by Heinz Rein
Lassehn gives a start when he is spoken to. ‘You’re a man extra for now, Comrade,’ the section leader says to him. ‘You can take charge of the two couriers who are still on their way here, and perhaps our brave girl reservist. That’ll be the couriers now …’
The door opens, but it isn’t the two couriers who come in, but two elderly men, wearing the blue armband of air-raid wardens, steel helmets and gas-mask holders, one of them an old man with an ice-grey moustache, the other one a middle-sized, squat man, slightly younger, with a broad, bright-red scar on his right cheek.
‘Good evening,’ says the man with the scar, and looks curiously around.
‘Heil Hitler!’ the section leader says, and raises his hand in a salute. The two men mutter a few indistinct words.
‘So who’s … I mean, who is this fellow …’ the squat man begins. ‘Right, we’d like to speak to the person in charge of this place, the man in charge …’
‘That’s me,’ says the section leader. ‘What is it?’
‘You?’ the old man says, surprised, and looks the section leader up and down. ‘Christ, you don’t even believe that yourself. There were a few people from the Party here yesterday, a few old fighters, where have they got to?’
‘They’ve been transferred elsewhere, and I’ve been put in charge,’ the section leader replies.
‘In other words they ran away,’ the man with the scar observes, and purses his lips with contempt.
‘How dare you!’ the section leader says furiously.
‘Don’t get so worked up, kid,’ the old man says reassuringly and nudges his companion, ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’
‘I hope not,’ the section leader says frostily, but, softening his tone a little, ‘we need to stick together now, in our fatherland’s most difficult hour.’
The old man nods. ‘Yes, stick together, young man, that’s why we’re here.’
‘Right then,’ the section leader says, relieved. ‘So if I’ve understood you correctly, Comrades, you want to fight with us …’
The old man gives a startled glance at the section leader and then looks at each of the others in turn. ‘Fight? I don’t understand.’
‘Of course, fight,’ the section leader confirms. ‘Why else did you come?’
The man with the scar now pushes the older man aside. ‘We’re air-raid wardens from Ebertystrasse and Thorner Strasse, and we speak in the name of over a dozen air-raid wardens from Cotheniusstrasse, Paul-Heyse-Strasse and Kochhannstrasse …’
‘So you’re a sort of delegation?’ the section leader interrupts.
‘If that’s what you want to call us,’ the man with the scar says impatiently. ‘And now I would like to ask you not to interrupt me any more, because what we have to say is extremely urgent.’ He takes a deep breath and looks steadily at the section leader. ‘We came here to ask you not to put up any unnecessary resistance. Our cellars …’
Bewilderment spreads over the section leader’s face, and he looks around as if searching for something. ‘I don’t understand …’
‘I’m talking now, damn it!’ the man with the scar rages. ‘Our cellars are crammed full of old and sick people, women, children and babies, we don’t want them to go to the dogs just because you …’
‘That’s enough!’ the section leader interrupts him. ‘I’m going to pretend I haven’t heard what you’re asking me to do.’
‘Chuck a hand grenade in his face,’ one of the air-force auxiliaries said. ‘Cowardly scum! You’re a pack of traitors and defeatists!’
‘Shut your face, you young pup!’ the man with the scar shouts furiously. ‘What do you know about what’s happening? You’re still wet behind the ears! I’m sure you’re very proud that you’re playing the soldier here, that you can act the strong man?’
‘God, Horst, let him have it!’
‘That’s enough!’ the section leader says loudly. ‘Do you know I could have you put up against the wall?’ he says, turning to the air-raid warden, ‘but I’m not taking your request seriously, I’ll put it down to your …’
‘Right, that’s enough!’ the man with the scar rages, and raises his hand. ‘A little brat like this wants to …’
Wiegand quickly grabs the raised arm and steps between the man and the section leader. ‘Calm down, Comrade, calm down …’
The other man shakes his arm away.
‘And as for you, and you and you and you’ – he points to Schröter and the others – ‘you’re sitting around here and letting this little scoundrel order you about. You’re a bunch of cowards, pitiful cowards! You should be ashamed of yourselves!’
