Berlin Encounter

by T. Davis Bunn

  “And I told you as clearly as I know how,” the big man rumbled back. His voice sounded bored and sleepy and irritated with being disturbed. “I talk with every trader who comes through. It is part of my job of keeping order. Tall and dark hair and a strong face could describe a dozen of them. More.”

  “Your job,” the officer sneered. “All right, then. He was traveling with one or both of these two men. Look carefully, Herr Schreiner. Your very life depends upon it.”

  “Ah, why didn’t you say you had photographs.” The bear’s voice receded into the distance as together they scurried down the hall, ducked into the dank chamber used as a hold-all for medicines, lifted Sally up and through the hole which opened into the sewer. “Yes, this blond one. He looks familiar. But I’m not exactly sure—”

  “Search the place,” snapped the officer, granting Jake the adrenaline surge he needed to grab the lantern hanging on the wall, then lift himself one-handed up and through the hole and follow Hans and Sally down the dark concrete tunnel.

  They stumbled around two turnings before stopping and lighting the lantern. Their faces looked strained and hollowed from the fright. Hans looked at Jake and asked, “What do we do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Jake whispered, his voice still shaky from the shock. “From what Karl said, the border is sealed tight as a drum.”

  “I have to go back,” Sally said.

  Jake shook his head. “We can’t risk it. Not for us, not for Karl. He said there were informers in his congregation.”

  “I have to,” Sally countered. “In the rush I left my passport. I don’t have any papers.”

  Jake opened his mouth to criticize, then slapped his own pockets, and confessed, “Neither do I. Or money.”

  Back around the corner there was the faint sound of voices. Instantly Jake lowered the lantern’s flame to a dull glow. The voices called back and forth in what was clearly Russian. Then there was the sound of grunting, the snick of metal on stone, the splash of footfall in water.

  They turned and fled.

  ———

  By midday they were running on empty. Stumbling in hunger and exhaustion, jerking at every sound, feeble with the fear that there was no escape.

  There were checkpoints everywhere. Soviet military vehicles filled the streets not choked with rubble. Civilians went about their business with furtive haste, scurrying from place to place with heads bowed and eyes sweeping everywhere, jumping into shadows or doorways or ruins at the sound of approaching vehicles. In that, at least, Jake and Hans and Sally looked like all the others.

  Twice they had circled back toward the ruined manor and Karl’s cellar, but they had been stymied by soldiers posted at corners and searching all buildings extending out from the chapel market.

  Hunger gnawed at Jake’s middle. They did not have a cent between them. Passing food stalls, especially the ones grilling black-market meat, was agony. He could not look at Sally’s drawn and haggard face without feeling a rising panic. They had to do something, and fast.

  They crouched in the doorway of an apartment building, hooded by makeshift repairs holding up the crumbling facade. Jake looked from one spent face to the other and felt his determination harden. “We’ve got to make a run for it. They can’t be watching every inch of the border area. There has to be some place we can cross.”

  “Twilight,” Hans said, his voice chalky with weariness. “At night they search with lights and dogs.”

  Jake looked at him. “You know Berlin?”

  “Some. We are approaching the university. I have lectured there from time to time. Beyond that is the central city.”

  “How far to the western border?”

  Hans closed his eyes, the strain of concentrating tensing his features. “The closest point is about a half kilometer to our left. Another half-kilometer beyond that, perhaps less, lies the Brandenburg Gate.”

  Jake gripped Sally’s hand, willing his strength into her. “Let’s go.”

  They continued to skirt the main ways wherever possible, but were drawn unwillingly onto the thoroughfares when smaller streets became impassable. On one such instance, Jake caught sight of something that caused him to pause. Sally took it as another alarm, and started to draw into the closest doorway. “It’s okay,” he murmured. Then to Hans, “What do you make of it?”

  “I’m not sure,” the scientist said uncertainly. “But they appear to be headed toward the western sector.”

