“How amazing it’s going to be when all the destruction is cleared and we have buildings and streets again,” Lotte said as Marlene pictured the scene.
“It’ll be many years before this happens,” she said, wearily. “Some days I can’t envision any more how a real city with real buildings looks like.”
“You certainly need a break.” The short moment of gloom had passed, and Lotte was as upbeat as usual. “Let’s go somewhere nice.”
“Somewhere nice? Like where?” Marlene suddenly felt the burden of the entire world resting on her shoulders, wondering whether she could ever feel happy again. It was very much unlike her, and she began to worry that something was messing with her head.
“Yes. Let’s go to the lake,” Lotte jumped up as if she was sitting on a swarm of bumblebees. “I know a place where we can swim.”
“Swim? But…I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“You don’t need one, we’ll stay in our knickers,” Lotte giggled.
The suggestion was so outrageous Marlene felt herself blushing furiously. But Lotte seemed not to notice and insisted, “Let’s go.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now. Wasn’t this our last day of school and don’t we have the entire afternoon off? And isn’t the sun shining like crazy, personally urging us to go have a swim?” Lotte wouldn’t be deterred. Once this girl had made up her mind, she was harder to derail than a tank moving at full speed.
They took the bus to the huge Wannsee lake and just like Lotte had promised they found a secluded spot devoid of any other people. Lotte stripped down to her knickers and camisole and jumped right into the water, but Marlene couldn’t bring herself to do the same. She took off only her shoes and socks, gathered her skirt and cooled down her legs up to the knees in the refreshing water.
Later, they lazed in the sun, doing absolutely nothing at all for the first time in months. Exhausted from months of sleep deprivation, Marlene dozed off until she felt Lotte’s arm on her shoulder. “Hey sleepyhead, we need to return home.”
“Have I slept the entire afternoon?” Marlene asked, stupefied.
“Yes, you did. But don’t worry. I read a book during that time.” Lotte showed her a worn-out book with a plain brown protective cover and the label that identified it as a university library book.
“You’ve been reading a law book?” Marlene propped herself up on her elbows, giving her friend an incredulous look.
“Of course not,” Lotte giggled. “I’m not that ambitious. I found it in the German literature section, it’s called Aufstand der Fischer von Santa Barbara by …“
“Anna Segher,” Marlene completed her sentence.
“How do you know? Have you read it?”
“Yes. It’s really good. Werner Böhm gave it to me.” The words had stumbled out of her mouth, before she even thought about it.
“Herr Böhm? Seriously?” Lotte pursed her lips.
Marlene felt the blood rushing to her cheeks and cursed her habit to flush so easily. It didn’t matter what she said next, or whether she said anything at all, since Lotte for sure had already drawn her own conclusions.
“So, what’s with you and him?” Lotte asked.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” came the sharp reply.
“U-hu, I know infatuation when I see it. And he’s clearly smitten by you, in case you haven’t noticed.” Lotte stated the obvious.
“That’s his problem, not mine,” Marlene insisted while her friend laughed, not willing to let go of the topic yet.
“So, the dreamy gaze in your eyes every time he passes by, doesn’t mean anything?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“But why? He seems nice enough, besides being so handsome,” Lotte probed. “What gives?”
“I’m not into communists,” Marlene explained. “We have suffered enough with one dictatorial regime, we don’t need more of the same. If the Russians have their way it will be back to terror all around. Have you heard about the vicious things they do to our prisoners of war?”
“I know all too well, my boyfriend is one of them,” Lotte said with the saddest expression Marlene had ever seen on her face.
She wrapped her arms around her face and murmured, “I’m so sorry, Lotte. But you’ll see, he’ll soon come home. The war’s been over for more than a year and the allies are releasing more prisoners every day.”
Chapter 20
Dean was in his office with his deputy Jason Gardner and glared in disbelief at the report in front of them. The Russians had set the wheels of villainy in motion and the bribes, tricks, threats and other shenanigans they used to rig the elections in their favor made every other crooked politician the world had seen look like a monk.
He’d patiently weathered the spiteful abuse the Soviets had showered on him personally and the Western Allies in general every single day since the decision to hold city council elections, but their latest disinformation campaign filled with lies, phony promises and intimations was simply too much.
“Jason, we need to have our own voice,” Dean said.
“You know, the Russians won’t give us airtime on the Berlin Radio,” Jason said.
Dean knew that his deputy had run from pillar to post in his efforts to convince the Russians to put the Berlin Radio under quadripartite administration or at least give the other powers airtime.
The Soviet Military Administration hedged, stalled, and prevaricated until they outright refused, which was even more annoying, because the Haus des Rundfunks , the radio headquarters was located in the Masurenalle, deep in the British sector, while the transmitters stood in Tegel, in the French sector. And still the miserable Russian thugs claimed the radio station for themselves and controlled access to airtime.
He slammed his fist on the desk. “I’m not taking their shit any longer. I want my own radio station.”
Jason looked up in stunned surprise, but quickly composed himself again. “It’s not that easy. You know that we don’t have a broadcasting tower and can only distribute our Drahtfunk in the American sector program by telephone line.”
