Of Rats And Heroes chapters 9-10

CHAPTER NINE

Werner Libnits got in front of the entrance to the Kaiser Friedrich
Museum at about twelve p.m. after a two-hour walking. His physical
endurance was equal to that of a stray dog and he was feeling anything
but tired. Still his left leg at the heel where the bitch's teeth had
got hold of him, had began throbbing with pain.
He was hungry again but what was more unbearable to him was the lack of a
puff. The last cigarette butt he had sampled was the one thrown away in
that back alley by the skinny hunch-back he had met at Trabenestrasse.
Werner had witnessed the roughing-up of the Jews right from the beginning
and along with that the hunch-back's to's and fro's during the event.
The guy was an informer no doubt about it, Werner thought. One of those
s.o.bs shadowing most of the important and wealthy Jews, like bloodhounds,
sniffing around for their hideouts, giving them away to those SS baboons
for just a small portion from the overall looting as payoff whenever they'd
manage to dig them out. This particular scumbag had seemed scared shitless
upon seeing Werner poping out of nowhere in the dead of the night, but well
Werner hardly gave a damn about the SS, their stooges and the rest of the
world for that matter.
The only thing he had wanted from that lousy, terrified cripple was his
cigarette butt, as the other man was bound to throw it away sooner of
later. But all this was past history now - events of the previous night,
and Werner had to worry about making it through this new one. He was hungry
all-right, but that was something it could wait. Besides he was trained the
hard way to endure hunger stoically.
But this longing for a fag, oh boy, that was quite something else. Doing
without a cigarette for too long had a shattering effect on his nerves and
mood. Turning his head he saw two taxis stopping in front of the museum
entrance. Two noisy groups of tourists got off the vehicles. The tourists
were dressed in an unusual, rather funny way and from the way they spoke,
Werner decided they were Americans. The foreigners climbed the stairs to
the entrance of the huge building chatting joyfully, exchanged a few
pleasantries with the doorman, then walked passed him and inside the
museum.
But before they walked in, two of them threw two half- smoked cigarettes
into a tin bin placed at one side of the entrance. Although half-smoked the
cigarettes remained invitingly long and.... Werner walked mesmerised toward
the entrance, climbed the stairs carefully stopped short for a while on the
head step waiting in earnest, and when another group of visitors gathered
around the doorman asking questions, he took the few steps to the bin and
fished out the booty. Then he hurried down the steps and toward a tree
grove.
Werner looked cautiously around, then sat down on the grass, underneath a
tree, and resting his back against its trunk, he attacked one of the
cigarettes puffing at it in a way as if it was the last he was smoking for
the rest of his days. His big, strong hands, each holding a cigarette,
were slightly shaking every time he inhaled the fragrant smoke, his lungs
pumping with yearning, sucking-in the invisible mist. So he kept smoking
like a maniac for about five minutes until the stubs began burning his
fingers. Presently he threw away the all too tiny cigarette butts on to the
thick grass and began thinking about that woman.
It was thanks to her that he had spent the last full year behind bars, but
in spite of this fact, he could not take her out of his mind - not for a
minute. Rosa Epstein! A tall, slim vague female figure on the far end of a
darkened back-street in the Sarlotemburg area. He could still feel the
fragrance of jasmines caressing his nostrils. Then the figure was closer and
Werner could remember the two big, slightly slanted eyes, watery like two
small dark lakes set in a pale, almost transparent face crowned by a rush
of long silky hair that caught and reflected the glow of a street light.
Ah, the lady was surely rich and classy, no doubt about it, Werner
thought. Her cloths, her style, her perfume, the way she held up her
beautiful head, all this cried out from miles away that she was coming from
the other bank of life's river. Yeah, right from the other bank where the
place was full of wealth, luxurious mansions crowded with servants and
maids, flashy limos taking to and from schools spoiled little rich brats -
all those things Werner could only look at from across this here bank, the
retched one. So she belonged to aristocracy; and he was nothing but a
lousy bum, famished and miserable even before he was born. This he was; a
nothing, even less than that. But still he had kept alive in his memory her
picture and her name he had never forgotten while in prison.
For twelve full months cut-off from the world, thrown into a dark and damp
cell of the blasted Nazi Dahau Gaol, thinking of that woman, had helped
Werner fight off boredom and loneliness. He had been thinking of her day and
night, in his sleep and while awake, in his cell, in solitary confinement
too, even during the time he was jumped at by four SS assholes who beat the
living day-lights out of him just because they felt it was their duty to
give him a clean and neat bashing every time they learned that one of their
co-jailers was out on a leave of absence. Yes, even during those moments of
unbearable physical pain and harassment, while hallucinating under the
ruthless blows, seeing weird stars and strange flashes of light, thrown on
to the blood- stained floor, huddled almost unconscious and with his body
half way to destruction, his soul, as if acting on its own, was sailing
merrily away like a proud galleon flying her full colours, to meet the
ethereal creature of that night in Sarlotemburg.
And it was thanks to that desperate get-away of his soul and mind that
Werner had managed to withstand the wild beating that particular night, and
it was this wonderful memory always with him - the only wonderful thing
whatever to brighten his otherwise empty and unfortunate life - that had
eased his pain - both physical and mental -throughout his time in prison.
And as if all this was not enough, soon after his release and right before
he had a chance to a few crumbs of food, somebody else's half-smoked
cigarette, and some sort of lousy shelter to spend the night in, Werner had
found himself wondering like in a trance toward this part of the city in
high hopes of seeing her again, of taking a tiny, fleeting glimpse of her
even for a split second. And even from a distance too, so he could rid his
soul from the unbearable burden, so he could ease the burning in his heart
that for a year that day was battling against a turbulent ocean of pure
hell killing him a thousand times each and every minute only to save him as
many so it could kill him again.
His small, slanted, grey like melted lead eyes were fixed on the entrance
to the museum while a voice deep inside him kept shouting: "Go away! Just
turn the other way and walk away. Run man, as fast as your feet can carry
you! This dame is not for you and you know it. She comes from another
world, she belongs to another society and the only thing she'll do as soon
as she sees you right in front of her, popping out of the blue, is to run
away at high gear, or even puke, disgusted by your appearance".
So after too many futile efforts to convince himself to just walk away, he
took off his shabby battle-dress, bundled it up, threw it among the bushes
beyond, then run his hands down along the thread-bare jacket and the
creased, full of ugly spots trousers he wore, in a vain effort to make
himself presentable. And finally, as if pulled by a thousand hands to that
direction, he walked to the entrance to the museum, towards that big
doorway that led to either hell or heaven - he wish he knew what...§