  Jake continued to stare down the connecting street, watching as what appeared to be a continual stream of civilians headed down the thoroughfare paralleling theirs. All of them were headed west.

  “Russians,” Sally whispered.

  They slipped around the corner, and continued holding to smaller ways. Another two blocks, however, and a caved-in office building left them with no choice but to return to the thoroughfare. This time they almost ran headlong into a Russian jeep. But they slipped back unnoticed. The jeep’s four passengers were all watching one street over, where the tide of civilians was growing ever larger.

  Jake waited for the jeep to pass, searched in both directions, then said, “Across the street, hurry.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Might be safety in numbers,” Jake said. “At least as far as they’re headed.”

  They crossed the thoroughfare, hastened down a narrow way, clambered over a hill of broken bricks and concrete, and stopped in the corner’s shadows.

  The stream of civilians had reached flood proportions. Hundreds and hundreds of people, most of them young, walked purposefully by. There was no talk, no banners, no anger or raised fists or clubs or pickets. Almost all the young men wore coats and ties, the women dresses and matching jackets.

  Sally murmured, “What on earth?”

  Jake shook his head, studied the determined young faces, saw how the political police and the Russian soldiers lining the way watched but made no move to stop them. He had no reply.

  Then Hans pointed and said, “I know that man. Come on!”

  Before Jake could think of an objection, Hans had already pulled him away from the shadow’s safety and out and into the stream. They worked their way over toward an older bearded gentleman dressed in tweeds and hat and starched shirt and tie. It was only on closer inspection that Jake could see the coat’s multiple patches, the frayed collar edge, the caverns that years of perpetual hunger had hollowed beneath the neatly cropped beard. Still, the eyes were bright and intelligent, the hands active as he punctuated his discussion with the pair of students who walked alongside him.

  Then he caught sight of who approached and raised up to full height. “Hans! What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

  “I should ask you the same thing,” Hans replied, falling in alongside the older man.

  “We are leaving,” he replied simply, his eyes upon Jake.

  “May I introduce,” Hans said, and covered the hesitation by turning and placing a proprietorial arm upon Jake’s shoulder. Then his blue eyes glinted with a faint trace of humor, and he went on, “Dr. Jakob Burnes and Frau Burnes. Perhaps you are familiar with his work on philosophy and metaphysics? He is quite famous in some quarters. It did not save him and his wife, however, from being rousted by our new masters.” Hans indicated the old man with a nod of his head. “This is Dr. Ronald Hammer, head of Berlin University’s renowned physics department.”

  “Burnes, Burnes, no, I can’t say . . .” The old man waved his hand. “No matter. You are most welcome, of course.” He glanced at Hechter’s rumpled and dirty form. “You are in trouble?”

  “I am a wanted man,” Hans confessed readily. “As is Dr. Burnes and his charming wife. Can you help us?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. We are, as I said, leaving.”

  “Who?” Hans demanded, matching his step to the old man. “Leaving what?”

  “All of us,” Hammer replied simply. “The entire Berlin University. This very day. Students, professors, administration, even most o
f the janitors. Sixty thousand people, more or less. We see the hand of oppression tightening upon us once again, and we are departing.”

  “Will they let you out?”

  The old man nodded ahead, toward the towering Brandenburg Gate. “That,” he replied, “we shall see soon enough.”

  The gate was a mammoth affair, huge pillars rising to support a vast and ornately carved frieze. Upon the broad platform raced a divine chariot powered by mammoth winged beasts, the charioteer raising the crown of victory high toward the heavens. The closer they drew to the gate, the thicker the crowd became. Dr. Hammer was clearly well known and was permitted passage closer toward the front. Hans and Jake and Sally kept by his side and allowed themselves to be drawn further and further through the throng.

  “The Free University of Berlin, it shall be called,” Jake heard a voice ahead of him say. Despite the crowd’s vast size, the people were so quiet that the words carried easily. “We shall found it in the western sector, if they will have us.”