‘That’s enough!’ the section leader says loudly. ‘Get out of here! I don’t need to negotiate with you. We are here to do our duty, to stand for our oath of loyalty to the Führer and, if fate so decrees, to die.’
‘You can decide to die if you like,’ the man with the scar replies, ‘but you can’t decide for others. You’re talking about dying like a blind man talking about colour. Good God, don’t you notice that it’s nothing but empty words?’
‘Shut up,’ the section leader says.
‘I’m not going to let you stop me talking! The muzzle’s coming off now, son!’
‘I am standing here for our German people!’
‘Very good! And we’ve been sent by the people,’ the old man with the white moustache joins in. ‘My colleague may have been a bit violent, and he expressed himself too coarsely, but he doesn’t mean it. Listen calmly, lad, the people sitting in our cellars are all old people, women and children, do you want them to perish for nothing whatsoever?’
‘You call Germany nothing whatsoever?’
‘Chuck him out on his ear!’ an air-force auxiliary shouts.
‘Bullet in the arse!’ cries another. ‘Why are you spending so long talking to these doddery old fools?’
The old man gives the speaker a pitying stare. ‘Father forgive them, they know not what they do, it says in the Bible,’ he says almost solemnly.
‘How do you little chaps think you’re going to fight the Russians?’ the man with the scar asks. ‘They will come at you with tanks, guns and fighter planes, and if you so much as fire a shot they’ll crush you like bedbugs.’
‘I order you once more to leave the guardroom,’ the section leader says.
‘Fine, fine,’ says the man with the scar, shrugging. ‘There’s no talking to you, or’ – he nods towards Wiegand, Schröter and Dr Böttcher – ‘with you lot either. These brats are just gormless, but you lot are cowardly and irresponsible, and that’s much worse. But I’ll tell you this, that when the first Russian soldier appears you’ll be flying the white flag! You can be slaughtered for your beloved Führer as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I might point out to you,’ the section leader says, ‘that according to Dr Goebbels’ decree you are putting yourselves outside the national community by doing this.’
‘Let’s do that!’ the man with the scar says. ‘Let’s just do that! You can’t talk French to a cow, and you can’t talk sense to a Nazi. We should have known that. Come on, Albert!’
‘We’ll come out with you,’ Wiegand says quickly, and glances at Schröter. ‘So that they don’t do anything stupid outside, Section Leader.’ He gives him a reassuring nod.
When they are in the street, Wiegand looks cautiously around, then he takes the man with the scar by the arm and says quietly, ‘Prepare everyone in your houses for surrender, Comrades, but be careful not to fly the white flags too soon, follow our example and put a few reliable people in the hallways.’
The man with the scar and the older man stare at him in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand you. You mean we should …’
‘Yes, you should,’ Schröter says impatiently, ‘you’ve understood correctly. How much effort do you think it took to keep our mouths shut in there? Man, we’re not here to fight, but to stop the fighting. Have you ever heard of Rumpelstiltskin?’
‘Of course, he’s
the …’
‘Yes, that one,’ Schröter interrupts him quickly, ‘and this is one of Rumpelstiltskin’s operations. You can be sure that it’s going to work. Is that clear?’
‘Yes! But there’s one thing I still don’t understand.’
‘What? Come on, out with it!’
‘Why don’t you just fly the white flag and chuck those Hitler lads out of their shack?’
‘Because we don’t want to put ourselves in danger unnecessarily!’ Wiegand says. ‘Or do you think we want to have the SS on our backs? The white flag goes up when the Russians are here and not before.’
‘After killing those boys first?’
‘Nonsense!’ Schröter says with a quick wave of the hand. ‘What can those kids do about anything? We’ll shut them in until it’s all over. Right, now off you go, get everything ready, but don’t talk about it. Good luck!’
‘You’re all right,’ the man with the scar says, ‘I’m sure you’ll do it. Right, let’s get going!’
The men shake hands, then the two air-raid wardens walk into the street.
‘Those two were very brave coming here,’ Schröter observes, watching after them. ‘Courage hasn’t quite died out.’
