Berlin Finale (Penguin Modern Classics)

by Heinz Rein

  ‘Have you always loved, have you always passed the psychical exam before you slept with a girl?’ Elisabeth Mattner asks and turns to look at him again. ‘Have you always allowed your affection, your sympathy, your friendship or whatever else it was to mature fully before you … well, and so on?’

  Lassehn doesn’t reply, the question hits the core of his insecurity. ‘The all-clear,’ he says, nodding towards the window.

  ‘Why don’t you answer?’ Elisabeth Mattner asks and smiles quietly. ‘You asked just now if I loved you. Now I ask you: do you love me?’

  ‘I don’t know, Lisa,’ Lassehn replies, ‘I really don’t know, and the fact that I don’t know torments me. Just now, when you opened yourself up to me, I felt your heartbeat close to my chest and your nipples pierced me like daggers, when our mouths shared the same breath, there was a purple cloud in my brain, and I thought I loved you, but when I freed myself from you and the cloud flew away, when my heart beat a different rhythm to yours, everything was merely flesh.’

  Elisabeth Mattner slides to his side and draws his head down to her shoulder. ‘Why do you torment yourself, my boy?’ she asks softly, and seeks his lips. ‘You’ll never be happy if you dissect everything in your mind all the time, let your instincts take over and guide you, then you can still pluck some modest happiness, nothing more than that is listed on the menu of our lives.’

  ‘Can you come to terms with the fact that that’s how it is?’ Lassehn asks, and presses his cheek deeply into the curve of her neck.

  Lassehn feels her shoulders twitching. ‘I’ve given up thinking,’ she replies, ‘thinking doesn’t make you happy.’

  Lassehn lifts his head and seeks her eyes. ‘You’ve given up thinking, Lisa? Don’t you understand that by doing so you are depriving yourself of the attribute that elevates man above the animals?’

  Elisabeth Mattner laughs shrilly. ‘Thinking elevates man above the animals?’ she says. ‘My dear boy, that’s what the philosophers say, who sit lonely and godless in their rooms or sail high above the earth on pink clouds. No animal is so cruel, cowardly, cunning and wicked as thinking man. How do we elevate ourselves above the animals? By inventing flamethrowers, phosphorus canisters, gas chambers and poison gases? Oh, don’t talk to me about man as a noble creation.’ Her voice falls back to a whisper. ‘Don’t think, don’t think whatever you do, just live, live.’ She pulls Lassehn’s head back down to her and presses her body close to his. ‘Don’t think, my boy, just love and live before it’s too late.’

  Lassehn sees the dark-red, thirstily open mouth and feels the warm glow of her body pressing close to him, the little flame of his resistance flickers out in a purple dream and he sinks back into her bosom, which she thrusts impetuously towards him.

  When Lassehn wakes up, it is already pitch-dark in the room, he feels as if a sound has woken to him. He listens hard to the gloom, but hears only the ticking of a clock and the calm, even breathing of the sleeping woman who is lying right beside him and enveloping him in her warmth, otherwise it is oppressively quiet. Lassehn carefully frees himself from the woman, folds his arms under his head and stares into the darkness.

  Don’t think, she said, just love. Is that love? That collision of bodies, their wild seizing of each other, that whipping-up of the senses to unconsciousness? Is that love? Not the quiet, tender mutual immersion in one another that barely requires the body? He suddenly remembers a friendship in his youth, a memory that still makes the blood shoot to his head. It is only a small experience, a matter of seconds, but it is branded firmly on him. In the darkness of the room he sees Ellen Eggebrecht’s pure little face in front of him, her slightly protruding, Slavic cheekbones, her delicate, transparent skin, her bright, clear eyes, her slightly arched, childish upper lip, her dark-blonde hair held behind her head in two simple braids. They had grown up together, they had always been quite unselfconscious with each other until … yes, until one day he bent over a book that she was reading and his face brushed her cheek. It was only a fleeting contact, a trace of warmth had passed from her to him, they looked at each other and blushed, he was flooded with a sweet and painful tenderness, not been startled by wild desire.

  The memory is quite unreal, as remote as a fairy tale from long ago. The mouth of the woman whose eager breath had touched his face just now, her kisses with sharp teeth, darting tongue and devouring lips brushed him like a hot wind and didn’t leave a trace, the softly flooding warmth of that sharp-smelling, girlish cheek, that random tender touch, is almost more present to him than the hot body of the woman who sleeps next to him, breathing calmly, a naked, soft, warm, wildly tender woman whose body has occupied his, and his body hers, demanding no love, just the satisfaction of the senses.