  “That is the university chancellor,” Hans said quietly. “A very brave man.”

  Dr. Hammer continued his gradual progress forward until Jake was able to make out a very erect old gentleman in university robes and a great mane of snow-white hair confronting a red-faced Russian officer. “You are gathered without permit,” the officer rasped, his German carrying growling Russian overtones. “You are breaking the law.”

  “Then shoot us,” the chancellor shouted back. “Show the entire world what your true colors are.” He waved his arm beyond the three tanks and squads of Soviet soldiers to where the western correspondents stood massed. A pair of flatbed trucks had been backed up as close to the checkpoint as they could manage. At least a dozen cameramen stood crouched over their apparatuses, filming it all. “Either that,” the chancellor cried, “or stand aside and let us go. For go or die we shall!”

  With that he nodded once toward the massed assemblage, then turned and started for the checkpoint. As one, the crowd surged forward behind him. The Soviet officer raged a moment, raised his fist in threat, but as his soldiers raised their guns, the officer glanced over toward the cameramen. The officer dropped his hand, barked an order, and stepped back, defeated. The soldiers lowered their guns and moved out of the way.

  In absolute silence, the gathering herded forward, carrying Jake and Sally and Hans along with them. Jake looked around as they passed under the great gate, passed the raised yellow barrier, passed the correspondents and the western soldiers. All in silence. Not even the newspapermen dared break the power of that quiet moment.

  Then they were past, and Jake’s chest unlocked, and he could breathe again. Sally turned and swept into his arms. Hans deflated from his stiff posture, his shoulders slumping so far his chest went concave. They were through.

  Jake motioned for Hans to follow them. Together they worked their way to the corner of the crowd, past the first line of soldiers, and into the guardhouse.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the guard officer said, his voice still harboring awe from the scene. “You can’t come in here.”

  “My name is Colonel Jake Burnes, NATO Intelligence.” Suddenly Jake found himself so weak he had to lean on the wall for support. “I was told if I made it through to ask for an Uncle Charles.”

  The lieutenant’s eyes popped wide open. “Yessir, I know about that one. Corporal, shut the door. Are these two people with you, Colonel?”

  “They are indeed,” Jake said, weakened even further with relief of being known and expected. And safe. Finally, finally safe. He felt Sally sway and held her close as he asked, “Could you find my wife a chair?”

  “Your wife? I mean, yessir.” The lieutenant snapped to action, lifted the chair from behind the corner desk. “Here, ma’am, you look all done in.” Then to Jake, “The whole army’s on the lookout for you, seems like, sir. Every guard detail here gets a call from some brass over at HQ, wanting to make sure we know what to do if you show up. I mean, when, sir.”

  “And what is that?” Jake asked, fatigue granting him patience.

  “Call General Clay or Colonel Rayburn,” the lieutenant snapped out, then realized what Jake meant. “Oh, right, sure. I’ll do it now, sir.”

  “Excellent,” Jake said. “And in the meantime, ask your corporal to find us something to eat.”

  “No problem, sir,” the lieutenant said, motioning toward the door with his head. A soldier jumped to comply. As he dialed, the lieutenant glanced in Hans’s direction and asked, “They’ll want to know who it is accompanying you, sir.”

  Jake looked to where Hans stood propped in one corner, gray with exhaustion and hunger and confusion and released strain. And new fears. Jake waited until the scientist reluctantly met his gaze before speaking. “Tell them,” Jake replied, “I travel with a friend.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “If Berlin is abandoned, half of Europe will be in the Communist fold by next week.” General Clay was a pepper pot of a man with a voice like the bark of a bulldog. “Heard that from a journalist this morning, and for once I agree with the press one thousand percent.”

  They sat around the general’s conference table, his Berlin-based staff assembled and augmented by several other generals brought in for the meeting. The confabulation was not on Jake’s account; it had been taking place almost continually since the Soviets closed off the city.

