Court Martial

  ‘Those bastards,’ groans Menckel, ‘they’ve got their spies everywhere!’

  They move instinctively closer to one another when the sirens blow the all-clear.

  People come up from cellars, hastening along with grey, tired faces. Their eyes are bloodshot, their faces smudged with smoke and dust.

  ‘Let’s get away from here,’ says Wisling, pulling Menckel after him into a maze of small backyards.

  In the middle of the labyrinth of tunnels and corridors they find an ancient half-timbered house. A low door, half rotted away, leads down to a cellar.

  For a moment they stand listening in the darkness. Far inside a cat miaows. Silently they creep forward, feeling their way through the dark. The cat miaows again.

  Wisling bangs his head against one of the low beams. He curses viciously, biting his lip in pain.

  A long way off a faint light flickers.

  ‘Look out,’ whispers Wisling, stopping so suddenly that Menckel runs into him. ‘There’s somebody there. Stay here and keep me covered with the Mpi!’

  The cat miaows again, complainingly. It’s eyes shine in ghostly fashion in the dark. It comes slowly towards them, looks up at Wisling, purrs and rubs itself against his legs.

  In the flickering light they catch sight of an old woman lying on a heap of sacks and straining her eyes to see them in the dark. An acrid stench of damp and half-rotted wood reaches them.

  ‘Anybody there?’ cries the old woman in a piping, asthmatic voice. ‘Is there anybody?’ she repeats.

  ‘Yes,’ says Wisling, stepping forward.

  The woman stares at him suspiciously.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asks and goes into a violent attack of coughing which for a moment seems close to choking her.

  ‘Can we stay here until it gets dark?’ asks Wisling, when her asthma attack is over.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she smiles tiredly. ‘There’s nobody here but me and my cat.’

  Wisling looks around the stinking cellar, which has formerly been used for coal and coke. Now there is no coal and only a bucket of coke a day to a flat.

  ‘Do you live down here?’ asks the doctor, in amazement, looking down at the old woman. Her skin is the horrible blue-grey colour which people get who stay too long in the dark.

  ‘You could say that,’ answers the old woman, with a tiny smile. ‘I lived in the house above for seventy-six years, but when they’d taken all my family, and I was the only one left, I took shelter down here. Now they haven’t been here for a long time. One of the neighbours told me I’d been declared dead. He’s a soldier, too old to be sent to the front, so he’s been put on service in Berlin. He’s one of the few who aren’t frightened to bring food down to me.’ She collapses in a new violent attack of coughing.

  Menckel helps her, and wipes the sweat from her face.

  ‘Don’t you get any medicine?’ he asks, naïvely.

  ‘No,’ she smiles sadly. ‘Can’t you see? I’m a Jew! There’s no medicine for us. It’s no wonder people are afraid to help us. They kill people who give us food. These are bad times.’

  ‘Yes, they are indeed bad times!’ agrees Menckel. ‘Sick times!’

  ‘God of my fathers,’ she cries in a muffled shout, as she realises that the strangers are wearing SS uniform.

  ‘Have mercy on me, poor thing as I am!’ The words come in stammering bursts. ‘God is my witness I never did a bad thing to anyone, dead or alive.’ She strains for breath. Her chest whistles; her lungs wheeze. ‘Both my daughters’ men fell at the front and the rest of my family you have taken from me long since.’

  ‘Easy, easy,’ says Menckel, ‘we are not SS. The uniforms mean nothing. We are escaped prisoners.’

  Steps sound from the street. All three listen, wild-eyed with fear.

  ‘The dustmen,’ says the old woman, after having listened for a time in silence.

  Berlin is awake again. People throng the streets on their way to factories and workshops. Between air-raids they work hard. To stay away from work without valid reason is regarded as sabotage. Twice in a row brings the death penalty.

  ‘Are you the only one of your family left?’ asks Wisling, looking compassionately at the old woman.

  ‘Yes, all the rest are gone. Whether they’re dead or not I don’t know. I’ve never heard from them since they were taken.’

  ‘It is terrible to be a Jew in Germany today,’ says Menckel.

