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CHAPTER XII
FREE
THE train was almost empty. Passenger traffic was light during the holidays. We had seated ourselves in different compartments--Fritz, Felix, three other Berliners who had been released, and I--feeling that we should be less conspicuous by ourselves.
It was a curious sensation, being free again. I could still feel the eyes of the SS guard boring into the back of my neck.
Instinctively I found myself lapsing into the habits of illegal days. Anna lived in Charlottenburg. "I can ride as far as the Zoo station," I thought-then decided it would be better to get out at Friedrichstrasse and take the underground. Force of habit.
Night had fallen by the time the train pulled in--too late to go to Anna's. Fritz insisted that I go home with him; but, unwilling to intrude upon his meeting with his family, I refused. Not until I had assured him that an old friend was expecting me would he let me go.
I checked my package at a cafe frequented by workers, and set out for a stroll through the streets of Berlin. They seemed to me quieter than three months ago. Unter den Linden was dead. In Friedrichstadt the girls whose Nazi clientele had saved them from Commissar Lippert's moral purge went tripping back and forth, shivering with cold. I passed Wertheim's, the Jewish department store, its huge display windows ablaze with a thousand lights. The vast building showed no signs of having been subleased to small shopkeepers, as the Nazis had promised. In the cafes of Potsdamer Platz the old musicians were playing Wagner's thunderous music in SA uniforms. The new Columbus House--the name stirred memories--rose black against the sky, hardly a light visible over its immense facade. No tenants. Woolworth had opened a five- and ten-cent store on the ground floor. The poor devils of the League for the Trading Middle Class who were still waiting for the abolition of chain and department stores had to bite their lips when they passed through Potsdamer Platz. I walked along Bellevuestrasse to Kemperplatz (which had been renamed Skagerack Platz 1) and saw that the quiet old café at the end of the street had undergone a National-Socialist metamorphosis. Dance music sounded from within and dozens of expensive cars, decorated with swastika pennants, were parked outside. A taxi driver, waiting for a fare, told me that the cafe‚ now belonged to the wealthy Steinmeyer--a member of the Nazi Party glorified in the official Angriff as the ideal modern cafe manager, owner not only of two cafes in Friedrichstrasse but of one of its night clubs whose ladies enjoyed high favor with gentlemen from the provinces.
The Tiergarten lay silent and dark, its broad stretches of lawn covered with snow. No SA uniforms, no swastikas, no Wagner music. I sat down on a bench. Here I had often made appointments with comrades. The last one had been with Anton. He was dead, and I was out again--till the next time. A sentence flashed through my mind--"We revolutionaries are dead men on furlough." Wasn't it Eugen Levine who had said that to his Bavarian executioners? 1919. Another week, and it would be 1934.
I thought of all the unknown soldiers of the German revolution. Anton had been one of the most faithful. The last time I had waited for him here my attention had been attracted by an elderly gentleman, carrying a stick and gloves and walking with the easy stride of the pensioned officer. I was startled when he finally sat down beside me -- still more startled when he revealed himself as Anton. How pleased he had been at my failure to recognize him! But a spy recognized him. Anton had smuggled a letter out of prison shortly before his death, saying that he was going to hang himself because he couldn't endure the guilt of having, through his blind confidence, delivered two comrades into the hands of the Secret Police. Was that any reason why he should have taken his life? He was no traitor. But the traitors don't commit suicide. I wondered what his mother was doing. She was a devout Catholic, and Anton had been her only child.
My thoughts turned to my own mother-her small, careworn face with the kind eyes. I was sure she hadn't gone to the doctor's yet for her new glasses--and she could hardly read any more with the old ones I'd have to borrow some money and send it to her. But she'd use it for the house, as she always did. Cooking, eating, bedmaking, sweeping--what an existence! And millions of German middle-class families were living the same existence--absolutely incapable of understanding the forces that govern the world, in which the corner allotted them keeps growing smaller and smaller.
