Marion Kummerow - From the Ashes

His smile increased, as did the butterflies in her stomach. Marlene couldn’t help thinking that maybe Bruni was right and encouraging the handsome, well-groomed, charming, intelligent, and likeable man wasn’t a bad thing. Why did she want to miss out on the way he made her feel, just because she hated the Soviets? What did politics have to do with feelings?

“I’ve been wanting to give you this book,” Böhm suddenly said with his deep well-modulated voice. “It was one of my favorites at grammar school.”

Marlene looked at a worn-out copy of Anna Segher’s novel Aufstand der Fischer von Santa Barbara, Revolt of the Fishermen of Santa Barbara, and gasped. She remembered all too well the event when students of the same university she attended now had burned thousands of books banned by the Nazis, Anna Segher’s novel one of them.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. Hitler is gone and with him the time of tyranny and fear. Please, I want you to read it. It will help you understand how the revolution of the working class will finally lead to prosperity and happiness for all.” He pressed the book into her hands.

“I… I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much, Herr Böhm,” she stammered. The book must have been dear to him and giving it to her was such a thoughtful, generous gesture. She was moved beyond words. Whoever said that Böhm – or Werner, as she secretly called him – was cold-hearted and cruel certainly hadn’t taken the time to look behind his façade.

“May I call you Marlene, please?” his voice was soft and throaty, as if caressing her.

She nodded, surprised. “Certainly.”

“And please call me Werner, will you?”

Her eyes widened. It wouldn’t be appropriate at all to call a member of the Berlin administration by their first name. The only persons at the university who did this were the communist members of the student board, and Georg. Her dear friend and Böhm – Werner – had become fast friends and Georg had been propelled into a prominent position thanks to his mentor.

“You don’t have to, if it causes you chagrin,” Werner said.

“No, no. I’d love to, but wouldn’t it be inappropriate to do so here at the university? I mean, I’m just a student and you’re…”

He gave a chuckle that reverberated through her bones. “Not at all. Your worries are founded in the traditional class system, but under the socialist ideology all people are equal and there’s no need to distinguish social rank by using last names.” Seeing that she was still wavering, he said, “But if it makes you feel more comfortable, you can still address me as Herr Böhm when we’re in public.”

Her heart stopped beating. His answer implied that he envisioned meetings in the future with only the two of them present.

He looked at her, happy and sad at the same time, before he raised his voice again, “I’m worried about your friend Georg.”

Her eyes snapped wide open. That man certainly had a talent for ruining a romantic moment. “About Georg?” the stupid question was out of her mouth before it dawned on her. He must be jealous of the other man, he might even assume Georg and Marlene were walking together. “No… there’s no reason… I mean he and I are just friends.”

Werner put a warm hand on hers, but the concern in his eyes increased. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m worried about his safety.”

“His safety?” Marlene felt like a retard, too slow to understand the world around her. What had Werner to do with Georg’s safety? And why should he be worried?

“See,” he sighed, obviously uncomfortable with the topic. “It’s just, he’s been voicing his criticism about the Soviets so adamantly, people have noticed. Powerful people.” His eyes bored into hers, willing her to understand. “While suggestions for improvement are welcome and necessary, constant nagging isn’t. I personally believe he’s doing this with the best intentions, but others are not so benevolent in their judgment. There’s even the suspicion that he’s been hired by enemies of the people to undermine the successful functioning of the university and thus deny education to the German people.”

Marlene’s jaw dropped to the floor and she sprang up. “No, no, Georg would never… he’s the most honest, upright and incorruptible person I know. Did you know that the Nazis sent him to Mauthausen, because he criticized them?”

“I certainly do.” Off course he did. It was said the Soviets had a file on every person in Berlin. “And as I said, I have nothing but the highest opinion of Georg. But he needs to tread careful and avoid further annoying our Soviet benefactors.” She didn’t think the Russians were benefactors. “Will you please tell him to tune down his opposition, at least for a while? Until things have calmed down?”

She squinted her eyes at Werner and a terrible suspicion stabbed deep into her heart. Her eyes blazing with anger, she spit out the words. “So, the coffee, the book, the first name, all of this was a ruse to get me to help you deal with a critic of your glorious communist ideology?”

“No…” He looked at her with so much hurt, she almost doubled over. But this couldn’t deter her from giving him the cold shoulder.

“I should leave. I have homework to do. Good night, Herr Böhm,” she said with the iciest tone she could muster and quickly left the office, her head raised high. Only when she’d left the long hallways behind and stepped out on the street, did she notice she was still carrying his book. Damn him!

Werner was flummoxed. He might have a way with words, but understanding a woman was way above his capabilities. Shaking his head, he returned to his desk, wondering what he’d done wrong. Shouldn’t Marlene be pleased that he looked out for her friend?

The ringing telephone interrupted his thoughts and he answered it, “Werner Böhm.”

“Hey, Werner, it’s Norbert. You haven’t forgotten the party invitation from the Americans, have you?”

Shoot. “Off course not.” Werner glanced at his wristwatch. The party had already started. “I called at your office,” he lied, “that I’m running late, but I’m on my way as we speak.”

“Hurry up, you’re missing out,” Norbert laughed and hung up.

Nothing was further from his mind than chatting and drinking with rowdy men he’d never seen before. But in post-war Berlin invitations and return invitations by the four victorious powers came hard and fast. While the Germans suffered from food shortages, the allies certainly were intent on bathing the city in vodka, champagne, beer or tea, according to their national preferences.

Norbert was already in a discussion with several allied officers at the time Werner arrived, one of them Dean Harris, the American Commandant in Berlin. Werner quite liked the man, because he was intelligent, listened intently and had a sensible, laid-back attitude. Werner suspected that beneath the cool surface lay a hot temper, but he’d never once seen Harris explode in public, unlike General Sokolov who was famous for chewing out the asses of his own men and deluging the Western members of the Kommandatura with obloquy.

Sokolov especially disliked Harris and had given him several unflattering nicknames he liked to use in press releases and on radio, among them Brute Colonel, Enemy of Democracy and Beast of Berlin – his current favorite.

Werner usually cringed at the general’s unstatesmanlike behavior and often wondered what Harris thought about the insults. Did he even take his Russian counterpart seriously when Sokolov used name-calling like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum?

For obvious reasons he never once voiced his concerns, or his secret admiration for the American colonel who always took the abuse in his stride.