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
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
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
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
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.
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.
voice still low and agitated.
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
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.
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,
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.
.
Selleberg. About the fate of our people, about the fate of the peoples of
the entire world for that matter>.
that?>
talking about...>
have taken.>
other man ventured.
<¬Nein! Nein!¬ He has made up his mind about the war and nothing can stop
him.>
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.
once more around him anxiously.
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.
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.>
course their conversation had taken. For it was only too clear now that
they were both entering... dire straits...
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.
Borman, Goebels, Himmler e.t.c. All present. Our guy too: Heindrich. And von
Kanaris, of the Army Intelligence.>
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!>
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.
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.>
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.
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?>
incredulously, his eyes hazed as he looked at nowhere
would be the main ingredient; the dead and the wounded are a precondition,
according to the master plan.>
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.>
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...>
interrupted.
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.
mumbled finally.
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.>
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:
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.
would have been the most `dangerous eye-witness.>
tiredly.
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.
low voice.
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:
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.>
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