  ‘I don’t suppose there are many left,’ sighs the old woman. ‘The soldier who brings me food says that there used to be long goods trains filled with Jews going east. Now they’ve stopped. So maybe there are no more Jews to be sent. And what are we anyway? Just ordinary Germans like yourselves. My family has always been German and lived here. My parents. My grandparents. Many of them were officers in the army of the Kaiser. My husband was in the 1st Grenadier Guards Regiment and fought for Germany from 1914 to 1918. Three times badly wounded. After the war he worked in a Ministry until they said he was an untermensch and sacked him in 1933. Then he shot himself. When they came for him that evening there was only a body. They spat on him. Called him “cowardly Jewish pig!” They crushed the medals the Kaiser had given to him under their jackboots. Yes, we are Germans. From Berlin. We have always lived here. I love this town,’ she says, and smiles dreamily. ‘It was such a happy city, but now it is sick and will die. As will I. Before we used to sail on the Spree every Sunday and dance in the Grünewald. Then that was forbidden to us’

  For a while there is silence. They listen tensely to the many sounds which filter down from the street.

  ‘I think you would do best to get rid of those uniforms,’ says the old woman suddenly. ‘I know a man who hid in such a uniform. When they caught him they killed him slowly, smashed every bone in his body. His terrible screams could be heard all over the house. Nobody dared to go to his aid. We heard them hitting him, until there was no more life left in him. And he was such a handsome young man. A man we all liked. It was stupid of him to come back here. They caught him in the yard. Perhaps they would not have killed him if he had not been wearing that SS uniform. They were like wild beasts when they saw it. You must get rid of those uniforms. Do you not know anyone who will give you civilian clothes?’

  ‘I hope so,’ says Menckel. ‘We shall make a try when it gets dark.’

  ‘If they had not taken my boys’ clothes you could have had them, but they said they were confiscated for the use of the state.’

  Menckel knocks his helmet off. It goes clattering across the floor. The cat spits and arches its back.

  ‘In gaol?’ she says, seeing his shaven poll.

  They both nod. That is where they have been.

  ‘Get out of Berlin,’ she says. ‘Yes, best out of Germany altogether. Here they will soon catch you!’

  ‘She is absolutely right,’ mumbles Wisling. ‘We must get hold of some civilian clothes, even if we have to strip somebody in the street.’

  Shortly after noon the air-raid warning sounds again. Now it is the Americans coming over in their Flying Fortresses. The bombs rain down close by. Explosions roar. The old house shakes and shivers. A thick cloud of mortar dust covers them.

  For a moment they think the house is falling in on top of them. A few hours later it is over and the sirens sound the all-clear.

  Up in the street a company of soldiers marches by singing:

  Die blauen Dragonen, sie reiten

  mit klingendem Spiel durch das Tor . . .

  They hear sounds from the street and the cellar door is kicked open noisily.

  ‘Anybody here?’ shouts a hoarse voice.

  They can see him clearly in the open door, an air-raid warden in blue overalls and black steel helmet.

  ‘Answer up, damn you! Anybody here?’

  The cat gives out a loud, long miaow.

  ‘What was that?’ asks another warden, taking a couple of steps down the cellar stairs.

  The cat goes miaowing towards them. Then it sits
down and begins to wash itself.’

  ‘A cat, a bloody, bleedin’ cat,’ says one of them and bangs the cellar door to.

  Wisling thinks it is best for Menckel to visit his friends alone. It is important that he is not observed. His friends may not live there any more. Anything is possible in Berlin at present. The flat can have been taken over by the party. It wouldn’t be pleasant if a golden pheasant43 were to answer the door. Displaced persons might have been quartered on them, leaving the family only one room to themselves. Long columns of refugees are continually entering the town. They must be given a roof over their heads and those without connections within the party are soon merely accepted in their own homes.

  ‘If I’m not back inside two hours,’ says Menckel, ’you’ll have to consider I’ve been caught and get out as fast as possible.’