Never before had I been so keenly conscious of the sorry trinity of God, family, and small private ownership--never before had I so clearly understood what had driven these millions to fascism. Small private ownership in its death agony staging a final revolt against big private ownership which was devouring it, and against social ownership, of which the small private owners were in mortal terror. They were battling for the rights of the middle classes, and, with a clear conscience, were doing the work of their executioners and ours. They should have been our allies. None but the workers could free them from the idiocy of their existence. They would accept our leadership some day, though today they persecuted us in the name of God, of honor, and of the national community. If only they could know what they were doing! They were forcing us to take up the cudgels against them, too, in sheer self-defense. I recalled the story of an old Spartakus 2 fighter who had gone to the front in the World War as a revolutionary and, fully aware of what he was doing, had been obliged to thrust his bayonet into the bodies of French class comrades. It was either he or they. The military machine of the ruling class left no alternative open to him.
I was cold. I got up and made my way through the streets of the old western sections of Berlin. I caught the last train at Nollendorf Platz and rode back to the Stadtbahnhof to reclaim the package I had left at the cafe. The owner handed it to me across the counter and poured out a whisky for me.
Nodding toward the carton where the camp censor's seal was still visible, he said, "Long time since you had one, I'll bet."
"Five months. Prosit!"
"Prosit! Out today?"
"Yes."
"Your family here?"
"No."
"Where are you spending the night?"
"I don't know yet."
"You can sleep in the little clubroom there, if you like. I'll put a mattress down for you. You haven't been spoiled, I'll bet."
"Thanks. But I'd like to look in on a friend of mine first, and see whether he can put me up."
"As you like. I'm open late. If your friend can't take care of you, just come back here."
I wanted to pay for the drink, but he wouldn't have it.
Never mind, never mind. I don't suppose you've saved a fortune in the last five months."
I made up the story about the friend because his offer had embarrassed me. Once out in the street I did not know what to do. The camp administration had given us just enough money to cover the fare home and not a penny more. They did not care what became of us afterwards. I had a few extra coins, returned to me on my release from Columbia, which I had kept hidden the whole time I was at camp. They would pay for a night's lodging. Still, it might not be a bad idea to walk past George's place and see whether his light was still burning. He lived in Karlstrasse, only ten minutes away.
George was still up and nearly killed me for joy. He threw to the floor the books and clothes strewn over the old sofa and made me stretch out.
"The place doesn't look very tidy today," he apologized. I laughed. It looked exactly as it always had. He made coffee, and dug a bit of stale cake out of some hiding place. I glanced at the books that lay within arm's reach: Stolzenberg's "Gas Formulae"; a volume on ballistics; a manual on shooting; another on hand grenades; and "How to Fight Tanks."
"What are you working at now?" I asked.
"My old hobby--army engineering.'
"For whom?"
" The government. Absolutely legal. And decently paid, too."
"Are you in touch with the Party?"
"In touch?" he protested, aggrieved. "The Party gets my recommendations before Goering does."
When the coffee was ready he pulled up a chair.
"Well, come on," I said. "Let's hear what's going on."
"Where shall I begin? I'd better give you a general idea of the situation first, as I see it in connection with my work. The economic situation's perfectly obvious. After Hugenberg grew unbearable--he stank too foully of bank capital and big industry--they appointed as minister of economics Herr Schmidt, up to that point a dark horse. Politically speaking, a sheet of blank paper. His maiden speech was a long blast of capitalist propaganda and infuriated the petty bourgeois elements of the SA, especially after their League for the Trading Middle Class had been transformed into a sort of higher institution for rabbit breeding.
"Then came Walther Darre, the minister of agriculture, who declared that the big landed estates, whether they were mortgaged or not, would not be touched. And because he couldn't give the peasants any land, and the minister of finance couldn't remit their taxes, they invented the entailment law, which makes the all-time record for swindle. It revives the medieval regulation by which only the oldest son inherits his father's land. This expropriates the younger sons and daughters--and leaves the favored heir in one hell of a hole because the same law forbids him to sell the land and thus cuts him off from all credit. They're hoping in that way to provide themselves with a dependable army of kulaks on the land, but for every kulak they create they're creating three farm proletarians who are just itching for the chance to present their claims to their privileged older brothers some day. From all I hear, there's more discontent in the villages just now than there is in the cities. The peasants' disappointment is all the keener because they really had believed in the Nazis.
