Winter, p.22
Winter, page 22
It needed only one visit to the military governor’s office to convince Alex Horner that his officer’s uniform was not suitable attire. He bought a suit in a tailor’s shop in Friedrichstrasse – the first ready-made suit he’d ever worn – and went back to work feeling less uneasy. He did notice the way that the carefully positioned beggars watched him as he arrived. There were few beggars to be seen on the streets in these early days of the revolution. Most of the uniformed ex-servicemen who stood outside the department stores and food shops hoping for money still had enough dignity to be offering a tray of bootlaces, matches or candles. Yet these fellows made no pretence of being pedlars, and Alex was convinced that they were spies. Police spies, Bolsheviks, Spartacists and foreigners, too: the city was alive with spies of all shapes and sizes, and of every political colour. Berlin had always been a city of spies and informers, and it probably always would be.
Berlin’s most serious problem was created by the naval mutineers who’d arrived from the Northern naval bases and settled themselves into the Imperial Palace. The fiasco of this People’s Naval Division turned sour when the sailors became more menacing and demanded their ‘Christmas bonus’. The sailors had been under the influence of Karl Liebknecht ever since occupying the Imperial Palace. And it was Liebknecht’s declared intent to bring down the moderate socialist government of Friedrich Ebert – a forty-seven-year-old ex-saddle maker – by anarchy and confusion. Having the sailors demand ever more money was very much to Liebknecht’s taste. If Ebert was frightened by the extortion and paid out the money, the government would demonstrate their weakness. If they moved against the sailors, it would be a sign that they were the sort of treacherous, reactionary, anti-working-class government that Liebknecht said they were. Either way it would make things easier for Liebknecht to seize power and set up his Leninist regime.
It was December 20 when the sailors announced that they’d spent the first 125,000 marks the government had paid them for guarding the Imperial Palace. Now they wanted more money.
Alex Horner was in the anteroom of the Chancellor’s private office when Otto Wels came out with Ebert. It was the first time Alex had seen the Chancellor at such close quarters. He was an imposing figure, broad and muscular, with jet-black hair and a large moustache and small beard. The government had agreed to pay more money, but first the palace must be evacuated and the People’s Naval Division reduced to six hundred men. The money would be paid only after the keys of the emptied palace had been given to Otto Wels.
On the morning of the day on which Alex and Pauli met, Alex had hurried down to the lobby of the Chancellery in response to a phone call from one of the secretaries. A delegation of sailors was being taken to one of the drawing rooms that were situated to the side of the fine Empire vestibule. One sailor was carrying a leather case that he said held the keys of the Imperial Palace. They wanted their money.
‘Herr Horner is one of the military governor’s assistants,’ said the secretary who was dealing with the sailors. He was a sniffy little man with the curt and superior manner that distinguishes career bureaucrats.
The spokesman for the sailors, a tall petty officer with crooked teeth, asked for Alex Horner’s identity papers. Luckily Wels had arranged such formalities as soon as the young officer got back to the revolution-stricken city. Taken to a Reichstag office by an attendant wearing the livery of the old regime, he’d been given a pass by a woman clerk wearing a red armband. It was an inexpertly printed card on stiff red paper. It said that Horner was ‘authorized to maintain order and security in the streets of the city’. Accompanying it was an identity card issued by the ‘Workers’ and Soldiers’ Council’ saying he was ‘trustworthy and free to pass’. Neither document mentioned his military rank, and if the woman issuing the papers to him knew him to be an army officer she gave no sign of it. From the way she handled the office files, it looked as if she was occupying the same desk as she had before the revolution. Most of the workers were doing the same thing that they’d done during the Kaiserzeit without the red bands and banners. For the Berliner, life was simply a matter of exchanging time for money and money for food. Even during the shooting, the buses ran on time and the water and electricity supply continued normally.
Having scrutinized Horner’s papers, the petty officer showed him his card in return. ‘Petty Officer Esser’. How curious that so many of these revolutionary servicemen clung so tightly to the badges and titles and privileges of the old regime.
Esser politely but firmly explained to Horner and the secretary that the political committee of the People’s Naval Division had decided that they’d not deal with Otto Wels, who, although a socialist, was ‘a class enemy’.
‘Then give the keys to Herr Barth,’ suggested Alex. He was grateful that the secretary had not revealed the fact that he was an army officer.
