Berlin Finale (Penguin Modern Classics)

by Heinz Rein

  For a brief moment a strange stillness has settled, as if a riverbed has run dry and the sandy, stony ground has been revealed. But then other waves have come crashing in and washed the front into the streets: the whole area has become a communications zone close to the front. The streets are crammed full with vehicles of all kinds: trucks, cars, Tiger tanks, mobile assault guns, anti-tank cannon, field artillery guns, gun carriages, field kitchens, ambulances, the loudspeaker vans of the propaganda units, cars with radio aerials, armoured cars. There are pyramids of rifles, mortars, machine guns, ammunition boxes, and everywhere soldiers, soldiers, soldiers.

  Berlin has always been a city of soldiers, but these soldiers roaming around Silesian Station district are of a kind that Berlin has not previously encountered. Berlin knows soldiers in war and peace, marching off and coming home, soldiers victorious and defeated; it has seen the regiments exercising in Prussian goose-step at the imperial parades in the Tempelhof fields, it has seen them going off to war in August 1914, singing and draped with flowers, cheered by tearful crowds, and coming back four years later, beaten.

  But almost in the same order as before, after a temporary weariness of all things military, it has befriended the new Reichswehr, which, in undying Prussian tradition, marched to mount guard at the monument to the fallen on Unter den Linden, and it became extremely intimate with the new National Socialist kind of Wehrmacht, proudly displaying its new achievements and amazing diversity at the Hitler parades on the Charlottenburger Chaussee. Finally, in 1939, the city experienced the unsung departure of the regiments from their barracks, without one of the many leaders of the boastful German Reich, normally so eloquent, deeming them worthy of an address and ensuring them that God was with them. Once again, in autumn 1940, the city was washed over by a mighty wave of soldiers when the troop transports rolled day and night, week after week, along the city railway and the various railway lines from west to east, towards a destination that was secretly whispered of but known to everyone. In the years that followed, countless personnel on leave arrived at the city and criss-crossed it, personnel who looked less like German soldiers than like Turkish porters, wheezing, sweating, dripping, with bent backs and transfigured faces as they dragged huge burdens, boxes, sacks, rucksacks, kit bags, suitcases, cardboard boxes, all kinds of luggage, soldierly souvenirs of the subjected lands.

  None of these categories of soldiers exist in Berlin today, the city is now becoming acquainted with a new type of soldier that it has not seen for a long time, the weary, unshaven, dirty, battle-weary, starving soldier: the front-line soldier. They drift uselessly around or sit about in groups, rolling cigarettes or coming back again and again to the field kitchen, keeping out of the way of the officers where possible and calling out crude jokes to the girls. When shots ring out, they automatically head for cover and reappear when the danger is past. The officers give the appearance of being busy, they walk around hurriedly or with important expressions on their faces, they give orders or revoke them, they send out couriers and receive reports, but anyone who knows how to read their faces can see between their orders and instructions their deep insecurity, the nervous anxiety they are struggling to suppress.

  The streets around Silesian Station have become an army camp, even the pavements are occupied, there are telephone wires stretched everywhere, in the hallways of the blocks of flats there are makeshift offices, and sleeping places and mobile first-aid stations have been set up in basements, shops, warehouses, factories, flats, under the arches of bridges and in tunnels, commanding voices, orders, curses, swearing, roaring, engine noise, the rattle of tanks, the clatter of typewriters, the whinnying of horses, music from loudspeakers, that is the acoustic backdrop of these days, sweat, the stench of petrol, a miasma of oil, gun smoke, the odours of field kitchens, a haze of tobacco, a smell of burning, clouds of smoke, chloroform, blood – that is the cloud of smells in which these days are enveloped.

  Given the presence of these troops, known in good Prussian barracks as a band of pigs, the reports from the propaganda units are revealed for what they are: didactic dramas from the National Socialist propaganda primers for low-grade learners. Here all the propaganda reports, in which the lyrical element of descriptions of nature is an essential requirement (because they are designed to demonstrate the literary gift of the author and the human greatness of the German soldier in passing, but by no means inconspicuously), show themselves to be legends, they are stripped of their propagandist garb and all that remains are the only two things important for soldiers: food and sleep. In between there are orders and obedience and – if necessary – fighting.

