At last her head came up. “Your papers are in order, Sergeant. Einen moment while I go find your personnel file.” He nodded, glancing up at the clock as she left, noting the time.
Eight minutes later she still hadn’t returned, but his irritation had. He looked at Frau Hessler. “What do you people do back there? Take a coffee break while you’re in the file room?”
She didn’t look up or acknowledge in any way that he had spoken. But when she finished with her applicant, she didn’t call out a new number. Glancing over at him, she growled, “I’ll see if there is a problem.” As she left without calling the next man up, someone behind him groaned. “What did you say to her?” Hans didn’t turn around.
Less than a minute later, Katya came back. Her hands were empty. She had neither his application form nor his file folder. “Frau Hessler is looking for your file,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “Please step to the next window and she will help you.” She quickly lowered her voice. “I’m sorry.” Then she called up number twenty-two. Cursing himself for his stupidity, Hans moved over to the next window. He had a pretty good idea what had happened back there.
Frau Hessler was gone for another three minutes. When she returned she had a large brown mug in one hand and his application in the other, but no file folder. Hans smelled the coffee before she reached him. “You’ve got to be joking,” he muttered.
She walked up, took a leisurely sip of coffee, totally ignoring him, and set the cup down. She pushed his application toward him. Then, and only then, did she finally look up at him. “I regret to inform you that we could not find your personnel records, Sergeant Eckhardt.”
“What?”
“We receive a shipment of personnel files each morning from the army. With luck, yours will come tomorrow.” Her voice was bored, but there was no hiding the glint of triumph in her eyes. “But it takes at least a day to sort through them,” she went on. “Please check back on Thursday.”
“You can’t do that!” he hissed as he leaned closer. “I know what you’re doing.”
Frau Hessler took another deliberate and leisurely sip from the mug. “Or perhaps Friday would be better. Just to be sure.”
Hans wanted to reach over the counter and strangle her, but he understood the situation perfectly. This was a contest, and she had all the marbles. He took a deep breath and managed a thin smile, which to her probably looked more like a grimace. “Thank you, Frau Hessler. I appreciate your efforts on my behalf. Can you tell me how much my discharge compensation will be?”
“No. We need your records before we can calculate that.” She gave a little flick of her hand. “Come back Friday.”
Another quick breath. Keep calm. The more you fight her the worse it’s going to be. “And if my records are here on Friday, do I then receive a check that day?”
She looked at him as if he were daft. “Oh, no.” She was genuinely relishing this now. “If all is in order, we send a requisition to the Disbursement Office. I would allow a minimum of ten days to two weeks to get your payment.”
“Two weeks?” he gasped. “But. . . .”
She looked past him, quite smug now. “Yes. Maybe longer. Thank you, Sergeant.” Then she sang out, “Number twenty-three, please.” As he started to turn away, she added. “Oh, and by the way. I have your paperwork now, so make sure you see me and not Fräulein Freylitsch.” Of course. He glanced at Katya. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed again, and then she quickly turned away as the crone’s head snapped around to glare at her.
12:09 p.m.
Fuming, Hans went back out to the main foyer. He stopped and put on his tunic and overcoat as he tried to decide what to do. As he did so, he noticed a desk across the lobby near the stairs. An overhead sign said “Information.” A man in a soldier’s uniform, who looked to be at least fifty, sat behind it reading a book.
He walked over to the desk. The man looked up and smiled. “Guten Tag.”
“Hello,” Hans answered.
“May I help you?”
“I . . . I’m not sure. I’m not from here, and it looks like it’s going to take a few days for them to process my discharge papers, and I. . . .” He stopped, feeling a little foolish.
The man smiled. “And you’re looking for information, ja?”
“Ja.”
He turned around and retrieved something from a medium-sized cardboard box behind him. When he turned back, he handed Hans a map that had “Berlin City” printed in large letters across the top. His smile broadened. “How may I help you, Sergeant?”