  As soon as darkness arrives Menckel is on his way. Adroitly he avoids the patrols out on the hunt, moving quickly from gateway to gateway. He holds the Mpi cocked and ready, firmly determined not to allow himself to be taken alive. He curses the SS uniform. It makes his task ten times more difficult.

  The house is an old, patrician building from around the turn of the century. In the gateway is a board with brass nameplates. It is an upper-class residence.

  For a while he observes the house from a gateway across the street. He can see down into the porter’s basement room where a middle-aged woman, who resembles a watchful rat, is sitting. Her pointed nose moves continually from side to side. She is one of those horrible people who seem to have eyes in the back of their head. No help can be expected from her. Before 1933 she was certainly as red as she is brown now. And it wouldn’t cost her a minute’s consideration to change back to red again tomorrow. Always on the side of the ruling class, ready for any kind of dirty business as long as it is to her own advantage. There are thousands and thousands of her kind around.

  When she disappears for a moment into a back room he slips rapidly through the gateway and up the carpeted staircase. Arriving at the second floor he knocks gently on the door. He is about to press the bell but thinks better of it. It could be connected to an alarm system in the porter’s basement.

  After some time a woman’s voice asks, in a low tone, ‘What do you want?’

  Nobody opens their door in Berlin any more without knowing who is waiting on the other side of it,

  ‘Who is it?’ repeats the woman.

  ‘Albert Menckel,’ he whispers, his mouth close to the door.

  For a moment there is a heavy silence.

  ‘Frau Peters, I have a message from your husband,’ he whispers impatiently, throwing a nervous glance back down the stairs, as if expecting the portress’s rat-like face to appear. If it does he has only one choice. To kill her. Quickly and silently so that none of the dwellers in the building observe anything.

  ‘Frau Peters, open the door! It’s very important.’

  The door is opened a little, but is still held by two chains.

  A pale, female face appears behind the narrow opening.

  ‘Menckel! I thought you were dead long ago!’ Then she sees the SS uniform, and stiffens.

  ‘Open the door, hurry up, and I’ll explain everything,’ he whispers, desperately.

  ‘No, go away, go!’ she stammers, in almost a shout. ‘I don’t want to get mixed up in anything!’

  ‘You must let me in. My life is at stake. You are my last hope.’

  She makes to close the door, but his foot blocks the opening. For a moment he considers forcing an entrance by putting his shoulder to the door.

  She begins to cry.

  ‘What do you want here? You’ll get me into terrible trouble! Take away your foot or I’ll give the alarm!’

  ‘Open the door! Just for a moment! I promise you I’ll leave immediately. Hurry, let me in before anybody sees me!’

  She stares at him, terrified, and opens her mouth as if about to scream. Suddenly she nods.

  He takes away his foot. The chains jingle, and the door is opened just enough to allow him to enter. With shaking hands she locks the door again and puts up the chains. She stares at him with fear in her eyes. The rain-wet steel helmet, the slate-grey SS greatcoat, the machine-pistol with its long magazine.

  ‘You said you had a message from my husband?’ she asks, doubtfully, pulling her kimono more tightly around her.

  ‘No, I only said that to get you to open the door. I haven’t seen Kurt since I was arrested.’ He looks across the room, at a painting of his friend Kurt Peters, carried out shortly before the commencement of the war.

  ‘Then it is a long time since you have seen him,’ she whispers. ‘It is almost two years since we heard you had been executed. Did you know your wife is soon to be married?’

  He shrugs his shoulders. What does it matter now? What does Gertrud matter? She’s let him down. Witnessed against him, said whatever they wanted her to say. They had threatened her, of course. They did that to everybody, even the children. You didn’t have to spend long in the cellars at Prinz Albrechts Strasse before you were softened up. They always had something ready there which could drive a witness into a state of terror.

  In a few words he tells her what has happened, begs her to shelter him and Wisling until they can continue on their way.

  ‘I daren’t,’ she stammers. ‘Here the walls have eyes and ears.

  ‘Nobody saw me come in,’ he states confidently.

  We don’t know that,’ she says, nervously, looking despairingly at the carpet, as if she were trying to count every thread in it.