  But at first there is no fighting at Silesian Station, even if the Russian artillery fire is getting louder from hour to hour, and the low-flying planes are sometimes shooting so close to the rooftops that the red stars can clearly be seen on the white metal.

  On the Strasse Am Schlesischen Bahnhof, between Klose’s restaurant and the Wehrmacht shelter, two four-man anti-aircraft guns have been set up, an anti-tank gun aimed at the freight-train tracks of the Eastern Station has been placed on the corner of Langestrasse and Fruchtstrasse, tanks with open turrets stand on Küstriner Platz and Mühlenstrasse, their guns aimed menacingly eastward, engineer units are busy bringing explosive charges under the railway viaducts above Fruchtstrasse and Koppenstrasse, and on the bridges over the Spree along Brommystrasse and Schillingstrasse. The entrances to Silesian Station, that iron-ribbed double atrium, are guarded by police sentries with sub-machine guns, their spread legs pressed solidly against the cobbles and the chin-straps of their steel helmets firmly tightened, because a general has set up his command post in the bunker under platform A. The general-staff map spread out in front of him no longer shows any Russian or Polish names, it is no longer on a scale of 1:100,000 or 1:250,000, and neither is it in fact a general-staff map. The magnitude of the task of leading the fatherland out of the war forced upon it and into the long-promised final victory is strangely in inverse proportion to the scale of the general-staff maps, so the scale of the map over which the general bends his worried head is 1:20,000 – it is merely a street map of Berlin.

  In the midst of the army camp the meagre remains of civilian life vegetate like the sparse greenery among the rubble of ruined houses. In the course of the war it has shrunk more and more, almost all of the achievements of civilization have collapsed in turn, after the successful constriction of minds and souls. The fall into a primitive state did not happen all at once; the limitations and compulsory renunciations which were identified by the leadership with a telling wink across the Channel (where things are much, much worse), forced life slowly but inexorably into a tiny corner; every form of order was only provisional, every state merely temporary. Giving up on a certain quantity and kind of food is taken for granted, along with giving up on undisturbed sleep and a roof over one’s head, after giving up on many different things had already been accepted, but with a strange perseverance among the ruins of the city, in the uncertain hours between the air raids and in the short pauses between work and sleep people had clung to a scrap of personal life. Now that the front line has come to the city, that has been erased, swept away by the fear of death. The war, hitherto a chronic illness with upsetting bursts of colic, now assails them with a burning, paralysing fever. The heroism, perseverance, spirit of sacrifice, Teutonic dedication commonly attributed to them are nothing but the primal survival instinct and, if there is still a thought in their minds, it is that of being liberated, of being liberated from the war, no matter by whom, no matter how, no matter by what, by the armies of Zhukov, Montgomery and Eisenhower, or by Hitler and his miracle weapon.

  Only a very few look on calmly at the development of things, because they predicted the catastrophe when the crowd was still celebrating victories. One of them is Klose, he stands in the doorway of his restaurant with his sleeves rolled up and gazes out over the soldiers and the baggage train. Anyone who took the time to look more closely into his wide
face with the slightly plump chin would discover, at the back of his eyes, an evil, hate-filled light, but who in these hours, as the volcano of war begins to pour its iron lava over the city, has time to look in other people’s faces?

  After a while the hard, piercing gaze vanishes from Klose’s eyes and his face fills with a slack smile of nausea. He takes the one-page sheet from a newspaper seller, steps back into the restaurant and begins to read.

  ‘Der Angriff, together with Berliner illustrierte Nachtausgabe

  Saturday, 21 April 1945

  The Führer’s Sacred Mission

  by Dr Robert Ley

  Yesterday, when I came back to Berlin from the battle zone of Lower Silesia, I thought on the Führer’s birthday about that strange, unique personality, about his fateful historical mission and his superhuman achievement for the salvation of the German people, and I would like to write my thoughts down here.

