Armageddon (50 page)

Sean knew what was taking place. But how many were there like Falkenstein, ready to stand up and be counted?

“The fact of life is this, Herr Falkenstein. I could not convince a single man in authority to trust a German politician no matter what label. We do not believe in your people.”

A dull throb pained Falkenstein’s chest. His voice grew harsh. “You are making a grave, grave mistake.”

“Are we? If you truly believed in the courage of your people, you would not come running for help at the first threat. You know they are weak, but your freedom is not something to be handed you at the end of an American bayonet. If we are ever to be convinced, it will be because you earn it with the blood of men willing to die.”

Falkenstein was sallow. “Seeing all this happen again is like being an observer at your own funeral. I plead with you, make a gesture so I can rally my party.”

“You told me the first day we met in Rombaden that Berliners are different.”

“They are! This is the birthplace of free thought!”

“It is also the birthplace of Prussian militarism. Sure, Berliners are different They just happen to like a parade.”

Ulrich Falkenstein pulled himself to his feet heavily. Tears welled in his eyes. “You will see!”

Chapter Thirteen

A
MEETING OF THE
Democratic Party was licensed by the Soviet Union to be held deep inside the Russian Sector for the purpose of voting on the anti-Fascist front referendum.

The site selected was the Lichtenberg Workman’s Hall, suitable because of only minor bomb damage.

Sean O’Sullivan arrived as a curious observer along with Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury, the sole Americans. They drove with a German named Lenz who worked in American Headquarters. As they neared the Workman’s Hall they were all quick to spot police from the SND, designation for Special Nazi Detachment. The SND was, in fact, Adolph Schatz’s hand-picked political police, the new Gestapo. The SND was augmented by Russian NKVD observing every route to the Workman’s Hall.

Sean was there early as the first of over a thousand delegates filtered in from all parts of Berlin. Ulrich Falkenstein was engulfed by old friends, most of whom he had not seen in a decade. His drowsy eyes found Sean and he nodded coolly; Sean returned the nod.

Lenz pointed out that among the early arrivals were members of Communist Action Squads who scattered through the hall in prearranged locations.

The hall buzzed with excitement as reunion after reunion took place. More “observers” from People’s Proletariat Party drifted in. The stage was being set for a stampede. Sean felt sorry for Falkenstein.

“They’re not leaving anything to chance,” Big Nellie said, pointing to the different colored “yes” and “no” ballots to be cast in case of a voice deadlock.

A murmur arose as the
grande dame
of the Democrats, Hanna Kirchner, made her entrance down the center aisle. She was swamped with well-wishers.

In the meanwhile, Berthold Hollweg had arrived almost unnoticed by a side entrance and slipped quietly onto the stage.

For two weeks smaller meetings all over Berlin argued the referendum. They met in bomb shelters, hovels, and factories to select delegates, give instructions. Whenever a meeting was known either the SND or Action Squad people hovered nearby.

At last the hall was filled and Hanna Kirchner and Ulrich Falkenstein took their places on the stage behind a long table covered with a green cloth.

The Burgermeister of Lichtenberg Borough, himself a Democrat, gave a formal welcome to this, the first free assembly of a decade. A few more speeches followed and the chair revolved to the district chairman.

“We are to accept or reject a proposition to join the anti-Fascist front ...”

Both catcalls and applause greeted him. He demanded order and continued. “Inasmuch as our Executive Committee is not unanimous we cannot provide you with a recommendation. Before floor discussion and a vote we will call on individual members of the Executive to give their personal views.”

The full-blown Executive Committee of seven argued the issue back and forth. Ulrich realized that some good people had been cowed by Schatz. He also knew that it boiled down to the last three speakers—himself, Hanna Kirchner, and Berthold Hollweg. Throughout the speeches he searched Hollweg for a sign. The old pro played out a bored detachment.

“Frau Hanna Kirchner!”

