THIS IS AN UNPROSSECED (NOT EDITED,) HARDCOPYCHAPTER SEVEN.
Werner Libnits took his time in opening his eyes, only to close them
again.
The bright spring sunlight was cascading through the foliage of
a huge lime-tree. Sun-rays like too many golden pikes were touching
Werner's body as though piercing it.
He sat up in the park bench he had slept the night and began rubbing his
eyes for quite some time. Then he stood up unfolding leisurely his big
body to it's full height and walked lamely towards the lake.
He took off his shabby and full of stains of dried blood battle-dress, let
is fall on the grass and then sat on the concrete ledge lining the water
edge.
He bent over the watery surface, cupped his palms and began splashing
water against his face, his head and the nape of his neck. Then, using his
overcoat as a towel, he dried his face and head and tried to trim his curly
gold-brown hair by passing his long fingers through them, pushing them
back. He more than certainly needed a haircut, as his filthy, tangled hair
trailed down along the back of his head, almost touching his shoulders.
He took the boot off his left foot, then the stocking, and finally he
rolled up his trouser leg and busied himself cleaning with water the wound
on his calf- a nasty souvenir from the previous night's free-for-all with
the half-crazed with hunger bitch.
, he grumbled, noticing that the wound was fairly deep and
began squeezing it this way and that while washing it at the same time with
cool lake water.
He thought of last night's battle with the stray dogs and somehow he
blamed himself for the incident. It was some years now he had given-up
those nonsensical raids to Horge's rubbish bins.
Back in the days of his youth - a green fugitive from one of the city's
orphanages, roaming the streets and back alleys of the big, inhuman capital
- paying visits to the trash cans was almost an act of survival, something
he could hardly afford to avoid. There were times he was unable to provide
for himself a decent meal and hunger was to him a constant, unbearable
torment, so there was no other way but to fight it out with the inevitable
strays- dogs over the brimming with leftovers trash containers outside
Horge's restaurant. But now, at this age this old practice seemed to Werner
too shameful to keep on exercising, and he would rather die of hunger than
rummage through the leftovers. Besides he was a young six-footer, strong
as a bull. So he was quite able for stealing his food or even kill for it. Or
work for it at that. Why not?
He produced his soiled handkerchief from one of his trouser' pockets,
dipped it into the water, wrung it until it was only damp and then applied
it to the full length of his wound like a bandage. And as he did so,
another thought crossed his mind: I possible do?>
Until now whenever he had tried to earn his living through honest working,
the only jobs accessible to him were as a porter down by the Potsdamer train
terminal or at the open market carrying crates and big boxes full of
vegetables. He didn't mind working. No. He didn't mind manual work and he
could work for hours in a row tirelessly.
But this kind of work simply bored him, and whenever at it, he had never
stopped cursing his bad luck behind clenched teeth, as the hours dragged
by, endless, feeling really pissed-off every time the guy paying him for
the job was trying to play it smart with him, giving him advise as to how
to do his job properly. Sometimes even shouting at him. Besides it was a
scatterbrains like that who had paved the way for Werner's first encounter
with the law at the tender age of eighteen.
At the time he was unloading some crates from a pick-up truck down by the
Sprea River when one of them big boxes slipped off his hands and fell
crushing on the sidewalk, turning to tits and bits the glassware it
contained. Well, that was it. The big jerk paying Werner for the job had
began swearing and screaming blue murder like an old maid in a spell of
hysteria, and Werner, already an eighteen year old lad, fairly strong
although lanky, had felt his blood rising to his head, eventually jumping
this fellow and sending him straight to the hospital, something which had
cost him his first imprisonment and his acquiring of a nice and neat
criminal record.
He was almost through taking care of his wound when, a chubby little
fellow with florid face walked by, his arms full with a stack of copies
of the god-damned Goebel's Tabloid Der Volkische Beobachter, heralding
aloud the headlines, straining his vocal cords. Oh boy!, Werner protested
silently, here is almighty Fuhrer again, and the Wermacht, and the Third
Reich and the threat of war that Hitler, ''was trying so desperately to
eliminate'' regardless if, in the meantime, this renowned nutter kept
gulping down whole territories with the same ease other people swallow pain
killers; first the Rhine area, then Austria, then Czechoslovakia. Now the
newspaper peddler was shouting that Fuhrer had turned against Poland
demanding of the Polacks something which sounded like Gdantsick and a
`corridor, whatever that thing meant.
