Fire and Steel, Volume 2

by Gerald N. Lund

  The Spartacans and the other radical leftist groups seized several of the major newspaper offices and printing plants as described above (see German Revolution, 226–27).

  January 16, 1919, 1:30 a.m.—Fromme Home, Pasewalk

  Weary beyond belief, Emilee walked with her head down as she approached the door of their home. But as she turned up the walk, she stopped. The sitting room lamp was on. A lurch of panic shot through her, and she hurried up the walk and burst through the door.

  It was Ernst who rose from his chair to greet her. He gave her a hug and kissed her on both cheeks. “How was the train ride?” he asked gently.

  “Long. Cold. Slow. What are you doing up?”

  “I have something for you.” He walked over to the lamp table where an envelope was visible. She felt her heart leap for joy.

  “From Hans?” she cried, quickly joining him.

  “Nein. I’m sorry. It’s from Onkel Artur.” He handed it to her.

  To Emilee’s surprise, it was a telegram. “Is this the one I sent to him?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Read it,” was all he said.

  She opened it quickly, stepped closer to the lamp, and held it up.

  EMILEE STOP LEARNED FROM TICKET AGENT YOU ARE IN PASEWALK STOP MUCH RELIEVED STOP HOSPITAL UNIT ACTIVATED STOP SETTING UP AID STATION IN BERLIN TOMORROW MORNING STOP THINGS HERE NOT GOOD STOP SO GLAD YOU ARE SAFE STOP UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO RETURN STOP HOSPITAL NEEDS YOU THERE STOP WILL UNDERTAKE INQUIRY INTO LOCATION OF HANS IF POSSIBLE STOP WILL KEEP YOU ADVISED STOP LOVE ARTUR

  Emilee looked up, stricken. “He’s in Berlin?”

  Ernst nodded. “Yes. They left right after noon.” He took his sister by the elbow. “He means it, Emilee. He was very firm with me before he left. You are not to go back there.”

  “I have to, Ernst.”

  “Emilee,” Ernst said gravely, “Onkel Artur said that if you disobey his instructions, you will no longer be employed at the hospital.”

  “What?” she gasped.

  “He’s serious about this, Emmy. He doesn’t want you in Berlin. Is that clear enough?”

  7:12 a.m.—Eckhardt dairy farm, Graswang, Bavaria

  Inga Eckhardt nearly jumped out of her nightdress when the telephone rang just above her head. She was kneeling at one of the chairs beside the kitchen table, earnestly praying. She scrambled to her feet and snatched the receiver off its hook.

  “Hallo,” she said in a low voice into the mouthpiece, her heart pounding loudly in her ears.

  “Hallo. Inga?”

  Her hopes plummeted like a rock. It was not Hans.

  “Ja, is this Emilee?” She was looking up the stairs and listening with her other ear to see if the phone had awakened Hans Sr.

  “Yes, Inga. It’s me. I’m so sorry to call you so early but—”

  “Oh, my dear,” Inga said with a chuckle, “seven o’clock in the morning is not early for dairy farmers. The boys have all the cows milked already and the day is well underway.”

  “Gut. I was afraid I would wake you up.”

  “Have you heard from Hans?” Inga asked eagerly.

  Emilee’s answer was a strangled sob followed by uncontrollable weeping.

  Feeling her knees go weak, Inga blindly grabbed for a chair and leaned against it. She listened as Emilee fought to get control of herself until she could stand it no longer.

  “Emilee!” she said sharply. “Tell me what is wrong. Has something happened to Hans?”

  “Yes!”

  Inga gasped and went limp.

  “No, no!” Emilee cried. “I didn’t mean it that way. He’s not dead. At least I don’t think so.”

  Inga’s eyes closed.

  “Oh, Inga,” Emilee sobbed, “I’ve done a terrible thing.”

  “Emilee,” Inga said quietly. “Calm yourself. Tell me what’s wrong. What happened?”

  It took several more seconds, but finally Emilee got control of herself and began to talk. And it all came out. She told Inga again how Hans had asked her to marry him on Sunday night before leaving. That, of course, brought a demand that Emilee share all the details. Inga was so thrilled that Emilee almost just hung up then. How could she dash a mother’s hopes with such cruel news? But she took a quick breath and forged on.