‘Herr Barth is in a meeting and cannot be disturbed.’ The secretary expected them to hand the keys to him and depart without further delay. Despite wearing a small red ribbon in his buttonhole – a sartorial accessory that had been adopted by many middle-class office workers during the previous few days – the man did not hide his impatience and his distaste for the unwashed revolutionaries.
‘Then get him out of the meeting,’ suggested Alex.
The secretary shook his head to show that there could be no question of interrupting the commissioner. Emil Barth was amongst the most radical of the commissioners, but these wretched socialists had quickly adapted to the bureaucracy of Wilhelmstrasse: meetings, meetings, meetings. And the bureaucrats had easily adapted to their new masters.
‘That would be impossible,’ said the secretary. He was an elderly man with rimless spectacles, bushy eyebrows and a celluloid collar that was going yellow at the edges, like the documents that were to be seen on every side.
‘Try,’ suggested Alex, and the sailors vociferously agreed.
Now there were more arguments and some telephone calls. Everyone who might have placated the sailors had gone to lunch, and the revolutionaries were becoming angrier every minute.
Before the problem was resolved, a messenger came rushing into the lobby with an urgent request for Alex Horner. He must go immediately to the office of Herr Otto Wels. Wels had been kidnapped.
It was not difficult to discover what had happened. Wels’s staff were standing in the corridor talking in loud voices. Some of the women were sobbing. They told how another group of sailors had entered the building by a side door, found their way upstairs, and demanded the Christmas-bonus money from Wels. Wels was heard to say they’d get no money until he had the key.
Which of the sailors was the first to strike Wels makes no difference, for soon he was beaten and frog-marched back to the Imperial Palace, which the sailors obviously had no intention of leaving. According to a message that Alex received later that day from a paid informer, Wels was beaten with rifle butts and thrown into a rat-infested cellar.
That afternoon a large party of the sailors went back to the Chancellery. They were in a bitter frame of mind. They pushed their way into the lobby, posted armed guards at every exit, and took control of the Chancellery telephone exchange. No one – not even the Chancellor – would be permitted to enter or leave the building. They had Wels as a hostage and they wanted their money.
Pauli had listened to Alex Horner’s long story with intermittent attention. He’d studied the other people in the bar, with particular interest in the younger women. He’d had so little free time since the war began – so little time amongst civilians that he’d still not got accustomed to the shorter skirts and the display of female ankles. Women had worn full-length skirts since ancient Greece; surely there was something apocalyptic about the new fashion. If not apocalyptic, certainly provocative, especially when some of the younger ones wore these flesh-coloured stockings!
Between them they’d finished one bottle of wine and were nearly at the bottom of a second one. Now Pauli realized that Alex had reached a stage in his story when some contribution from Pauli was expected. ‘What did you mean about the sailors’ finding out something tomorrow?’
Alex glanced back over his shoulder to be sure he wasn’t overheard. Next door the gypsy band was playing sad Hungarian ballads. ‘The Chancellor used the secret telephone link to summon help from the army. Groener is sending troops. We’ll crush those Red swine once and for all.’
‘Sending them here? To the Royal Palace?’
‘The government is a prisoner, Pauli. They are being held hostage by those people. Groener has ordered several squadrons of the Imperial Horse Guards from the Potsdam barracks to march. They’ll be here by midnight.’
‘Will the troops fire on the sailors?’
‘The Imperial Horse Guards have remained loyal to their officers. There are a few other reliable men coming. Artillery, too. They’ll blast their way into the palace.’
‘The sailors won’t stand much chance against artillery.’
‘They’ve brought it on themselves. I’ve no sympathy for those gangsters.’
‘That fellow Esser you mentioned. I know him.’
‘The petty officer?’ Alex’s blasé mask dropped and he registered surprise. ‘How the devil did you come to know a fellow like that? From the Punishment Battalion?’
Pauli laughed. ‘No, the real rogues don’t end up in the Punishment Battalions, Alex. The real ones end up as generals. We both know that.’
Such remarks made Alex nervous. He looked round again to make sure they weren’t overheard; even so he disassociated himself from such sentiments. ‘I’m not sure about that, Pauli,’ he mumbled.
‘I’d like to try and get Esser out of there,’ said Pauli.
‘Get him out?’
‘He’s a good sort.’
‘There are no “good sorts” there, Pauli. They are all scum.’
‘I can’t leave him to be killed,’ said Pauli. ‘He was my friend. He’s the son of a villager from where my grandparents lived.’
‘It’s too dangerous,’ said Alex.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Pauli. ‘No one’s going to harm me simply for going along to the palace to have a word with Esser.’