Half the room rose in respect. She stood to her full height of five feet and four inches. A funny hat was precariously perched on a knotting of silver gray hair. As she approached the rostrum a bevy of catcalls erupted from the Action Squad members who attempted to push her supporters down and drown them out. Schatz’s SND was busy writing down the names of her friends. Fist fights broke out and the chairman threatened, then begged for order.

Hanna rode the storm with calm. She was a wily politician whom Hitler could never cow.

“Those of you gentlemen sent here by Comrade Wöhlman will kindly finish your performance.”

Quiet soon followed.

“Now,” she said, “that is better. I will get in my two words if it takes all day so kindly refrain from further spontaneous celebrations until I am finished.”

A ripple of laughter. Even the American major smiled.

“What a broad,” Big Nellie said.

“Where does this great anti-Fascist idea originate? From no less a beloved Berliner than Rudi Wöhlman.”

Laughter.

“His belated interest in his native city is very touching.”

More laughter of the kind that destroys opposition.

“We see the faces of old friends in this hall today, but we also see the faces of new friends, our guests. We did not invite them, but they came to see that we carried out an orderly, democratic meeting and then voted with different-colored ballots.”

The crowd was warming.

“Who are these beloved Berliners? Adolph Schatz, whose Gestapo is so very busy writing down our names for future social calls ... at night, of course. The kindly Russian NKVD, who have us surrounded so that peace will prevail. Deputy Mayor Heinz Eck, who was thrown out of college as a panderer at the age of eighteen and fled to the Soviet Union and has now returned to give us the benefits of his good advice. And we cannot help but feel the presence of Rudi Wöhlman, whose unseen hand guides us on the path of right. Berlin is fortunate to have so many who love her.

“Comrade Wöhlman wants clean and pretty store windows, but inside he is peddling the same old rotten tomatoes.”

When Hanna Kirchner finished her slashing attack there was sustained cheering. When order was restored, the chairman called upon Oberburgermeister Berthold Hollweg. He was yet one of the grand old men of the party. Time and terror might have taken something from him, but his power was still there.

His eyes were red from sleeplessness and his voice so soft it forced an ethereal silence on the assemblage.

“I stand,” he said slowly, “in favor of the anti-Fascist front. We in the Magistrat have worked well together, all four parties. In these days cooperation among us is urgent and this can be attained only by pulling together. And ... we must be strong enough through such unity that never again will a Nazi madness take us over.”

The rest of what Berthold Hollweg said was hardly important. When a figure so great made an acceptance so spiritless, it brought them all back to reality.

Hollweg continued, in effect, to say: Where are the Americans with their great democracy? Why do they leave us naked? Where are the British? Where are the French? Why fool ourselves into believing we can do something about all this? Why invite the terror again. We are alone, abandoned, and weak, and the alternative is the midnight summons, the beatings, the kidnapings.

Tears welled in many eyes. Truth was bitter, but truth was truth.

When Hollweg returned to his seat the Action Squad people stomped and whistled, but the rest of the hall was stunned.

“I call upon Ulrich Falkenstein.”

He walked alongside the long, green-covered table, stopped for a second behind Hanna Kirchner, his hand squeezing her shoulder, and she could feel the tremor boiling within him. He stood at the rostrum for several moments, looking down on them like an angry Moses whose children had betrayed God. The face of Ulrich Falkenstein, a mirror of German conscience, penetrated every soul in the room and they became transfixed.

In that instant Sean O’Sullivan realized a giant was among them, and Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury knew a moment of magic was happening.

“Berliners!” Ulrich Falkenstein said in a way that hypnotized them.

“Berliners! Are we to hand over our freedom twice in our lifetime without raising a finger!”

“No!” someone shouted from the rear.

“No!” another voice cried.

“Does any man or woman in this room doubt what this referendum means?”

“No!”

“No!”

“Berliners, if we do not stand, we deserve another Hitler!”

Men began standing around the room.

“We will not bend! We will not kneel! We will meet this test and the next and the next and the next! We will be free!”

The hall was on its feet. The roar became deafening!

“Freedom!” he cried from the depths of his being.