"But even in the cities things look rotten. Wages are being cut and reemployment is nothing but a lot of hot air. What the unemployed used to get as relief, without working for it, they now get as wages for hard labor. On top of that comes this shameless government subsidy of big business--in other words, socialization marches on just as it did under Social-Democracy. That's common knowledge.
"Then there's the failure of their foreign policy. Rosenberg's protestations of love to his English fellow-Aryans are jeered at by the damned British--God punish England! 3 France is openly hostile, and seeks an alliance with Soviet Russia. The Americans hold themselves completely aloof and want their money before they'll commit themselves to anything. Which leaves Italy, Japan, and Poland as assets.
"Mussolini drops a friendly word now and then. It costs him nothing, but everyone knows he'll never take sides with Germany in earnest--especially if such a move could be construed as a direct threat to France and as far as the Austrian situation's concerned he'll stand no nonsense. The Triple Alliance 4 was a political miscarriage from the very first, but trying to warm it up now after these twenty years is nothing but the purest necrophilism.
"Japan. Oh, yes, ;we're making violent love now to Wilhelm's yellow peril-we've even raised them to the rank of Aryans. They're the very allies we need for an invasion of the Soviet Union, but they're not a damned bit of use when it comes to such things as armaments, debt revision, protective alliances, and the like. On the contrary, seeking their friendship simply makes the English and Americans more suspicious of us and heightens our state of isolation.
"Only with Poland have our relations improved. After ten years of sabotage the trade agreement's finally been concluded. The Danzig problem's been buried for the time being, and no good German ever breathes the word 'Corridor' nowadays. The Poles are laughing up their sleeves. We've paid the whole reckoning.
"Well--so the Nazis haven't been able to keep a single one of their promises, nationalistic or 'socialistic.' The one thing that keeps the Reichswehr and the so-called national-revolutionary elements in the SA appeased, for the time being, is all the secret activity in connection with war preparations; and in that respect I must say these fellows are absolute geniuses. You've no conception of what's going on in that direction. Road building, motorization, poison gas, airplanes, submarines, bacteriology--and an ideological preparation, besides, that would make the kaisers' Germany look like a pacifist women's club. There's no lack of money and human energy and sweat for that. And it's the one point in the program on which big business, the Reichswehr, the Junkers, and the SA are in complete agreement. There's profit in it for all of them.
"That won't hold them together indefinitely, however. The more radical elements--the petty bourgeoisie, that is--are playing along with them in the hope of achieving the "totalitarian state." Roehm's ambitious to be head of the Reichswehr; what he wants is to get a few hundred thousand of his SA men into the army, so as to break the backbone of the German Nationals and the steel helmets, and then elevate himself to the status of commander-in-chief--all of which is a source of considerable anxiety to the Reichswehr.
"The general staff's appalled by the political situation abroad, and France's overtures to the Soviet Union are getting them more and more worried. But Blomberg's completely under the Nazi's thumb. They presented him with an estate in East Prussia, just as the Junkers presented the old man with one. But the Reichswehr chieftaims, with Schleicher in the background, still favor an eastern alliance, and Schleicher still seems to be hanging onto his old idea of joining with Gregor Strasser to organize the Christian and Reformist TradeUnions and part of the SA into an anti-Hitler front.
"The 'National Bolsheviks' in the SA are gaining ground. You'll find some splendid fellows among them--decent, courageous, not corrupted, and intelligent enough to see that all their hopes are being blasted. I talked to one of them a few days ago. All these years he never doubted for an instant that Hitler would place the interests of the people above those of the Behrenstrasse 5 and the East Elbian land robbers. He approved of all methods Hitler was using on his way to power--the money of the bankers and big business men, the soothing assurances he gave them that the points in his program which dealt with land reform and the nationalization of cartels and trusts weren't to be taken too seriously, his promises to foreign countries that our debts would be paid, and so on. Like thousands of others he believed that the end justifies the means. Once the Nazis had the power, they would show these gentlemen who was master in the house. And when he compared Hitler's ingenious tactics in acquiring power with Lenin's antiquated, laborious, pitiful class-war strategy, he laughed.