  “Inga, I don’t have a lot of time. As you know, I went to Berlin to find Hans.”

  “And did you find him?”

  “Yes. Well, no, not really. I went to the hotel. He had given me the address. And I. . . . And I. . . .” She lost control again. “I can’t say it, Inga. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Emilee. He’s my son. I need to know.”

  So, in halting sentences, mingled with a lot of tears, it all came out. The hotel. The filthy room. The empty wine and bourbon bottles. The unbearable smell.

  Inga had to sit down. It felt as though someone were sucking the breath out of her. Oh, Hans. Will you never learn? But all she said was, “What happened next?”

  “The more I thought about it,” Emilee said, in a bare whisper now, “the angrier I got. This is what I went through with my father. If anything went wrong, even the tiniest setback, he turned to the bottle. It didn’t matter that he was drinking our food money. Or if Mama was sick. I—”

  “I understand, Emilee, but tell me what happened.”

  “I wrote Hans a letter and left it in his room.”

  Inga gave a long, pained sigh. “And you told him that you didn’t want to marry him anymore.”

  “Yes,” Emilee whispered. “I basically said that I never wanted to see him again. Oh, Inga!” she burst out. “I’m so sorry.”

  “If you’re sorry, then go back and get the letter, Emilee. Before he returns. He doesn’t have to know that you were there. You can give it to him later, when you can talk.”

  “I can’t, Inga,” Emilee wailed. “I went back to get it, but Hans had already come and got it.” And then she lost control and began to sob again. “It wasn’t there. The letter was gone.”

  That took Inga completely aback. “I don’t understand.”

  “The boy at the hotel thinks Hans came to his room through the back entrance. All of his personal things were gone too.”

  “So he is alive.”

  “Yes.” It was barely audible. “And he has my letter.” Emilee continued to cry as she told Inga what Georg, the hotel clerk, had told her about the beating.

  For a moment, Inga thought she was going to throw up.

  “Inga?” Emilee’s voice rang out clearly through the earpiece. Inga stood up again so she could speak into the mouthpiece.

  “Yes? I’m here.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You want to know if you should marry my son?”

  “Yes!” Emilee burst out. “That’s assuming I can find him. Or that he will ever speak to me again. I know that he went through a terrible experience, Inga. I understand that, but is this what it’s going to be like every time something goes wrong? If so, I don’t think I can stand it.”

  “Only you can answer that, Emilee,” Inga said after a long moment of silence.

  “But what do you think?” she cried. “You know him better than anyone.”

  Inga was silent again for a turn, and then she spoke. “This is not an answer to your question, my dear girl. But I need to say it.”

  “What?”

  “I think you are the only one who can save him.”

  “But. . . .”

  “I know, Emilee. And if that is going to be too much pain for you, then that is your answer.”

  There was no response, so Inga went on.

  Tears were streaking Inga’s cheeks now. “But if you can help him find the man that is somewhere deep inside him, then he will make you happy for the rest of your life. Of that, I am sure.”

  For a long, long moment, there was no sound from the telephone. Inga waited. Finally, Emilee spoke. “Thank you, Mama Eckhardt. Will you keep praying for us?”

  Inga
laughed softly. “I was on my knees when the telephone rang, Emilee.”

  January 16, 1919, 7:35 a.m.—Pariser Plaza,near the Brandenburg Gate, Berlin

  It reminded Hans of a sluggish river after a heavy rain. The overall impression was that there was no color at all. On closer look, there were a few splashes of color here and there, but mostly everything was a greyish-brown current pouring through the Brandenburg Gate. Then it began to fan out as the people entered Pariser Plaza, like water on a river delta. They flowed past him almost soundlessly. No one spoke. Their heads were down, their eyes fixed on the ground. Hands were thrust in their pockets or clenched at their sides.

  The sky was covered with a thin overcast that allowed some sunlight to filter through, warming the air enough to blunt the bitter cold of the previous few days. Which was fortunate, for very few had coats or jackets that were equal to the chill in the air.

