bread—that’s why I’m so fat.”
“Bernhardt, your brain has atrophied. I told you that joke the first week you were here.”
“And my grandfather told it to your grandfather.”
We continued the routine sorting of the fruit flies and waited for the Red Army, which came the next morning.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Last Day
I was to hoist a white flag on the pole out in front that had never known a flag.
“Timing is essential,” said Professor Kreutzer. “There is a possibility that German military still might be retreating through here. If they spot a flag of surrender, they will open fire on us. On the other hand, if the Red Army doesn’t find one, we will all be killed.”
“Scylla and Charybdis,” said the Chief. “If one isn’t smashed on the rock, he will drown in the whirlpool.”
“We will tell you when to raise it,” said Professor Kreutzer. “Have the flag ready and test the pulley mechanism on the pole.” And he and the Chief, that day of my return, having toured all the labs in the Institute to give the final orders for the moment of liberation, returned to their telescope on the roof.
All that day, occasional refugees fleeing the invasion sought brief shelter, reporting that the Red Army was on their heels. From our lab, I could hear tanks and trucks, an occasional cannon firing. The Chief and Professor Kreutzer, on the roof, could see them. They actually arrived at the Institute the next morning, Friday, April 20, 1945, at ten.
“This is it! This is it!” The Chief ran down the hallway, shouting into each lab. “Josef, put up the flag. Now! Put up the flag.”
Krupinsky and I raced down the stairs, out the front doors, tied a white lab coat by the sleeves, pulled it up the virgin pole, and beat a hasty retreat just as a truck with armed Soviets drove through the gate and around the circular drive.
Confusion. Krupinsky and I slammed into the lobby. The Chief, Professor Kreutzer, and Krupinsky were there, and some of the others. The Chief had a liter of vodka in one hand and a broom handle with a white rag attached in the other. “We will greet them on the front steps,” he said breathlessly.
“No,” said Professor Kreutzer calmly. “We will wait here in the lobby. Krup, you take the flag and stand in front, near the door. I’ll open it so they can see you. Talk to them in Russian.”
Reluctantly, Krupinsky relieved the Chief of the broom handle and moved, trembling, to the double doors. Professor Kreutzer opened them wide, then stepped back beside the Chief.
The rest of us huddled directly behind them: Rabin, Ignatov, Bolotnikov, the Yugoslav, the French Physicist François Daniel, the Roumanian Biologist George Treponesco, and I. The other men—the civilian doctors remaining in Brain Research, the two chemists left from Mantle, the custodians and kitchen workers—were told to stay in their work areas and pretend to be busy. The women—Frau Doktor, Sonja, Kirsti, the female lab assistants, and the wives—were hiding in the darkroom or in the various labs. Word had come from the refugees that the troops following the first, elite attack troops were raping all the women. The Security Officer, in civilian dress, was also “working” in one of the labs.
Through the open double doors, we could see twenty soldiers jump from the truck, holding submachine guns and rifles; some running into the park, the others advancing, slowly, toward the building.
“Wave the white flag,” said the Chief. “Go to the door and let them see it. And speak Russian!”
The broom handle advanced, quaking, to the threshold.
We could not see the soldiers. They had flattened themselves against the building. A voice shouted, in German, “Let all German soldiers step outside with their hands up.”
Krupinsky stepped outside.
One could hear the same voice. “Are there more?”
“We are not soldiers,” said Krupinsky in German. My good Lord. He forgot to speak Russian.
“Krupinsky, speak Russian,” hissed Professor Kreutzer through the door.
“You! Tell everyone to come out, slowly, with their hands up.”
Professor Kreutzer nodded for us to obey; in a tight pack, we followed him and the Chief,
“One at a time!” Shouted in German.
We exited onto the stairs, one at a time, with our hands up, and, immediately, were surrounded by ten tense Soviet soldiers, pointing submachine guns and rifles at us. A young officer, followed by an aide, broke through the armed soldiers and addressed himself in German to Krupinsky, who still stood at the head of our little group.
“All soldiers and fascists must surrender. If any resistance is offered, this entire place will be destroyed and everyone become a prisoner. They can be assured of humane treatment by the great Red Army. We have no animosity against the German people. The Hitlers come and go, but the German people remain.”
Krupinsky’s voice was a squeak. “We speak Russian here,” he said in Russian and pointed to the Chief. The broom handle was shaking violently.
The young officer looked toward us: the Chief and Professor Kreutzer standing in front, and the rest of us clustered behind them. Then Rabin shouted something in Russian and came forward very slowly.
When the young commissar saw the pianist, his face registered disbelief and then expressed such joy and amazement. Apparently, the Soviets did not know that Stalin’s favorite pianist—famous all over Russia—was still alive.
“Rabin!”
They embrac
ed.
The Chief came forward, raised the liter beaker of vodka, and said, “To the success of the great Red Army toward victory and peace,” drank deeply, and handed it to the young officer, who said, “To the great Stalin, liberator of all people.” He did not drink but, instead, pushed the beaker into the hand of Professor Kreutzer, ordering, “Drink!”
Professor Kreutzer bowed slightly and drank deeply. Only then did the young officer drink. He scanned the rest of us huddled together. “This young man,” he said in German and pointed to me. “Is he not a soldier?”
“He is a Jew,” said Professor Kreutzer.
“His papers!”
“He has none,” said Professor Kreutzer, stepping forward as he spoke. “He escaped from a labor camp.”
The officer cocked his head to one side and looked at me for an instant, then thrust the beaker toward me. “Drink!”
I did.
“You are lucky,” he said. And at a sharp command from him in Russian, the soldiers pointed their weapons to the floor.
The entire plant had to be searched. Those of us in the lobby were ordered to remain where we were. An armed team took Professor Kreutzer along as hostage and looked into every building, every room, every corner of the park.
The young commissar stayed in the lobby and talked, in Russian, with Rabin, Bolotnikov, and Ignatov. The soldiers relaxed, some sitting on the floor, others standing easy or leaning against the walls, almost all smoking; and when they offered us cigarettes—papirossi with a long mouthpiece and small bit of tobacco, or mahorca tobacco in Pravda newspaper, rolled with one hand in their pockets—we relaxed, too. Krupinsky, the Yugoslav, and I sat on the stairs and were joined by François Daniel and that schlemiel Treponesco. The Chief paced back and forth between the two groups and listened.
“What we need to think about at this very moment,” said Treponesco, “is how we are going to eat for the next year.”