Marion Kummerow - From the Ashes

Norbert had noticed him and waved him over. “There you are.”

“Comrade Norbert, Kommandant Harris, I must excuse my late arrival, I had business to attend to at the university,” Werner said.

“No worries, this is a party, not a work meeting,” Harris replied and waved at a waitress to bring Werner a beer. The group engaged in harmless small talk, and he relished the opportunity to practice his English language skills.

Back in Moscow he had studied at the Institute for Foreign Language in the department of English. In the beginning of the occupation he’d been told to listen in on the conversations of the Americans without speaking himself, but they’d soon discovered his mastery of their language and guarded their tongues when he was nearby. Which was a situation, he actually favored, because the deceiving work of a spy for the Soviet High Command wasn’t something he enjoyed.

After some time, Captain Orlovski walked up to Werner and said, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Will you excuse me please,” Werner said to Harris and turned to leave with Orlovski. Despite sincerely enjoying the company of Harris, a wave of relief flooded his body. It was never good to appear too friendly with a foreigner, even though they were supposedly allies.

“I take it you have heard about the upcoming city council elections?” Orlovski asked.

“Naturally.” Werner nodded. Sokolov had done his best to resist the foolish idea of free elections at such an early point in time, since it was a known fact that the German people were not yet ready for self-government and too much freedom would only lead to disaster. But in the end, he’d had to succumb to the insistent nagging of the Western Allies, spearheaded by Colonel Harris.

“I’m in charge of the logistics and Sokolov suggested I enlist your help with agitation and propaganda.”

A suggestion by Sokolov was actually an order that Werner couldn’t refuse. “Certainly, whatever you need.”

“Let’s get together in my office tomorrow around noon and discuss the tasks,” Orlovski said, before he bid his goodbyes.

Werner gazed after him for a long time. Both of them knew it was essential to win the elections. Otherwise the communists would lose their stronghold over Berlin and possibly over all of Germany.

Their carefully installed control was slowly slipping away, especially after the stubborn Social Democrats had refused to join the newly founded SED, the Socialist Unity Party. Werner himself was dealing with the consequences of this brazen attempt to splinter the unity of the working people.

He cursed the involvement of well-known Social Democrats like Kurt Schumacher, who had visited Berlin to agitate against the best interests of his compatriots. Without them, the unification of the KPD and SPD would have passed off without a hitch. And without this precedent of rebellion the university students wouldn’t have dared to present their audacious demands for academic freedom.

He came to the conclusion that helping Orlovski influence the elections in favor of the communists was actually time well spent, because it would at the same time solve Werner’s own problems with the dissenting students.

The next day Norbert relieved him of his duties at the university and Werner fully immersed himself in preparations for the elections. Usually, he arrived at his new office at the Haus der Einheit, the house of unity, well before everyone else and stayed long into the night.

Despite working fifteen to sixteen hours a day, he missed seeing Marlene, missed her bright smile and the excitement in her eyes when she looked at him. But that was a thing of the past, because on the rare occasions when their paths crossed, she turned her head away. It stabbed his heart and he threw himself even deeper into work.

The eyes of the entire world rested upon Berlin, because for the first time in more than a dozen years there would be free elections in the city. Sokolov had many times emphasized that these elections would decide the political landscape in Europe for decades to come. A landslide victory of the SED was expected, and Feodor Orlovski and Werner both knew their own fates were intrinsically connected with these elections.

Werner wouldn’t take any chances on the outcome and devised a plan that included generously doling out pens and notebooks to schoolchildren, soup kitchens for workers, and augmented food and coal rations – for Berliners living in the Soviet sector.

Money was not an issue, as he’d been given a free hand to use any and all resources of the Soviet occupied zone in Germany. Werner secured dozens of volunteers to canvas for the SED and deviated food transports destined for Dresden, Leipzig, Chemnitz, Jena or Magdeburg to the capital. He equipped the SED with as much paper, pens, paint, and cloth for posters, pamphlets and banners as needed, while at the same time denying these resources to the other political parties.

Every single one of the benevolent actions came with a clear message about where the goods came from and how much more pleasant a life under communist rule would be than under the imperialist oppression.

But as time passed, it became clear that the strategy of dangling carrots would not prove sufficient. At one of their strategy meetings, a member of the polling committee said, “Comrade Böhm, I’m afraid the Berliners don’t know what is good for them. Despite all our efforts, the polls seem to favor the other parties over the SED.”

Werner all but doubled over by this punch in the pit of the stomach. He was out of ideas.

“We have to make sure the SED comes out on top,” Orlovski blurted out desperately. “There will be dire consequences unless this happens. I’m sure you know what I mean. Our current prospects are not acceptable.”

Silence fell over the room, because everyone knew what Orlovski was talking about. Werner had an unwelcome flashback to the time of the purges in the Soviet Union. The time when one by one, his parents, his teachers, his neighbors, and even his classmates had been arrested by the NKVD and vanished into oblivion.

Normally he buried thoughts of his parents deep down in his heart, too painful were the memories. And too much shame he felt when thinking of how they must have suffered in some Siberian camp while he was enjoying his life. For a long time, he’d grappled with the injustice of their arrest. They were innocent, he knew. His sweet, caring mother had never been a vicious spy, abominable traitor to the Soviet people and doggish agitator for the imperialist West. Neither had his stern but correct father.

But his personal fate hadn’t deterred his belief about the greater good. Certainly, the NKVD knew more than he did, or perhaps some innocents inevitably got caught in the net together with the righteous criminals. He shrugged. Going down that lane was a futile waste of time.

Into the uncomfortable silence, a member of the loyal communist-installed Markgraf police took the floor. “Comrades, if I may suggest something.”

“Go ahead, Comrade Dante,” Werner encouraged the young policeman. He’d never thought the man to be of the bright sort, more the bully, pushing others around, but if he had an idea Werner wanted to hear about it.

“Since showing the voters all the good our party offers them doesn’t work, maybe we should try it the other way round and let them experience what exactly dissenters can expect.”

“My department can’t condone the use of violence.” Werner did not want to hear any more suggestions.

But Orlovski gave him a cold stare. “My orders are to win us this election at any cost, and your task is to help me, just like I helped you with the university.”

Hot shudders ran down Werner’s spine. Orlovski was collecting the favor, and there was nothing Werner could do to extricate himself from this nasty situation. He bowed his head to show his acceptance.