  Hans was pleased that the clothes Corporal Jürgens had procured for him carried the same drabness that he saw all around him. The only problem was that with his uniform on under his clothes, he looked fat and well fed, which no one else is this crowd did.

  Three things had surprised him since his arrival. The first was that with his change of clothes, he had assumed he would blend in nicely. But as soon as they started arriving, he realized that he was still a distinct cut above these people. And it was more than just the clothes. He hadn’t even thought about his hands. They were callused from carrying a rifle for four years, but his fingernails were clean, and the lines in his palm were not permanently darkened by grime that would never wash off. When he realized how starkly different his hands looked, he slipped over to one of the flowerbeds near the Brandenburg Gate and rubbed his hands in the dirt, making sure that every fingernail had dirt beneath it. He also wiped his hands on his coveralls so they didn’t look like they had been freshly laundered.

  The second thing that left him almost flabbergasted was how many of the men smoked. There was no breeze at all this morning, and clouds of blue-grey smoke hung over the moving mass of people. Probably two-thirds of the men and boys were smoking cigarettes. Hans had smoked off and on throughout his army career, but since getting out of the hospital, he had only smoked once or twice. Mostly that was financially driven. A pack of cigarettes cost twenty Pfennige. Where did they get the money? The answer came almost immediately, and it made Hans angry. They took it out of the mouths of their wives and children.

  The third surprise for him was how many members of the crowd pouring into Pariser Plaza were women. They ranged in age from young girls in their early teens to Grossmütter with gnarled hands and faces lined deeply with wrinkles. And they were even more shabbily dressed than the men. Many wore shoes with one or both of the soles partly missing or loose. Their plain dresses hung limply from their near-skeletal frames. Thin scarves covered greasy, stringy hair. Many of the women had only light jackets over their flimsy dresses.

  Last night Hans had confidently told Colonel von Schiller that he was one of the working class, that he would fit in. But now he knew he was wrong. These poor wretches were born, raised, and died in a poverty so total, so relentless, that it showed on their faces, in the thinness of their bodies, in their lifeless eyes and their broken spirits.

  Whipped cream sandwiches? That was so far above what these people had ever known. And, to Hans’s surprise, this realization moved him profoundly.

  Just then a young girl, probably twelve or thirteen, who was passing by with her parents, glanced at Hans. She stopped dead, staring at him with a horrified look on her face. For a moment it startled him. Then he realized why she was looking at him like that. It was his face.

  He smiled at her, but she was transfixed. Her parents went another few steps before they realized she had stopped, and then the mother turned to see why her daughter wasn’t moving. “Nattie,” she called softly. “Come, Liebchen. We must keep walking.”

  The girl seemed not to hear. She was a frail thing, with a thin face and cheeks that were hollow. Her hair was a light brown and her eyes—wide-set beneath almost blonde eyebrows and eyelashes—were a pale emerald. There were quite lovely.

  The girl took a step closer, pain twisting her expression. Hans smiled. “Guten Morgen, Fräulein.”

  “Nattie!” Her father spoke more sharply.

  The girl glanced his way but immediately focused on Hans again. Another step closer. “Does that hurt awfully bad?” she asked. Her accent was definitely Berliner, but her voice was as light as a feather. She looked like she was on the verge of tears.

  “Nein,” Hans answered softly. “Not much anymore.”

  Her mother grabbed Nattie’s arm, greatly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, she’s just a child.”

  “It’s all right,” Hans said. As her father came striding back, he held up a hand toward him. “Really, sir, it is all right.” Then to the daughter: “Would you like to take a closer look?”

  She was still staring at him, and her eyes seemed enormous now. “What are them black things? Bugs?”

  Hans chuckled. “No, Nattie. They are stitches. Tiny threads used to sew up my cuts. They’ll come out in a few days.”

  She came up to him, peering more closely. He turned his face slightly so she could see better. One hand came up tentatively, starting to reach out.

  “Nattie! No!” her father barked. Her hand jerked back.

  Turning to the father, Hans said, “Sir, she is just curious. I am not offended in any way.” Then to her: “Would you like to touch them, Nattie?”