To Werner all this bubbling about Gdantsick and the corridor was
pure Greek, but anyway, and always according to the news-vendor, Poland was
to hand them both over to the Germans either with its own free will of by
force. The news-vendor kept on his way always shouting the ominous news,
and Werner already up from the ledge and with his miserable trench-coat on,
stood for a moment looking disgusted. All those big shots are itching to
start a new war, he told himself. Take my word for it. Every ten to twenty
years or so the sons of bitches start talking about the threat of war and
how much they loath the idea, just to pull the wool over the eyes of the
idiotic public of-course, and then one fine morning the war is a fact and
the bellicose ruling jackasses of this world are up and ready to squeeze the
trigger, with their canons arrayed in perfect order against each other's,
their ugly dark mouths awaiting to be fed with the bodies of tens of
thousands of tin soldiers.
Yes but.... Well of-course none of this had anything at all to do with
Werner, for Werner was excused from army duty. And thank heaven for that -
not that Werner was a religious guy; on the contrary.- and that red-faced
doctor at the conscription centre who had concluded that Werner's feet were
too flat for military service. And the good physician had been even firmer
in his decision to send Werner home, when the latter had claimed frequent
epileptic spells which had him flat on the ground kicking and convulsing
like a mad dog, foamy saliva popping out his mouth, and the pupils of his
eyes rolled up and almost inward.
In the end Werner was excempted from military service ''for health
reasons'' as the paper he was given read. These were his thoughts as he
neared the exit from the Tiergarden. War or no-war it was all the same to
Werner. , he
mumbled. he mused, ''others'' have a country to sacrifice their lousy lives for.> They have
been raised inside real houses, he continued his silent argument, with
roofs above their heads, with mothers everyday to see to their needs,
fathers to provide for them, teachers, toys; everything a child may need.
While on the other hand, the various orphanages, the cold streets in the
dead of the winter, the chilly construction-sites he used to sleep in at
nights - sometimes even under the bridges along the Sprea River - the
prisons, the jail cells, the dining with left-leftovers spilling from the
brim of trash containers in the company of stray dogs and not that of
idiots, hardly construed for Werner the meaning of the word ''Country'. For
Werner lived in a jungle, and no fool ever gave his life away in defence of
a jungle.
By now he was well away from Tiergarden and without even knowing it, he
was following a certain direction still lost in his own thoughts: All that
mumble-jumble which people all around him used to get high on, all that
crap that sent crowds flood open squares chanting and cheering, and made
them willing to hurry to the ditches and kill or be killed, happy and with
a stupid feeling of fulfilment, left Werner indifferent and cold as ice.
Democracy, freedom, nazism, fascism, socialism, communism, imperialism -
epithets void of any real essence, addressed at gathered crowds, big words
uttered by shrewd politicians, promises of blue, red or black heavens, and
then lectures about the ''true meaning'' of the words ''duty'',
''allegiance'', ''heroism'', ''sacrifice''. All this was nice and good for
your average sucker, but not for Werner, no sir. For Werner Libnits now at
the age of 27 was dead sure that in this blasted world there was no train
or bus heading for this so much-dreamed-of venue called paradise.
But then again if it so happened that paradise existed, Werner himself
hardly knew the itinerary of the vehicle leading to it so he could hail it
down and board it, and as for the ticket, he had lost it the very minute he
was half way through his mother's womb, coming to the world.
He stopped for a moment, looked around him as if he was trying to find his
bearings. And then he realised he was heading straight to the ''Keizer
Friedriech'' museum. Far beyond the Berlin sky, the trees and the
grim-coloured buildings stared down at him in a strange,
whimsical way and a voice coming from nowhere whispered in his ear: name is Rosa Epstein.> §
CHAPTER EIGHT
He walked inside the Gestapo building with firm, long strides, the
expression on his face cool and confident. He ascended the white, marble
steps, then kept on down the corridor off the staircase.
To his left and right the SS soldiers standing guard inside the building -
one soldier outside the office door of the various departments housed in
the headquarters - seemed to him like tin uniformed figures as they snapped
the heels of their boots together, as he walked past them.
He kept walking down the corridor, nearing his destination but now
with every step he took, he began feeling his feet weak and trembling,
and the beads of sweat on his forehead freezing cold. Suddenly his
shirt-collar felt too tight, like a noose around his neck. Presently
he saw the big, well-varnished door down by the end of the hallway and
it was like the door was coming towards him, not the opposite.