“I don’t care. Get me Captain Barley right now.”
Twenty minutes later Jason returned with the Army engineer, whose fame for being a gifted inventor, fiddler and often a savior in cases of need preceded him. He was smallish and thin, gaunt even, and his graying hair sometimes deluded people into underestimating him, but given as much as a piece of wire he could fix basically any technical problem.
“Colonel Harris, you wanted to see me?” Captain Barley greeted Dean.
“Yes, Captain. I need a broadcasting tower.”
Barley’s eyes widened and he apparently didn’t know what to reply to such an unusual request. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not sure I understand correctly.”
“Let me put it this way: The Soviets are making my life miserable spewing their spiteful propaganda over the Berlin Radio. What is worse, the democratic parties are in danger of losing the elections if we cannot provide the German people with objective facts countering the Russian lies and intimidations. Therefore, I want my own radio station.”
“By when do you need to go on air?” Captain Barley asked.
Dean almost let out a chuckle. That’s what he liked about the engineer. He never said it was impossible, but instead accepted the challenge. “Well before the elections.”
Election day was a mere seven weeks away and by all normal standards what Dean was asking, was simply impossible. Barley rubbed his chin, deeply in thought and didn’t answer for a long while.
“A broadcasting tower is impossible on such short notice,” he finally said. “But I have another idea. It’s not ideal, because the power is only eight hundred watts, but you can have it by the end of the week.”
Dean all but jumped up from his seat, giddy to know more about the wonder apparatus Barley was offering. “Sounds like a plan. What are you thinking about?”
Now Barley was in his element and explained about mobile
units with a terrestrial mid-wave transmitter, a wire stretched between two wooden poles for an antenna, and a myriad of other technical details Dean didn’t have the patience to listen to.
“Prioritize this task over anything else and report back to me the moment you’re done,” he interrupted the engineer who was positively glowing with enthusiasm.
When Barley had left the room Dean said, “Jason, tell the DIAS staff that they’re about to go on air.”
“Shouldn’t we think of a new name, too?” Jason asked. “ Drahtfunk doesn’t describe it, since we won’t be transmitting over phone wires anymore.”
“You’re right. Tell everyone we have a new sender, Radio in the American Sector, short RIAS Berlin.”
By the end of the week Captain Barley returned and asked Dean to accompany him for a test drive of the new transmitter. And on September 4 Dean personally opened the first program with the words, “Here is RIAS Berlin, the radio in the American sector. You hear us on medium wave 611 kHz.” And he ended his short speech with the words, “RIAS Berlin – a free voice in a free world!”
Operation Backtalk had started and now RIAS Berlin broadcasted every day debunking the lies and myths the Russians spewed, but Dean still couldn’t be sure the Russians wouldn’t get their way. Thus, he made one last effort to keep the Russians from stealing the first free elections in Berlin and put the point of mutual supervision of the polling stations on election day on the agenda.
General Sokolov was not amused and spun a long speech about the virtues of democracy and how the Americans tried to subdue the working people.
“I’m sick and tired of your prevarication. Not a single issue in the Kommandatura can be agreed upon without lengthy, unnecessary and outright stupid discussions,” Dean accused General Sokolov.
“Nothing’s perfect but Comrade Stalin is highly supportive of the first free and fair democratic election process for the people of Berlin. Only thanks to our liberation—“
“If your Comrade Stalin is so fond of free elections, then you’ll have no problem of quadripartite oversight,” Dean cut the general short. “Or would you rather go against Stalin’s wishes?”
Sokolov gritted his teeth and agreed, while Dean felt a surge of elation course through his veins. It was not often that he could wrangle even the tiniest concession from the general.
It was a small victory, albeit an important one.
On election day military jeeps with representatives from each of the four allied powers patrolled Berlin, making regular rounds of the polling stations to see that no irregularities occurred.
Dean was in a jeep with Captain Orlovski, Major Bouchard and General Wilson. All of Berlin were on its feet going to the polling stations and the voter turnout exceeded Dean’s wildest expectations.
It seemed the citizens understood that the result of the vote would have profound implications for their future. Though tensions across the city had been steadily building, people arrived early and queued patiently for their turn to cast their ballot. Sometimes a scuffle broke out, but unarmed German police quickly solved the issues, and if not, they called the Allied military police to take care of extraordinarily stubborn troublemakers. All in all, it was a peaceful affair.
Suddenly, a group of boisterous campaigners blocked the road as they walked across, shouting slogans and waving their party flags in front of the jeep.
“Look at them!” Orlovski remarked. “It’s the same everywhere in this city. Happy people who are delighted with this move toward progress. This is true democracy.”
Dean shot a look at the Russian, who’d been, together with Werner Böhm, the mastermind behind the deliberate disinformation campaign and the more sinister events that had happened during the lead-up to this day.
“Two leading Social Democrats were abducted a week ago by the Markgraf police,” Dean said in a cold voice. “This is not an isolated incident as other party members have been paid a visit by your thugs and were only released when they resigned from their posts.”