  She glanced nervously at her father. After a moment, he nodded. Gingerly her hand came up. Her touch was so light that had it not been for her cold fingers, Hans might not have felt it. There was a soft gasp of wonder.

  “Be gentle, Nattie,” her mother warned.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” Hans said a second time.

  So she touched it again. Other people slowed to see what was happening. Hans smiled at them too.

  She ran her fingertips lightly across the stitches, and then even more gently, she touched his actual wounds, eyes wide with wonder. “Was you hurt in an accident?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Who did such a terrible thing to you?” the mother asked.

  “A gang of Freikorps thugs. I made the mistake of calling one of them a thief.”

  “Government Freikorps?” her father asked in disgust.

  “Ja, ja. Swine, every one of them.” Hans stepped forward and extended his hand. “I am Herr Hans Eckhardt.”

  The man hesitated but then took his hand. It was as if Hans had put his hand in a vice. As Hans looked down he saw that the man’s thumbnail was black from a blow of some kind. The fingernails were ragged, and each had thick dirt beneath it. But what caught his eye were the veins on the man’s hand. They stood out like cords of bluish steel. They reminded Hans of his father’s hands. These were the hands of a man who had spent his life in hard manual harbor.

  “I am Herr Jakob Litzser,” he said in the same thick Berliner accent. “This is my wife, Anna, and my daughter, Natalee.”

  Hans shook both of their hands formally. “It is good to meet you all.” Then he turned back to Jakob. “Are you going to the gathering over there?” He pointed across the square.

  They could clearly see a large crowd gathering. There were two or three army trucks beyond the crowd and two or three platoons of soldiers standing around them. There was also a small farm truck with an open back with people standing in the back, which suggested this was going to be their speaking platform.

  The soldiers were undoubtedly Freikorps, and probably part of “The People’s Council of Deserters, Stragglers, and something-or-other.” They looked the part. They were not in any kind of formation. They stood around, smoking and laughing, rifles slung casually over their shoulders. Even from this distance, Hans could see that their uniforms were slovenly and unkempt. Hans felt a wave of disgust. Colonel von Schiller had called them vermin. It was a good descript
ion.

  “Ja,” Jakob answered. “We’re going there. Would you join us?”

  “I would like that very much.” Hans smiled at Anna and Nattie. “That is, if the ladies don’t object.”

  Anna blushed deeply, probably at the thought of being called a lady. Nattie was delighted. She clapped her hands. “Good. Good,” she cried.

  Touching his left side briefly, he spoke to Jakob again. “My ‘friends’ also left me with three cracked ribs, so I have to stop and rest now and then. I move slowly, but I hope I will not slow you down too much.”

  “We are not in a hurry,” Anna said softly.

  “I hear that Herr Eichhorn is speaking today,” Hans said. “Our beloved police president.”

  Jakob shrugged. “We were told that it was to be Herr Liebknecht.”

  “Ah, the leader of the Spartacan Party.”

  “Ja.”

  Anna spoke up. “They also say that Frau Luxemburg may speak too. She too is a leader of the Spartacans. She is a strong and powerful woman.” The way she said it made Hans look at her more closely, but he couldn’t tell if it had been said in admiration or fear—or maybe both.

  “Gut. I have heard of her. I am glad I am here, then.” Hans realized that his way of speaking was much more educated and refined than theirs, and decided he had to be more careful. Not with this family, but with others he might talk with. He fell into step beside Nattie, and they rejoined the flowing river of humanity.

  8:15 a.m.

  As they moved slowly across the square—partly to accommodate Hans’s needs and partly from the sheer press of the crowd—they got to know each other, with Nattie eagerly peppering Hans with questions. He told them of his growing up on a dairy farm in Bavaria and that he had recently been released from four years of army service, both as a truck driver and a combat platoon sergeant. He explained that he was now looking for work in a city where the unemployment rate was at almost fifty percent. They clucked their sympathy softly.

  Embarrassed by Nattie’s openness, her parents kept trying to fend off her questions, but Hans, who was quite enchanted with her, kept assuring them it was all right.