Berlin Finale (Penguin Modern Classics)

by Heinz Rein

  ‘Frightened?’ Lassehn asks, surprised.

  ‘Yes, frightened of so-called civilian life, frightened of the life ahead of us, frightened of not being up to that life. You and I, and probably all of us thought we had solid ground under our feet, that we could absorb safety and confidence from the future, as an advance, so to speak, and now it turns out that our supports have broken like matches. Wherever we reach, our hands clutch the void, whatever we think about, our thoughts fall into nothing.’

  They silently finish their cigarettes. At regular intervals the machine gun on Alexanderstrasse sprays Schicklerstrasse and Stralauer Strasse, the gunfire is now advancing from the Märkische Platz, beyond the Spree, mortars are firing into Neue Friedrichstrasse.

  When there is a brief pause in firing it is unreally still for several minutes, only the fire of battle seethes in the distance, and suddenly Lassehn remembers standing here often as a boy, less than 200 paces away, listening to the thirty-seven bells of the parish church, every seven and a half minutes a few notes sounded, every quarter of an hour a chord, every half-hour a chorale and every full hour a chorale with prelude, and even then it seemed unreal to him how the pure, delicate tones of the Glockenspiel floated down from the top of the tower, how they were sprinkled over the troubled city like drops of holy water. Now the tower has been demolished under the fist of the war, the bells have melted to a shapeless mass among the burning pews.

  ‘Tell me,’ the young soldier begins again. ‘Do you actually believe in God?’

  Lassehn looks up in surprise. ‘That’s hard to say,’ he replies.

  ‘If you can answer that so fast,’ the young soldier says slowly, ‘it’s already a bad sign. You can’t answer a question like that either with a quick yes or a consistent no.’

  ‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ Lassehn objects. ‘I don’t know if your concept of God matches mine.’

  ‘So in your view God is a very personal matter, attitude, vision of each individual?’

  ‘Quite right,’ Lassehn replies excitedly. ‘Are you sure your idea of God corresponds perfectly to theological doctrine?’

  The young soldier shrugs.

  ‘I don’t know, Lassehn, I have only a vague sensation of what is called God. But of course God must exist, because there must be something higher than man.’

  ‘God is enclosed within my own breast,’ Lassehn says slowly, ‘only there, not above this sky to which the burning of the cities, the stench of millions of incinerated people, the cries of the tortured rise. God is only in my breast, Comrade, God is love, compassion, goodness, conscience, but not a supernatural being as you were taught in confirmation class, not a creature that you can invoke and pray to, unless you invoke the goodness within your own breast.’

  ‘And if there is nothing more?’ the young soldier asks. ‘What if there are only innards, and no soul? What then?’

  ‘If there really is nothing more,’ Lassehn replies urgently, ‘if no spark really lights up within you, then you are nothing but an animal.’

  The young soldier stares steadily into the little scrap of bright sky that appears for a few seconds among the drifting clouds of smoke and into which the explosions hurl their bright-red mushrooms against the black background. ‘God’s ways are wonderful, we learned in Scripture, unfathomable, ineffable and beyond our understanding.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lassehn adds emphatically, ‘and responsibility is thus transferred to the supernatural realm, because God is almighty, all-knowing, all-blessing, and ever-present, and if almighty God can’t change earthly conditions, if all that happens does so according to His will and with His will, what can we humans change, since we are mere clay in His hand? If God is omnipotent, why does He not walk the earth with fire and a sword to eradicate all those who shame his name by invoking him and at the same time torturing creatures supposedly made in His image in gas chambers, air-raid shelters and trenches? Where are you, God, and what are you like, God, I ask, that you ignore the tears, the pains, the fears of human beings, that you allow them to plunge deeper and deeper into hatred, shame, guilt, suffering, enmity, misfortune, misery and desperation?’

  The young soldier has been breathing hard while listening to Lassehn’s outburst. ‘But God is at the very least, in rare minutes, the only mainstay.’

  Lassehn laughs bitterly. ‘The only mainstay, a refuge between the fear of death and the torment of conscience or, as Goethe calls it, a supplement to our wretchedness. Precisely because human beings believe in a superordinated God – and that is particularly true of the Germans – who in the end organizes life meaningfully and justly, because everything is transposed to transcendence and withdrawn from our understanding, precisely for that reason God is not invoked within our own breast. Looking into heaven, which is mere material, prevents us from looking into our own breast, where the soul lives.’

