by Paul Grant
At the next camp, Friedland, the welcome was similar to that in the East. The bands were playing, the children were waving their flags and handing out flowers. Klaus knew they were trying to welcome them, trying to show their efforts hadn’t been in vain, even if everyone knew they had.
He just wanted to get on with things and organised the earliest possible meeting with the camp authorities. Within two hours he was sitting in front of two men in civilian clothes.
‘Herr Schultz, we have your military records here in front of us. They say you are from Berlin, Lichtenberg in fact.’ The man was close to Klaus’ age.
‘That’s correct,’ Klaus said.
‘Yet you chose to come to West Germany?’
Klaus shrugged. ‘Like most of the men on the train with me. Ten years of Ivan is enough for anybody.’
The man nodded his understanding. Klaus was starting to feel comfortable for the first time.
‘You should be aware we cannot help you settle in that particular area of Berlin, or even Berlin itself. We can, however, find you somewhere in West Germany. Do you have somewhere in particular in mind?’
Klaus had thought about the question. He knew he had to offer Maria something, a job, a place to live. His plan was to make a base there, then go to Berlin to fetch them. It was as far as he’d allowed his thinking to go. He had no idea how Maria would be after all this time. He had to take things one step at a time.
‘Only that I’d like to settle in West Germany; the exact place is not important,’ Klaus said eventually.
‘What was your occupation, before the war?’
‘Builder.’
‘Useful at any time, particularly now,’ he noted. ‘What about your family?’
‘I’ll need to go to Berlin to bring them to West Germany.’
Until then, the other one had remained expressionless, his arms crossed defensively across his slick suit.
‘Why do you want to go to Berlin?’ His accent was thick, and Klaus guessed he was American.
Klaus was surprised by his question, and even his colleague turned to look at him. It was like he hadn’t been listening.
‘Because my family is there.’
‘I heard that,’ he snapped. ‘There’s no need for you to go there. We can find them and bring them to you, if they’re still alive or even want to move.’ His tone was uncaring, even aggressive.
Klaus was starting to get angry. ‘I want to go to my family and I want to go now.’ Klaus stared him straight in the eye. ‘It’s the least I deserve.’
‘Please sit down, Herr Schultz. I’m sure we can sort something out.’ It was the older man. Reluctantly, Klaus did as he suggested. At least Klaus felt he was on his side, which was more than could be said for the American.
‘You’ll get what you deserve. All the returnees will be compensated for their time in captivity,’ he said dismissively.
Klaus nearly fell off his chair. ‘Do you think money can buy back our time in Russia?’ There wasn’t a mark on his perfect skin or his perfect teeth. He’d not been through much hardship in his homeland. ‘I don’t want to stay in Berlin, I just want to go back there and see my family. Talk to them. Isn’t that fair enough? Like you said, I don’t even know if they are alive.’ The last words held in his throat; he’d tried to banish all those thoughts up to that point.
The German was smoothing the waves again. ‘Herr Jones means well, we just want to help you resettle into civilian life.’
Herr Jones, however, had moved on to other things. ‘Can you tell us where you were imprisoned by the Russians?’ he asked.
‘Kolyma mainly. What does it matter?’
‘And when were you released?’
‘I don’t remember exactly, two weeks ago.’
‘Two weeks from deepest Siberia. That’s some going, Herr Schultz. Where are your comrades, the ones whom you were imprisoned with?’
This was starting to feel like an interrogation and Klaus didn’t like it one bit. ‘Just what are you getting at exactly?’
He ran his hand through his full head of dark hair. ‘It’s just strange. You come here telling us stories about Stalingrad. You’re released alone, without any of your comrades…’
Klaus went cold as the realisation struck him. He’d been naïve. He guessed now Herr Jones was probably working for American Intelligence and he was insinuating Klaus was working for the Russians. He realised he’d made a mistake in being so open with his story. It may have sounded suspicious to a cynic.
Klaus eyeballed him. The American was still awaiting an answer, an explanation.
The German started to speak again, softer, more tactful in his approach, but still kowtowing to the aggressor sitting next to him. ‘I think it’s best you let us search for your family, Herr Schultz. Often these things can come as a shock to them, too. We will organise your settlement here in West Germany.’
Klaus hadn’t come all this way, waited all this time, to be denied. ‘So you’re refusing me the right to go to Berlin and find my family? You might rightly say we were fighting for the wrong cause, but we were still fighting for our country. Doesn’t that give us some rights?’
Klaus could see the German was uncomfortable now. The American looked disinterested, even slightly amused by his outburst.
The German was almost pleading now. ‘It does allow you the right to settle in peace and to work. We will provide you with a comfortable place to live. Let us help you find your family, Herr Schultz.’
Klaus was getting emotional, the bitterness of years locked away in a Siberian wasteland spilling out. ‘I will go to Berlin, with or without your help.’
Herr Jones was unmoved. ‘Not without the necessary permits you won’t, and we’re in control of that, and I say you don’t go to Berlin. Now just be thankful what you’ve been offered.’
He closed his notebook. The meeting was done for him.
