Marion Kummerow - From the Ashes

“I’m sick and tired of your prevarication. Not a single issue in the Kommandatura can be agreed upon without lengthy, unnecessary and outright stupid discussions,” Dean accused General Sokolov.

“Nothing’s perfect but Comrade Stalin is highly supportive of the first free and fair democratic election process for the people of Berlin. Only thanks to our liberation—“

“If your Comrade Stalin is so fond of free elections, then you’ll have no problem of quadripartite oversight,” Dean cut the general short. “Or would you rather go against Stalin’s wishes?”

Sokolov gritted his teeth and agreed, while Dean felt a surge of elation course through his veins. It was not often that he could wrangle even the tiniest concession from the general.

It was a small victory, albeit an important one.

On election day military jeeps with representatives from each of the four allied powers patrolled Berlin, making regular rounds of the polling stations to see that no irregularities occurred.

Dean was in a jeep with Captain Orlovski, Major Bouchard and General Wilson. All of Berlin were on its feet going to the polling stations and the voter turnout exceeded Dean’s wildest expectations.

It seemed the citizens understood that the result of the vote would have profound implications for their future. Though tensions across the city had been steadily building, people arrived early and queued patiently for their turn to cast their ballot. Sometimes a scuffle broke out, but unarmed German police quickly solved the issues, and if not, they called the Allied military police to take care of extraordinarily stubborn troublemakers. All in all, it was a peaceful affair.

Suddenly, a group of boisterous campaigners blocked the road as they walked across, shouting slogans and waving their party flags in front of the jeep.

“Look at them!” Orlovski remarked. “It’s the same everywhere in this city. Happy people who are delighted with this move toward progress. This is true democracy.”

Dean shot a look at the Russian, who’d been, together with Werner Böhm, the mastermind behind the deliberate disinformation campaign and the more sinister events that had happened during the lead-up to this day.

“Two leading Social Democrats were abducted a week ago by the Markgraf police,” Dean said in a cold voice. “This is not an isolated incident as other party members have been paid a visit by your thugs and were only released when they resigned from their posts.”

“The Soviet Military Administration cannot be made responsible for the vicious acts of individual members of the German police,” Orlovski said, despite the fact that everyone in Berlin knew quite well that the chief of police Paul Markgraf was a Soviet puppet. “Do you have any indication of the culprits’ identities?”

“Yes, we do have information on the perpetrators and are following up our leads,” Dean replied guardedly.

“Withholding such information from the SMAD is against the Yalta agreement of quadripartite ruling,” Orlovski snapped.

Dean had the greatest desire to laugh out loud. Orlovski could not actually believe the bullshit he was spouting. The Soviets withheld information from their allies on a daily basis.

“We’ll let you know the results of our surveillance,” Dean said with a smug grin. “Who knows what trash we’ll discover in our dragnet.”

Orlovski shrugged haughtily, not deigning to reply.

“I hope that after the elections, the communists will give up their stranglehold on Berlin and accept the will of the people,” Harris said quietly to Wilson. “I’m fed up with their antics.”

“We can only hope, old chap, but I fear they are never going to relinquish their power if they can help it,” Wilson replied.

At eight p.m. the polling stations closed and the tedious task of getting the paper ballots to the city hall and counting them began. Time progressed and the ballot boxes from Köpenick, a stronghold of the social democrats, still hadn’t arrived.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked one of the members of the organizing committee.

The German man stepped uncomfortably from one foot to the other. His eyes cast downward he said, “I’m sorry, Herr Kommandant, it’s… it was decided not to count them.”

“Who has made this decision?” Dean’s patience hung on a thin thread and his voice was sharp enough to let the other man shrink back.

“The… the… order came from the Russians. I’m sorry, but they told me—”

“I’ll have a word with them,” Dean interrupted the man and left, looking for Captain Orlovski. He didn’t find him, but Werner Böhm was standing there together with his boss Norbert Gentner. The two Soviet stooges would have to do.

“Herr Gentner, a word please?”

The secretary general of the SED turned around, excruciatingly slowly, his face clearly showing that he wished not to talk to Dean. But Dean couldn’t care less.

“You ordered to exclude the Köpenick ballots from this election?” He attacked the man he loathed almost as much as General Sokolov.

“Herr Kommandant, the Soviet Union and the SED have an utmost interest in free and fair elections. It is a direct affront to our good relations that you would accuse us of such a thing,” Gentner said in German, which Dean had only rudimentary knowledge of.

Dean looked around for his translator, but couldn’t find him. Since he knew that Böhm was fluent in English, had even studied the language at the Moscow Institute of Foreign Languages, he nodded at him and said, “Herr Böhm, would you please explain to your superior that every vote will be counted in this election.”

Böhm glanced at Gentner and only after the barely visible nod of the other man, he opened his mouth. “Herr Kommandant, we completely agree with your opinion, but since all bridges connecting this borough with the rest of Berlin are damaged, it’s simply impossible to get the paper ballots into the city hall. Since Köpenick is located in the Soviet sector, General Sokolov has decided that we would rather withhold a few hundred votes than risk delaying the entire election. That should be in the American best interest as well, or not?”

Dean glowered at the two SED functionaries. It was more like ten thousand votes and he knew as well as the Soviets that most of them wouldn’t go to the SED. The Köpenick borough was separated from the rest of Berlin by a barrier of two rivers and a lake, so it had witnessed firsthand what it meant to belong to the Soviet occupied zone. “What about counting the ballots over there and phoning in the results?”

A smug grin played across Böhm’s lips. “This possibility was the first solution considered, but much to our chagrin, all the telephone lines aren’t working either. You must agree that there’s nothing that can be done.”

“I don’t agree, and I’ll personally bring the ballots over here if I must.” Dean’s tone of voice belied the insecurity he felt. How on earth should he make good on his promise, if the only way was crossing through the Soviet zone surrounding Berlin. He still remembered quite well the trip-from-hell with his reconnaissance unit last year.

He left Gentner and Böhm standing and went in search of his deputy. “Get me Captain Barley. Now.”

Jason knew Dean well enough not to ask questions and immediately went to find a phone. Twenty minutes later Barley arrived in a military jeep.

“Colonel Harris, you wanted to see me?” Barley asked.

Dean related the situation in a few short sentences, closing with, “I need to get those ballots over here before midnight.”

Barley widened his eyes. “Sir, that’s in two and a half hours from now. We won’t be able to construct a mobile bridge across the river in such a short time, even if the Soviets allowed us… it’s their sector, after all.”