  ‘Now you’ve completely confused me,’ the young soldier says, his voice a mixture of sadness and irritation.

  ‘When old concepts collapse, there is always confusion until the new appears,’ Lassehn replies.

  Then they fall silent again. A second machine gun is now firing madly from Alexanderstrasse, the projectiles from the mortars are now lying on the intersection of Neue Friedrichstrasse and Stralauer Strasse, and hissing sprays of water rise every now and again from the dark river.

  ‘The Russians are preparing to charge,’ Hellwig says indifferently.

  ‘Some are already coming,’ Lassehn says. ‘There!’

  From the Roland-Ufer two shadows turn into Stralauer Strasse, they are covered by a cloud of smoke and only their outlines can be made out.

  The young soldier raises his rifle, shoulders it and takes aim.

  Lassehn pushes the rifle away. ‘Are you crazy?’ he says. ‘They’re the best thing that could happen to us, if …’

  He doesn’t finish the sentence, because at that moment a shell wails towards them and buries itself in the cracked carriageway. They fall quickly to their knees and wait for the next one, but subsequent shells fall further away.

  When they get back up, the two shadows have become two people, they have passed through the veil of smoke and are now pressing themselves close against the shattered walls of the houses.

  ‘Those aren’t Russians,’ Hellwig says, setting his carbine aside. ‘I thought it was curious, as long as no one here is firing they won’t attack.’

  ‘No,’ Lassehn says absently, staring with burning eyes at the two people who are now slowly feeling their way along the street. His heart is suddenly thumping violently, fear juddering through his body.

  ‘They seem to be two Volkssturm men,’ the young soldier says, standing on tiptoes the better to be able to follow their progress. ‘No, a Volkssturm man and a woman.’

  Lassehn can’t make out the faces of the two people, they are black with smoke and yet … His throat feels as if it has been tied shut, he wants to shout out, but only a hoarse croak rises from his larynx.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Hellwig asks. ‘You suddenly look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

  At last the vice around Lassehn’s throat releases his voice. ‘Wiegand!’ he shouts, and puts his hands in front of his mouth like a funnel. ‘Wiegand! Wiegand!’ The two people stop, look around as if to confirm to one another that in the noise of gunfire and explosions they heard a shout.

  Lassehn can no longer contain himself, he leaves his cover and, taking long strides, runs across the street.

  ‘Wiegand!’ he says, and hurries towards them.

  ‘Lassehn!’ Lucie Wiegand cries, and throws both arms around his neck.

  XVI

  27 April

  When Lassehn enters the cellar with the Wiegands, the room is still filled with the silence of resignation. Tolksdorff sits motionless on the box by the door, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest.

  ‘Doctor, Schröter!’ Lassehn says excitedly. ‘Here come two good acquaintances!’

  ‘
Stop talking such nonsense,’ says Wiegand.

  Dr Böttcher initially looked with perplexity at the figures whose outlines are sharply drawn in the door frame of the entrance to the cellar, then jumps to his feet and walks towards them.

  ‘I’m incredibly pleased you’re here,’ he says, and this time his voice lacks its usual cool composure.

  ‘This is an extraordinary coincidence,’ Schröter says, and energetically shakes the hands of both Wiegands.

  ‘It’s no coincidence,’ Wiegand replies, ‘we were looking for you. I don’t suppose there’s room for my wife anywhere here?’

  Tolksdorff rises heavily to his feet. ‘Hello,’ he says flatly, and points at the box. ‘Unfortunately this is the only seating I’m able to offer you, madam.’

  ‘I still can’t believe,’ Dr Böttcher says emotionally, ‘that you found your way here.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop at Silesian Station?’ Schröter asks, ‘Or wasn’t that possible?’

  Wiegand smilingly dismisses the hail of questions. ‘Slowly, slowly, one at a time. And there isn’t much to tell. We were sitting in Klose’s cellar …’

  ‘… thinking about you …’ Lucie Wiegand chips in. ‘We were terribly alone. But there’s a special bitterness in having to part just when we need each other most urgently.’