  Lassehn turns on the side-table lamp and looks carefully at the sleeping woman’s face. She lies there like a sleeping child, her hands folded under her cheek as if praying, her light-blonde hair that has fallen over her forehead like a wave, her nostrils quivering gently along with her regular breathing, which touches him like a warm wind, the crimson mouth cuts like a dark wound in the pale, tender skin of the face, that mouth that enticed him and brought the two of them together. Lassehn’s eye lingers on each of her features in turn, grateful for the peace that she has brought to his dammed-up blood, for the comforting fact that in the middle of a desert of grief and tears a woman’s body can still bring oblivion. Love, no, it isn’t love, he has sunk into her body, he has lain between her breasts as if in a sheltering cave and sought refuge in her bosom.

  Lassehn brushes the wave of hair from her brow and strokes her head gently. Then he gives a start, a whistling sound passes through the air, followed by an explosion. He knows straight away that it was this sound that woke him just now, and that it is artillery fire. Artillery? Of course, anti-aircraft fire has a deeper sound, and bombs don’t make that drawn-out whistle. Where could artillery be firing from? But then a thought leaps on him like a cat. The Russians.

  In an instant he stops thinking of the woman beside him. There … there it is again, that long whistle followed by an explosion. Lassehn sits up and listens, his senses taut, every pore of his body absorbing sounds. A few minutes pass, followed by another shot. There can no longer be any doubt: the Russians have begun firing at Berlin.

  Lassehn leans down to the sleeping woman. ‘Lisa,’ he says, stroking her face. ‘Lisa wake up!’

  Elisabeth Mattner opens her eyes, her eyelids slide slowly upwards like a rising curtain, for a second she is dazed with sleep, then a smile appears on her face. ‘What is it, my boy?’ she asks, reaching out her arms towards him.

  ‘We’ve got artillery fire,’ Lassehn says excitedly.

  Then the smile slips from her eyes to cover the whole of her face, like the sun shining over a field. ‘What do we care about that, Joachim,’ she says, and throws her arms around his neck. ‘Come on, we’re still alive today, who knows what tomorrow will bring.’

  Lassehn pulls her hands gently from the back of his neck. ‘This is serious, Lisa,’ he says disapprovingly. ‘There it is, you hear that?’

  Elisabeth Mattner sits up, terrified. ‘That’s … but that’s …’

  ‘… artillery fire,’ Lassehn finishes her sentence. ‘The time has come, Stalin ante portas!’

  The stillness of the night is suddenly interrupted, the house has come alive all at once, doors are opened and closed, footsteps thunder, excited voices sound. Elisabeth Mattner listens with her head raised, she folds her arms over her naked breasts and grips her shoulders. ‘My God,’ she says, her lips twitching. ‘How is that possible?’

  Lassehn laughs briefly. ‘Strange question! Weren’t you prepared for it? According to the last bulletins …’

  ‘Just a moment,’ the woman interrupts him, listening to the sounds outside. A car has arrived, it sounds its horn three times and then twice more after a pause, the door closes, but the engine goes on chugging.

  Elisabeth Mattner glances fleetingly at Lassehn, slips qu
ickly out of bed and starts hurriedly getting dressed.

  Lassehn has been watching her admiringly, and immediately guesses the connection between her getting up and the signal of the car horn.

  ‘What is it, Lisa?’ he asks. ‘Are you getting up already? It’s only three o’clock.’

  ‘Stop asking so many questions and get dressed,’ Elisabeth Mattner replies impatiently. ‘Something must have happened for him to turn up at this time of night.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Lassehn asks.

  ‘You should get dressed,’ Elisabeth Mattner repeats irritably. ‘Or stay in bed, but stay calm. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Certainly, madam,’ Lassehn replies. ‘But who is he? Your husband? In that case …’

  ‘You’re making me very nervous with all your questions,’ Elisabeth Mattner says, and fastens her stockings with darting fingers. ‘My God, what’s up with him, turning up in the middle of the night … There he is!’

  The doorbell rings through the flat three times, and twice more after a short pause.

  ‘Who is he?’ Lassehn persists, and starts getting dressed as well.