“Freedom!” responded the delegates.

“Those of you who stand for freedom will cast your vote now by following me from this hall!”

Hanna Kirchner was at his side. The two of them walked from the stage into a sea of aroused humanity. The SND and the Action Squads were dumbstruck at the sudden massive uprising.

A chant began as row after row emptied behind Ulrich and Hanna. “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!”

And in a moment there was a handful of them left in the hall and the two colored sets of ballots remained on the stage. Berthold Hollweg sat ashen faced.

Sean O’Sullivan shook his head. He looked out into the streets where the chant rose to a new height.

“Freiheit! Freiheit! Freiheit!”

Chapter Fourteen

YOUR BELOVED FATHER PASSED AWAY QUIETLY IN HIS SLEEP LAST NIGHT. YOUR MOTHER IS HOLDING UP WELL UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES.

The emergency telegram, sent through the Red Cross, was signed by Fr. Dominick Fragozze, a priest Sean had known all his life.

It was not the same as losing Tim and Liam. This was a decision he and his father had made together and knew would happen. He was now given to wondering if he should have stayed home and done more. It was the hour of guilt every man knows after losing a parent.

His friends came by to express their sorrow, and realized he wished to grieve quietly, to remember his father and relive words and scenes of earliest childhood.

And General Hansen came by and asked him how he was holding up. “Here are all your emergency leave papers. Transportation is working out the best route home. We have you on an ATC flight out of Tempelhof in three hours.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“Sean, I wish I knew how to help you. Words can really never ease your pain and particularly with a man as fine as your father.”

“I appreciate the General’s concern,” Sean answered.

Andrew Jackson Hansen’s face drew tight with memory of his own. “I remember my father in his last days. He told me something very wonderful when he realized he was going. He said, ‘You have done us proud, Andrew. Your family and your country. You have brought food to starving people and more ... you have given them hope. What a good thing it is to be an American ... God bless America.’ ”

Sean lifted his eyes.

“My father told me something else. He said, ‘Andrew, the way you have lived your life has made it possible for me to sleep in peace.’ Your father would have said the same words to you, Sean. The way you have lived your life has given him the gift of being able to sleep in peace.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

When the burden of the funeral was done, Sean closed the old house forever. His mother and a widowed sister would share their days in a small cottage in the sun.

Chapter Fifteen

I
GOR WAS NEVER ENTIRELY
certain about his arrangement with Lotte Böhm. Circumstance brought them together for mutual convenience. From any point of view, the girl had a good thing in a Russian colonel, yet an attachment of great warmth developed.

Lotte seemed to adore him, stopped at nothing to please him, catered to his whims, moods, instinctively knew how to comfort him. Igor was pleased, but determined not to be deceived. He knew the girl had an overpowering fear of the realities of life in Berlin without his protection. As in all women, except his unlamented wife, Lotte was part actress. There was an outside chance she loved him, but he would not be fooled.

Families of high-ranking Russian officers began to arrive in Berlin. Igor held his breath until he received a letter from Olga that the importance of her work would keep them parted. He silently thanked the party.

For months he traveled through the Russian Zone of Germany stripping one factory after another as part of the reparations program. As that program was ending he was assigned to study reparations claims in the Western Zones.

Millions of German ethnics had been expelled from Poland, Czechoslovakia, and other countries. They moved west in search of new homes. It was a simple matter to plant hundreds, then thousands of Soviet agents in their number to infiltrate everywhere.

Prime assignment of these agents was to gain information to be used to mount Soviet reparations claims. They photographed every factory, piece of machinery, rail yard, harbor, airport, and canal in the West. They drew mountains of data on mineral deposits.

Igor sifted this intelligence so that the Soviet Union could handpick the things it wanted. He noted at his weekly meeting with V. V. Azov that the arrival of Madam Azov did nothing to mellow the commissar.

“Comrade Colonel. The British are now ten thousand tons of coal behind schedule in deliveries to us. What have you to report on your negotiations?”

“I can report that the British are stubborn,” Igor answered.