“The Soviet Military Administration cannot be made responsible for the vicious acts of individual members of the German police,” Orlovski said, despite the fact that everyone in Berlin knew quite well that the chief of police Paul Markgraf was a Soviet puppet. “Do you have any indication of the culprits’ identities?”
“Yes, we do have information on the perpetrators and are following up our leads,” Dean replied guardedly.
“Withholding such information from the SMAD is against the Yalta agreement of quadripartite ruling,” Orlovski snapped.
Dean had the greatest desire to laugh out loud. Orlovski could not actually believe the bullshit he was spouting. The Soviets withheld information from their allies on a daily basis.
“We’ll let you know the results of our surveillance,” Dean said with a smug grin. “Who knows what trash we’ll discover in our dragnet.”
Orlovski shrugged haughtily, not deigning to reply.
“I hope that after the elections, the communists will give up their stranglehold on Berlin and accept the will of the people,” Harris said quietly to Wilson. “I’m fed up with their antics.”
“We can only hope, old chap, but I fear they are never going to relinquish their power if they can help it,” Wilson replied.
At eight p.m. the polling stations closed and the tedious task of getting the paper ballots to the city hall and counting them began. Time progressed and the ballot boxes from Köpenick, a stronghold of the social democrats, still hadn’t arrived.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asked one of the members of the organizing committee.
The German man stepped uncomfortably from one foot to the other. His eyes cast downward he said, “I’m sorry, Herr Kommandant, it’s…it was decided not to count them.”
“Who has made this decision?” Dean’s patience hung on a thin thread and his voice was sharp enough to let the other man shrink back.
“The…the…order came from the Russians. I’m sorry, but they told me—”
“I’ll have a word with them,” Dean interrupted the man and left, looking for Captain Orlovski. He didn’t find him, but Werner Böhm was standing there together with his boss Norbert Gentner. The two Soviet stooges would have to do.
“Herr Gentner, a word please?”
The secretary general of the SED turned around, excruciatingly slowly, his face clearly showing that he wished not to talk to Dean. But Dean couldn’t care less.
“You ordered to exclude the Köpenick ballots from this election?” He attacked the man he loathed almost as much as General Sokolov.
“Herr Kommandant, the Soviet Union and the SED have an utmost interest in free and fair elections. It is a direct affront to our good relations that you would accuse us of such a thing,” Gentner said in German, which Dean had only rudimentary knowledge of.
Dean looked around for his translator, but couldn’t find him. Since he knew that Böhm was fluent in English, had even studied the language at the Moscow Institute of Foreign Languages, he nodded at him and said, “Herr Böhm, would you please explain to your superior that every vote will be counted in this election.”
Böhm glanced at Gentner and only after the barely visible nod of the other man, he opened his mouth. “Herr Kommandant, we completely agree with your opinion, but since all bridges connecting this borough with the rest of Berlin are damaged, it’s simply impossible to get the paper ballots into the city hall. Since Köpenick is located in the Soviet sector, General Sokolov has decided that we would rather withhold a few hundred votes than risk delaying the entire election. That should be in the American best interest as well, or not?”
Dean glowered at the two SED functionaries. It was more like ten thousand votes and he knew as well as the Soviets that most of them wouldn’t go to the SED. The Köpenick borough was separated from the rest of Berlin by a barrier of two rivers and a lake, so it had witnessed firsthand what it meant to belong to the Soviet occupied zone. “What about counting the ballots ov
er there and phoning in the results?”
A smug grin played across Böhm’s lips. “This possibility was the first solution considered, but much to our chagrin, all the telephone lines aren’t working either. You must agree that there’s nothing that can be done.”
“I don’t agree, and I’ll personally bring the ballots over here if I must.” Dean’s tone of voice belied the insecurity he felt. How on earth should he make good on his promise, if the only way was crossing through the Soviet zone surrounding Berlin. He still remembered quite well the trip-from-hell with his reconnaissance unit last year.
He left Gentner and Böhm standing and went in search of his deputy. “Get me Captain Barley. Now.”
Jason knew Dean well enough not to ask questions and immediately went to find a phone. Twenty minutes later Barley arrived in a military jeep.
“Colonel Harris, you wanted to see me?” Barley asked.
Dean related the situation in a few short sentences, closing with, “I need to get those ballots over here before midnight.”
Barley widened his eyes. “Sir, that’s in two and a half hours from now. We won’t be able to construct a mobile bridge across the river in such a short time, even if the Soviets allowed us…it’s their sector, after all.”
“Then find another solution and do it fast.” Dean stared pointedly at the engineer, who cocked his head and worried his lower lip, completely ignoring his superior for a few long minutes.
“I think I know,” Barley finally said. “We’ll swim them across.”
“What?” Dean couldn’t believe his own ears. It was late October and the weather had become quite chilly. The water temperature would be around fifty degrees Fahrenheit.
“Yes. We use the narrow part at Schlossinsel, that’s probably less than fifty yards. A good swimmer should have no problem getting across, strapping the ballots sealed in watertight plastic bags to his back and returning to the other side. There we’ll have a jeep waiting and bring the ballots to the city hall for counting.”
From the Ashes Page 12