CHAPTER TEN

Klaus Funke got off the train as quickly as his crippled leg allowed
him to, and crossed the full of commuters platform to the street
outside the huge train terminal.
Humanity rushed past him like an angry swelled-up river and then dispersed
to all directions. No-one seemed to notice him and the fact was quite a
relief to him.
But no. A good number of them slowed down their pace and all too rudely
turned to look at him and his twisted, deformed left leg, as he was forcing
it in a tragically funny way to follow the movements of the rest of his
body, and the ugly hump projecting from the flat of his back like a meaty
little knoll, some with pity, some with outright scorn and sarcasm, making
him seethe secretly with wild rage and indignation.
Right from the days of his childhood whenever the focal point of curious
bystanders he would try to get as far away from them as he could, seeking
to vanish from the face of the earth, so avoiding the too many eyes that
like sharp steely daggers kept stabbing at his very being, while before the
eyes of his soul the same old wonderful, and at the same time nightmarish
dream would begin unreeling - that dream which haunted his existence since
the day he realised that his God-damned mother, his perverted fate, and God
himself - a malignant God, surpassing in cruelty the worst criminals - had
conspired against him in a very nasty way. In such moments the image of
the real world would fade away from his eyes, making way for another world,
this one floating in bright, colourful lights, reverberating with kindness
and gentleness and Klaus, standing in its middle, rose a good six-footer,
healthy and robust, with his left leg strong and straight, and his back
lean and freed from the burden of that hateful hump that its weight seemed
to push both his body and soul ever down, as low as a human being could
bend.
So now he found himself dragging his miserable existence among the crowd
of commuters, withdrawn though in his daydreaming, in this magic world of
kindness and mercifulness until at one point he realised he had reached his
destination.
He stopped by the corner, turned his head slightly, and fixed his hawkish
stare across the street at the imposing building housing the "Kaiser
Friedrich Museum", then he shot a glance at his wrist-watch. It was one
o'clock sharp and the woman who had haunted him in both his sweetest
dreams and his most dreadful nightmares, never left the museum before two
p.m.. So he would wait for her like he had done so many times in the past.
And he would shadow her trying not to loose her, not even for a second,
from his eyes until she led him to her father's hideout.
The woman's father was none else than the much celebrated Julius Epstein,
professor of physics and one of the wealthier German-Jews who, as of late,
had disappeared from the face of the earth.
And then, once Klaus had located the professor's hideout and ensured that
his life was helplessly resting in his two hands, he would try, even
through cynicism and blackmail, to claim what fate had so unjustly and with
such cruel finality denied him: a ticket to sexual intimacy with a woman
and carnal happiness.§