  ‘A good friend,’ Elisabeth Mattner replies, and puts on a dressing gown. ‘You know him, by the way, he’s that red-faced man.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ Lassehn says slowly. ‘Isn’t he a colleague of yours?’

  ‘He’s my boss,’ Elisabeth Mattner replies. ‘Ministerial director at the Interior Ministry.’ She walks up to Lassehn and kisses him quickly. ‘Stay calm, all right?’

  Lassehn nods, then he is alone in the room. He gets dressed quickly and opens the door to the next room a crack, he is curious about why the red-faced man, the ministerial director, is out on the road at this time of night, and why he’s driven to see Elisabeth Mattner, who is probably his secretary and whom he calls Lisa while she calls him fatso … No, that can’t be, that flabby man and Lisa … Lassehn fights down the suspicion that assails him like a sudden coughing fit.

  Then he hears voices in the next room.

  ‘Hurry up and get ready, Lisa,’ the red-faced man says excitedly. ‘There’s no time to lose, Secretary of State Kritzinger ordered the Thusnelda transport operation to begin half an hour ago.’

  ‘Are things as bad as that?’ Elisabeth Mattner says incredulously.

  The red-faced man sounds impatient. ‘Good God, are you living on the moon? Haven’t you read today’s Wehrmacht report?’

  ‘No, the paper didn’t arrive, and then there was the power cut …’

  The red-faced man unfolds a newspaper. ‘Listen to this, Lisa. I’ll just … Yes, here it is:

  “From the Führer’s headquarters, 20 April

  This is an announcement from Wehrmacht high command:

  An extremely bitter battle is raging against the Bolshevik mass assault between the Sudeten and the Oderbruch. West of the Lausitzer Neisse …”

  ‘That’s not it. Yes, this is it:

  “In the battle outside Berlin our brave divisions on either side of Frankfurt [an der Oder] have successfully repelled enemy forces, and re-established the old main battle line as a counter-attack. The situation at Müncheberg and Wriezen has intensified. In spite of tough resistance large enemy armoured forces successfully advanced from the area of Müncheberg further to the south-west and the south into the area around Tempelberg and Buchholz. Counter-attacks are planned. At Wriezen the Soviets threw recently transferred forces into the battle. Bitter fighting continues in the areas of Sterneberg and Prötzel. According to incomplete reports …”

  ‘And so on, and so on. This is today’s Wehrmacht report, my child, so the situation yesterday, and a day has passed in the meantime …’

  ‘But counter-attacks have been planned,’ Elisabeth Mattner objects. ‘Don’t you think …’

  Lassehn hears the red-faced man clapping his hands together. ‘So? What does that mean? Counter-attacks are always scheduled, even at Stalingrad we counter-attacked, at Falaise and Tunis, but whether they are successful is a whole other question. The Russians can barely be stopped now, at least not from Berlin, I have reliable reports that they are already in Fürstenwalde, Hoppegarten and Hohe Neuendorf.’ He is speaking quickly, his words are tumbling over each other, his pompous, drawling speech has made way for a vulgar cadence. ‘And you must have heard that the city is already under artillery fire.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Elisabeth Mattner says eagerly, ‘at first I didn’t know what was going on.’

  The red-faced man stamps his feet impatiently. ‘Come on, girl, don’t stand around, get dressed and tell me which suitcase you want to take. The chauffeur can bring it downstairs.’

  ‘I just need to …’

  ‘Of course! What are you waiting for? Or do you want to be fucked by a Bolshevik?’ He gives a short burst of laughter. ‘That’s what I’m here for, at least every now and again, at least until the meagre supplies run out.’

  Lassehn feels numb. So that’s how it is, the red-faced man and Lisa … He feels ill, the revulsion within him is so strong that he has to put his hands over his ears, but he can’t escape their loud, agitated conversation.

  ‘I can’t come with you now, Georg,’ Elisabeth Mattner says. ‘This morning, let’s say eight o’clock.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ the red-faced man says firmly, ‘we can’t take the train, the lines to the south and the south-west have been destroyed, Halle and Leipzig are lost already, my darling.’

  ‘Right, so what’s going to happen?’

  ‘I don’t know either,’ the red-faced man says. ‘But for now let’s get out of here. It’s clear that things have gone wrong, we’ve got to find a way of getting out of this madness safe and sound …’

  ‘So how do you plan to …’ Elisabeth Mattner asks, confused.

