Marion Kummerow - From the Ashes

“General Sokolov, I’m afraid your facts are entirely wrong,” Gardner said and began reading the details of the incident from the police report. Sokolov’s face became increasingly convulsed with anger and Dean secretly hoped he’d burst asunder in the midst, gushing out his bowels.

“So maybe they had a few drinks and stepped over the line. That’s no reason to shoot our men,” Sokolov conceded.

“We usually don’t shoot your men either, but in this case the Russians drew their weapons first and threatened our people,” Gardner said.

Sokolov looked thoroughly uncomfortable. “Well, you should know that this was only symbolic, they never intended to actually kill your men.”

Dean had difficulties to suppress a laugh. He’d recently come to the conclusion that this was the fundamental difference between the two armies. In an altercation with the Western Allies, the Russians usually drew their weapons to threaten or impress, and often fired warning shots, if they fired at all. An American soldier, though, only drew his weapon to shoot, and if he fired, he did it to kill.

“General, you must agree that our men couldn’t know this and fired in self-defense,” Gardner replied.

“Your people shouldn’t have interfered with our business in the first place,” Sokolov raged.

Dean had heard enough. He stood and said, “With all due respect, General, but what happens in our sector is our business. You can’t expect us to allow your people to rape, loot and shoot without wanting to stop them.”

There wasn’t much that Sokolov could bring up against Dean’s argument. Despite the quadripartite ruling of Berlin, each power had full control over her respective sector. And the Russians were the first ones to tell the others to keep their noses out of the Soviet sector.

“The British have never shot one of our soldiers,” Sokolov accused.

The French commandant entered the discussion, “That’s because the British much prefer to beat your people to a pulp.”

“See, the British know how to deal with insolent soldiers, while you Americans always have to use excessive violence.” As always, Sokolov must have the last word. At least he dropped the issue and agreed to work on the meeting agenda.

Dean just hoped that the Russians would understand that anyone caught murdering, looting or raping in the American sector might end up in a coffin and thus preferred to do their ugly deeds in their own sector from now on.

January 1946

Georg was delighted at the opportunity to continue his studies at the recently opened Berlin University. He still worked at Dr. Ebert’s hospital during his free hours and never missed a chance to tell Marlene about the joys of being a student again even though he had to burn the midnight oil to keep up with his busy schedule.

“Why don’t you enroll in classes, too, Marlene,” said Georg often enough to make the young woman sigh deeply.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “The last time I hit the books was before… well, it was quite some time ago. I’m quite happy at what I do.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Georg protested. “Don’t you have ambitions? You told me yourself that you’d love to become a lawyer instead of carrying law cases from one room to the next.”

That much was true. Marlene had worked as a legal secretary for a family lawyer throughout the war and once upon a time it had been her wish to study as well. “I would love to, but where’s the time, Georg?” she moaned. “I’m exhausted as it is. And how will I earn money when I’m studying all day? No, that ship has sailed.”

“Believe me, it was difficult for me in the beginning too, but now that I’ve organized my time, everything has fallen into place. I’m not saying it’s easy, but the thought of getting my degree means the world to me. There’s going to be a huge demand for skilled people and I want to be there to take my pick of opportunities.”

“I’ll think about it,” she promised just to stop Georg badgering her. She well remembered a time when she once had dreams too, before the chaos of war had altered her life and shattered her hopes.

“The opening ceremony is held a week from now,” Georg said excitedly. “As chairman of the newly formed student board, I am allowed to give a speech. Please will you be my guest?”

“Of course, I’ll be there. I’m so proud of you.” She gave him a sisterly hug, looking forward to a festivity that would interrupt the dullness of her life. The winter so far had been surprisingly mild, compared to the years before, but that only alleviated the worst of the problems. People were still hungry, cold, dull and desperate.

The inauguration of the Berlin University a week later was just as impressive as the Russians had planned. Marlene almost got the impression there was no shortage of food or other goods in her city. The first speech was held by Lord Mayor Arthur Werner, a respectable man with white hair and the most impeccable appearance. He’d run a private technical college until the Nazis forced him to retire in 1942. Every Berliner liked him and valued his genuine interest in helping his fellow Berliners.

Marlene listened to Lord Mayor Werner’s speech only with half an ear. It was widely known that he wielded little power. Installed as Lord Mayor because of his conciliatory conduct, the real power in the administration belonged to his deputy Karl Maron, a German communist from the Moscow-trained Gentner group. He was an intelligent, but unscrupulous man who never thought twice to force Moscow’s views onto the Berliners.

The next speaker was Werner Böhm, the rising star in the Berlin administration, newly appointed head of the Agitation and Propaganda department that not only controlled the press, but also the education system. He’d been the driving force behind the reopening of the university.

His pale face with the short blond hair constantly appeared in the newspapers and he always had an austere, even cantankerous air about him. She scrunched up her nose, because she still hadn’t forgiven him for shutting down Dr. Ebert’s hospital last summer to make room – as she later found out -- for a radio station, even though the move had turned out to be a godsend. The new building was much larger with more amenities, and it stood under the protection of the Americans, who actually cared for the well-being of the Berliners.

Böhm’s sonorous voice completely enthralled her and she found herself glued to his voice listening to every one of his words. Much to her surprise, he emphasized not only the great friendship between the Soviet and German people, but also his ambition for a first-class education system that included academic freedom and prolific political discourse. That was a clear deviation from the usual Soviet directive.

She studied his face and found it looked much friendlier than she remembered it, attractive even. His piercing eyes weren’t the ones of a stone-hearted career politician, but of a staunch agent for a better future filled with health, wealth and freedom.

His speech launched a definite and contagious optimism in the air and Marlene felt a twinge of envy at not being a part of this brave new generation trying to ensure bright prospects ahead for themselves and their country.

Wasn’t it her duty to help rebuild her nation from the ashes? Shouldn’t she bury the hatchet and step up to the task? If Herr Böhm could change, so could she. Because if she was honest with herself, she had to admit that a great part of her reluctance to enroll at university had been the very existence of Werner Böhm – the man she’d called a monster.

The last speech of the day was Georg’s. A fervent plea for peace among the nations and academic freedom for students who sought to rebuild the country. When he finished, students, faculty and inescapable military personnel alike applauded frantically.