‘It’s comforting to know that,’ Wiegand says.
‘Did you talk to them?’ the section leader asks.
‘We made the position clear to them again,’ Wiegand replies. ‘Old men like that are sometimes odd, and you’re a bit young, Section Leader, but you can rely on the fact that they won’t do anything stupid.’
‘Then everything’s all right,’ the section leader says, and sighs with relief. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ Schröter says and smiles, ‘our pleasure.’
The section leader nods to him and turns round. ‘Volkmar, you can take over from the sentry.’
While the boy is still putting on his bluish-grey coat, the door is pulled open and two Hitler Youth come stumbling in with their bicycles, gasping for air and waving their arms around wildly.
‘It’s kicking off,’ one of them says, ‘the Russians are already at Weissenseer Weg, there was hardly any resistance in Hohenschönhausen, and now they’re slowly coming up Oderbruchstrasse.’
‘And what about the demolition squad?’ the section leader asks.
‘We don’t know,’ the other courier says. ‘Should we …’
‘Let me just see what’s going on up there,’ Wiegand says hastily, ‘and check that they aren’t sleeping through all this. Lassehn, come with me, and don’t forget your gun.’
‘You’re going to …’ the section leader begins.
‘… check that everything’s all right,’ Wiegand finishes his sentence.
Before the section leader can reply, Wiegand and Lassehn leave the bank and force their way through the barrier. In front of them the Landsberger Allee curves in a low arch over the S-Bahn towards the crossing by the Tax Office. There is a strange stillness in the air, there is no rush of trams, no squeal of brakes on the S-Bahn, no car horns, no bleating and grunting from the abattoir, no voices, no footsteps, no bicycle bells, the many noises of the city seem to have been erased, the only sounds that fill the air are the grinding rattle of tank tracks and the chirping of sparrows, planes rumble somewhere and guns thunder, but those sounds have nothing to do with this street. This street is silent and deserted. Berlin is a big city, and what is happening a dozen streets away is already a different war zone.
Lassehn and Wiegand run the 100 metres to the bridge. The guardroom has been installed in a restaurant by the entrance to the S-Bahn station, the door is wide open. Wiegand and Lassehn glance inside, but the room is empty and shows every sign of having been hastily abandoned.
Where is the demolition squad? With a few quick steps they are in the dark ticket office of the station. Bleakness and abandonment leap out at them, the only sound is the wind, which is knocking a loose poster back and forth. Where is … Then a few voices are heard, someone is speaking down on the platform.
Lassehn and Wiegand run down the steps, the platform lies in front of them, deserted and immersed in an unreal silence. The indicator is still showing ‘Ring via Ostkreuz’, and the men from the demolition squad are still standing on the platforms and staring at the bridge, which arches powerful and massive in front of them on the other side of the railway cutting.
‘Shame about the beautiful bridge,’ an engineer says.
‘Shame is dead,’ the NCO says, holding the detonator. ‘Come on, start getting out of here, along the track towards Weissensee.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I’m detonating in two minutes.’
‘No, don’t detonate,’ Wiegand calls, ‘Our rearguard are still on the way.’
The NCO shrugs. ‘Then they’ll have to go up through the allotments or up Storkower Strasse, I’ve got an order to blow it up when the Russian tank spearheads have reached Weissenseer Weg, and they’re there now, they may even be past it, I’m not bothered about anything else. Come on, clear off, or you’ll go up with it.’ He sets off at a slight trot, still holding the fuse.
Lassehn and Wiegand follow him ‘Be sensible, Comrade,’ Wiegand says.
‘Leave me in peace,’ the NCO says dismissively. ‘I’m not here to reflect upon reason or unreason, sense or nonsense but to carry out an order. Or do you think I want to get a bollocking for non-obedience of an order? The hell with the bridge!’
‘After the final victory everything will be built up again even more beautiful than before,’ Lassehn says bitterly, and walks towards the NCO. ‘You’re not going to light it.’
‘Shut up! Careful, take cover, I’m detonating!’ He plunges the detonator down and throws himself against the railway embankment.
