At last, I found one, but the door was blocked by a still-smouldering beam and piles of rubble. I hurriedly cleared away the debris, but the beam was heavy and took a huge effort to finally shift it half a metre to enable me to open the cellar door. When I did so I was assailed by a putrid stench that made my eyes water. I coughed so violently that I almost vomited. I risked a quick flash of my torch and found that the stairway down into the cellar was blocked by three bodies. They must have been trapped in there by the falling beam and died of thirst and hunger. Judging by the stench, they were in a fairly advanced stage of decomposition. I adjusted my neckerchief so it covered my mouth and nose and set about hoisting the bodies off the stairs and out onto the ground floor. Pushing them further down into the cellar wasn’t an option. I wouldn’t be able to put up with that stench for any length of time.
I laid them out across the threshold of the main entrance to the apartment in the hope that it might deter people from coming in. The bodies belonged to an oldish man and woman and a younger woman, perhaps a daughter or daughter-in-law. Seeing the man in his old blue suit gave me an idea: it would provide a good disguise. I took off his shoes, jacket and trousers, but when I came to remove his shirt, I found it impossible. The shirt and his flesh had rotted together to form a congealed mess. Even if I could get it off, it would be impossible to wear. I urgently needed a shirt. The stairs leading to the first floor were in a precarious state—the banister had fallen away, and several steps were crushed and broken by falling masonry. Near the top, the stairs had parted company with the wall, so that as I started to climb, the whole structure moved alarmingly. By scrambling over the broken areas and clinging to the landing when I was high enough, I finally made it onto the first floor.
The first room I entered had lost most of the rear wall, the floor sloped slightly and some of the furniture was tottering on the edge. A dressing table stood against one of the remaining walls, covered in dust and rubble, partly buried amongst which was a picture, the glass broken. It was the picture of a young man in the uniform of the Waffen SS. I imagined it would be the young woman’s husband. I hoped he had been killed in Russia—better that than having to come home to this nightmare.
I tried the next room. Judging by the clothing hanging in a still-intact wardrobe, this belonged to the old couple. I was drawn to a chest of drawers. The first two drawers were full of women’s clothing, but the third contained men’s, including several shirts, all clean and beautifully pressed.
I grabbed one of the shirts and gingerly made my way back down the staircase. The sun was just coming up, so I hastily changed clothing and hid my uniform under a pile of rubble, retaining my belt with weapons and water bottles. Everything was a little too small for me, but it would do. I wedged the door of the cellar open with a piece of wood, leaving a gap through which I could just about enter, then piled rubble up against the outside so that when I closed it, it would fall against the door giving, I hoped, the impression that it had not been opened recently.
I wriggled through the gap then pulled the wooden wedge away, allowing the door to slam shut. I heard the reassuring rumble and clatter of the rubble pile as it fell against the closed door. I just hoped I would be able to open it when the time came.
I stayed in the cellar the whole of the next day, listening to the blast of artillery shells, the rattle of machine gun fire and the whine of ‘Stalin’s Organs’, as we called the Soviet rocket launchers. I confess to having a few moments of guilt. Berlin, my beloved Berlin, was dying—and there I was, hiding in a cellar. I knew that there was a Fallschirmjäger group to the north of the city, but it would have been impossible to reach them. It would have meant passing through, or very close to, the main battle area of the chancellery and Reichstag and then having to cross the River Spree. In other words, it would have been tantamount to committing suicide, and I wasn’t ready to do that just yet.
That night, the sound of fighting seemed remarkably close to my position. It was probably the final push to the centre from the south. It would not be a good idea to leave my bunker at that time, with Soviet troops all around me. I still had enough water and food to last me another day, so I decided to sit tight. The following morning—that would have been 2 May—it suddenly went remarkably quiet; in fact, the silence became deafening. I knew what had happened. General Weidling had surrendered to the Soviet Generals. The battle for Berlin was over. I don’t think I have ever felt as low as I did at that moment.
