by Heinz Rein
Dr Walter Böttcher
Gen. Practitioner
Surgeries 9–10 a.m. and 4–6 p.m.
except Wednesday and Saturday afternoon
Wiegand wants to be absolutely sure, he strolls along the building pit and looks the man fleetingly in the eye, then he knows. This apparently harmless bystander is none other than the man with the rucksack who followed him so persistently yesterday from Lebuser Strasse to Petersburger Strasse, and whom he then shook off, so to speak, when the air-raid warning sounded. It cannot be a coincidence that this man is now standing around here, in front of Dr Böttcher’s house. It is certain proof that the investigation has assumed a much greater scale than might previously have been assumed, and that Dr Böttcher has also been drawn into this investigation proves that they have somehow tracked down his, Wiegand’s, connection with Dr Böttcher.
Wiegand moves away from the pit again. The man hasn’t noticed him, his eyes are focused on the front door of house number 14, he isn’t interested in the surrounding area. It hasn’t occurred to him that he himself might be under observation, he imagines that his apparent interest in a pit would camouflage him sufficiently. Wiegand smiles to himself, but then becomes serious again, he must call Dr Böttcher straight away to warn him, but that won’t be an easy matter, in this bombed-out city there are not many telephones that are still working.
Wiegand turns into Tilsiter Strasse. Here the destruction is less extensive, and there must still be a telephone that is usable. But when he enquires about the possibility of using one the only response is a shrug and a shake of the head, the phones have no power or the exchange is down. The protective shell that surrounds the sensitive nerve fibres of the city is burst and shredded. Only on Kochhannstrasse, opposite the Schultheiss-Patzenhofer brewery, does he find a tobacconist’s shop whose telephone is working. He dials the six figures, but after only the second the hum of the engaged tone sounds, he sets the receiver back down on the cradle and after a while he tries for a second time, then a third and a fourth, but he can’t get a connection. The humming tone is always in his ear.
Wiegand walks sullenly back up Tilsiter Strasse. He absolutely needs to talk to Dr Böttcher. He’s to meet Schröter as they want to talk about the activation of their group and discuss the possibility of collaboration. But if Dr Böttcher is also under suspicion, an important central connection is lost, not only because his surgery was an ideal meeting point, but also because Dr Böttcher’s work as a doctor explained why he was constantly travelling and legitimized him at every time of day and night.
Wiegand has reached the Frankfurter Allee again. The spy is still standing on the Promenade, turned half towards the pit and half towards house number 14. There is no question of entering the house without being seen by him, the house doesn’t have a rear entrance, but …
That’s one possibility. Wiegand turns from Tilsiter Strasse into Frankfurter Allee, walks along it to Petersburger Strasse, which he crosses, and then walks on the other side to Lasdehner Strasse. Lasdehner Strasse forms an acute angle with Frankfurter Allee. The courtyards of the ruins on Lasdehner Strasse abut the rear façades of the buildings on Frankfurter Alleee, and that is what Wiegand currently needs. He passes through a burnt-out, half-collapsed portal, climbs over piles of debris of what was once a rear wing, and stands in the courtyard of 14 Frankfurter Allee. Dr Böttcher’s flat has another rear entrance in the side wing, which is seldom used and usually bolted up.
Wiegand climbs the back steps and gives his coded knock against the rear door.
A few seconds pass, then the bolt is drawn back.
‘Hello, Wiegand,’ Dr Böttcher says cordially and holds out his hand. ‘A little out of your way?’
Wiegand steps inside and closes the door. ‘Has its reasons, Doctor,’ he says. ‘Is Schröter here?’
‘We’re waiting for you,’ Dr Böttcher says. ‘Has something gone wrong?’
They walk along the corridor. Wiegand nods and greets Schröter, then outlines the situation in short sentences. ‘They’re after us,’ he says, bringing his report to an end, ‘there’s no doubt about it.’
The men are silent for a few seconds.
‘The first thing to do is find out who is under surveillance,’ Schröter says, ‘whether it’s Dr Böttcher or you, Wiegand.’