  Right now, when incorruptible destiny, through the sudden death of Roosevelt, is driving the active individuals of this battle for the world into the foreground and demanding that we make the comparison with the rescuing of the Führer on 20 July, it is absolutely necessary to ask, beyond the day’s events, about the demands made by destiny on the active individuals, whether friend or foe. In Roosevelt’s case fate has spoken clearly and distinctly. Contrary to all reason, and thus contrary to destiny, he has begun the most criminal war of all time, brought monstrous suffering and unimaginable misery down on humanity. He has offended against God and man, which is why he was condemned, he had to die. In the case of Adolf Hitler fate clearly and distinctly declared its will. Destiny preserved the Führer from the shameful attack and granted him life to fulfil his historical mission. Let no one tell me: that is chance. No, that is fate. I believe in the Führer’s historical mission, his sacred, saving mission to save the German people from downfall and lead National Socialist Germany to victory.

  What would have happened if Adolf Hitler and his idea had not come? If Adolf Hitler had not come, the German people would no longer exist. Let no one imagine this only concerns National Socialism and its Führer. Were we wicked and corruptible enough to hand the German people, its life and its freedom, over to the Bolshevik and plutocratic hangmen, the Jews in Moscow and New York would accept us just as they accept any other traitors. But because the Führer and his party pursue and fulfil their historical mission incorruptibly and unswervingly, therefore they hate him and therefore they hate us.

  In the most difficult situations I was always near the Führer. I also had the rare happiness of getting to know the Führer as a person. But only in the last weeks and months have I come to know him in all his greatness. The greatest thing about Adolf Hitler is his unshakeable faith and his unparalleled resilience. When everyone falters, the Führer never falters. When many hang their heads, the Führer’s confidence remains steadfast. When no one can find a way out, the Führer finds it. He believes in victory and his mission: preserving Germany from its downfall.

  The resistance of the German people cannot be broken, because Adolf Hitler cannot be broken.’

  Klose slings the sheet of paper onto the table with a contemptuous laugh. ‘That is …’ he exclaims and shakes his head. ‘Reading that, you’re just speechless at the impudence.’

  ‘You’re insulting your intelligence to engage with such things,’ Wiegand says, and picks up the newspaper. ‘Why are you actually so annoyed?’

  ‘Reading such nonsense would give you apoplexy,’ Klose replies furiously and rinses a few glasses.

  Wiegand glances at the page and smiles ironically. ‘Did you expect anything else, Oskar?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Klose replies, ‘but the brazenness of it still takes my breath away. In the past the Nazis have always packaged their nonsense very cleverly, but now the distance between lies and truth is so great …’

  ‘… that it can no longer be ignored, is that what you mean?’ Wiegand says. ‘Yes, that ceased to be of any importance a long time ago, just as exhibitionists know of their criminal inclinations and still give them free rein, just as they keep on exposing themselves however many punishments they receive so Goebbels, Ley, Dietrich, Fritzsche and the others go on writing, regardless of the realities, and it isn’t even entirely certain whether it isn’t a similar psychopathic state. For us, maintaining distance from things, the discrepancy has become actually monstrous.’

  ‘We know the drill by now,’ Klose says, ‘and it still makes us want to throw up. Where is Lassehn, by the way?’

  ‘I’ve been worried about him,’ Wiegand says, and gets to his feet. ‘He was supposed to be fetching a few Volkssturm armbands for us, that’s the best disguise at the moment.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Klose says, ‘they’re grabbing every man who isn’t actually crawling on all fours, and they’re supposed to have issued the fourth Volkssturm conscription order.’

  Wiegand paces uneasily back and forth. ‘As long as nothing has happened to the boy.’

  ‘It’s no small matter being out and about right now,’ Klose says, and dries his hands, ‘there are checks everywhere, and then there’s all the shooting … Have you any idea where he was last night?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything,’ Wiegand replies, ‘but I assume he was with a woman. Yesterday afternoon he asked my wife to iron the only good suit he managed to save.’