I calculated that that very night would be a good time to get out and push on. I imagined that the Soviet soldiers would be celebrating and therefore patrols would be fewer and perhaps not fully committed. I listened at the cellar door for some time before I finally gave it a push and was able to clear a space large enough to crawl through. Before leaving the house, I did a thorough search of the hallway and found what I was looking for. An overcoat. Dusting it off, I tried it on. It was a little tight, but leaving it open I found it looked alright and covered up some of the inadequacies of the suit. I also found a walking stick, which was an added bonus. Then I had an idea. Pulling the shirt out of the trousers, I sliced off the tail with my trench knife and rolled it up so I had a piece of fabric about two centimetres wide and fifty long. I then cut the heel of the thumb on my right hand and allowed the blood to flow onto my new improvised bandage. When I had a substantial amount, I wrapped it around my head with the bloodstain just above the left eye. I now felt I had a fairly convincing disguise.
I stepped out of the house and immediately stepped back in. It was dusk but not yet dark enough to become invisible. I felt hopelessly vulnerable, scared to venture out and afraid to remain in the building. Even an old man wandering around in the dark would inevitably invite suspicion from any Soviet patrol. I felt trapped, very alone, and inadequate for the task I had set myself. I wasn’t in Berlin anymore. I was deep inside Soviet Russia. I wondered despairingly if I would ever see my dear wife and son again.
I waited until darkness came, then, steeling myself, ventured out again. Moving incredibly slowly and with great care, I made my way along what I assumed was Zimmerstrasse, dodging from building to building then stopping and listening. A number of lights reflected in the overcast sky. They may have been the bonfires of celebrating Russian soldiers or simply burning buildings. I had no way of knowing which, but I suspected the former as I could hear singing coming from the direction of two of them. One sounded a long distance away, multiple voices in harmony singing a marching song. The other seemed near, as if it might be in the next street. A single voice, singing a lament with deep feeling, sad and depressing, perhaps mourning lost comrades. It wasn’t until some months later that the horrendous cost, in Russian lives, for the capture of Berlin was known.
The singer sounded too close! I ducked into the next building to rest and think. My nerves were seriously on edge. I simply couldn’t go on like this. I decided to rest for the night and rethink my strategy in the morning.
I dozed fitfully for several hours before falling into a deeper sleep. Suddenly a noise awoke me, and I sprang to my feet in the ‘ready’ position. To my utter horror and dismay, standing facing me, with mouth open and eyes wide, was a Russian soldier.
A Gift from God
It was barely dawn. I had been lying in a corner of the room away from the door, and hence in darkness, so he hadn’t been aware of my presence until I suddenly sprang up in front of him. I don’t know which of us was more surprised.
I was minded to jump him to try to prevent him from calling out, but I hesitated, as to my surprise he didn’t seem inclined to make any noise. The reason quickly dawned on me: he was looting and probably disobeying a direct order. He dropped the items he was cradling in his arms—I noticed a camera and several watches—and slowly started to move his right arm behind his back. I knew exactly what he was about to do, and I was way ahead of him. By the time he started to unsheathe his knife, my trench knife was in my hand pointing at his chest. It wasn’t just surprise in hi
s eyes … now there was fear.
The soldier started, slowly, to circle towards the door. I moved my position to cut him off. He stopped and started to move the other way, further into the room. It looked as though he was preparing himself to fight it out. Whilst he was scrambling about on loose rubble, I had kicked away the debris under my feet and now had them planted firmly and securely on solid ground. I simply turned my body slightly each time he moved so I was always facing him square on.
He started shifting his knife from one hand to the other. I almost laughed. Novice, I thought, he’s been watching too many cowboy films. I felt utterly confident now. The hours I had practised knife combat with my Fallschirmjäger comrades, under a brutal instructor, had been time well spent. This was not the first time in my career that I had found myself in this position.
