In the middle of the Ardennes, a brave farmer’s wife is the harbinger of approaching peace. On Christmas Eve, she positions herself between the troops and coaxes both sides to lay down their arms and forget the war for a few hours. Singing German and English Christmas songs, the soldiers celebrate together late into the night.
*
The Führer returns to Berlin. He is bitterly disappointed by the German men on the Front. They were too weak. Lacking in iron will. Towards the end of his days, it dawns on the Führer that the fault lies with the German people; they didn’t prove themselves to be worthy.
He moves one last time, now into the bunkered Führer apartment in the cellar of the Reich Chancellery. He suspects that this will be his final destination.
The apartment is small, and not just by the standards of the greatest Führer of all time; even an allotment gardener would feel cramped in here. The room for the situation briefings – which admittedly an allotment gardener wouldn’t need – measures exactly twelve square metres. The walls are damp because the bunker lies beneath ground-water level. A mass of pumps siphon off the rivulets. Glaring bulbs provide the only light. Thick iron doors seal the air. It is stuffy, and it stinks.
There sits the commander, not knowing where to direct his rage. Constanze Manziarly, the dietary chef, serves him his beloved muesli.
“What is this?” he barks at her. “I can’t stand to see this gruel anymore!”
“But think about your gut,” pleads the cook, bursting into tears.
And so what? Warsaw is gone. Aachen too. Auschwitz has been liberated. Vienna is teetering on the brink. What does flatulence matter now?
Albert Speer, the Minister of Armaments, comes to visit and finds a broken man before him.
“If we lose the war,” says the Führer, “then the people will be lost too. The German people have proved to be the weaker.”
“Now come on, don’t give up on our noble soil just yet,” advises Speer.
“The soil?” rages the Führer. “Oh no. There won’t be any soil left either.”
“Why not?” asks Speer.
“Because,” bellows the Führer with the last of his strength, for he has asthma now too, “because I am giving the order: Burn the land! Destroy everything! The enemy will end up wondering what kind of land they have conquered. A barren, worthless land.”
“And the German people?” stammers Speer.
“—should be given no more consideration!” orders the Führer. “They will survive in the most primitive of ways. That is their fate.”
Speer leaves the cellar, shaking his head.
He is not the only stalwart to turn his back on the Führer at this time. Heinrich Himmler has, on his own initiative, made contact with Dwight D. Eisenhower, the Commander-in-Chief of the Allied Forces in Europe. He offers unconditional surrender, just like that, as though Adolf Hitler doesn’t even have a say in it anymore. Eisenhower, a man of shrewd mind, passes on the message to the press, and the Führer finds out about it. Outraged, he immediately expels Himmler from all his posts.
Hermann Göring has retreated to the mountainside retreat of Obersalzberg. In the shadow of the Berghof, he composes a telegram to the Führer in which he boldly proclaims himself as successor, with all powers, unless the message arrives by 10 PM that the Führer is prepared to leave Berlin. The message doesn’t arrive, but at around the hour in question, Göring is arrested.
Only Goebbels and Bormann stay loyal to the Führer. They are now living alongside him in the cramped bunker apartment. Goebbels has brought his family along as reinforcements: his wife Magda and their six children.
The children are supposed to cheer up “Uncle Adolf”. An absurd plan, particularly when it leads to them filling his bathtub up with water and crashing around in it noisily. In all likelihood, this probably contributed to his suicidal thoughts.
Since the end of March, Eva Braun has been living in the subterranean community too. She has always dreamt of being the official wife of the Führer, but unfortunately he has always been married to Germany.
And right in the thick of all this is the dog.
“Hansi,” calls the Führer, when he sits there in the armchair at night, alone, brooding to himself. Who else is willing to lend him their ear so patiently? In the glow of the light bulb, the Field Commander reminisces on his greatest triumphs, describing the front lines of years gone by, wallowing in the memories. Sometimes he cries uncontrollably.