  ‘He is a young lad,’ Klose laughs, ‘and these things have to happen even in wartime, but it seems to me that he’s suffered a disappointment. His face when he came back at about six …’

  ‘Right,’ Wiegand agreed, ‘he looked so pale, so tired, but not as if he hadn’t slept, I would say it was a kind of psychical exhaustion. The boy has a good core that hasn’t been eaten away by Nazism, I also think his character is faultless, but he’s a bit too soft.’

  ‘That’s only half true,’ Klose objects, ‘the way he killed Sasse, and more importantly that SS cop out at yours, that was pretty good.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Wiegand says and looks out through the big window at the street, ‘but afterwards his nerves go. What he lacks is a solid political or philosophical foundation. But where is a young person supposed to pick up one of those, if he didn’t get it at home?’ He falls silent for a moment and listens tensely. ‘The artillery is now thumping away almost without interruption, the explosions aren’t very far away either. Just wait, soon … Oh hang on, we’ve got visitors.’

  The door is pushed violently open, two dozen Volkssturm members force their way pushing and shouting into the restaurant. They are a curious bunch, most of them elderly men with greying hair, their movements angular, clumsy or ungainly, some of them have a pronounced limp, one of them even has a false arm. Their weapons consist of three rocket launchers, a bazooka and about a dozen M98 rifles, and some of them are unarmed. Not one of them is in uniform, the only identical thing about them is their red, black and red armband and their peevish expression. One of them is wearing an ancient pair of field-grey trousers with knee patches and quite a new officer’s coat without epaulettes, another one is parading in a hussar’s jacket and jodhpurs, Bavarian shoes and sports socks, two others wear the old dark-blue uniform of the Schutzpolizei, the others civilian suits, but they all feel obliged to give themselves a military appearance, whether through belts or shoulder straps, knee-length boots or work caps, knapsacks or haversacks, some even have bed rolls, rucksacks, gas masks, bayonets, hunting knives and holsters.

  ‘Greetings, Comrades!’ Klose exclaims. ‘Just a quick snifter, and then off to fight the enemy!’

  ‘Stop chatting!’ says a tall, thin man whose wrinkled, shrunken neck protrudes high from the collar of his Litewka jacket. ‘Just bring us a beer!’

  ‘I’m right here, until supplies run out,’ Klose replies, filling one glass after another and studying the Volkssturm men with contemptuous irony. ‘Looking at you,’ he goes on, ‘I can’t help thinking about what little Goebbels said in November at the big Volkssturm rally.’

/>   ‘What did he say?’ one of them asks.

  ‘The truth, as always, only the truth,’ Klose says, ‘namely: “The Volkssturm is, by the Führer’s will, a thoroughly modern force!” If you are the modern soldiers, I’d like to see the unmodern ones.’

  ‘Stop your rabbiting. Have you got a few cigarettes?’ asks another one, who is wearing a pair of smart riding boots and a patched and discoloured pair of breeches.

  ‘No,’ says Klose with a broad grin, ‘but you can have a bockwurst and salad or a Wiener schnitzel, or a plate of decent meatballs …’

  ‘Christ, stop it!’ says a small man who is trying in vain to hide his crooked shoulder under a big windcheater. ‘Or I’ll fire my rocket launcher at your fat belly.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Klose replies, and skims off the long row of glasses with a single, quick movement, ‘that rocket launcher would be the one that would have saved Berlin by firing at the last T-34.’

  ‘Is this a pub or a madhouse?’ an asthmatic man asks, pulling furiously at the tips of his moustache. He is wearing a greasy blue postman’s uniform with an old belt buckled under it.

  ‘Why?’ Klose says with a serious expression. ‘What was it the Führer said? “However long the war may last, the final battalion on the battlefield will be a German one.” I don’t think you’re taking the battle for Berlin seriously, gentlemen, it’s about the survival of our glorious Reich. Gathered closely around our great Führer …’