  ‘My car is waiting down below, I’ve got enough petrol coupons. Get a move on, would you?’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To Eutin first of all, the district chief executives have been instructed to sort out lodgings. Later we might travel on to Holstein. Why do you keep staring at your bedroom door?’

  ‘I’m not,’ Elisabeth Mattner says.

  ‘Don’t play games with me, I know your tricks, my darling. Have you got somebody in there?’

  Lassehn gives a start, he quickly releases the safety catch on his revolver and pushes the door open. ‘Good morning,’ he says, and looks the red-faced man defiantly in the eye. ‘Delighted to see you again.’

  If he had thought the red-faced man would be seized by a fit of rage and lunge at him, he was mistaken. The red-faced man returns his gaze with a superior, amused smile. ‘Well look at this,’ he says, ‘aren’t you the young man we picked up on Wittenbergplatz a few days ago, who then ran off with Lisa? Of course you are, I recognize you now, even though you’re wearing a more respectable suit today.’

  Elisabeth Mattner stands slightly to the side, tottering back and forth on her heels. ‘Don’t fight,’ she says severely, ‘we’ve got other things to worry about. Be sensible, Joachim.’

  ‘So the boy’s called Joachim,’ the red-faced man says. ‘Were you pleased with him?’

  ‘Shut up!’ Lassehn says furiously. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself …’

  ‘I’m not jealous, young man,’ the red-faced man says, ‘in the end Lisa can do whatever she sees fit.’

  The conversation is torture to Lassehn, the assertive pose that he adopted just now when entering the room was not real and falls from him like a withered leaf. ‘Lisa,’ he says, agonized, ‘I can’t believe that you and this man … No, no, tell me it isn’t so!’

  ‘And why not?’ the red-faced man says. ‘Because I’m not as young as you and not so favoured in terms of my appearance?’ He laughs, a deep, chuckling laugh. ‘I have other qualities, young man, I have good connections in very high places and so on, and our Lisa – may I say that, or do you have some objection to the use of the possessive pronoun? – our Lisa values that, apart from her powerful need for love she has
other demands, and you probably can’t fulfil those, that’s where us old fellows come in useful …’

  ‘Shut up, Georg!’ Elisabeth Mattner barks at him. ‘You’re being coarse. So what happens now?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ the red-faced man shoots back. ‘You mean because I found the young man here with you? You know I’m not prissy. Now get a move on!’

  ‘So the ministerial director can run away?’ Lassehn asks sarcastically. ‘While the ordinary people have to stay and fight?’

  ‘I warn you, young man!’ the red-faced man says menacingly. ‘There’s something very suspicious about you. Don’t imagine you’re taboo to me just because you’ve been to bed with Lisa!’

  ‘I think you’re a wonderful national comrade, dear sir!’ Lassehn says confidently. ‘Over the last few days something has changed very slightly, your throne is toppling, gentlemen!’

  The red-faced man takes a step towards Lassehn. ‘Why you little … I’ll …’

  ‘You won’t do a thing,’ Lassehn says, ‘before you can make a single sound I’ll put a bullet in your belly, taking away your hearing, your sight and the whole of your miserable existence.’

  ‘Please, Georg, stop,’ Elisabeth Mattner cuts in, and then, turning to Lassehn: ‘I think it’s best if you go, Joachim, I’m really sorry …’

  Lassehn is unperturbed. ‘You don’t owe me an explanation,’ he says, and walks to the door. ‘Bon voyage,’ he adds, ‘but don’t imagine you will escape your punishment. Whether in Berlin or Holstein or anywhere else, we will catch up with you.’

  Downstairs he feels as if he is waking from a bad dream.

  V

  21 April

  The district around Silesian Station has changed crucially throughout these days. The flow of refugees that poured from the station into Fruchststrasse, Langestrasse, Breslauer Strasse and Koppenstrasse to seep from here into the city centre has dried up, the columns of handcarts, rack wagons, boxcarts, wheelbarrows, prams, farmers’ carts, bicycles, overladen cars and heavy trucks, the dull grey mass of exhausted, desperate, half-starving and half-crazed women, of stumbling, wailing old men and women, wailing and whimpering children, have flowed away into the canals of the ruins of Berlin. They have been fleeing the front, and have drawn the front behind them as if by some magical force of attraction. The thunder of the guns and the engine howl of the aircraft are like an echo of their footsteps.