Marion Kummerow - From the Ashes

“Then find another solution and do it fast.” Dean stared pointedly at the engineer, who cocked his head and worried his lower lip, completely ignoring his superior for a few long minutes.

“I think I know,” Barley finally said. “We’ll swim them across.”

“What?” Dean couldn’t believe his own ears. It was late October and the weather had become quite chilly. The water temperature would be around fifty degrees Fahrenheit.

“Yes. We use the narrow part at Schlossinsel, that’s probably less than fifty yards. A good swimmer should have no problem getting across, strapping the ballots sealed in watertight plastic bags to his back and returning to the other side. There we’ll have a jeep waiting and bring the ballots to the city hall for counting.”

The idea was outrageous, but it was worth a shot. “Send someone over to organize everything with the Köpenick election board and then find as many swimmers a possible, while I take care of the Soviets.”

Dean didn’t even bother to talk to Gentner, because those communists could never agree to anything without General Sokolov’s approval. Conveniently the general was absent and Dean phoned his office, informing the secretary, that according to the rules of quadripartite administration over Berlin he was on his way to retrieve the Köpenick ballots. He didn’t divulge how exactly he planned to do this, banking on the fact that by the time Sokolov returned the call, it would be too late for the Soviets to stop the swimmers.

He felt a surge of pleasure at using the fait accompli, a favorite Russian tactic, against them.

Shortly before midnight, Captain Barley personally delivered a dozen boxes of paper ballots from Köpenick and as less than ten percent of the elctorated had voted for the SED.

Crowds lined the streets outside the city hall, eager to find out about the election results. Marlene didn’t stay to wait, because she had a date with Zara and Bruni. They would listen to RIAS Berlin at Bruni’s place.

Chit-chatting about their lives, the three of them drank coffee – real coffee – and ate biscuits, all generous gifts from Feodor Orlovski. Marlene still thought it was immoral of her friend to maintain this relationship with one of the hated oppressors, but she didn’t go as far as to reject the food he provided. In a Berlin riddled with food shortages that would seem outright stupid.

When the radio speaker cleared his throat, and began to speak, Marlene could see the same stunned excitement in her friends’ eyes as she felt. The SED had lost by a landslide. In a massive anti-communist protest vote, especially in the Soviet sector, voter turnout had surpassed ninety percent. The clear winner with almost half of the votes was the Social Democratic Party, while the Soviet supported SED received not even twenty percent of the votes.

“What an outstanding rebuff to a communist dictatorship,” Zara said, her expression showing relief.

“A path for freedom,” the radio narrator exclaimed. “The Berliners have voted No to oppression and totalitarianism and voted Yes to liberty and democracy. They have put the remnants of the Nazi-regime to the grave once and for all, and have shown themselves a beacon of freedom for Germany, and for Eastern Europe during these dark times.”

Bruni rolled her eyes, “Isn’t he exaggerating a bit?”

“No, he isn’t. You may not have noticed, but most everyone else in Berlin did. The Russians have abducted, arrested and done away with close to one hundred fifty thousand citizens during the past months in an attempt to suppress dissenting opinions.” Zara gave her a scathing stare.

“Criminals, dangerous Nazis and other subversives,” Bruni responded.

“Who’s been telling you these lies? Your Russian lover?” Zara yelled.

“Please, girls, let’s not get into a fight over this. We should all be happy that democracy has won, aren’t you, Bruni?” Marlene appeased her friends.

“Yes, of course I am.” Bruni gracefully leaned her head to the side and offered more biscuits. But somehow Marlene had the feeling, her friend wasn’t all that happy.

Later in the afternoon RIAS had a four-party discussion on, and the three girls were glued to the radio. The winning Social Democrats, the Christian Democrats, the Liberal Democrats, all praised the courage of the Berliners in speaking out for freedom, a well-placed side hook to the socialists.

There was no doubt that members of the SED Politbüro were shocked by the outcome. Despite having invested massive resources into the election campaign, the voters had preferred to run to the Western backed parties.

Herr Gentner, chairman of the SED and known to be slick as an eel when responding to awkward questions, while hard as steel when pushing directives from Moscow onto the people, easily found a reason for the disaster.

“It has only been sixteen months after the downfall of Hitler’s dictatorship, therefore not all the people in Germany are yet clear to know what the right way is,” he stated. He never once commented on the disgusting treatment by the Russian oppressors, the gradual denial of even the most basic freedoms and the constant fear of the Berliners to be kidnapped by the Markgraf police, working for the NKVD.

When Marlene and Zara left Bruni’s place, she embraced her friend and asked, “What will happen with your captain?” After all, he was responsible for the election campaign and thus for the catastrophic defeat.

“He’ll be just fine,” Bruni said with a shrug and a forced smile.

Werner Böhm hadn’t heard or seen Orlovski since election day. Nobody ever mentioned his name again, it was almost as if he’d never existed. One day, Gentner casually mentioned that Werner needed to align with the head of engineering, Captain Ivanov.

As usual, Norbert gave his order in the same neutral voice that didn’t show the slightest trace of emotion. And Werner had been in the Soviet Union too long to even consider asking the question that burned on his tongue. If Ivanov is the new head of engineering, what happened to Orlovoski?

Nobody ever asked questions in Russia, one waited until told what to do next. Even if the directives from today contradicted those from a week ago, no person in his right mind dared to question the sudden turn in politics.

Werner had believed this would change after the war. He’d honestly thought that Stalin’s quote to “give the individual countries the freedom to go on the individual path best for them”, was to be taken at face value.

But his one and a half years in Berlin had brought one disappointment after another. Slowly, almost unnoticeably, the initial liberties after the capitulation had been taken away from the German people. And the more the people resisted, the faster they saw their privileges go.

He still hoped this would change and Germany could learn from the problems in Russia and implement a better form of socialism. One that actually benefitted the people.

“Yes, Comrade, I’ll take care of this immediately,” he said, and walked out to find his driver. Sitting in the car, his thoughts returned to Orlovski. He couldn’t say they’d been friends, but he had liked the captain’s logical attitude, always keeping to facts and figures, never venturing into political discourse. “I’m an engineer,” he used to say. “I can only speak about the numbers.”

A sudden fear attacked Werner. Had they returned to the frightening period of the purges during the mid-thirties? When you’d wake up in the morning to find two of your best friends or family members gone?

Later in his life, during his studies at the top secret Comintern university he’d witnessed events when students had been removed from the school after a seemingly banal mishap. One of them he’d met again six months later: a ragged, haggard, filthy man, dressed in rags who begged for bread.