‘That’s quite easy to discover,’ Dr Böttcher says. ‘It will become clear if I visit a patient later on.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Schröter objects. ‘The surveillance doesn’t need to apply to you personally, but more to your practice and the circle of your patients.’
‘I’m the one under surveillance,’ Wiegand says firmly, ‘there’s no doubt about that as far as I’m concerned. That man down there is waiting only for me. But what made them expect to find me here, outside your house, Doctor?’
Dr Böttcher shrugs. ‘Perhaps they’d been observing you before, Wiegand?’
‘Out of the question,’ Wiegand says, ‘I’m sure I would have noticed.’
‘You’re not infallible,’ Schröter suggests.
‘If Wiegand has been under surveillance before,’ Dr Böttcher says, ignoring the dispute that the others are engaged in, ‘that would mean that Klose’s restaurant is also under surveillance, or has been for some time.’
Wiegand shakes his head. ‘No, Klose’s place has always been safe,’ he says, ‘they must have a precise point of reference to put a man right in front of your house. But what would it be?’
‘Your visits to me are easily and credibly explained,’ Dr Böttcher says. ‘You’re patients of mine.’
Wiegand stares at Dr Böttcher. ‘Patients! That’s the key word!’ he cries. ‘The sick note, Doctor, the sick note!’
‘The sick note?’ the doctor asks, perplexed.
‘Your name is on my sick note, doctor,’ Wiegand bursts out, ‘I was written off sick in January, and of course I had to hand in my sick certificate to the personnel office …’
‘That’s quite possible,’ Dr Böttcher says thoughtfully. ‘It would be interesting to know who the Gestapo are tailing, whether it’s Reichsbahn worker Adamek or the former Reichstag member Wiegand.’
‘Someone called Adamek used to live on Lebuser Strasse,’ Wiegand says, ‘the investigation into Wiegand has probably been closed for some time, they don’t keep files in evidence for four years.’
‘I would assume that too,’ Schröter says, ‘they’ve had other things to do, particularly since the twentieth of July.’fn1
‘I disagree,’ Dr Böttcher says, ‘the twentieth of July may have led them to seek out old files and issue new orders to investigate, but let’s leave that aside for the time being. The important thing now is to discover whether my flat is under surveillance, or whether the man on the Promenade is just waiting for Wiegand. In the former case we’ll have to change our way of working straight away.’
‘This matter is of such fundamental importance that we must put it to the test,’ Wiegand says stoutly.
‘And how do you plan to do that?’ Schröter asks.
‘By simply walking past him,’ Wiegand replies. ‘If he follows me, I will know, if he doesn’t then things will be clear as well.’
‘You want to help him find the trail?’ Dr Böttcher asks in amazement. ‘That’s not without its dangers.’
‘I know,’ Wiegand says, ‘but it has to be, and you can also rely on me getting rid of him again very quickly. You will help me with that, Schröter.’
Schröter nods.
‘I will,’ he agrees, ‘but for now let’s deal with our agenda.’
‘The only point is the collaboration between the groups “Ringbahn” and “Berolina”,’ Dr Böttcher smiles.
A smile passes over Wiegand’s face as well.
‘Unanimously agreed,’ he says.
‘Above all we need flyers,’ Schröter says, ‘our printer was bombed out last Friday. Can you help us?’
Dr Böttcher nods. ‘I can give you three hundred straight aw
ay,’ he replies, gets up, takes down a painting from the wall and opens a safe in the wall. ‘This is the one we have right now.’
Schröter takes the piece of paper that is handed to him. ‘How do I behave in air raids? Produced by the Reich Air Protection League,’ he reads. ‘Very nice, with official signatures and everything, at first sight it looks very convincing. Right, let’s see how I’m supposed to behave.’ He reads through it.
To the German people and the German Army!
Filled with serious concern for the fate of our people, regardless of differences in creed and political affiliation …
‘Hang on a second,’ he breaks off. ‘That’s …’
‘… the Manifesto of the National Peace Movement,’ Dr Böttcher finishes the sentence.