The doggy has sympathy for the sick, old man whose world is falling apart. Sirius hates Hansi for this, and Hercules in turn would love to pounce up at the old man’s throat and get revenge for Levi. Are they not all one and the same dog? The dog will have to be careful, otherwise he might lose his mind.
And he’s not the only one.
But that’s how it is right now, in this bunker. It’s hard to tell who will lose their mind first, or even whether the person in question was ever in their right mind in the first place.
Like Dr. Goebbels, for example. When the bombs hail down on the ground, which in the bunker is essentially the ceiling, he calls his wife and children to him, and then they sing in unison at the top of their voices:
“The blue dragoons, with beating drums,
through the gates they come.
The fanfare is their guide,
As high up the hillside they ride.”
In reality, though, it’s not quite like that. Two million Red Army soldiers are before the gates of Berlin, the army of tanks already rolling in. The sky is black with fighter planes, and their bombs are transforming the city into a field of rubble. Berlin is sinking into ruins and ashes.
*
One evening in April, master and dog are sat faithfully together when the Führer says solemnly:
“Hansi, the time has come. We are to marry.”
The dog gives a start. What? Now the Führer wants to marry him too? Just what he needs!
“Be my best man,” asks the Führer, his voice trembling with emotion.
Hansi nods, relieved.
Shortly after midnight, municipal officer Walter Wagner appears, the registrar. Eva Braun is wearing a pretty dark blue dress with a white ruched collar. The Führer appears in a grey suit. Together with the two witnesses, Goebbels and Hansi, the couple stride towards their marriage ceremony.
The groom is a widower. His first wife was called Germany. Now he is daring to venture into married life once more.
So now there is also a widower who lives twice. Should Sirius give a warning growl? He restrains himself from doing so.
The ceremony is short and succinct. Tyrone Chester, the King of Heartstring Pulling, would have made more of it, no question.
The following day, the newlywed Hitlers host a lunch, for which the dietary chef and both secretaries are warmly invited to join them at the table. They have leek soup.
The conversation is drowned out again and again by artillery fire, which they can hear through the air shafts. The Russians are already hoisting the Soviet flag on the Reichstag, and they could storm the bunker any minute now.
Herr and Frau Hitler do the rounds one last time, proffering a handshake to every single person in farewell, accompanied by a few personal words.
The goodbye with his doggy proves to be the hardest for Hitler. “What will become of you when I’m no longer here?” he asks in concern.
The dog has no idea. His entire life has always hung on a thread, and that thread was always connected to this man.
What Levi was, what Sirius is, what Hansi became – all of it was just a consequence, an escape, an act of providence.
He doesn’t know what will be left of him when Hitler is no longer there.
The master and dog take their farewell. Their fates were always intertwined in mythical ways, and in the end their paths even crossed in reality.
The Hitlers withdraw to the living room. Ajdutant Heinzel closes the door with the words: “They don’t want to be disturbed now.”
Then a gunshot is heard. And if the Red Army weren’t being so loud, maybe the biting of the cyanide capsule would be audible too.
That was the end.
*
And the beginning. The zero hour.
On 8 May, all of London cheers Winston Churchill as he appears on the balcony of Buckingham Palace with the royal family and stretches his hand out into the victory sign. In Paris, the bells of all the cathedrals toll. “The war is won!” cries General de Gaulle at the Arc de Triomphe, and the people break out into a delirium of joy. In Moscow, Stalin congratulates his people: “From now on, the great banner of freedom and peace will wave over Europe!” In New York, a replica of the Statue of Liberty stands in Times Square, almost to scale, surrounded by the thunderous applause of the crowd.
And in Berlin?
A ghostly silence lies over the city as Sirius steps back onto the street for the first time. It is so quiet that he gives a start when a drop of water frees itself and falls onto a corrugated iron sheet.