Of Rats And Heroes chapters 7-8

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

Of Rats And Heroes (chapters 5-6

CHAPTER FIVE


It was well past midnight when Werner Linbitch, wrapped as best as
possible in his shabby, thread-bare Army coat, with its collar raised and
his long, powerful hands thrust deep down into the coat's pockets,
sauntered slowly up Bismarck Avenue, toward the Zoo. The moon high up in the
darkened dome of the sky was sailing away, gliding leisurely amid the low,
threatening clouds which were perched like enormous, mythical black-birds
above the steeple of the Wilhelm Kaizer's Church far beyond.
From the Spree River, curving at that point in an abrupt, whimsical way
and getting too close to the avenue, the breeze blew cold and moist, and
this feeling of dampness seemed to engulf the whole area strong and
piercing, getting through your bones. Sparse whiffs of mist shrouded the street -lights creating haloes round the bulbs.
Werner had lost track of time. It was some hours now he was wandering
aimlessly in the streets. Almost a year in prison, stuck in a narrow, grim
cell, it seemed, he thought, as if he had been doing nothing more than
dreaming each and every night of this exhausting wandering around the big
city - this city which it was part and parcel of what he called life>: an ocean of loneliness, of fear, of wild, well-hidden wrath, in which
the scars moments of relative happiness seemed like lone, tiny islands
scattered far apart from each other.
He was nearing the corner right across the central train station, when
from the side of Curfhurstedamn, to his right, he heard voices and cries
merging together and rising like the angry thundering of a flooded river
streaming toward him _ wild cries, almost hysterical. He saw a throng of
people approach running and yelling.
Most of them were youngsters donned in Hitler's Youth uniforms and
insignia. Among them you could also see a few SS and Gestapo people along with some
others. The rioting crowd was running across the width of the avenue
brandishing sticks, wooden butts, iron rods, chains and torches, chanting
angry slogans against the Jews, cursing them, attacking all the Jewish
shops they met on their way, smashing window fronts, raiding the
establishments, destroying goods and furniture, tearing up, burning and
looting indiscriminately. And then on they moved to the next one, or to the
one across the street.
Every now and then from the apartments above the marauded shops windows
opened, lights turned on, people half-dead with fear appeared on the
balconies _ some of them shouting, imploring the night invaders to stop
this orgy of destruction.
Those of the people under siege who had the insane courage to venture to
the rescue of their shops and everything they represented _ the toil and
hard work of generations in a row _ instantly fell victims to the flaring
rage of the attackers, who began beating, kicking, and molesting them in
every conceivable way. And as the fierce pack of people kept storming on, what
they left on their wake was human figures sprawled on the pavement, all beaten-up and
bloody.
Werner stood aside for a moment, waiting for the worst part of the
man-made calamity to pass and then, as the angry throng of people moved on
further up the avenue still smashing window fronts and looting until it
split in two smaller groups which followed different directions _ one
turning left and on to the Bismarck Avenue, the other turning right, toward
the Zoo grounds and Anhalter _ he kept walking to the right, in the
direction of Kurfhursterndamn.
There the sidewalks were covered with a thick, uneven layer of broken
glass that caught the lights, reflecting them in a strange, blinding way.
Among the debris one could see pieces of furniture some half broken, and
here and there small pools of congealed blood turning black. People
gathered outside the marauded shops, looked on impassively, some making
sarcastic comments about this scene of biblical chaos unfolding before
their very eyes, while crawling among their feet the Jewish victims of this
incredible vandalism, smeared with their own blood, desperate, their eyes
hollow and huge with terror were trying to salvage whatever they could from
the wreckage of their property.
Taxis and cars carrying Berliners to and fro their night outings drove by
slowly, carefully negotiating the strewn with broken glass deck of the
street, while uniformed Policemen, who only a little while ago had watched
indifferent the pogrom in progress, were now trying to get the traffic back
to order, waving cars and pedestrians this way and that with rather tired,
unwilling gestures.
Werner mixed for a while with the crowd of onlookers, then walked by the
ruined shops, a bit curious, somewhat annoyed, listening with disgust to
the nasty slung at the devastated and miserable Jews by the passing
by Berliners.
Werner didn’t like Jews. In fact Werner didn’t like no-one. Scenes of
violence and crime hardly ever impressed him.
But there was something about this all-too-well orchestrated persecution
of Jews that somehow made him feel angry. It was this air of omnipotence
about those punks of the SS and the Gestapo, those green mama's boys _
who, he was sure, if you could manage to strip them off their uniforms and
slap them once or twice across the face, they would have taken off
screaming for help and protection - that really bothered him.
His head heavy with these thoughts, Werner presently realised that he had
reached his destination. It was the same old place he used to frequent
since his early days, whenever trying to get something to eat so that he
wouldn’t sleep with his stomach empty.
He stood outside the big, well lit Horge's restaurant, one of the
classiest and more aristocratic Berlin had to offer, and meeting ground on
a nightly basis of every rich tourist, diplomat, and member of the
so-called high society in town. And of-course among the patrons of the
place as of late were quite a few officers of the Wermacht and the SS.
Werner's eyes were fixed on the huge window fronts of the fancy
establishment, looking like hypnotised at the spectacular arrangement of
platters full of delicious foods, sweets and fruits and the array of bottles
of expensive wines brought in from all over Germany. A gourmand’s Paradise
before his very eyes. And right behind this every hungry man's magnificent
sight, Werner could see waiters moving swiftly among the tables occupied by