‘… of December 1942,’ Schröter goes on and sets the piece of paper down on the table. ‘Gentlemen, this is no longer current, and it’s also far too long.’
Wiegand takes the piece of paper and scans it quickly. ‘You’re right,’ he says, ‘the manifesto may be a great synopsis, an appeal to the German people, it may be a document that will one day be compared with Mazzini’s manifesto, but in a sense it is already passé.’ He turns to Dr Böttcher. ‘I assumed that something new could come out, Doctor, something that clearly and urgently addresses the current situation.’
Dr Böttcher shrugs. ‘The intellectual vein of our Comrade E has been interrupted again, but I have already written a new proclamation, which I want to have set straight away, and which we will distribute as soon as the Russians attack on the Oder or the Americans cross the Elbe. The proclamation reads as follows:
Soldiers! Volkssturm men!
The final act in the drama of our people has now begun. A criminal leadership is continuing with the completely pointless struggle, even though it became clear long ago that our military adversaries are far superior in terms of both men and guns. The whole of Germany is now a theatre of war. The Allied air forces control German air space by day and night, and their armies of tanks are rolling inexorably forward.
Soldiers!
Time and again you have been rushed into completely pointless struggle, you have been made to bleed, the graves of your comrades are scattered across the whole of Europe. They have not died for Germany, they have died for the criminals of the National Socialist Party.
Volkssturm men!
In their military helplessness, and in impotent fury over their inevitable defeat, the Nazi criminals are sending you into battle as the last of the cannon fodder, just to extend their own pitiful lives by a few days.
Soldiers! Volkssturm men!
Do not allow yourselves to be abused any more. Every shot that you fire only extends the torments of your wives and children. Put an end to this bloody madness!
Dr Böttcher pauses. ‘I think that is clear and objective, both in terms of language and content. What do you think?’
‘I see nothing to criticize,’ Wiegand says approvingly, ‘but perhaps we could add a few positive words of conclusion, along the lines of: “Fight for a new, better Germany”.’
‘I can do that,’ says Dr Böttcher. ‘Could I ask you to take the manuscript to the printers? Tell them not to print anything else.’
Wiegand takes the sheet of paper. ‘It’ll be done today,’ he says. ‘Has Lassehn been here?’
Dr Böttcher nods. ‘He brought the other flyers,’ he replies. ‘From here he went … to yours. I hope it works out.’
‘He’s a good lad,’ Wiegand says, ‘a little hesitant and uncertain, but also resolute and active.’
He turns to Schröter. ‘A few days ago we took in a young deserter, and he’s earned his spurs by now.’
‘A worker?’ Schröter asks.
Wiegand shakes his head. ‘No, an intellectual, a musician, someone who’s looking for a new way.’
‘With us, of all people?’ Schröter asks.
‘Why not with us?’
‘My dear Schröter,’ Dr Böttcher cuts in, ‘such discussions are completely pointless, now and in general. To be a socialist you don’t necessarily need to have had a proletarian background, and in order to become an active fighter against Hitler’s thugs you don’t even need to be a socialist.’
‘So?’ Schröter says, outraged. ‘What do you need to be?’
‘A fighter for freedom, justice and humanity,’ Dr Böttcher replies.
‘I see,’ says Schröter and waves his arms in the air, ‘that is nothing other than socialism!’
Dr Böttcher casts a long look across the table. ‘It’s possible,’ he says slowly, ‘although this interpretation is a new one on me. I want to say something to you, Schröter, even though now isn’t really the time for theoretical discussions. You must shed this proletarian arrogance, we don’t want to replace the Aryan identity card with the proletarian identity card. The new Germany that will come with the fall of National Socialism cannot begin with dogmatic narrow-mindedness.’
‘So that means we’re to water down our ideas?’ Schröter says obstinately.
‘No one’s saying that,’ Wiegand says, joining in with the conversation. ‘What the doctor means is the following. We don’t want to replace the exclusive claim of the National Socialists with another exclusive claim, no one is to water down an idea, as you call it, not you and not anyone else either. When the war is over we will have different problems to solve, and we can only do so by common accord.’