Lassehn and Wiegand leap over the electric tracks and throw themselves at him, but they’re too late. They stare at the bridge and wait for the big explosion, which will be followed by a fountain of light, a tearing crash, a jolt, and then the middle arch of the bridge will go flying up into the grey sky.
But nothing happens, nothing changes. Unscathed, the bridge still vaults the railway tracks with a gentle curve. The strangely frozen stillness of an abandoned railway station settles over the whole area, a row of grey Dutch cooling wagons stands by the loading ramp by the big cooling house, on the siding a few wagons stand far apart.
‘Misfire!’ the NCO says, and pulls away from the embankment. He studies Lassehn and Wiegand with a few indecipherable glances and says, ‘You stay here till I get back.’
‘Let us go up and get back to our unit,’ Wiegand says.
The NCO thinks and then nods.
‘All right, then, but hurry up or …’ He doesn’t finish the sentence.
Wiegand and Lassehn climb onto the platform and walk quickly along it towards the bridge. The NCO nods in the direction of the steps. ‘Come on, get out of here!’
Wiegand exchanges a glance with Lassehn. They climb the first few steps, but slow down as soon as they are out of sight.
‘He’s going to throw a hand grenade into the explosion chamber,’ Wiegand whispers excitedly. ‘Come on, shoes off!’
In great haste, fingers quivering with excitement, they untie their shoelaces, then run silently back down the steps and leap on the NCO, who is walking towards the arch of the bridge, holding a hand grenade in his threateningly raised hand. He is concentrating entirely on his task, and staring at the grey-green pillar covered with dark rust. He is swinging the grenade when Lassehn grabs his arm and twists it away from him, while Wiegand aims his pistol at him, ready to fire.
The NCO doesn’t defend himself, he just looks at them darkly.
‘You’ll pay for this,’ he says hoarsely.
‘Save your words,’ Wiegand says. ‘Go and join your people, or even better, grab a few clothes and go home. Or haven’t you had enough?’
‘Of course I’ve had enough,’ the NCO says, ‘but you’re seeing things from your point of view. If they grab me by the scruff of the neck because I haven’t
carried out my order, it’ll be your fault.’
‘Don’t make such a fuss,’ Wiegand says as they put their boots back on. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it if the detonator fails. Right, good luck.’
The NCO stands there with his shoulders drooping, then he turns round and walks along the platform again. ‘They’re right,’ he murmurs to himself, ‘but orders are orders, that’s just how it is.’
Wiegand and Lassehn are no longer listening, they hurry up the stairs, always taking two or three steps at a time. The street still looks as if it has been swept clear, but the sound of the rolling tanks has come closer, and every now and again there is a hard, dry report.
‘That worked,’ Wiegand says, taking a deep breath. ‘You hear the tanks coming in?’
‘Yes,’ Lassehn replies, ‘the time has come at last. I hope the assault gun over there doesn’t fire.’
‘Wait and see. Come on!’
They walk quickly towards the anti-tank barrier. The section leader is already waiting for them.
‘What’s happening with the bridge?’ he asks hastily.
‘All fine,’ Wiegand replies. ‘The bridge will go up as soon as the first tank passes over it.’
‘Great,’ says a young air-force auxiliary standing next to him. ‘I’m already looking forward to seeing how the Bolsheviks celebrate Ascension Day.’
‘There’s no reason to be gleeful,’ Lassehn can’t keep himself from saying, ‘the Russians are people too, they have wives and children and fathers and mothers.’
‘Christ,’ the air-force auxiliary says, ‘are you from last century? The louse is an animal as well, Dr Goebbels said.’
‘That’s enough remarks,’ the section leader says. ‘We’re not here to talk, we’re here to carry out the orders we’ve been given.’
With a few glances Schröter assesses the situation and winks at Wiegand. The anti-tank barrier has been manned again, two Hitler Youth, two air-force auxiliaries, the two Volkssturm men and Dr Böttcher are standing in a raised area behind the barrier, with the rocket launchers and carbines at their feet. ‘Get them to fall in again, Section Leader,’ Schröter says. ‘You’re still inexperienced, I’d like to give you a bit of advice.’