Klaus held the American’s gaze with a long, withering stare. Finally, he got up, slamming the door as he went. He would go to Berlin under his own steam.
Klaus was halfway back to his quarters when the German caught up with him. ‘Herr Schultz.’
He stopped and turned, ready for a fight.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help you in there. I served in the East, too. I fought at Kursk, among other places. I was fortunate. I came back in ’47,’ he said.
‘And now you work for the victor?’ Klaus motioned with his head back towards the meeting room.
‘Don’t judge me for that. There aren’t many jobs the Americans don’t have a say on.’ Klaus was beginning to understand that.
‘Look, maybe I can do something to help you get to Berlin.’ He looked nervous like he was doing something he shouldn’t be.
‘Try this man,’ he said, handing him a slip of paper. He didn’t give Klaus time to react; he just headed back from where he came.
Klaus looked down at the paper in his hand. The address was one of a veterans’ association, with the name Heinrich Reuter.
***
Klaus had awoken during the night bathed in a slick of sweat. The nightmare seemed to have lasted the night long. He really had felt like he was back in Stalingrad, among the rats and dead bodies with no escape. After the meeting, he felt utterly dejected, like he would never get to see his family again. It was as if the whole world was conspiring to throw hurdles in his path. By the time he’d had some breakfast, and some hot coffee, things were back in perspective. A lot had happened in two weeks: his release, his journey home and now this. He set off for the veterans’ association, more realistic in his expectations, but determined nonetheless.
The place was a hub of activity: three women in front of telephones, which seemed to be in constant use. They were regularly at huge filing cabinets to finger through cards, the phone handset wedged between chin and shoulder. The place was so busy Klaus was surprised the contact he’d been given could fit him in.
From the first moment, Klaus felt like he was in the presenc
e of a wily fox. Heinrich Reuter was probably only just in his fifties and had the look of a military man, with white hair and a face slightly worn by the ravages of time. Klaus couldn’t help thinking he knew the man from somewhere, but by his voice, not his face. Whatever the case, Klaus felt at ease with him. For the first time, he let out the full story, from Stalingrad to the present day, about Marz, about Burzin and Dobrovsky. Reuter listened intently making the odd note. When he’d finished, Klaus slumped back, finally relieved his past ten years were out in the open. Nobody had interrupted, or doubted him; Reuter had only listened.
He was now studying Klaus intently, as if he was weighing up his next move. Finally he nodded, as if a decision had been made.
‘Be assured, Schultz, I will do all I can to help you.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘However, I have to warn you there have been many complaints from returnees. Do you know how many prison sentences have been handed down to returnees from their times in the camps?’
Klaus was surprised. ‘I wasn’t aware.’
Reuter patted a pile of papers. ‘Here are just some of the cases. You’re not the first to complain about another POW.’
Klaus was about to protest, but he waved him down. ‘I don’t doubt your word, man, but unless this Marz turns up on our files somewhere, it will be difficult to bring him to justice.’
‘Believe me, Herr Reuter, this man made false claims against us in 1945. He would have been back in Germany long ago.’
‘We’ll do our best to find him. There’s a strong possibility he could have settled in the Soviet sector if, as you say, he did a deal with them.’
Klaus stewed for a moment. ‘We must have justice.’
‘I understand, but if he is in the Soviet zone, there’s not too much we can do.’ He pursed his lips, then said, ‘Tell me more about Dobrovsky and Burzin.’
Klaus told Reuter what he knew about the two men, about their apparent rivalry and the timing of Burzin’s return to Moscow. The more Klaus talked, the more Reuter looked increasingly interested, scribbling down notes from time to time. It made Klaus wonder why a man involved in a veterans’ association would be so interested in the Russian military.
Klaus sighed deeply, feeling like he had done all he could about Marz, for now. He knew it wouldn’t happen overnight. Until now, he had kept the subject of returning to Berlin to one side, not wanting emotion to cloud the story of his incarceration. Now he needed his family; he needed to get back to Berlin.
‘Since I have come back, I’ve found things difficult. People seem to want to help, but they want to do what they want, what they believe to be the best, not necessarily what I believe is good for me or my family.’
Reuter nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Herr Reuter, I want to see my wife. I need to get to Berlin.’
‘Understandable, but you don’t want to settle there, especially after what you told me about this Dobrovsky creature.’
‘My family live in Lichtenberg. The area is in the sector controlled by the Russians, and I don’t really see myself in Charlottenburg either,’ Klaus laughed.
Reuter winked. ‘I have a few contacts. Go back to the camp and I’ll see what I can organise.’
Klaus felt a deep relief, like a weight had been lifted from him. He stood to leave and reached out over the desk and gripped Reuter’s hand. He felt grateful that somebody had listened and understood him at last.
‘I’ll get you back to Berlin, Schultz. Just give me a couple of days.’
***
Klaus found the next two days difficult. He was restless whilst he waited for Reuter to come up with the paperwork and transport to take him home. His stomach was reacting to the rich food, even though they’d been warned to be careful how much they ate. Those warnings tended to fall on deaf ears to men who had been without proper sustenance for so long.