"But now they've got the power. He thinks they are in a position now to nationalize the monopolies without shedding a drop of blood, to do away with capitalism--yet he sees that nothing happens. Political economy's suddenly changed back into that sensitive, highly intricate organism that can't be disturbed with impunity All they have actually accomplished is the destruction of every defensive weapon forged by labor against capital over a period of decades. The poor sap still believes Hitler is sticking to his original grand promises to the people, but for the moment the Leader's hand seems to be tied. First the boobs blamed it on Hugenberg. But now the Nazis have practically everything their own way, and still nothing happens. Can it be that these boys really haven't got the power--that they cannot rise to eminence on the shoulders of the eminent and then kick them out from under--that Lenin's way is the only way, after all? Believe me, Karl," George concluded, "plenty of people are thinking along these lines nowadays."
"What are these disillusioned elements doing?" I
Until two months ago not very much. But within the last couple of weeks I've come across three interesting cases. Through my work I happen to know a good many SA officers and men. Last winter I gave a course on modern military problems to a group of ten men, all of whom called themselves 'revolutionists.' Using the German, Italian, and Soviet Russian experiences as a springboard, I tried to explain the advantages of a unified, politically trained class army and the weakness of the military machine of the bourgeoisie--the fascist bourgeoisie as well as any other--during a period of intensified class struggle.
"Well, when Hitler seized power, and during the landslide of the first few months, all ten of these men were convinced that the dawn of the German national community would do away with class distinctions, that this damned dialectic materialism was a malicious invention of uprooted intellectuals, and that the Communist Party had gone bankrupt because it pursued an anachronistic policy. I washed my hands of them. Yet none of them denounced me.
"About two weeks ago one of them suddenly appeared here, and after we had discussed the weather and Goering's latest uniform for a while, he began unburdening his heart. All this, he said, was hopeless, this corruption. Compared with this gang, the Sozis 6 had been babes in arms. Goebbels' secretary had embezzled winter relief funds; Ernst 7 was giving wild parties on SA money; Roehm's clique of pansies were growing more and more brazen; Hitler knew all about it but didn't lift a finger. As for the Junkers and Ruhr barons, their business had never been better.
" 'Well, well,' I said to him. 'So the wolves devour the sheep after all-even in the national community.'
" 'Listen,' he said, 'you're a Communist, aren't you?'
"'What are you talking about?' I said. 'You know the Communist Party is outlawed. It no longer exists.'
"'Seriously,' he said, 'I see now what an idiot I've been all this time. Goebbels' play acting went to my head; though in justice to myself I must say that this is the first big political reorganization I've ever consciously lived through. Better people than I were swept off their feet by the impetus of this movement. But I give you my word, I see now who's back of the whole thing, pulling the strings. I'm not doing Oldenburg-Januschau's 8 dirty work for him. I am not a strike-breaker for Thyssen and Krupp. And plenty of my
comrades feel the same way about it. If you can use me, please do.'
"I gave him a good raking over the coals," George went on. "I told him that people like him and his friends meant nothing but danger to us. They were unreliable, toppled over at the first puff of wind, changed their minds from one day to the next; and what made them absolutely worthless when it came to doing underground work, without any romance about it, was their arrogance, their political ignorance, their delusion that they are called upon to lead the working classes. He swallowed it all and was pretty crestfallen, especially when I got through rubbing in the fact that it was up to people like himself to prove their political trustworthiness, that pretty speeches weren't a damned bit of use to us.
He came back a few days later, this time with another fellow from the same group. They wanted me to put them in touch with the Central Committee--nothing more nor less. I laughed in their faces, and assured them that the Central Committee had discontinued its office hours for the time being. Well, then, couldn't I arrange to get them some sort of contact with the Party? I refused, and told them in so many words that I wouldn't be responsible to the Party for them. Well, then, how could they prove their sincerity in coming to me? I finally told them that if they were in earnest about fighting against Hitler and for the Party there were any number of ways in which they could make themselves useful, and that I'd be glad to help them.