Entire sections of the city have been burnt down to their foundations. Here and there, a building’s skeleton protrudes out of the field of rubble with an almost helpless air, as if it were wondering why it still exists.
In the middle of the street, a man leans over a dead horse. He is in the process of cutting it up for food. The animal is still steaming. With his bare hands, the man throws everything edible into a wheelbarrow, looking around repeatedly to make sure there is no one around with whom he would have to share his precious loot.
Sirius can still hear the creaking of the wheelbarrow even once he has reached the next crossing. Is he himself precious loot? The thought sends a shiver down his back. It is probably better to avoid humans under the present circumstances. Hunger is unscrupulous.
He finds it difficult to orientate himself in the rocky wasteland. In many parts, the streets are no longer recognizable. Piles of rubble stand in his path, higher than the ruins which were once houses. Sometimes, voices can be heard in the ruins. The people are hiding, through fear of the Russians.
Sirius walks through the Brandenburg Gate, which is still standing. Only one column has been shot to pieces.
Red Army tanks are posted on both sides of the gate. One of the guard soldiers opens his trouser fly demonstratively to relieve himself on the historic landmark. The others cheer him on. A bottle of vodka is passed around, not the first.
Sirius walks on, straight down the Charlottenburg Chaussee. Where is he going? Even he doesn’t really know. Where one wants to go is often a puzzle anyway, and every once in a while the mystery is solved once one arrives there. Or not. Isn’t that how it is?
A small dog in a big city, where not a single stone has been left standing. He stomps bravely through the debris. Street signs that could help point the way no longer exist. No church tower, no Kaufhaus des Westens, no kiosk. Everything is just a great emptiness, and the wind whistles through it.
Maybe he has even been walking down a familiar street for a while now, but how would he know? Where there are no more houses, the streets disappear too. Where there is no more life, the world becomes grey and uniform. One ruin looks just like the next.
Isn’t that Frau Zinke?
A woman is sweeping the street. There is no one else to be seen far and wide, just rubble and ashes.
She drops the broom, dumbfounded, as she catches sight of the dog.
“Now isn’t this a surprise!” she says. Her brow wrinkles, clearly she is thinking hard. “Sirius! Isn’t that right?”
Sirius gives a start.
“Your name has changed so often,” she grumbles, “it’s very confusing you know.”
She carries on sweeping. “Things have to be kept in order,” she says.
Sirius looks around. So this is Klamtstrasse. This used to be his home. Parts of the house in which he used to live are still standing. The façade has collapsed, otherwise he would have recognized it straight away. On closer inspection, remnants of the ceiling frieze can be made out, the very fragment in which Adam is pointing his finger at his creator.
Frau Zinke is now sweeping the individual pieces of rubble.
Sirius studies her attentively. Has Frau Zinke been freed now? Is the day of emancipation a happy one for Frau Zinke? Have the Allied armies done Frau Zinke a favour? Have 50 million people died so that Frau Zinke can finally sweep in peace?
Klamtstrasse is desolate, no longer a street, just a swathe between mountains of rubble and isolated house skeletons. In front of them, here and there, a charred tree trunk still stands.
Only now does Sirius notice. Where are the mighty trees which used to transform the street every spring into a lush green garden walkway?
Only one single tree is still standing.
Sirius approaches it hesitantly.
“Hello?” he whispers.
“Yes,” says the tree. “It’s me.”
“Thank God!” rejoices the dog, “for a minute there I thought they got you.”
“Likewise,” smiles the tree.
“I have to…” says the dog, lifting his leg.
“Of course,” replies the tree. “Make yourself at home.”
Sirius pauses. “At home?”
“Well, you are at home now,” says the tree. “The war is over, and soon everything will be like it was before.”
“Is that what you really believe?” says the dog.
“It’s what I hope,” answers the tree.
The wind blows a cloud of dust through the air. Frau Zinke picks up her broom and sweeps.
“Give it a rest, Frau Zinke,” calls the neighbour. “It’s no good.”