small groups of smartly dressed and good spirited customers; men wearing
well-tailored evening suits or flashy uniforms, ladies in long, expensive
gowns.
Werner kept watching them as they were eating and drinking, immobile, a
tall, expressionless man with wide, slightly bend shoulders, grey,
half-closed eyes set deep in their sockets like those of a wild animal
lurking in the dark, ready to attack its prey.
He was hungry. God, he was very hungry, his hunger punishing, painful
almost _ the kind of agonising and aggressive hunger that tormented him and
was always there since the day he became aware of his existence. But at the
same time it was exactly this feeling of hunger which made him feel a
stranger, completely cut-off from their , a perfect outcast living
in the margin of the shithouse they called their .
The time on the pendulum clock hanging on the wall to the restaurant's far
end read half past one and most of the customers had began leaving the
premises. Now the time was near for Werner's little improvised feast, when
he would attack in his desperate and furious fashion - like so many times
in the past - what he called . The same old ritual since the days
he was a child, all alone in the world, a frightened wild little tramp
roving aimlessly those very streets.
He took his eyes from the window front, walked to the corner of the block
and turned it, then kept on and got in a dark construction site. Once
inside the basement of the building under construction, he bent both his
knees and began feeling the debris around him until he found a piece of
wood with a few crooked nails protruding from its other end. He rose, went
out and then came round to the back of the big restaurant and on to a
half-dark alley yard lined with old buildings. Exhausted with fatigue and
hunger, he sat on the stone threshold of a house right opposite the
restaurant's back entrance pinning his eyes on it. The lights in the big
kitchen were still on. And on the pavement outside the kitchen he could
make out the outline of several rubbish bins in array. Near and around the
big garbage containers was already gathered a pack of stray dogs _ a very
old and familiar sight to Werner _ skinny, ugly and dirty animals waiting
there with their snouts moisten, their eyes bloodshot and wild. Few of them
bore scars from old wounds and most of them stole hostile stares at Werner
every once in a while, snarling at him, baring their teeth.
This ominous measure-up between the human and the dogs lasted until the
moment the kitchen's door opened wide and seven or so sweat -dripping young
men came out carrying big paper bags full with the evening's left-overs.
When the assistants went back into the kitchen and the door closed behind
them, Werner got to his feet, tightened his grip round the wooden weapon
and took a last look ta the pack of hungry dogs.
The animals stood their ground firmly, staring back, grunting angrily.
Then the human took a few slow, decisive steps forward, now holding the
butt with both hands.
The grunting of the dogs sounded louder, more fierce and menacing as
Werner came closer. Some of them stepped back and to the sides, and began
barking and howling.
The minute Werner got near the bin at the end of the line, to his left,
the smaller of the animals, a bastard _ a vague mixed breeding of Doberman
and Curtshaar _ dashed off like a living bullet and dived for his feet,
howling in rage.
Presently Werner's boot smashed violently against the dog's rib cage,
while at the same time his butt came hard on its head, crushing its scull
with a hair-raising cracking sound.
The dog began rolling wildly on the ground squealing, blood jettisoning
from its smashed head, while a huge Alsatian and a chubby, crippled bitch
rushed on to Werner from behind.
He spun on his heels and, using the stick like a sabre, thrust it
into the Alsatian's ribs. Suddenly he felt the bitch's teeth finding
their way into the flesh of his calf.
Werner began kicking like a horse ran amuck, jerking and twisting sideways, dragging
along the filthy bitch which wouldn’t let go of his calf. He raised the
stick once more _ the protruding nails turned downward _ and brought it
down with all his strength. The stick drew an arch wheezing before it
landed hard on the animal's backbone, the nails driving deep inside her
flesh. The bitch fell on her side paralysed and began convulsing and
squealing wildly, blood streaming through her teeth and on to the
cobblestone hot and steamy.
The other animals, enraged by the howling and the squealing of their
injured companions and the smell of blood, attacked the tall man in unison
and from all directions, while he, facing now the threat of a ruthless and
savage death, kept spinning around, brandishing the butt with immense
strength _ the product of his crazy panic _ smashing heads, shattering ribs
and bones.
Presently on the nearby buildings windows began to open and doors. Some
people from Horge's restaurant came out running and shouting , trying to
scare the animals away.
The dogs _ at least those still able to stand on their four feet _
dispersed, turning to face the new attackers, grunting and baying wildly,
baring their teeth. And then, when their infallible instinct told them they
were fighting an already lost battle, they retreated, disappearing in the
darkness.
Werner took a few steps back limping, until he reached the wall of the
restaurant and leaned on to it gasping. His wide chest pumped uncontrollably
and his pale, drawn face was wet with perspiration.
His old, shabby battle-dress was literally hanging in shreds from his
body, spotted with big stains of blood _ both his and that of the animals _
and from his injured left leg blood trickled down on to the cobblestone.
He stood silent there, unwilling to offer any explanation to the
bystanders as to what had happened, so the windows on the surrounding
buildings began closing again discreetly one after the other, the people
from the restaurant went back inside and the half-dark alley-yard submerged
once more into the silence of the night. It was then and only then that
Werner Libnitch pushed away from the wall he was leaning to, and almost
dragging along his wounded leg, approached the boxes. Some of them were
lying there, overturned, their contents littering the sidewalk. Werner
rummaged through the left-overs, looking for edible tits and bits _ his
first supper in freedom after one full year in prison.