"The following evening they brought me two secret Circulars of the SA chief of staff, and since then a third man has joined us. We meet regularly and discuss what's to be done. That's one instance for you. Of course, I don't want to generalize. Those three came to me because they knew me, and because something of what I tried to teach them must have stuck. Still it does prove that people are beginning to remember that they've got brains in their heads, and find the courage to use them."
When George had finished telling me about the general situation he asked me a thousand questions about the concentration camp. It was past four in the morning when we finally got to sleep.
Anna could hardly believe her eyes when I walked into the little kitchen. Her sister promptly put on her hat and coat and disappeared.
"Helling wanted to know the minute we heard from you," Anna explained. "And now, sit down and have a decent meal. Or would you like a bath first?"
"A bath, if you don't mind."
She took out a fresh shirt from the bureau. I caught sight of her husband's linen, arranged in neat piles.
"Did you see Erich before he died?" I said.
"No. I didn't even know he was sick. I got a letter from the hospital one day, saying that my husband had died of inflammation of the kidneys. I went right out there and claimed the body. But the doctor said he'd already been buried. I told him that my husband had never had kidney trouble. I told him to his face that they'd murdered him. He just shrugged his shoulders. 'Nothing I can do for you. Sorry.' That was the end of it." Her voice was full of hatred and bitterness. "What a foul lot they are! Doctors, professors, lawyers, parsons, actors, artists--all eating out of Goebbels' hand. I don't believe the world has ever bred such a spineless crew. And it's not only that they're forced to do these things. They jump gladly at the chance. If I'd had a thousand marks I could have got Erich out. But no lawyer will take the case of a prisoner under protective arrest till he's sure of his money. Extortionists—that’s all they are. They've got their connections with the Secret Police and the ministry of the interior, and those who can pay come first. A bunch of ghouls and carrion hunters--that's what the German legal profession is, now that it's been 'purged.'" Then she asked, What are you going to do now?"
"Depends on what work the Party gives me."
"Can you go back to your old firm?"
"I'm going to drop in there today. If the old personnel manager's still in charge, I'm hoping they'll take me back. When do you expect the child?"
"In a week or two. It bothers me a good deal already, especially when I've got steps to climb. That's why I had to give up my Party work."
"What were you doing last?"
"Collecting dues. It means such a lot of running around since we've been reorganized into groups of five."
"How many of the old Party members are still paying dues in the district?"
"There've been a lot of changes. A good many of the comrades have moved away, and been assigned to other districts. But then too, comrades from other sections have moved here. Since November there's been a steady increase in the number who are paying dues. We're almost half way to our I932 top."
"Where's August?"
"Still in Berlin. I saw him once in the subway."
"And Rudolf?"
"Sent to another district."
"Heard anything from Otto?"
"Hans was the last to see him in Columbia. That's all I know about him since he was arrested."
"Ah--you saw Hans?"
"Yes. He was released a week ago."
"Do you know his address? I'd like to see him."
"He lives with his mother. I can send my sister there, if you like."
"Don't bother. I'll drop in there myself."
When I had finished my meal Anna brought out a little memorandum book and settled her account with me. She had dismantled my apartment and sold the furniture, keeping an accurate record of all receipts and disbursements. My most precious possessions--my books--she had been unable to save. They had been seized by the police.
Meantime her sister returned. Helling would not be free till evening. He wanted me to meet him at Aschinger's at eight.
From Anna's I went to my old firm. Clean, well-fed in a freshly pressed suit, and with a few marks in my pocket, I felt surer of myself than I had the day before.
Old Volk in the porter's cubicle had a swastika pinned to his coat--the first change I noticed as I entered the old place.
"Good afternoon, Herr Volk. How's everything?"
He stared at me as though I had risen from the grave.
"Why-it's you, Herr Billinger."
"Yes, me, Well, what's new around here? I see you're a party member, now."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Everyone belongs to the National Socialist trade unions or the SA nowadays. When they made Kalisky personnel manager he gave us the choice between joining one of the Nazi organizations or being thrown out. So we all became Nazis."