  ‘Just for one night,’ he pleads. ‘We’ll leave as soon as we’ve got hold of some civilian clothes.’

  ‘I dare not,’ she repeats. ‘If you and your friend are found here, it means a death sentence for me. It has just happened to another woman who lived a little further along the street. She was beheaded,’ she added, shivering.

  ‘I know we are putting you in great danger,’ he says, gently, ‘but you are our only hope. We shall go as soon as we have civilian clothes.’

  ‘Have you any papers?’ she asks, nervously.

  ‘Not yet. I know where I can get some, but I can’t go there until tomorrow. If you will take us in, until we have got hold of papers and civilian clothes, I will never forget you for it.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I have three small children. They will take them from me and put them in an NS-camp44 where they will teach them to hate their own mother, tell them I was a traitor to the people, and have received a well-deserved punishment.’

  She takes a few steps up and down the floor, thinking, looks in at the children, then sits down on a chair in front of an antique writing-table.

  ‘God in Heaven, what shall I do,’ she moans, her hand going to her throat. ‘I cannot hand you over to those devils!’ She looks at him for a long time in silence, fingers a paperknife shaped like a bayonet, gets up, goes to the blacked-out windows and parts the black curtain slightly and stares down into the street. An amphibian drives slowly past. Four steel helmets, shiny with rain, gleam from it.

  She turns round quickly, after having seen to it that the curtains are closely drawn. The least trace of light will bring a patrol thundering on the door.

  ‘Will you give me your word of honour to leave here tomorrow morning, before it becomes light? And if you are caught will you promise never to tell that you have been in touch with me?’

  ‘I give you my word. I have been tortured before, and I know what I can stand.’

  ‘Very well, you can stay here tonight. Fetch your friend, but for heaven’s sake be careful not to be seen! The portress here is a devil. I’ll turn out some of Kurt’s clothes for you whilst you are gone.’

  ‘Thank-you,’ he mumbles and slips quickly through the door. Like a shadow he moves down the stairs and out of the gateway.

  Some way down the street he catches sight of an MP patrol, and jumps into hiding in a cellarway. The three MPs pass by with heavy tread. The half-moo
n badges on their chests glint warningly.

  A few yards further on they check two soldiers on their way on leave with pack and slung rifles. Their uniforms are faded and still smell of the front line. Meticulously the MPs examine their papers, dates, stamps and unit designations. The photograph in the small grey identity book is carefully compared with the soldiers. The identity tags round their necks do not escape the punctilious examination of the MPs. Live rounds are counted. Does the date on the delousing certificate agree with the date of departure on leave?

  Almost twenty minutes pass before the ‘watchdogs’ are satisfied. None of the people in the street take any notice of them. Everyone has enough to do looking after himself. If those two are deserters then it’s their bad luck.

  ‘Hals – und Beinbruch,’ grins the MP Feldwebel, bringing his hand up to the brim of his helmet.

  The two soldiers smack their heels together resoundingly and salute rigidly. They know the MPs can ruin their leave if they are not satisfied with their appearance.

  ‘Bastards,’ whispers one of them when they have put some distance between them and the MPs. ‘When this bloody war’s over, I’ll smash in the skull of every “watchdog” I meet!’

  ‘Like buggery you will,’ says the other. ‘They’ll always be there. The new bosses’ll have a use for “watchdogs”, and for the stinking coppers too.’

  Menckel goes on down the street a little easier in his mind. Tomorrow they’ll have civilian clothes and papers and in twenty-four hours they’ll be a long way from Berlin. With luck out of Germany. After the war he will make sure Frau Peters is rewarded for her bravery.

  Outside the artist’s restaurant on Kemperplatz there is a long queue of soldiers and civilians. It is an oasis in Berlin where the war can be forgotten. In the street the sound of the weeping violins can be heard. But Menckel has no ears for gipsy music. Twice more he has to take cover from police patrols. He almost runs into the middle of a big raid. With shouts following him he disappears through several backyards and over a couple of fences. Before he realises it he is on Alexander Platz. A well-dressed gentleman with a monocle throws a cigarette butt away. Thoughtlessly, Menckel picks it up.