  ‘So we were sitting in the dark cellar,’ Wiegand continues, ‘which seemed twice as big in our loneliness, we heard the SS crashing about in the flat and in the shop, then the house was quiet again. The machine guns were already rattling outside, the mortars were spitting incessantly into the street. A few hours passed like that, we spent our time alternately sleeping and waiting. Then, towards evening, the house came to life again, running, shouting, screams, slamming doors. The Russians are here at last, we thought, but we decided to wait a little longer. The hubbub grew louder and louder, and then all of a sudden it was completely silent. There was still wild shooting outside, but not a sound inside the house. We couldn’t work out what was going on. Whereas the cellar had previously seemed so enormous, and because of our loneliness the walls had moved infinitely far away that they no longer offered us protection, but instead left us exposed, now …’

  ‘… now they were growing towards us, they were suddenly pressing in on us, so tightly that they almost took our breath away,’ Lucie Wiegand adds. ‘Years ago I read a short story by Edgar Allan Poe, in which he describes the ceiling of a prison cell falling with slow and deadly inevitability towards the criminal, that’s more or less how we felt.’ Lucie Wiegand shudders at the memory of those hours, and shivers as she hunches her shoulders.

  ‘As my wife just said,’ Wiegand goes on, taking his wife’s hands, ‘it took our breath away, and as we imagined the room shrinking the air supply also seemed to go into swift decline. But it wasn’t our imagination, gentlemen, that was exactly what was happening, we were running out of air, and suddenly we caught the smell of burning. At first we refused to admit it, because after all everything smells like burning these days, but in the end the smell became so intense that we left the cellar. It was high time!’

  ‘Because the house was on fire from top to bottom,’ Lucie Wiegand adds.

  ‘The rest is quickly told,’ Wiegand says. ‘At first we tried to reach the Russians, but we couldn’t do that, so we went in search of you.’

  ‘But how was it possible …’ Schröter begins.

  ‘… for us to find you?’ Wiegand interjects. ‘It wasn’t by any means as difficult as you might assume, we knew that the whole area around Küstriner Platz was occupied by the Muchalla SS battalion, so we took it that Lieutenant Tolksdorff’s squad was part of that. We asked around …’

  ‘Didn’t you stop and think, Wiegand …’ Dr Böttcher begins carefully.

  Wiegand says nothing and avoids his wife’s eyes. ‘It’s time to go for broke,’ he says. ‘It’s nonsense to try and avoid the decision.’

  ‘Bravo!’ cries Corporal Schumann. ‘Exactly what the Führer says! What are you actually talking about?’

  ‘Whether plum cake is better made with yeast or baking powder,’ Schröter says cuttingly.

  ‘You’re incredibly witty, Grandpa,’ the corporal fires back. ‘Greetings from me, oh German heroine!’ He gets to his feet and bows ironically to Lucie Wiegand.

  ‘You’re still very loyal,’ Wiegand snaps at him.

  ‘Gallows humour,’ the corporal shrugs. ‘So, what’s happening out there?’ he says, turning to Wiegand. ‘Where have the Russians got to?’

  ‘I even have a newspaper,’ Wiegand replies.

  ‘There are still newspapers?’ Private Ruppert cries, and pushes his way into the circle. ‘What does the Völkischer Beobachter-Morgenpost have to say?’

  ‘That’s quite a special newspaper,’ Wiegand replies, ‘neither Völkischer Beobachter nor Berliner Morgenpost. Here, take a look.’

  Everyone peers at the little sheet of paper that Wiegand is holding in his hand.

  Der Panzerbär

  27 April 1945

  Battle organ of the defenders of Greater Berlin

  ‘Wonderful,’ says Dr Böttcher, and looks at the coat of arms, ‘the Berlin bear with a shovel and a rocket launcher. At least the headlines leave nothing to be desired.

  “Bulwark Against Bolshevism”

  “Berlin: Mass Grave for Soviet Tanks”’

  ‘God almighty, don’t talk so much,’ one of the privates says, ‘read out the Wehrmacht report if there’s one in there. Perhaps they’ve thrown the Russians out of Berlin yet again, and nobody’s told us.’

  ‘Right then, listen to this,’ Wiegand says.