CHAPTER SIX

The phone rang one, two, three times, its ringing shrill and dry. Walter
Selleberg, Chief of the SS counter-espionage network, let the confidential
report he was reading drop on his desk and picked up the phone annoyed.

The voice on the other end of the line sounded uneasy.



.
The voice became softer, trailing and somewhat trembling.
.
to you. It seemed like you’ve disappeared as of late. Are you well, Sir>
The voice on the other end of the line halted briefly, as if its owner was
trying to catch his breath, and then again sounded muffled with hoarseness.
.
office if you wish to drop by, or you'd rather have me over to yours?>
replied the other, his
voice still low and agitated. situation over the phone. It's about, lets say, a personal matter. And an
extremely grave one at that>.

They agreed to meet in a quiet out-of-the-way little restaurant, somewhere
along a side-street within the next hour or so, then the line went dead.
Selleberg, tall, lean, good-looking and good-natured, one of the most
educated and well cultured cadres of the SS, remained still for a moment,
musing. In the past, he thought, Melhorn was second in command of the
Security Service of the SS. Once a lawyer in Saxony, the son of good
family, phlegmatic with cool well calculated manners, Melhorn was renowned
for his limitless capabilities in organising. It was thanks to those
capabilities he had managed to climb fast and steady the rungs of
officialdom, emerging as one of the most prominent members of the SS, in
fact ranking only second to the omnipotent, ruthless and devilish
Groupensfhurer Reinhart Hendrich, the undisputed Chief of the Security
Service of the Reich.
Selleberg, who, in spite of his also remarkable rise in the SS hierarchy,
had managed to salvage quite a few of his human qualities, still remembered
Melhorn with feelings of gratefulness and affection, as the older man had
treated him with kindness and understanding during the time the latter was
second in command of the SD and Selleberg himself a young officer just
transferred to the SS Command.
It was during those days that Melhorn, putting to full gear his abilities
and working for days in a row, had managed to set up nation-wide the
invisible network of the SD, the notorious Intelligence Service of the SS,
the ever open and alert eyes and ears of the Nazi regime among the German
people. He had succeeded in planting informers in every business, every
factory, every single group of professionals, every workshop, trade union,
neighbourhood, city, town and hamlet, thus watching and monitoring every
thought, every word, every reaction of the average German.
What Melhorn had achieved back then, was widely regarded as a pure
miracle. But in the course he had committed a grave mistake too,
under-estimating the ruthlessness of his superior, Heindrich while
conspiring against him, something which later proved to be fatal.
Heindrich, undoubtedly the most obscure and cunning figure among the brass
of the Nazi gang, had managed within short time to decipher the intentions
and the ambitions of his Lieutenant, so Doctor Melhorn had found himself
rolling down the ladder as quickly as he had once climbed it, victim of a
relentless war of attrition waged against him by his very boss.
Now Melhorn, despised and ignored by almost everyone in the Service, and
in charge of an insignificant administrational post, with his reputation
torn to pieces among the rank and file of the Nazi Orthodoxy, was clearly
and urgently seeking out to meet with Selleberg, the new, bright and fast
emerging star in the hazy Galaxy of the Third Reich's Secret Services.
To Selleberg it was more than clear right from the beginning that such a
meeting, secretive and off the limits of his official capacity with a
person who's faith in Nazism’s ideals had ceased from a long time ago to be
regarded as unwavering, could turn out to be very harmful to his career.
Nevertheless he did like Melhorn, and in a way felt indebted to him.
Besides, although he was clever enough to keep such little to
himself, to some extend he shared Melhorn's tantalising doubts as to the
quality, the ethics and the viability of the flamboyant Nazi visions. So
he decided to go and see Melhorn, feeling morally obliged to do so for the
most part, but also because the conspicuous agitation and panic of an
otherwise cool and well-composed man like Melhorn had vexed his curiosity.
A full kilometre before their randevouz point, Selleberg ordered his
driver to stop the car. He got off the big, black staff Mercedes, waved
the driver away and covered the remaining distance to the restaurant afoot.
The place was almost empty and Selleberg found Melhorn already there,
sitting at a table, to the far end. Melhorn was pale with black-blue
circles round his eyes and his hand, holding a cigarette, was trembling
slightly. The two men shook hands, Selleberg ordered something and as soon
as the waiter walked away, he fixed his eyes on the other man's face
searchingly.

Melhorn remained silent for a moment. He looked suspiciously around him,
at the few people eating and talking in hushed voices at the nearby tables.
Then he looked out the restaurant's front window. Satisfied they were quite
safe he turned again to face Selleberg and began talking, his voice still
tainted with huskiness, his speech halting.
Believe you are a very capable man... more than well educated ... a man
with clear mind so to speak and... a highly developed sense of Judgement...
in short, a person, I am convinced, hardly prone to mass brain washing or
to the thoughtless adopting of totalitarian ideas of any kind...>
He paused suddenly and lit a second cigarette with the butt of the one he
was smoking already. He raised the new lit cigarette to his trembling lips.
, he went on, as the only bright exception existing among the SS jungle. I also think
you are the only man to whom one can open his heart, asking your valuable
advise...>
, selleberg cut in,
his face lit by a friendly smile. all about? Frankly, it's the first time I see you so upset...>
.

