Marion Kummerow - From the Ashes

He couldn’t continue to live with blood on his hands, couldn’t continue to be a Russian stooge.

He just couldn’t.

But what should he do?

For the next weeks he went through his daily tasks like an automaton. He didn’t find joy in anything anymore, always afraid of the consequences of his actions. A thousand times he pondered telling someone about his political stomachaches, but never uttered more than a few carefully disguised insinuations.

He knew there must be likeminded independent thinkers, but all of them carefully withheld their true feelings, just like he did.

One day he visited Norbert on a social occasion and used the opportunity to address his concerns.

“Don’t you think the German people should be able to experience the merits of the communist ideology without force? I mean, wouldn’t that endear us more to them?” he asked.

Norbert raised an eyebrow, as if deeply worried. “Those are the words of a very naïve person. You really should know better by now.”

Werner knew he should shut up, but he tried again. “I’m just concerned. For some strange reasons the Berliners preferred to vote for the imperialists last December. And since then the anti-Soviet mood has only augmented. What will happen in another election? Aren’t you afraid they will wipe us out completely?”

“We’re taking precautions already,” Norbert said. “There will never be a lost election for the SED again. You’d better forget your qualms and arrive in the real world.” And then he added with a warning undertone, “You wouldn’t want to risk your career by saying something foolish.”

“Not at all.” Werner instinctively stood taller, demonstrating to the First Secretary of the SED that he didn’t have any dissenting ideas. He had maneuvered himself into a corner with no way out except into a Gulag.

Several days later he attended an official event to celebrate the second anniversary of the German capitulation in the SMAD headquarters in Karlshorst. The huge ballroom with the five-yard-high ceiling was decorated with the flags of the four occupying powers and long rows of tables with dark green tablecloths were set with the finest china and crystal glassware for a formidable state banquet.

The host, General Sokolov, had spared neither trouble nor expense to dish up the most exquisite delicacies for the guests from the other Allied powers. Crimean champagne, caviar, borscht, solyanka, pirozhki, pelmeni, and beef stroganoff were just a few of the prepared dishes.

Throughout the six-course dinner, glorious speech after glorious speech was given by Soviet dignitaries, praising how the Red Army had single-handedly won World War Two and liberated Europe from the Nazi yoke.

Werner thought it was disrespectful to the Western Allies who’d also done their share to win against the Nazis, but didn’t even get an honorable mention in the speeches. His gaze fell on the American Kommandant Dean Harris, recently promoted to Brigadier General, and he observed how much Harris had to control himself to grin and bear it.

At long last, General Sokolov got up to speak, extolling the virtues of Mother Russia and her brave men. His fabrications went on and on, punctuated by fervent applause from his men and polite hand-clapping from the other Allies. But Werner wasn’t fooled. He saw the disdain on the faces of every French, British, and American man in the room when Sokolov droned on about the good that the Soviet Union had done in Berlin.

For obvious reasons he failed to mention how the city was robbed to pay for war reparations, while he stressed the egregious ingratitude of the Germans who couldn’t seem to understand the virtues of communism.

After the dinner, Werner mingled with the other attendees, always careful not to seem too friendly with the foreigners and never praising anything they did or said. He listened in on a discussion between Harris and Sokolov and found the American Kommandant incredibly kind and patient, even in the face of the vile accusations the Russian made.

Werner remembered when those parties emanated the spirit of unity instead of the current suspicion and disdain against the other side. Only two years earlier, everyone had looked brightly into the future, while now the two systems faced each other as implacable enemies.

But what struck him during this banquet was that most of the spite, intransigence and stubborn persistence on their opinion came from the Soviet side, while the Americans weren’t the monsters the propaganda painted them to be.

He returned home way past midnight, but he couldn’t sleep all night, because of the whirling thoughts in his head. In the wee hours of the morning he took a momentous decision. Giddy with excited determination he got up long before his Russian superiors woke up and took the public transport to visit Dean Harris in his office.

Bruni’s smile was even more dazzling than usual. The Café de Paris had arranged – with the help of a few admirers – a surprise party for its star. The place teemed with French, British and American soldiers and their German Fräuleins.

Marlene felt small and insignificant as she congratulated her friend, who looked stunning in yet another iridescent gown with matching high heels.

“Happy birthday Bruni,” Marlene hugged her.

“Thanks so much for coming,” Bruni grinned from ear to ear. “Isn’t this such a wonderful surprise?”

“It truly is,” Zara said, and then took her turn in hugging the birthday girl.

Lotte had been invited too and observed the plush setting with wide eyes. She whispered in Marlene’s ear, “I had no idea these things still existed in Berlin.”

Marlene nodded. She’d grown used to the two-tiered society, with Allied soldiers bathing in luxuries while the German population barely scraped by. It was the price they had to pay for Hitler’s delusions of grandeur. But the party today was different to the previous times she’d attended the Café de Paris.

It took her a while before she found the reason. No Russians were present. Given Bruni’s history of being on best terms with all the occupiers, this was a clear sign that the publicly shown unity between the four powers was fragile at best.

Marlene wondered what the future held in store for her city, if the Allied Kommandatura was too disunited to take the required unanimous decisions. Would they hand over the decision making to the Germans? Or would they rather agree to give the entire city to the Soviet Union in exchange for regions near the inner-German border? She shuddered at the thought of Berlin becoming part of the Soviet occupied zone.

Despite having sworn to forget Werner, she automatically thought about him and what he might be doing right now. Then she shrugged. She had once believed him a fine, considerate man, and she had cared for him deeply. But after his latest radio broadcast, reading the confessions, which she knew in her heart couldn’t be true, she’d lost every vestige of respect for him. A spineless weasel only interested in himself and his career. Should he do whatever he wanted, it wasn’t her concern anymore.

People began chanting for Bruni to sing. She graciously – and proudly – obliged and took her place on the stage. Dean Harris held a short speech after her song, and then drinks flowed and waitresses entered carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres, offering the guests the bite-sized delicacies. It was a boisterous atmosphere, just like it had been before the war. Marlene herself had been too young back then, but she knew from stories of older people and from motion pictures about the roaring twenties what it had been like in cosmopolitan Berlin.

Loud music filled the air and interrupted her musings. A handsome American GI suddenly stood in front of her and asked her to dance with him. She couldn’t well deny him. After all, she’d come to have fun and forget about the misery for a while.