‘By common accord with who?’ Schröter asks, and bends over the table.
‘By common accord with the people who are working illegally with us right now,’ Wiegand replies, ‘bourgeois intellectuals, Catholics, pacifists, to use the old terms.’
Schröter leans back in his chair. ‘I get it,’ he says and laughs sarcastically, ‘Weimar coalition, great coalition, Hindenburg front, Harzburg front, I’m familiar with the scale.’
‘Christ,’ Dr Böttcher says angrily, ‘you seem to think it all has to happen that way again. I’m aware that history is a great teacher, and that people often stubbornly insist that its teachings should be ignored, but we want to be among those who learn from history. The blood-drenched educational demonstrations have opened our eyes.’
Schröter shrugs. ‘Leave me out of it,’ he says.
‘Then we’ll leave you out,’ Wiegand says resolutely.
‘Am I to understand that you are giving up your underground work?’ Dr Böttcher asks.
Schröter taps his index finger against his forehead. ‘You’re not quite right, it’s what I live for, the only thing.’
‘Then I will say,’ Dr Böttcher laughs, ‘we agree, and we will agree just as much afterwards. Isn’t that right, Schröter?’
Schröter hunches his shoulders. ‘I don’t know …’
‘That sounds different,’ Dr Böttcher says. ‘In all modesty I might remind you that many – and not the least significant – leaders of the workers’ movement come from the bourgeois camp that you seem to despise so much, I need only mention Marx, Engels, Lassalle, Mehring, Lenin and Liebknecht.’
‘They are all notorious exceptions,’ Schröter objects.
‘If there were once such exceptions of undoubted greatness, to whom we may even attribute a theoretical and practical claim to leadership without further ado, why then should there not be people today who want nothing else but to fight with us against Hitler?’ Dr Böttcher asks. ‘You should not enter into a pact with the bourgeoisie, even though I, I should add in passing, doubt that the bourgeoisie will continue to exist after the war, either as a class or as a factor of power. But you should reach out your hand to those bourgeois who are honest and of good will and acknowledge their equal rights without prejudice.’
‘Equal rights?’ says Schröter, outraged. ‘The path to socialism …’
‘… is not walked according to a textbook or a firmly outlined itinerary,’ Dr Böttcher cuts in. ‘What was correct in Russia might be wrong in Germany. Precisely if you are a good Marxist, you should know tha
t the economic conditions of a country and nothing else define the methods by which socialism can be turned into reality.’
‘We don’t want to reject elements that have been valuable to us in the past,’ Wiegand says. ‘In our underground struggle we have many fearless, loyal fighters in our ranks who do not come from the working class, and on the other hand – and I assume you know this too – many, sadly all too many, from our own ranks seem to have crossed over to the Nazis, flags flying. Is that true, or is it not?’
‘Yes, that is true,’ Schröter admits, ‘but they were not class-conscious workers.’
‘They were workers,’ Wiegand says matter-of-factly, ‘you can’t insist on a distinction on the one hand, and dispute it on the other.’
‘If you make common cause with a Catholic priest …’ Dr Böttcher begins.
‘I do,’ Schröter says, ‘I do, as long as he’s against Hitler.’
‘… then it doesn’t make you pious and it doesn’t make you an atheist,’ Dr Böttcher finishes his sentence, ‘and you can still work together. Must differences of a political or philosophical nature always lead to personal estrangement?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Schröter admits. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘I’ll tell you in a minute,’ Dr Böttcher replies. ‘So I can assume that the common fight leads to a watering-down of Marxist ideology. Isn’t that what you said?’
Schröter ignores the question. ‘Because the fight against Hitler forces us together.’
‘That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,’ Dr Böttcher says quickly, with a hint of triumph. ‘And afterwards something else will force us together again, but it won’t be a fight against, it will be a fight for.’
‘For what?’
‘For Germany.’
‘For Germany?’
‘Yes, for Germany. Is that so surprising?’
Schröter rocks his head back and forth. ‘You know, when I hear the word “Germany” it always makes me shudder, because I always have military music in my ears and see fireworks in the colours of the national flag.’