  “From the Führer’s headquarters, 26 April

  The Battle for Berlin

  In the battle for Berlin, crucial for the future of the Reich and for the life of Europe, reserves were thrown into the conflict by both sides. In the southern part of the Reich capital heavy street battles are being fought in Zehlendorf, Steglitz and on the southern edge of the Tempelhof Field. In the east and the north our troops engaged in bitter resistance, bravely supported by units of the Hitler Youth, the Party and the Volkssturm, at Silesian Station and Görlitz Station, as well as between Tegel and Siemensstadt. The battle also flared up in Charlottenburg. Many Soviet tanks were destroyed in this fighting.”

  ‘This tells us,’ Dr Böttcher says, ‘that there can no longer be any question of surrounding Berlin, they went past that long ago, the city centre is surrounded, the suburbs have already been taken by the Russians. There may be the odd pocket of resistance here and there, but this report tells us quite clearly that the noose is tightening with deadly certainty.’

  ‘And this noose is throttling us too,’ Private Ruppert says.

  ‘Cling together, swing together,’ says Corporal Schumann, ‘there’s nothing you can do. Adieu, the glories of the cigar-dispensary.’

  Ruppert walks quickly towards the corporal and raises a threatening fist.

  ‘Ruppert!’ Tolksdorff shouts, calling him to order.

  Ruppert forces himself to retreat, his face is dark red, his gaunt, unshaven cheeks twitch violently up and down. ‘Lieutenant,’ he gasps, ‘I can’t go on … and all these flippant remarks from Schumann …’ Schröter drags the enraged soldier deeper into the cellar. ‘Pull yourself together!’ he says severely.

  ‘Letting this brat swagger like that!’ Ruppert says, shaking his head.

  ‘What’s happening on the other fronts?’ the lieutenant asks.

  ‘Defensive successes all over the place,’ Wiegand replies, ‘but the other lot are still charging forward, Ulm, Tuttlingen, Bremen, Troppau, the whole Po valley lost … Total war is turning into total collapse.’

  ‘Why don’t they just call it a day?’ asks the tall, gaunt private, speaking as always with a quiet, tired voice, as if he were talking to himself.

  Schröter turns to face him. ‘Hitler said he’s going to fight until five past twelve. He will keep that word, you can rely on it.’

 
; ‘Here is another very interesting report,’ Wiegand calls, and waves the newspaper about. ‘That must …’ He pauses and turns round, because a shadow has fallen over him.

  ‘There’s someone coming,’ Corporal Schumann says and stands up. ‘I hope that’s some supplies coming, because if you’ve got nothing to do at least you’d like to have a bite to eat, even if it’s just your last meal before the rope.’

  A pair of heavy boots thunders down the steps, rubble slides and falls into the cellar in a cloud of dust, then an SS man appears in the door frame.

  ‘Lieutenant Tolksdorff,’ he says and stands to attention, ‘the Hauptsturmführer is waiting for you to come to the situation report. Please follow me!’

  Tolksdorff rises heavily to his feet and puts on his steel helmet. ‘Corporal Schumann, you take command in my absence!’

  Then the lieutenant and the SS man leave the cellar.

  ‘Situation report!’ Private Ruppert says scornfully. ‘He’s off his head.’

  ‘Perhaps he wants to introduce surrender negotiations,’ says the tall, gaunt soldier.

  ‘You’re off your head!’ Schumann rages at him. ‘And now shut up. I won’t have people saying things like this!’

  ‘I’m not going to let you shut me up,’ Ruppert says, ‘not you, of all people.’

  Schumann adjusts his coat and buckles his belt. ‘Ruppert, I’ll tell you once more …’

  ‘Take a look,’ Schröter mocks, ‘a corporal from head to toe!’

  ‘And you can shut up too,’ the corporal says, turning to Schröter. ‘The lieutenant is far too decent, he’s given you too much leeway.’

  ‘Hey,’ Ruppert says menacingly, ‘I have a hand grenade here, you can have it in the face, even if I go up with it!’

  ‘Be reasonable, you people,’ Dr Böttcher cuts in.

  ‘Are you saying I’m unreasonable?’ the corporal flares up.

  Dr Böttcher gives a placatory wave. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ he says evasively, and turns to Wiegand. ‘Let’s hear what else it says in the paper.’