  The assembled brass were clearly unsure what to think of Jake Burnes, dressed as he was in his dark trader’s outfit, not to mention dirt and a six-day scruff. Sally’s presence only added to the confusion.

  “Tell me, ah, Colonel,” one of the generals said, a deskbound model with belly to match. “Just exactly what makes you so sure that the convoy you saw was not simply headed for some gathering point, from which the return journey to Moscow could be commenced?”

  “To begin with,” Jake said, his voice grating with fatigue and growing impatience, “this was not just one convoy. More like a full army on the move. I personally saw several hundred troop carriers, half that number of tanks, the same of howitzers. And the line stretched out in both directions as far as I could see. Sir.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Phil,” General Clay barked. “The Russkies have done everything but camp on your doorstep and stick a tank barrel down your kazoo.” To Jake he went on, “You’re the only one among us who’s had a gander at the other side since this thing blew up in our faces, Colonel. I don’t need to tell you that the situation is more than serious. The city is virtually without resources. Our western sectors will begin to starve in less than a week.”

  The thought of that was too much for the general to handle while seated. He popped to his feet and began pacing. “More than half my staff are pushing for us to assemble and force our way through. What do you think of that?”

  Jake stared at the man. “By land?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Jake recalled the massed force he had witnessed. “Sir, I guess there’s a chance that the Soviets would back down. But it would go directly against whatever plan is behind their buildup. And if they don’t give in—”

  “Then we’ve got World War Three on our hands.” The general stopped his pacing long enough to rake the table with his gaze. “A chance we cannot take, especially knowing about the massed armaments which you have described.” He resumed his pacing, muttered to himself, “No, what we need is a show of force that is totally overwhelming, yet at the same time does not deliberately challenge them. Show them we mean business, but keep from having to fire the first shot.”

  A voice from across the table started, “Washington—”

  General Clay cut him off with an impatient wave. “Forget them. They’ll still be dithering when the city starts dining on shoe leather. No, what we need is a decision we can act on now, immediately, and then ask Washington’s permission later.” The sharp gaze returned to Jake. “Any ideas, Colonel?”

  “Well,” Jake said, struggling to bring his mind up to speed. “Air p
ower was always their weak spot, and I haven’t seen many planes at all the whole time I was over.”

  The entire room came to full alert. A voice across the table said, “I can confirm that, sir. They’ve been on our back constantly for spare parts. Seems they can hardly keep a dozen planes in the air.”

  General Clay wheeled about. “Phil, how many bombers can you get off the ground?”

  “Oh,” the deskbound general shrugged. “Close to a hundred, I’d say.”

  “I want twice that number in Wiesbaden tomorrow.” He stabbed his finger at another figure farther down the table. “Food, fuel, raw materials. Lots of them, George. Make up a list, but before you do, start organizing the first shipments. I want five hundred tons to arrive here tomorrow. Seven hundred by the day after. A thousand tons a day by the end of the week.”

  “But that’s—”

  “I’ll tell you what that is,” the general barked, and slammed his hand down on the table. “That’s an order!”

  Chapter Twenty

  Jake walked over to where Pierre Servais stood on the garden’s broad top veranda, playing host and greeting late-arriving guests with the stiffness of an honor guard. He stood resplendent in his dress uniform and his momentary isolation. Jake asked him, “Are you nervous? Exhausted? In shock?”

  Pierre scanned the crowd below him and replied somberly, “My friend, I am far too embarrassed for any of that.”

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  Pierre’s features folded down like a stubborn bulldog. “You mean, besides the fact that more than half our guests could not even get into the church for the service, it was so full? Or the fact that my own wedding was taken from my hands, so that my mother could combine forces with my fiancée and turn what I thought would be a small chapel service for a few good friends into a new village fête? Or the fact that every woman within twenty kilometers has been cooking for a week? Or that there are people here today with whom my parents have not spoken since before I was born?”

  “Yes,” Jake said, struggling to keep a straight face. “Besides that.”