.



sick about the future of this country. I am anxious over Germany,
Selleberg. About the fate of our people, about the fate of the peoples of
the entire world for that matter>.

promise me that you won't tell a single word to no-one, can I rely on
that?>
.
this fanatic amateur daydreamer at the Chancellery... you know who I am
talking about...>

blood. The war is a ¬fait accompli.¬ Nothing can reverse the course things
have taken.>
the
other man ventured.
<¬Nein! Nein!¬ He has made up his mind about the war and nothing can stop
him.>

decision about the war is final I tell you. Orders have been issued to all
directions; the Wermacht, the Luftwafe, the Navy are getting ready for the
massacre. The war industry produces weaponry at unthinkable rates. Nothing
can stop this tragedy. Even if the Western Powers appear willing to make
concessions, even if Poland will accept all our terms. No! That... that
humanoid in there... in the Chancellery will go ahead with his plan. He will
drag the world right into the vortex of the bloodiest war mankind has ever
known. He will dispatch the millions of our soldiers straight into a
nightmarish holocaust the outcome of which is far from certain.> He paused.
His hands were shaking now and his deep-blue eyes were reddish.
, he went on, his voice a shade lower as he looked
once more around him anxiously. whoever has managed to remain immune to the contamination of Hitler's
totalitarian theories and ideals, can clearly understand that every
coercive regime will sooner or later resort to war. And one can realise
this even better by simply looking back in human history. It's inevitable,
don’t you see? Totalitarianism, whenever and where-ever present throughout
history, at one point or another has had resorted to war, thus seeking to
enhance its ugly existence through bloodshed and destruction, doing so with
the same eagerness that a flower seeks out the light, bending its stem
towards the sun. Take Rome and Carthage for example. War was the main
ingredient of their existence. There is no other way, Walter. Sad as it may
sound, there is no other way. No! All those political systems that do not
enjoy the support of the people they are imposed on, and their mandate is
not being renewed by a proven public consensus and their services to the
people are not being checked and scrutinised by this very people, they
carry on existing by deriving their strength and authority from pure
bigotry, arrogance and the exploiting of internal conflicts which
eventually lead to war and destruction, succumbing to the tremendous forces
growing beyond proportion within them, exactly as it happens with
typhoons...> He paused again and retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket,
wiping with it the thick drops of sweat off his forehead - his movements
halting and uncertain. Selleberg kept watching him closely, speechless now
and somewhat shaken. The other man shook his head in desperation.
Melehorn went on, not make only me, who dares to simply utter such words, a culprit, but
even you, dear friend, who listens to them. Nevertheless, since... since
yesterday morning I feel as though I have gone over the limits of reason;
even those of madness, if you wish my friend.>
demanded Selleberg, openly alarmed over the
course their conversation had taken. For it was only too clear now that
they were both entering... dire straits... yourself.>
Melhorn shifted nervously in his chair, and after he stole a few
glances around him, he leaned over the table, getting closer to his friend.
fact! Yesterday morning he summoned to his office all his brass; Goering,
Borman, Goebels, Himmler e.t.c. All present. Our guy too: Heindrich. And von
Kanaris, of the Army Intelligence.>

all expected. We, and the rest of the World, that is. And, well, come to
think of it, one might argue that war is part of the game: It won't be the
first, and most certainly is not going to be the last time something so
awful in human history, is about to happen. Still, there is something else
which really drives me up the wall all the way!>
the other man queried.

Selleberg now looked at his ex-colleague silent for a moment. It was
obvious that he was trying to get the picture, alas with little success.
Even so, nevertheless, he could sense that Melhorn was about to break some
sort of horrible and incredible news to him.
he insisted.
`Causus Belli’; a bloody reason that will provide him with the excuse to
declare war against Poland - you get the picture now? He wants us to `put
together, here in Germany, a unit of the Polish Regular Army - a
clandestine operation, mind you _ which in the due course of time will
`attack our Amy posts along the border.>



for declaring war on Poland. And since the `enemy seems unwilling to
provide him with the bright opportunity, he is determined to create it
himself. And that, of-course, will herald the prelude of the bloodiest war
the World has ever experienced. What we have here, is a cynical act of pure
historical forgery the average human intelligence can hardly conceive.
Still, old friend, please brace yourself and be ready to hear the worse...>
Selleberg was now staring at the other man, his face frozen to an
expression of shocked bewilderment. It was as if, all of a sudden, he had
found himself right in the middle of a daytime nightmare. Just inches away
from him, a top SS officer was going through a tremendous torment, as his
awakened conscience rebelled and viciously fought against him. And
Selleberg could feel the tremors of this unique battle rippling through his
very own existence, as, up to that moment, he was at peace with himself,
stubbornly turning his back to the horrible truth which, nevertheless, had
never ceased to besiege his mind and soul since quite sometime ago.
you can take it?> Melhorn asked his friend, in a pleading voice.
stands high above our individual fates, no doubt. For it has a great deal
to do with the fate of Germany, her past, her present and her future, not
to mention her place in history, in the years to come. So... they are about
to launch a phoney attack against our Army posts along the German-Polish
border, the attacking force consisting of Germans masqueraded as Polish
soldiers, is this what you’re driving at?>