"Kalisky's personnel manager now? Then I can save myself the trouble of going up."
Kalisky had been an ambitious bookkeeper who, before Hitler's call to power, had scrupulously avoided affiliating himself with any political party.
"Go up anyway. Can't do any harm. Shall I announce you?"
"All right. Tell him I'd like to speak to him."
Volk picked up the phone. "Herr Sturmfuehrer, Herr Billinger would like to speak to you--yes, sir--Herr Billinger-he used to work for us. Very well, sir. Heil Hitler!" He hung up. "You're to wait in the anteroom."
A new secretary, with platinum blonde hair and a swastika pinned to her waist, sat in Kalisky's anteroom. Portraits of Hitler and Goering hung on the wall.
"Good afternoon," I said.
"Heil Hitler!" she replied icily. "What do you want?"
"I was told to wait here for Herr Kalisky. My name's Billinger."
"Have you been announced to the Herr Sturmfuehrer?"
"I have been announced to the Herr Sturmfuehrer."
"Be seated."
The Herr Sturmfuehrer kept me waiting a full hour before admitting me to his presence.
"Good afternoon, Herr Kalisky," I said.
"Heil Hitler!" he snarled back. I stood lost in silent admiration of the ex-bookkeeper’s version of the German greeting—the graceful upsweep of the right arm, the nonchalant backward droop of the head. This was the Hitler variant, executed with the unmistakable Austrian charm. Goering favored the more masculine form, with the stiffened arm vigorously outthrust.
Since Kalinsky remained standing, neglecting the formality of inviting me to be seated, I pushed over a chair for myself. He had no choice but to sit down too.
"Herr Kalisky," I began, "I was released from protective custody yesterday. The Prussian premier, Herr Goering—"
"General Goering," he interrupted me.
"—General Goering has, as you doubtless know, announced that no difficulties are to be placed in the way of political prisoners, released under the terms of the amnesty, in their efforts to make a new life for themselves. That is what brings me here. I should like to know whether I may resume my former duties with the firm."
"Unfortunately we’re not in a position at the moment to take on new help. I’ll make a note of your name, however. Where were you last employed?"
I was struck dumb. The man’s impudence was astounding. He had been a daily visitor to our department in the old days, flattered when the engineers exchanged a few words with him.
"In the construction department—you remember?—right next to he bookkeeper’s cage."
"Oh, yes. Very well, Herr Billinger. I’ll remember you if an opportunity should present itself."
We rose.
"Auf Wiedersehen." I said
"Heil Hitler! I should like to call you attention, Herr Billinger, to the fact that the German greeting in used exclusively nowadays in all German factories and offices."
"Is that so? Six months can bring about a good many changes. There are lots of things I’ll have to catch up with."
On my way downstairs I decided to look in on Hinrichs, the chief clerk. I retraced my steps down the corridor. As I passed Kalisky’s anteroom I heard the secretary say, "He was engaged by Binder too. Here are the papers." Binder was the former personnel manager, who had grown gray in the service of the firm, who had always kept in personal touch with the employees and enjoyed stressing a patriarchal note in his relations with them. Not satisfied with having got rid of him, Kalisky was apparently gathering political material against him to make his victory conclusive.
In Hinrichs’ old room sat a man I did not know, with a swastika in his lapel. No, Herr Hinrichs did not work here any more. No, he was sorry. He didn’t know Herr Hinrichs’ present whereabouts. Heil Hitler!
"Listen, Volk," I said to the old porter on my way out. "What I want to know is, how many times a day do you have to say ‘Heil Hitler’? "
The old man peered around to see whether anyone was in earshot, then lowered his voice. "I was just saying to my wife yesterday, they're making a Lord God out of the man. He's bound to go crazy."
"He doesn't have to go," I said. "Auf Wiedersehen."
"Oh--so he didn't take you back?"
"He's not the fellow to stick burrs into his own skin."
The porter proffered his hand. "Auf Wiederschen, Herr Billinger. I'm an old man, and I've seen a good many come and go. My best wishes to you. Auf Wiedersehen."