“The hotel I’m staying at has bedbugs.” Hans pulled up his sleeve and showed the man two of the bites. “I think there’s some kind of treatment that kills them, but where would I buy some of that?”
“Ah, I would guess that an ironmonger’s shop would carry that.”
Hans snapped his fingers. “Of course. I hadn’t thought of an ironmonger. Is there one anywhere close?”
The man thought a moment and then nodded. “There’s one on Unter den Linden. That’s only a few blocks from here. Go out of the building, turn left, then left again at the corner. Go about four blocks. When you reach Unter den Linden, turn left again, and it’s two blocks down on your left.”
“That sounds easy enough. What about an apothecary? I also need some calamine lotion or whatever the pharmacist recommends to stop this itching. It’s driving me crazy.”
“That’s easy. You’ll pass one on the way to the ironmonger. It will be on your right.”
“Danke. You have been most helpful.”
“Bitte. I try to be. Anything else?”
“One last question. I’m told I’m going to have to wait two weeks for my check.”
“At least,” he cut in.
“Yeah. Any idea where I might find some temporary work? It won’t take long to go through my funds.”
His face fell. “Ah,” he sighed. “I’m afraid I cannot help you there. As you know, with the end of the war, over a million men are suddenly without employment. Every advertisement for jobs in the paper draws hundreds of applicants, even for the most menial of work. Merchants don’t have to put up signs because men are always stopping and asking if they have work.”
Hans sighed. This was not a surprise, but it was still a blow. “I understand.”
The man leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “One more thing. Be careful out on the streets, especially at night. If you have read the papers, you know that we are in great turmoil here in Berlin. We have deserters from the army by the thousands, many still with their guns. They’re a bunch of hooligans. At night, gangs of thugs roam the streets. Even some normally law-abiding citizens are so desperate for food that they will try to steal your ration book. Oh, and if you happen to run into any kind of street demonstration, stay clear of it. We’ve got Communists, radical Socialists, anarchists, and every other kind of -ist determined to overthrow the government. What appears to be a harmless street demonstration can turn ugly in a hurry.”
“That’s good to know. So they’re pretty common?”
His eyes twinkled. “The British say, ‘When an Englishman is upset with something his government is doing, he’ll sit down, write a prim and proper letter, and send it to the London Times. But when a German is upset with his government, he organizes a parade and marches through the city streets carrying signs and banners, shouting hurrah for those he supports or down with his enemies.’”
Hans was laughing by the time he finished. “And then, just for fun, they call for a general strike and set up a new government.”
“Ja, ja,” the man agreed. “That’s our way.” Then his smile faded. “And it is only going to get worse,” he murmured.
Hans nodded. Maybe so, but by that time, I’m going to be long gone from this place.
December 3, 1918, 1:15 p.m.—Prenzlauer Berg District, Berlin
The apothecary did recommend calamine lotion for Hans’s bites, and they allowed him to use their toilet to apply it. So by the time he went to Buc
hwalder & Sons Ironmongers and bought some concoction absolutely guaranteed to kill bed bugs, the itching had subsided to the point that he could think about quieting his rumbling stomach. After what he had seen this morning, he had already decided he was going to splurge and eat at the Bayerischer Biergarten on his way back to the hotel. But as he walked along, he read the directions on the bottle of chemical oils. One phrase caught his eye. “Let treatment dry thoroughly (10–12 hours) before allowing human contact.”
Ugh. If he stopped to eat on the way, he wouldn’t get to his hotel until well after 2:30. Ten hours after that would be past midnight. After one miserable night on a lumpy mattress in a room with only minimum heat and bedbugs feasting on his blood all night, he did not need another late night. So he strode past the Biergarten, trying not to draw in the smells too deeply.
It took him just over two hours hour to apply the oil everywhere as directed, wash his hands, and get back to the restaurant. By that time, there were only one or two other customers there.