, Selleberg repeated
incredulously, his eyes hazed as he looked at nowhere
Melhorn assured him impatiently.


would there not?>
inhuman, the most cynical of all sinister schemes. Of-course, casualties
would be the main ingredient; the dead and the wounded are a precondition,
according to the master plan.>
the other man stammered.
, quipped Melhorn and added hurriedly, horror, of-course. WE Will round-up a sufficient number of poor-devils from
the various concentration camps and prisons, we will promise them heaven on
earth, we will get them through a hasty combat training and... there you
are. The day before we attack Poland, those poor souls will be transferred
secretly to the border disguised as soldiers of the Polish Regular Army,
will be issued Polish-made weapons and finally will be urged to attack
against our unsuspecting boys-in-uniform. And when the battle is over, the
border line along the pre-selected spots will be littered with the bodies of
dead German soldiers _ too many of them, mind you _ torn to pieces by a
down-pour of Polish bullets.>
boys?> Selleberg asked in awe.
Melhorn answered. in from the various concentration camps and prisons too, dressed-up as
German soldiers. Because those prisoners are to be executed on the spot,
and their bodies scattered along the border line, ostensibly the victims of
the cowardly Polish attack. Those unfortunate creatures are destined to
play the role of the `casualties on our side. But the horror hardly ends
here. Because, as you may well understand...>
Selleberg
interrupted.




Melhorn finished his friend's sentence. they will promise them everything their little souls desire. But in fact,
all they will be given is a bullet in the head after they have `performed
their sham invasion. For, you see, such a military Operation calls for
casualties on both sides. And he _ the host of the Chancellery _ has a
bright mind for conceiving and organising little nice schemes of this
nature and calibre. Besides, let us not forget the Ministry of Propaganda
and our dear friend Herr Goebels. He has taken it to his heart to forge
history, blaming the attackers for the terrible consequences of the
imminent war. But in order to succeed in his gallant pursuit, he needs a
good number of dead bodies, also footage and pictures taken on the
battlefield. And of-course in the end he will have both!>
The two men remained silent for a while, as Melhorn busied himself wiping
off his forehead shinny beads of perspiration, while his eyes kept scanning
anxiously the space around them.
Still silent and with his head low, Selleberg began drumming the
finger-tips of his left hand against the wooden surface of the table.
, he
mumbled finally. hideous and cynical way. And my best guess is that, finally, nothing will
remain under the table. Sooner or later, the true facts will come to light.
And when this dreadful moment will arrive, it may well smear the reputation
of the entire nation far more than the consequences of the war we are
about to wage against the entire World.>
Melhorn remarked, in a tired voice, This `hideous and `cynical thing, as you labelled it... this schizophrenic
historical crime is to be planned and carried-out to its last detail by me!
Yes, old chap, by yours truly! Our Boss, Reinchart Heirich summoned me to
his office this morning, to tell me so.>
Melhorn's hands trembled no more now. And that expression of raw fear was
gone from his otherwise still excited face. Only his eyes seemed dim and
reddish, as if they were bleeding, as rage kept boiling inside him - so
fierce a rage, that it almost choked him as he spoke:
and because he wants to eliminate me. And because it won't be enough for
him if I die once, no! He likes to have me murdered twice. For first he
wishes to butcher my conscience and my human dignity, then my physical
existence. That's it, Walter. This is why he wants me in charge of this...
this...>
Selleberg now looked at his friend astounded. they are going to kill you, once this thing is over and done with?>
eye-witnesses left alive after the `operation is over. And me, myself,
would have been the most `dangerous eye-witness.>
Selleberg asked
tiredly.
said Melhorn. for your advise. If you trust me, that is, and if you want to risk an
advise on someone who once cherished and honoured your friendship.> He
paused for a while, then he went on, his voice somewhat fading. don't know what to do, my friend. I have the feeling, I am going crazy...>
Selleberg could see tears shining in his friend's eyes. Damn, he thought,
this is hard to believe: For this human wreck, sitting across him was no
less than a high ranking SS official, the man who once had the entire
Germany wrapped-up in a vast, horrible, and invisible net, woven of
informers and stool-pigeons, now facing and experiencing the very horror
and sheer brutality he had once inflicted on others; a man living through
a nightmare that exceed by far the boundaries of human imagination.
, Melhorn demanded in anguish, you stood in my shoes?>
, the other man offered in a
low voice. to come up with a sound excuse - what else? Feign illness if need be. Or
simply say, No. You should rather be discredited before the `event took
place, than help it happen and then be killed.>
Melhorn took his friend's hand in his and squeezed it warmly, while he
tried to smile:
Selleberg went on soothingly, have sworn loyalty and allegiance to our Fuhrer and to our duty to the
Fatherland; to blindly obey and carry-out orders. But... well, when it
comes down to the real meaning of the word `duty, one can interpret it in
quite a few ways. And as for loyalty... I would say that there is a limit
to everything, loyalty and allegiance included.>