The SA-men were clattering their collection boxes in the street, just as they'd been doing six months before. The money collected by thousands of Brown Shirts during the day was swilled away by a few leaders at night. I walked to the bus stop to get a bus to Mommsenstrasse. As I stood there waiting, and watching the traffic around me, I was suddenly engulfed in a wave of despair. In camp I had been among my comrades, among anti-fascists, among hundreds of men all animated by the same idea: Death to the brown torturers. Our sense of brotherhood had kept our heads above water. Alone now, facing another stretch of grinding labor, surrounded on all sides by swastikas, SA-men, and spies, my nerves threatened to go back on me.
Was this Germany, for which hundreds of thousands were fighting and suffering? These Kaliskys? These idiots on the street corners with their tin boxes, trying to beg themselves a new Fatherland; the virgins breaking into hysterical cries of "Hail!" when the leader told them to stop working and studying so that they could sit at home and breed children? These war cripples who would have liked nothing better than to stump along on their wooden legs with the soldiers mounting guard at the Brandenburg Tor. This was not our Germany. A wave of nausea rose in my throat. They must be destroyed, root and branch. At the same moment I shook my head over my own folly. This was what came of camp isolation. I'd have to accustom myself to the atmosphere of the national community, even though the stink of the "newly awakened" flunkeyism gagged me.
Hans' mother opened the door. She eyed me suspiciously when I asked for her son.
"He's not at home. Can I give him a message?"
"I'd like to see him myself. You see, we were at Columbia together."
She asked me to come in and wait. He'd be right back.
"He went to police headquarters. He's got to report there every day."
I had forgotten we had to report to the police. She returned to her washtub and went on with her work.
"So you're out now, too. I don't suppose you'll forget that experience. Hans doesn't tell me anything. It upsets me too much. But the first time I got his underwear, I knew enough. The shirt was full of blood and pus. He'd have been in a good deal longer if it weren't for my eldest son. They didn't even have him on the lists in Prinz Albrechtstrasse, and they don't let anyone out of Columbia House without an order from Prinz Albrechtstrasse. It got so that my eldest son used to go to the Gestapa every day, till finally they investigated. The whole business was just spite work on the part of a Nazi in our neighborhood, because Hans once grabbed a revolver away from him." She lapsed into silence, and I could see that her suspicions were stirring again.
"Did you know Hans before?"
"Yes, since I928. We did the same kind of work in the Party."
"You can't trust a soul these days. Everybody tells tales on everybody else. They've turned our house upside down three times already because people said we had weapons hidden here. You even start suspecting perfectly innocent people. A man who used to be Hans' friend lives here in the house, but we haven't had anything to do with him since he joined the SA last winter. Well, he belongs to the sturm that arrested Hans-their meeting place is right near here, and we were sure he was at the bottom of it. A few weeks after they came for Hans I met him on the stairs. Suddenly he starts talking to me.
"'Frau Riedel,' he says, 'please don't think I gave Hans away. There was just nothing I could do to stop them.'
" 'That's all right,' I told him. 'At least this way you get to know people for what they are.' And left him standing there.
"That evening his mother came up. I didn't want to let her in at first, but suddenly she starts crying and says her son's in a terrible state because he didn't warn Hans. He heard them say the night before that they were coming for Hans next morning, and he didn't sleep all night. But he was afraid to do anything, because he'd be the first one they'd suspect. Of course I couldn't hold it against the woman. After that they always asked
About Hans and her son helped my eldest boy to get him out. Now he wants Hans to join his sturm. I'm telling him he should. What's the good of all this? If the least little thing happens here in the house or the street they'll come after Hans again, whether he's to blame or not. And next time he won't come back. But if he's in the SA they'll leave him alone. And what you are under your uniform is nobody's business."
She straightened her bent back, walked to the door, and listened to a sound on the stairs.
" There he comes. I know his step. But he doesn't run up the way he used to. He's grown older too." She sighed. "Yes--people don't last long in times like these."
She set some coffee on the stove and picked up her marketing bag. "I'll just run down to the baker's for some cake."
I heard Hans' voice in the hall. "Where are you off to mother?"
"You've got company. He's waiting for you inside. I'll be right back."