By Bavarian standards, the cuisine was less than stellar, but after four years of army food and a month of hospital food, it didn’t matter. It was heaven, even with the limitations that widespread food shortages were putting on restaurants.
Hans started with Eintopf in the largest bowl they had to offer. The word literally meant “one pot,” which referred to how it was cooked, not what it was served in. Vegetables, diced potatoes, legumes, and chunks of pork. Although, after looking closely at the spoonfuls he was dishing into his mouth, Hans decided that if there was any pork here it all, it had been waved once or twice over the mixture and then taken elsewhere. But the broth was thick and savory.
He had asked for three large bratwurst sausages but was allowed only one. And they only gave him half a loaf of pumpernickel. Fortunately, beer and wine were not on the restricted list, and so he ordered a large stein of a pale lager. He polished that off and ordered another lager but was refused a second bowl of the stew.
Hans was hoping for apple strudel for dessert, but the waiter said that was available only on Friday nights. Besides, his bill was already up to three marks and had also cost him two rationing coupons, so he pushed back from the table.
Now he was headed back for the city center, and he had the first inklings of a possible plan for getting around Frau Gargoyle. That was his number-one priority. He was willing to bet a hundred marks that his personnel records were there and that she was just stonewalling him. If his plan worked, he wouldn’t have to hang around Berlin until Friday and wait in the line again to complete his application process.
If that worked, his second priority was to get back up to Pasewalk and try to mend fences with Emilee. He had come to that decision on the long train ride down. Even though he still fumed about her intrusion into his private life, he was now regretting tearing up his note to her.
When he had walked out of the hospital, he had told himself he was done with her. But as the hours passed, he found himself unable to get her out of his head, which puzzled him somewhat. She was pleasant-looking, but not beautiful. Intelligent and bright, but hardly the equal of a dozen of the girls he had known at the academy. He enjoyed her company immensely, but she had this habit of confronting him in ways that made him squirm a little.
One minute Hans was so vexed with her that he’d tell himself he didn’t care if he ever saw her again. Then two minutes later he would find himself brooding about her again. And it still warmed him when he remembered how she had said yes about going to dinner and meeting her family before he could even finish his sentences.
So on his walk back to the hotel he had made a decision. He had an unlimited railway pass, and he had time on his hands until he got his discharge pay, so he was going back to Pasewalk to see what developed. If, that is, he didn’t have to hang around here until Friday.
4:25 p.m.—Ministry of War, Mitte District, Berlin
The line of men sitting on the steps glared at Hans as he walked past them toward the entrance. “Hey, Dummkopf,” a guy with a heavy beard shouted. “Get in line like the rest of us. The end is around the block.”
He ignored him.
The guard who gave out the tickets also tried to stop him. Making sure he could clearly see his sergeant’s strips, Hans barked at him. “Cool your heels, Private. I was here this morning. I just need some more information.” The man stepped aside, glaring at him.
Inside, Hans was pleased to see that the old man was still at the information desk. When he saw Hans coming, he smiled. “Were you successful?” he said.
“Yes, your information was extremely helpful. Thank you again. But now I need to find a shop that sells stationery.”
The man frowned, thinking. “Can’t think of one right off. . . .” Then his eyes lit up. “Is it just letter-writing materials you’re looking for?”
“Ja.”
“Then the post office has small packets of letters and envelopes for sale. Turn the other way on Unter den Linden. It’s not far from there.”
“Danke. As before, you’ve been most helpful.”
He started to turn away, as though that was all. Then he snapped his fingers and turned back. “Oh, that reminds me. Frau Hessler, the clerk that waited on me this morning, needed one more piece of information from me. I promised I’d meet her at the end of her shift rather than try to cut in line. But I forgot to ask her where. Do the employees come out through the lobby here?”
The man nodded, not the least bit suspicious. “Ja. Starting about five minutes past six. But you’ll have to meet her outside. They won’t let you into the building without a pass.”
“I understand,” Hans said easily. “That’s what we talked about. I’ll be back here around six. Thanks again.” And with that he waved and started off.
