Marion Kummerow - From the Ashes

In the evening Werner dropped Marlene off at her place and then returned to his apartment in Pankow. His roommate and good friend, Horst, greeted him with the words, “Comrade, you’re lucky that you’re not assigned to the university anymore.”

“Why that?” Werner responded in his most blasé voice, despite the fact that his heart had just plummeted into his boots.

“You won’t believe it. I’m sure the Americans are behind all of this, but this stupid student board just announced that they’re not going to accept our dismissal of their requests and are going to demonstrate against the influence of communist propaganda in their subjects.”

Werner felt all the blood drain from his face and he had to put a hand against the wall to steady himself. Marlene hasn’t said a word. Doesn’t she trust me ? The thought stabbed deep into his heart but at the same time he had to suppress a bitter laugh. He never told her anything, either.

“That is a very grave disregard of the authorities. What will happen now?” Werner asked as nonchalantly as he could muster. Not even Horst knew Marlene’s identity. He only knew about the existence of a German girl.

“Oh man, Gentner was furious. You know him, his voice could have cut an iceberg into pieces. He literally said, that once students think they can get away with such anarchy, they will strike whenever they please. The university will become a hotbed of political activity and this is certainly not the objective of this prestigious academy. Then he promised grave consequences.”

“Criticism and self-criticism with dismissal from the university for the main perpetrators?” Werner asked. This was an often-used method of the communist party in the Soviet Union to criticize and punish a comrade for actually committed or – more often than not – perceived anti-party sentiments. He’d been the victim of several of these sessions that could last for many hours and it was a soul-crashing experience. Each time he’d felt lower than the dirt beneath his fingernails.

“No. Gentner said this wouldn’t work, because these subversives aren’t communists. They would only gloat when asked about their crimes. Proactive measures are required. Something more effective to solve the problem once and for all.” Horst lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t even tell you. A list of all members of the student board was handed over to the Markgraf police.”

It took all of Werner’s strength not to tear his eyes wide open. In an effort not to seem too interested, he said, “And when is this planned?”

“Tonight.” Horst said, apparently uncomfortable with the sinister things he knew would soon happen. “By the way, have you heard that Gentner’s petition to stop the dismantling of German industries has been granted and there will be an official celebration thanking the Soviets for their generosity and their friendship with the German people?”

“That truly is an achievement,” Werner said, although he wanted to vomit at Gentner’s bootlicking attitude. Friendship for the Soviet nation and acceptance of their role as first socialist country was one thing, but brown-nosing Moscow? For a promise to stop dismantling industry that was crucial for the rebuilding of Germany? A promise the Americans and British had implemented months ago? He urgently needed to be alone to think.

“I’m sorry, Horst, I need to study some pamphlets for tomorrow.” He excused himself and went to his room. Norbert had made it clear that not the slightest independent thinking would be tolerated among the students. Judging by the grave expression on Horst’s face, he feared the worst. Horrible memories assaulted him. Had it come this far already? Would the SED in their quest to mimic everything the Soviets did also repeat the bleak times of the Great Purge during the mid-thirties?

Werner shuddered. There had been abductions and arrests last year during the election campaign. But incarcerating anti-fascist students was another step down into the hell of Stalinism.

Hell of Stalinism? My God, what am I thinking ? He was truly disturbed by his heretical thoughts. Stalinism might have some flaws – that nobody ever talked about for fear of being sent to Siberia – but it was still the leading implementation of Marxism-Leninism and thus a good thing.

He paced the room, fear making him short of breath. In his mind he went through the list of student board members, although he didn’t indulge in any illusions that he could save anyone on the list. Julian was the ringleader, and lived in the Russian sector, so he was probably lost. Lotte had resigned from the board weeks ago, so she should be safe. Georg – hot and cold shudders ran down his spine. Norbert had mandated him to become friends with Georg, did this mean Georg’s behavior would now fall back on him? Probably not, but any attempt to spare the young man from the police sweep would directly indict Werner.

His stomach tied into a knot as he thought of the calm, upright, honest young man and his own inability to prevent what the police held in store for him. Then he remembered that Georg lived in the American sector and relief flushed his system. The Americans didn’t take kindly to these kinds of assaults in their territory, so Georg was probably safe.

But the moment his thoughts turned to Marlene hot fear rushed through his veins. Albeit keeping in the background, she was still a member of the board and she lived in the Soviet sector. He could not let anything happen to her.

Deeply troubled, he cursed himself for falling in love with this stubborn woman who just didn’t realize what was good for her. If she had joined the SED like he’d suggested, this wouldn’t even be a problem.

You have to calm down, there’s nothing you can do. They aren’t after her, she’s just a nominal member, he tried to console himself. It didn’t work. Another pesky voice asked, What if they take her? What if they send her to some prison camp? To Siberia? Could you live with the fact that you didn’t even try to save her?

He could not.

He had to come up with a plan.

It was almost dinner time when a knock came on the door. Marlene looked at her parents, but neither of them was expecting visitors.

“Go get it,” her father said.

Marlene almost fell backwards when Werner stood in front of the door with a grave expression on his face, looking ridiculous in a trench coat and a French beret.

“What on earth…” she said, but Werner put his finger across his lips urging her to be silent.

“I need to talk to you. Tell your parents you’re visiting a sick friend,” he whispered.

She rolled her eyes, but obeyed. “Mother, Father, I’m needed at the hospital. I’ll be back soon,” she told her parents, and grabbed her coat.

“What’s going on? Why this ridiculous beret?” she snapped at him.

“Because we’re going to a French restaurant, my love. I’m sorry about our argument earlier and want to make it up to you.”

She cast him a suspicious glance, but didn’t say anything. Subsisting on meagre rations one did not turn down an invitation to dinner, to a French restaurant no less, out of pride. When Werner kissed her she was overwhelmed by her love for him, and forgot his strange behavior.

He took her to a restaurant in the French sector that was well known for its fine cuisine. In the dimly lit room, she felt like a princess, attended by a myriad of waiters and Werner himself. He could be the most charming, kind, and warm-hearted man when he wanted, but she also knew his cold and distant side – when he had to push nonsensical political directives on the people.

As much as she loved him, she wished he could free himself from decade-long indoctrination and see the Soviet way for what it was: the cruel oppression of the people in a shameless effort to line the pockets of a few lucky fat cats.