With an oath, he lunged forward, slipping and sliding on the rubble as he did so. Twisting sideways, I eluded the thrust and kicked out at his knife hand, sending the weapon spiralling into the debris behind. My left hand shot up to his face and clamped over his mouth as I thrust hard with my own knife, driving it deep into his stomach.
Whilst not instantly fatal, such a wound is invariably an incapacitator, and gives you time to aim the next thrust more accurately. He flew backwards, arms flailing, eyes wide in terror. Momentarily I had lost my grip on his mouth, but I followed up quickly, clamping it closed again. Dying men often scream.
This time I picked my spot, my knife penetrating to the hilt into the left side of his chest. His lids flickered briefly, while the light in his eyes faded and finally went out.
I moved the body to the corner of the room and covered it as best I could with debris. I wanted to be well away from this area before it was discovered. I was tempted to take his knife and water bottle, but thought better of it. To be found with Russian military equipment would be an instant firing squad, or worse!
As I leaned against the wall to catch my breath, I heard the unmistakable sound of women talking close by. Keeping close to the wall I edged towards what had once been a window, now just a frameless hole in the brickwork. Easing slightly away from the wall, I could just make out three women standing talking in a group. An old man walked by, exchanging greetings with them as he went, and another woman pulling a small four-wheeled cart passed by, nodding to the women as she did so.
I flattened myself against the wall again as I tried to internalise what I had seen. But of course, the war was over. Life goes on. People have to get on with what they must do. The Russians would want things to normalise as quickly as possible. They would want people to get on with their lives, turn up at their place of work, if they had one. The more people who were occupied, the less problem they would be for the Soviet authorities.
I relaxed. I could now walk out in broad daylight, an old man hobbling along, minding his own business. It would seem entirely natural.
However, it was still with some trepidation that I shuffled out onto the pavement, raising my stick and calling a greeting to the women, far enough away to prevent them seeing me up close. They acknowledged me and one woman called over. “Good day, Opa. If you wait here, the Russians will be bringing a mobile bakery soon. You can get some fresh bread.”
“I have to get on,” I called and moved away with a wave of my stick. That display of optimism on the part of the lady I had briefly spoken to was the last I saw or heard as I shuffled my way down Zimmerstrasse. Everyone else I saw looked downcast, weary and unhappy. Berlin was now an open grave, with many of the corpses still animated. Unless I could contrive to survive in this living nightmare, I too would become one of the victims.
I paused when I reached a school and looked towards the crossing at Friedrich Strasse. The junction of Zimmerstrasse and Friedrich Strasse was a main intersection and would, in all likelihood, have a Soviet soldier on point duty. Turning back would bring me into the proximity of the dead soldier. Not a healthy option. Just standing there would make me conspicuous, and conspicuous people invite curiosity. I didn’t want anyone to become curious. I had to move on. There seemed to be people milling around at the junction. That would be helpful, it might allow me to become invisible. I just hoped it wasn’t a security incident.
In the event, it turned out to be a Soviet mobile bakery, with people jostling each other to reach the front. I mixed in and allowed myself to drift gradually to the back of the crowd. Once at the rear, it was a short distance to the other side of the road. I had a quick look around. No sign of any soldiers, so I took my chance and shuffled across, continuing down Zimmerstrasse, crossing Charlottenstrasse by the post office and turning right down the next road, Markgraffenstrasse, bearing left almost immediately. Originally, I was minded to continue walking to the end of Zimmerstrasse, but that would have brought me into an administrative area which included the tax office and Reich stationery office, and I wasn’t sure what sort of Soviet presence they would have required. Probably none, but I wasn’t prepared to take that chance. Instead, I determined to circle the area to the south and then travel north-east towards the old Lusisenstadtische church on Alte Jacobstrasse.