The guards to the left and right of the door froze to attention. He
knocked at the door, and as it opened, he entered the outer office and
jerked his outstretched hand halfway upwards- his motion resembling that of
a winding puppet. . The sturmbandFhurer behind the desk,
sprung to attention and returned the salutation in precisely the same
manner before he ushered him to the inner office, saying, Doctor. The Groupenfuhrer is expecting you...>
The visitor took the few steps leading to the door of the huge inner
office, trying desperately to look calm and in full control of himself. A
small space like a waiting parlour was situated between the outer and the
inner office and the secretary working there left her desk to open the
final door for him. It was behind that door where the ultimate monster was
looming, and our man felt a strange numbness spreading down along both his
legs, and the oxygen in the air running short. Suddenly he felt shocked and
ashamed of himself, a perfect coward. Anger began building-up inside him
like fire spreading in a woodland under strong wind. He clenched his teeth
and walked through the doorway. One, two, three steps on the thick carpet,
then he halted abruptly, raised his right foot and brought it down with a
thud, then sprung out his stretched arm and...; The very same
exclamation he once used to offer with so much vehemence, now only brought
to his mouth an aftertaste of vomit.
SS Groupenfhurer Reinchart Heindrich, the supreme and indisputable boss
of the Reich's security services sat right across him, behind his
impressive oak desk under the dark and ecstatic gaze of Adolph Hitler which
now seemed menacingly pinned on the visitor, as the latter faced the
Fuhrer’s portrait. Heindrich did not bother to return the salute. He
remained silent, perched behind his desk like a predatory beast, his small,
restless eyes piercing the newcomer's garments and flesh, focusing at last
on his terror-stricken soul.
The Groupenfuhrer was a big, well-fleshed man with a high, broad
forehead , full, sensual lips and a long, hooked nose which emphasised
even more his hawkish appearance. Yet you could hardly describe
him as ugly or even unattractive. His hands were long and strong,
moving with ease and grace, his fingers slender and sensitive, those
of an artist, which was the case as he was an accomplished violin
player. Only that the artistic side in him was misleading as to the
true nature of the man, for those who knew him very little if at
all. , he spoke at last with a high pitched, hissing
voice which was at odds with the rest of his posture. up your mind?>
, the other man replied, trying to make his
voice sound as calm as possible.
this mission as of extreme importance and he never ceases asking me if
you've already commenced preparations. Of-course I have never mentioned to
him that you are a bit sceptical in taking charge of the.... shall we say
operation, and that you've asked for a 24-hour deadline,
so you could give the
matter some more consideration - a matter which is our Fuhrer’s own
personal wish, though. And you must know by now, Doctor Melhorn, that our
Fuhrer is rigid as adamant when it comes to discipline. A probable display
of insubordination on your part would have most certainly infuriated him to
say the least.>
Melhorn was feeling already like a wrestler with his back flat against the
ring canvas. It was as if the other man had ripped apart his chest with his
bare hands and he was now pulling hard at his guts, trying to disembowel
him.
Melhorn replied at last, suddenly feeling his throat as dry as desert in
midday.
never mentioned anything about your health being poor.>
exhaustion gradually deteriorating, some headaches every now and then....>
the other man cut in curtly.
may ask?>
of late my condition is getting to the worse. I have spells of terrible
dizziness, and sometimes I even feel I will collapse.>
be that it was the other day, when I asked you to be in charge of this
special operation by the border?> Heindrich inquired in a low, sarcastic
voice.
Melhorn for just a second felt the rug being pulled under his feet. The
unmistakable accusing undertone in Heindrich's alluding was so keen that
Melhorn felt it like a sharp knife cutting through his flesh. certainly not> he stuttered. mission, sir. Simply....I am a sick man, Herr Groupenfuhrer and just
because this mission is so important and crucial, it demands, I would say
the...the outmost of one's ability and effort, therefore it occurred to me
that I was not the right person for the job, as I feel unable to meet what
is required of me in terms of responsibility and effectiveness, honoured
though I feel that I was chosen to head the operation. So this is why I
came here today, sir to inform you that I cannot take charge of the
it.> So he had done it! He had just said it! He had taken the decisive step
towards... God knew where. But he had done it! And all he could do now was
to wait in anguish for the outcome of his folly.