To the dog, he hisses quietly: “Old Zinke, first her husband fell in Stalingrad, then she lost both her sons in the militia at the very end. They were just children. Since then she’s gone completely mad.”
*
There’s nothing to keep the Crowns in Hollywood anymore. Now that – in the words of President Truman – the flags of freedom are waving over Europe, the family feel drawn back to their home. Back to Berlin. Back to Sirius.
The images of the destroyed city are a shock, of course. “Where are these flags supposed to be waving from?” asks Carl in disbelief. “I mean, there’s not one single mast still standing.” But as everyone knows, flags of freedom don’t need masts; they wave in thoughts, in words, on the Sabbath.
An aerial photograph shows the ruins of Charlottenburg. “There!” cries Rahel in agitation, “I think I can see our house!” Her trembling index finger traces the path that Sirius trotted down.
“Sirius is somewhere there amongst the rubble,” she sighs. “He’s waiting for us.”
Carl takes out his magnifying glass. Isn’t it strange how objects from the past take on greater meaning as soon as homesickness is involved? The magnifying glass. It has slumbered in the drawer for so long. There was no use for it in Hollywood; things were already big enough here.
He leans over the picture, fixing his gaze on a tiny white fleck which could just as easily be a speck of dust. The emphasis being on could, for perhaps it really is Sirius.
“I’m sensing,” he says with a smile, “that my eyes are longing for the invisible once more.”
He is still wearing the Bordeaux-red uniform with the gold bobbles, which doesn’t exactly punctuate the deeper meaning of his words. He is, without a doubt, the only German in uniform who is going home without guilt.
Fate probably has a hand in it when two letters arrive from Berlin. One of them, with numerous stamps suggesting a great many detours during its journey, is addressed to Professor Carl Liliencron.
Dear Herr Professor,
The Board of Directors of the Prussian Academy of Sciences has today been newly constituted. It would be our honour to welcome you as a member of the academy and as honorary professor of Plankton research within the faculty.
Signed, President of the Academy, Professor P. Seewald.
The second letter, addressed to the Los Angeles Philh
armonic, is opened by Andreas Cohn.
Dear Herr Cohn,
On the 26th of May the Berlin Philharmonic will give its first post-war concert in Berlin. Mendelssohn Bartholdy’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream Overture’. A momentous occasion which we hope will move you to consider joining our orchestra as first violinist, for this date and beyond.
Regards, Leo Borchard.
Two men in luck. Their exile has come to an end. And Korngold turned out to be right: Mendelssohn did survive Hitler.
Conrad Nicholson Hilton responds to the Crowns’ plans for their future with a frown: “What?” he stutters, “you want to go back to the Stone Age?”
“The Stone Age,” replies Crown, “was actually the time when the Neanderthals became homo sapiens. Now we want to do our part to make sure that the miracle repeats itself.”
Hilton isn’t sure that he really understands this, but he senses that there is something celebratory in the air, and allows himself to be moved to a grand gesture:
“You’ll fly Pan American!” he cries.
The airline has recently announced that from now on there will be direct flights from New York to Europe. The Hilton family has been invited onto the inaugural flight. So instead, the Crown family is given the honour.
Conrad Nicholson has ulterior motives, of course, otherwise he wouldn’t be Conrad Hilton. He is not exactly unhappy about the fact the Crowns want to disappear from the picture so swiftly. His daughter Electra has changed her mind, and now wants to marry that young actor Freddie Winston.
Bad luck for Georg. He went to war especially for Electra, and now he is coming home empty-handed. Electra’s letter of farewell is already on its way. A delicate subject, which the bride’s father would rather discreetly circumnavigate.
He asks casually: “How is Georg doing?”
“Good,” replies Crown. “His unit is stationed on the Elbe. I think it will be a while before we see him in Berlin. After all, Berlin is still occupied by the Russians.”
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