“Sergeant?”
He turned back around. “Yes?”
“If you need to contact someone, there’s a telephone exchange right next to the post office. That might be faster than writing a letter.”
“Ah, ja,” he said. “Danke.”
Hans waved and headed for the door without the slightest intention of calling his parents. Maybe in a few days, after they had his received his letter. There was no question about him writing them now. That would be one of the first things Emilee would ask him when he saw her. But no phone calls. Not yet.
At the post office Hans purchased a small packet of stationery and one stamp. The clerk let him borrow a pencil, and he went over to one of the tables and sat down. He thought for a moment before writing rapidly for two or three minutes:
Dear Mama and Papa,
I hope this letter finds you well. Your letters finally caught up to me. It was so good to hear from you. I am well. I am very sorry that I have not written for so long. I am sure that you have worried much about me. Let me explain. I have been in a military hospital in Pasewalk, which is about eighty miles north of Berlin. I was wounded when an artillery shell hit just a few feet away from me. When they brought me in, I was unconscious, but even when I regained consciousness, they kept me heavily sedated much of the time, so I was not able to write.
Hans frowned. Let’s hope Mama never asks exactly how much “much of the time” was. He decided he’d better justify it a little.
I was nearly blinded in one eye, but an operation removed the shrapnel and all is well now. I feel terrible that you didn’t know whether I was alive. I assure you I am. I was released from hospital yesterday.
Wish I could tell you I am on my way to Graswang, but I had to come to Berlin to be discharged from the army. Extremely slow and frustrating process. I learned today it may take two weeks or more, but I have no choice but to stay until all is resolved. Would love to see you both, but no point in you coming here. Train fare will be too expensive, and as yet I have no address or phone number. I am staying in inexpensive hotels on a day-by-day basis. For now I am all right for money. I will come as soon as the army gives me my discharge papers and severance pay.
Love to t
he rest of the family. Especially give kisses to my nieces and nephews. Can’t wait to see you all. Will let you know my whereabouts and schedule as soon as I find out what they are.
All my love,
Hans Otto
He read it again and then put it in the envelope, sealed it, and attached the stamp. He walked over to the drop box and hesitated for a moment, but then, picturing Emilee scowling at him, he dropped it through the slot.
5:30 p.m.
Back on Leipziger Strasse, Hans stayed on the sidewalk across the street from the Ministry, half hidden behind a parked car. He settled down to wait, going through his plan over and over in his mind. The line of soldiers outside was gone now, but he could see a few of them inside the lobby, waiting their turn to enter the room where Frau Gargoyle lurked behind her iron-barred window.
As the minutes ticked by with maddening slowness, night settled in fully on the city. The traffic along Leipziger Strasse was heavier now as taxis mixed with horse-drawn carriages and heavy wagons loaded with kegs of beer lumbered past. The cold was beginning to penetrate Hans’s clothing and boots. He cursed himself for not thinking to buy a pair of gloves. The only upside to the cold was that as his flesh chilled, the itching from his bites seemed to diminish.
6:09 p.m.
As the first employee—a middle-aged woman—came down some stairs and entered the lobby, Hans moved so he was looking over the hood of the car and had a clear view of the building entrance. A uniformed officer—not the snotty-nosed private—unlocked one of the front doors for her and then closed it behind her as she pulled up the collar of her overcoat and hurried off down the street. Moments later others appeared, first in ones and twos, then in clusters, and finally in a steady stream.
The Gargoyle came out at 6:12, pulling on gloves and then wrapping a scarf around her face. Hans quickly dropped to one knee, pretending to tie his boot, but she turned to the right and hurried away. He got slowly back to his feet.
Fräulein Katya Freylitsch followed about two minutes later. When Hans recognized her, he groaned aloud. She was with two other young women about her age, and they were laughing gaily as they waved good-bye to the guard and came out into the plaza in front of the building.
Fire and Steel, Volume 2 Page 7