"Well," said Hans, "so here you are again. Let's have a look at you. You're kind of skinnier. Not quite so fat and rosy as in the old Bruening days. When did you get out?"
"Yesterday. And you?’
"Ten days ago."
"I hear they wanted to give you a life job at Columbia."
"Yes--I was part of the stock in trade. They just forgot all about me."
"How many prisoners have they now?"
"About the same as in your day. But now, as a rule, they don't keep them so long. They're examined and coordinated, and as soon as they're fit for travel again they're shipped off to the camps and prisons."
"Is there still much flogging?"
"Day in and day out. They beat over forty prisoners to death in the last three months. Literally, beat them to death. But let's don't talk about it. I can't bear to think about it any more." For a while neither of us spoke.
"You know, Karl, I'm no mollycoddle, and I can stand a lot of knocking around. But how anyone can go on beating prisoners day after day--with the same cruelty, the same hatred--that's beyond me. I came away from that place with a real case of shock. When a child shouts on the street it gives me gooseflesh. And time and again I've found myself thinking: Why don't you stick your gun in your pocket and go down there and blaze away at everything brown? I'd like to blow up the whole of Berlin, so as not to have to go on looking at that brown manure."
"I feel just the same way. But that'll pass. We’ve got to get used to the fresh air again."
"Fresh air! I'll never get the smell of Columbia out of my nostrils."
"First of all, you've got to take a good rest. Then, when we're back at work again, these impressions'll fade."
"How're you going to rest? They're at me again now to join the SA. A year ago I'd have thought nothing of playing up to them. I'd have laughed myself sick over the idiots. Now I just can't get my arm up, and every time I have to say 'Heil Hitler!' I want to bite my tongue off. I know that's all sentimental drivel, but I just can’t do it any more."
"Have you reported to the Party yet?"
"Of course. The first day. I wrote a report on Columbia and gave the Party the names of all the SS-men and comrades whom I knew personally."
"Do you know what happened to Ernst?"
"Dead."
I hadn’t the heart to ask any more questions. Hans stared into space.
"Karl," he said hoarsely, "we'll avenge them."
He concealed all signs of agitation from his mother, who came in just then. He helped her set the table and managed to recapture his gay air.
"I've told mother I'm a perfect cook now. Battling Georgie Braun was my teacher. You remember Georgie, with the cauliflower ears? As long as Georgie ran the Columbia kitchen I lacked nothing. But one fine day they caught Georgie with the goods. He'd been keeping double accounts--one for the government and one for himself." He dipped a piece of cake into his cup. "Mother, the coffee cake's delicious. You're still the best of us all. What are you looking at the clock for? You're not thinking of running out again, are you? Mother, Karl can sleep here tonight, can't he?"
"Of course. He can have Willem's bed." But I told them that I would have to leave at once if I meant to reach police headquarters before the office closed.
"I'll go with you," said Hans. "That'll speed thin~s up. They know me by now."
In the street I asked him about Otto.
"He's in the south wing--alone first then with three other comrades. I had a chance to talk with him both before the examination and after. They didn't find a thing, and he didn't tell them anything that mattered. I think he'll come through all right."
"Did he say anything to you about the work?"
"Only that a comrade was to be notified. But that was taken care of before I got out."
"Hello, Hans." On the corner, a youth greeted him.
"Hello, Willi."
"Going to church?"
"No--that job's done for today." To me he said, "You see, they know I've got to report to the police every day. I ought to get out of this neighborhood. I’m as well known around here as a spotted dog."
The officer at headquarters looked up in surprise.
"Well, Herr Riedel. Isn't once a day enough for you?"
"Sergeant, this gentleman's anxious to make your acquaintance, too, and present himself to you daily."
The officer took the release card I'd brought from camp, and entered my name on a list.
"Don't forget to report any change of address here."
"Must I report to you at a certain time each day?"
"You can come any time during office hours," he re plied in a friendly tone. That was all.
I arranged to meet Hans at Anna's on New Year's Eve. As I rode to Aschinger's I felt that I'd been caught up once more into the rhythm of the old life.
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