Reuter delivered on his promise. Klaus was surprised to be summoned to the camp reception. After gathering his belongings, he was escorted to a jeep, where he was driven to an airfield close to Wunstorf. The driver pointed him in the direction of a cargo plane and the jeep sped away. Nervously, Klaus headed for the steel steps. He was amazed that Reuter had managed to arrange transport so quickly, and he certainly hadn’t expected air transport.
Klaus gingerly poked his head inside the cabin to be met by a myriad of crates and boxes. There was only one other passenger, his long frame draped over a makeshift bed of boxes.
‘Come on in, man.’ The man seemed friendly enough, his German passable. ‘I’m Roger.’
‘Klaus.’
‘Grab a seat. We’ll be on our way in five minutes.’
Klaus noted the wings on the man’s uniform. British Royal Air Force. The last time he’d encountered the British, they were running for Dunkirk. Things had changed somewhat since then.
‘Heading back from Russia?’ he asked curiously.
Klaus only nodded, throwing down his pack, and settling on a box of canned carrots.
‘From Berlin?’
‘Lichtenberg.’
‘My wife is from Berlin,’ Roger said.
‘You have a German wife?’ Klaus asked surprised.
‘Sure. I settled in Berlin after the blockade.’
‘Blockade?’
Roger looked at him with a modicum of pity. ‘The Russians stopped everything coming into the city back in ’48. We airlifted the supplies in.’
Klaus raised his eyebrows. He supposed it made a difference to bombing the city night and day.
‘The Russians are none too friendly, but I suppose you know all about that,’ he said, trying to make a joke.
Klaus didn’t laugh. It didn’t stop Roger going on.
‘During the blockade, their MiGs would “buzz” us, trying to make us misjudge our approach. The kids loved it. We used to drop chocolate to them as we came in to land.’
Roger was how Klaus had imagined Englishmen would be: his hair was slicked back, he had a small moustache, and there was even a neck scarf tucked into his flying jacket. Yet here he was explaining to Klaus how he had helped save the city from starvation at the hands of the Russians. The story had a familiar ring.
‘A lot of people in Britain think Stalin is wonderful, well until recently anyway.’ He shook his head somewhat sorrowfully. ‘What the Russians did when they got to Berlin was unforgivable.’
Klaus was about to press him, but just then the propellers kicked into life and after that, it was impossible to hear anything. Roger just shrugged and pointed him towards the window. Klaus pulled the netting out of the way and squeezed in between the boxes to get the best view he could. It wasn’t exactly comfortable but he didn’t care. He was eternally grateful Reuter had pulled the strings to get him on board. He wondered what kind of connections the man had to manage such a thing.
As the plane lifted off, Klaus reflected on what Roger had said about the Russians, and what they’d done in Berlin. It had given him a horrible feeling deep down in his stomach, and this time it wasn’t the food. Something had crossed his mind and he’d rather it hadn’t. He settled down to enjoy the view, trying to keep the negative thoughts at bay. He was on his way home, and two weeks ago he could only have dreamed of that.
***
Klaus was decidedly edgy when he stepped off the plane at Gatow. He’d seen enough from the air to know how much of Berlin had been destroyed. The place was barely recognisable. It was in a daze he accepted a lift from one of Roger’s ‘chums’ as far as Charlottenburg. By the time they’d crossed the River Havel and swung through Pichelsberg, Klaus was ready to be alone. He felt he had to make the final part of the journey without help, without Reuter, without Burzin.
With his thanks, Klaus parted from Roger at the steps of Westkreuz S-Bahn station. He couldn’t say how many times he nearly left the platform. Klaus wasn’t normally a nervous man, but he couldn’t keep still, fidgeting around like one deranged. It took all of his willpower to step foot on that trai
n.
Now the questions no prisoner of war could allow himself to ask and remain sane were looming like dark clouds before a storm. Had Maria taken another man in his absence? Had this man become a father figure to his Eva and Ulrich? Would his kids even remember him? After all, Eva was so young when he left. Having seen so many influences affecting the new Germany in his short time there, what would he encounter in Berlin?
Klaus wanted it all to work out, to start a new life with Maria, and at least Eva in West Germany. Ulrich would be old enough to make his own choice. Having the authorities find him a home and job in West Germany was also an escape route if things didn’t work out in Berlin, a bolthole, his prepared path of emotional safety if he couldn’t cope with what he found there.
At the Ostbahnhof, Klaus barely noticed the posters of the regime dominating the walls. He’d stepped off the train feeling sick to his stomach. With his heart in his mouth, he headed for home.
CHAPTER 24
JUNE 1953, EAST BERLIN
Ulrich Schultz had been awake most of the night.
After what Markus had told him he’d found it impossible to rest. He couldn’t believe Markus had escaped from a Siberian Gulag with the help of his father. Ulrich felt a mix of emotions: pride, excitement, so much so he wanted to shout about it. He wanted to tell his mother that it had been Markus who had brought his father’s letter back, and that he had spent more than a year travelling across Russia to get home. But he couldn’t tell anybody anything. Markus had told him those things in confidence, and he’d done that for a reason; this was all about helping Ulrich understand about Heissner, and now he did, he wanted to help Markus, for his father’s sake.