The man behind the huge desk kept looking at him, his beady, penetrating
eyes fixed on his visitor's face, his voluptuous lips pursed in a wicked,
vitriolic smile. Heindrich said in a small voice, as if he was
talking more to himself. not? It is your little conscience that gets in the way.>
the other man protested, but Heindrich cut him short by
simply raising his hand only to bang it violently against the surface of
his desk.
he snapped suddenly, the expression on his face a mixture
of disgust and rage. do it. And this is all that counts!> He pushed his armchair viciously
backwards sending it to smash against the wall as he stood up with a jerk,
then he came around his desk with small, hurried steps. Presently he began
pacing up and down his big office like a lion in a cage. conscience, sir!> he shouted.
that you are more...sensitive that I am to such matters, your heart softer
than mine or Himmler's or even of the Fuhrer’s!>
roared Heindrich once more. listen. This decision was made by the Fuhrer himself. I told you so and you
knew it all along. And let me inform you that it was a hard decision too;
taken after too much reluctance and too many hesitations. The Fuhrer went
through a merciless ordeal before he had made up his mind. Not only him,
but all of us who... were called to carry it out. And I ought to admit,
sir, as soon as he confided in us about his decision, we froze where we
stood, dumbfounded and petrified, shocked from head to toes the whole lot
of us. Our conscience protested too, but then of course we dully reminded
ourselves that most and above all we are soldiers. Soldiers, Melhorn you
hear!> By now he was half crazed with anger. This otherwise cool man with
the monstrous personality who liked to play with the idea of death and
murder with the same ease that other people played a hand of poker, this
obscure poet of terror - for only he new best how to terrorise the German
masses - was now a powder keg in full explosion, as his visitor had had the
audacious courage to challenge him, questioning the "Impeccable" of his
character and the "Humane side" of it. Heindrich went on
in the same aggressive tone, years to this day since we signed that disgraceful piece of shit at the
Versailles, Germany never stopped bleeding. They took from us everything,
they drained us leaving to us nothing. Not even what little honour deserves
a defeated nation. They took the German side of the Rhine. They took Saar.
Gdantsic theirs too. Whatever fused life to our country they took from us,
tightening the noose around our neck. And as if all this was not enough,
they have us paying so astronomical sums of money in war compensations
that they actually suck the very marrow off our bones. They deny us the
right to a national industry. They deny us the right to have our own fleet
of warships - no airforce too. There was a time when we had almost five
million unemployed roaming the streets and no police force to contain them
because we were not allowed to have one, risking to have our countrymen
turned against and devouring each other so they could satiate their hunger.
And besides all this, those bastards were pushing our nation to its
historical demise - you are aware of all this. The generals of the allied
occupation forces were free to do as they pleased, and so they did. They
used to indulge in all sorts of debauchery, sometimes causing damages to
the property of our people, stealing even, only to get away with it
unscathed. And what about the Senegalese soldiers - those black servants of
the syphilitic frog eaters - wandering in the streets day and night dead
drunk molesting and raping our mothers, our sisters, our wives, bayonets
in hand? Well, this is what Nazism tries to put and end to. This is the
womb of history that gave birth to the Fuhrer and the Third Reich. So they
can put an end to injustice, to hunger, to humiliation to the threat of an
entire nation being wiped out from the face of the earth - a nation mind
you second to none in terms of social organisation, hard working and a
yearning for prosperity and progress.>
Suddenly he went silent, steadied himself by taking hold of the corner of
his desk with both hands, gasping for air. Then he went tiredly around the
big piece of furniture and sunk in armchair, his head slightly bent. He
stayed so for a minute or two and then raised his eyes again to look at
Melhorn who all that while had remained motionless, frozen to rigidity.
, he said finally, his voice nothing but a whisper.
earnest - no second thoughts - gladly, rejoicing in doing it even if what
is asked of us is nothing less than to kill a thousand times and to be
killed as many. We'll do it for Germany, do you understand? For Germany,
our country, ready as it stands now to tear to pieces that disgraceful
treaty of the Versailles and to reclaim at gun point the right to survival
and happiness. Yes, we'll do it with or without you.> He stopped, relaxed
somehow, lit a cigarette with steady hands and drew in deeply the fragrant
smoke. His face was etched to a smile. Herr Doctor. Tomorrow you will be transferred to a place and service I am
afraid you won't find to your liking. But I will not say a word to the
Fuhrer about your refusal. Not for the time being at least. Sometimes
uncertainty and doubt about the disaster waiting for us round the next
corner, is far worse than the actual disaster itself. Off with you now!>
Melhorn looked for a moment shocked, his face as white as an apparition's.
Then he raised half-way up his outstretched arm and mouthed the
all-too-hated slogan.
Heindrich retorted still smiling. are not too convincing.> The other man kept staring at him for some more,
lost for words, then turned about face with a fine, well calculated
movement and walked out of the office. As soon as Melhorn's foot-falls died
away at the far end of the hallway, Heindrich pressed his intercom button
and the officer standing outside stormed into the office. I want SS Brigattenfuhrer Horst Diedrich and Captain Onayoks in this
office,> Heindrich barked, and the officer entirely took off to carry out
his order. §
CHAPTER NINE
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