A Summary

’Of Rats And Heroes...’’ BY NICOLAS FOSS (NICOS FOSKOLOS)
A SUMMARY
Werner Libnits is an epileptic social outcast, a maverick kind of a vagrant roaming the streets of pre-war Berlin in a constant search for food _sometimes salvaged from the contents of dumpsters.
Claus Funke is an emaciated and deformed hunchback, malevolent, bitter, and hell-bent in getting even with his gruesome fate and society at large.
Rosa Epstein is the daughter of Professor Epstein, a renowned German-Jew physicist, who, together with some other as prominent members of the scientific society, are just a few agonising breaths away from discovering the properties of the atom’s fission.
An ever... enterprising Claus Funke, once he discovers who Rosa Epstein really is, decides this time around to run the show entirely himself by not reporting to his . Instead he shadows the young woman, until he spots her father’s hideout _Professor Epstein’s name already rates high in the of both the SS and the Gestapo list. Following a stake-out of the safe-house, Claus Funke eavesdrops through an open window to what it transpires between father and daughter, as the unsuspecting former gives away crucial details regarding his research and lab tests that are pregnant with promises for an unheard-of scientific breakthrough.
Werner Libnitz and Claus Funke represent in the most vivid and colourful fashion the everlasting and since-the-inception-of-time struggle between Good and Evil. As Claus Funke keeps on shadowing Rosa Epstein looking for his chance to ask for sexual favours by blackmailing her with divulging everything he knows about her dad to the , Werner Libnitz gets on the hunchback’s tail, as the rescuing of the young woman offers him a worthy cause. Thence the eventual confrontation; the hunchback gets licked good and proper. Following this incident, Werner Libnitz is arrested, tried for resisting arrest, and attempted murder, sentenced, and send to prison to serve his time of twenty years. And so are Rosa Epstein and her father: the young woman is send to an interrogation centre, the old man to a concentration camp.
A few pages later the young woman is freed, thanks to the intervention of Aldo Esposito, Cultural Attache to the Italian Embassy in Berlin, and a protege of Rosa’s step-father, a high-ranking official with the Italian Fascist Party.
Almost immediately after her release , Rosa Epstein once more will find herself harassed and besieged by Claus Funke. Rosa agrees to visit Claus at his house. Once there, a crazed with lust and passion Funke will lose no time in sprawling himself all-over her, leaving her no choice but to kill him.
In the meantime Professor Epstein, while incarcerated in the concentration camp, manages to kill himself.
Hitler’s plan calls for the staging of a major historical show, entailing the use of a good number of German outposts along the borders with Poland must be by . So they have to turn to the inmate population of the country’s correctional institutions.Werner is among those .
When the crucial day comes, Libnitz and his fellow convicts, masqueraded as Polish soldiers are shipped off to the outskirts of a German village by the border with Poland.
Their mission successfully carried out, the convicts retreat to the rendezvous point, just a few hundred yards off the village. There they find themselves surrounded by SS and Wermacht regulars who open fire at them.
Werner Libnitz along with a few more of his comrades manage to survive the carnage as they bolt and scatter.
Werner,By now secretly and desperately in love with Rosa Epstein, tries to locate her. Together with another prisoner, Werner snakes his way back to Berlin, where he pays a visit to Aldo Esposito’s house in his search for the young woman. Indeed Rosa is hiding there.
A motorman working with the German Railways Services agrees to let the three fugitives _Rosa, Werner, and his fellow convict_ hide inside the water-supply tank of the locomotive that pulls the passengeer train on route to Holland. Captured and tortured, Aldo Esposito would inform on Werner to his captors.
A combined SS-Gestapo force blockades the last station before the train crossed over to The Netherlands, though at the end of a fierce showdown, Werner Libnitz and his companions would manage to cross over and set foot on Dutch soil.Rosa suggests that the two of them spend together the rest of their living days. But Werner sends her off to freedom, while himself crosses over, and back to the German side of the border. Werner has some unfinished business to attend to.SS Brigadier Diedrich was the man who most and above all others had inflicted so much sorrow and pain on Werner.
So now Werner decides to pay Dierdrich a visit at his mansion, where the latter throws a party to celebrate the... victorious invasion of Poland by the German Armed forces. Upon entering the mansion, and before settling the score with Diedrich in the most dramatic and... final way, Werner Libnitz literally wreaks havoc.
When finally Werner Libnitz hits the ground, struck by an angry swarm of bullets, and seconds before he passes away, he experiences a feeling of total contentment and inner tranquility, his short journey through life somehow vindicated, and at the same time delivered from an otherwise wretched existence.
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