As I turned into Junkerstrasse, I was dismayed to see a group of four Russian soldiers moving towards me on the opposite side of the road. They seemed light-hearted and in good spirits, laughing and gesticulating. As they drew opposite me, I stopped and turned towards them, bowing deeply several times.
“Willkommen, Kameraden, willkommen!” I called. They were laughing and pointing at me. One of the soldiers dug into a side pouch and produced a half loaf of bread, which he threw across the road to me. I made a great display of being the bungling old man as I caught it, shouting my thanks across at him, “Danke, Kamerad! Vielen Dank!” before shuffling off down the road and breathing a sigh of relief.
As soon as it was safe to do so, I ducked into one of the ruins and, perching myself on the remains of a wall, devoured the loaf. It was the first food I’d had in two days. At that moment I felt intensely grateful to my Soviet benefactor. At least it appeared as if there was a hint of humanitarian feeling among some of the invaders. I wondered what he would have thought if he’d known that he had provided much-needed sustenance to a Fallschirmjäger sergeant major. I didn’t dwell on that.
I was now extremely weary. The stooped pose and shuffling gait I had adopted were taking their toll. My knees were sore and my back ached continuously. It was early afternoon and I decided to try to get to the old church and perhaps spend the night there. I was deeply saddened when I had my first sight of it. It was a ruin, totally bombed out. The cemetery was a scene from Dante’s Inferno. Some of the graves had been blown open, coffins and bones lay scattered about. It was reassuring to see that some attempts had been made to re-inter some of the bodies, but it was still a mess. Out of the corner of my eye I noted two Russian officers standing at the edge of the cemetery, overlooking the devastation. They didn’t appear to be interested in me, but to be sure, I walked across to one of the undamaged graves that looked fairly fresh and dropped down on my knees, put my hands together and pretended to pray. They moved away after a few minutes.
Then a moment of inspiration. The crypt, I could rest in the crypt!
As I started to circle the ruins to find the crypt, the sound of voices, including children’s, drew me to a doorway down a flight of concrete steps. I popped my head through the door. The stench of unwashed humanity knocked me backwards. There must have been four or five families here, mainly women and children, and a few old men.
“You can’t come in here—there’s no room. Find somewhere else!” shrieked one of the women, frantically waving me away.
I climbed back up the steps. There was no point in trying to force the issue. The stench from my clothing alone would have been grounds for them to exclude me. The smell had abated somewhat—either that or I had become used to it—but it was still unpleasant. In any case, despite my four days’ growth of beard, I still wasn’t confident about my disguise.
I now needed
water. In spite of my weariness, I decided to push on to St Michael’s church. It was only about a kilometre due east, which was pretty much the direction I needed to be taking anyway. If it was intact, I felt sure the priest would be able to supply me with water. The area I walked, or rather hobbled through, had been severely damaged in the air raids and I knew in my heart of hearts what I would find when I arrived there.
Certainly, it had been bombed, but it wasn’t as badly damaged as I had feared. Significant parts of the church were still upright and afforded good shelter and, blessing upon blessing, the baptismal font was still half full of water—dirty, dusty and stale water, but it tasted like the finest wine. It was, quite literally, a gift from God.
Gretel
I eased myself out of my improvised cot comprising two pews pushed side to side, with a mattress of knee hassocks. It had proven to be an excellent bed, and I had slept soundly. As I stood and took in my surroundings, I started to shiver and reached for my overcoat, which I had used as a blanket. Berlin mornings can be quite chilly, even in May. A light drizzle had started falling, which had contributed to the feeling of cold, and although I had been undercover, my clothes felt damp. Fishing my Luftwaffe watch from my trouser pocket—I didn’t dare wear it on my wrist—I checked the time. Just after six. I had slept for over ten hours! I moved across to the font which, being in the open, had started to fill with rainwater … icy cold, fresh, delicious rainwater.
Shadow Of Evil: Cold War Espionage Thriller (Dragan Kelly Book 2) Page 8