‘You’re in uniform.’
‘A private’s uniform.’
‘These people are mutineers, Pauli. One look at you and they’ll know you’re a member of the Officer Corps. And the Freikorps is the avowed enemy of the revolution.’
‘I’ll have to go. Was it midnight you said the soldiers will arrive?’
‘On your honour, you mustn’t warn them,’ said Alex.
Pauli smiled. ‘You must be joking, Alex. No secrets remain secret in this town for more than half an hour.’
‘Then I shall come with you. Perhaps I can persuade them to release Wels.’
‘That would be a feather in your cap, Alex.’
Alex nodded seriously and swigged the last of his Riesling. ‘The more I come to think of it, the more amusing it sounds. Let’s go, Pauli.’
It was only a short walk down Unter den Linden from the Adlon Hotel to the Imperial Palace. As they came out of the hotel, the street was illuminated by the lights of the British Embassy. The Armistice Commission were said to be using it, but there was no sign of British soldiers there. From the far side of the Pariser Platz, close to the Brandenburg Gate, they heard a brass band playing energetically: a Christmas carol. It sounded like a military band, but there was no way to be sure. Beyond the gate, the Tiergarten was being used as a military camp, but no one knew the allegiance of the soldiers. Probably the men were just remaining close to the army soup kitchens that had been set up there. Half a metre of snow had fallen upon Berlin, and the sounds of the city were muffled under the white blanket, so that even the music of the band was distant and muted. They plodded on, icy impacted snow under their feet.
‘You’ve changed, Pauli. You’ve changed a lot.’
‘We’ve grown older,’ said Pauli, dismissing the idea. His father was always talking about the way Pauli had changed. Hadn’t Peter changed? Hadn’t Mama changed? And hadn’t Harald Winter changed most of all?
‘It’s more complicated than that,’ persisted Alex. ‘Was it the Punishment Battalion?’ They’d been together many times since Pauli had served his sentence, but until now the Punishment Battalion had been a taboo subject.
‘Changed in what way?’
‘You’re tougher, more determined. In the old days you wouldn’t have come looking for trouble. You’d have let a fellow such as Esser fend for himself.’
‘The Punishment Battalion was nothing. It was a relief to get away from that pig Brand. Sometimes I pitied you for still having to endure the brute.’
‘But they sent you into all the hardest fighting.’
‘It wasn’t so bad. It made a man of me. I learned how to survive – survive when all the odds were against survival, survive when all around me were dying.’
‘And after that you went to serve in a Sturmbataillon. Tell me about that. Was it like the Punishment Battalion?’
‘It was like nothing you’ve ever seen. With more such units we would have won, Alex.’
‘It wasn’t the lack of storm battalions, Pauli. It was these damned civilians who stabbed us in the back. As an officer I remain loyal to the government, but it’s hard to forget that these politicians we take orders from are the cowards and socialists who railed against the army all through the war. . . .’ He stopped; even now his officer training inhibited him against such outbursts, ‘But tell me about the storm battalion.’
‘No rifles: carbines, and lightweight machine pistols, and small flame throwers. Everything was designed for lightness and fast movement. Even the other ranks got pistols. Special uniforms, leather pads on elbows and knees. No cartridge pouches – we stuffed rounds into our pockets. Round our necks we carried bags of grenades. We were unstoppable . . . and ruthless.’
‘They took you as a Stosstruppführer.’
‘They didn’t care that I’d been in a Punishment Battalion, if that’s what you mean. Yes, they made me a Stosstruppführer. There were plenty of vacancies: officers always had to lead their men into the attack. Only young, unmarried men were accepted, and the physical was the strictest I’ve ever had.’
‘I envy you the experience, Pauli. The storm battalions have become a legend. But you were lucky to survive.’
‘You mustn’t believe all the stories you hear, Alex. Storm troops were kept in the rear until they were needed for some special task; even then they took us most of the way by truck. And we had lots of leave, and the food was always the very best available.’
‘You sound nostalgic, Pauli.’
‘Let me explain something to you, Alex. You grew up wanting to be an army officer. But I never wanted to go to cadet school. It was my father’s idea. I loved my father – I still do – but my father has no respect for me; he thinks I’m brainless, and he doesn’t care about anything except brains, especially the sort of brains that know how to make money. My elder brother doesn’t give a damn about Father, but he’s the one my father loves. I realized that I didn’t have the brains that my brother Peter has, so I went to the cadet school the way Papa wanted. Now soldiering is the only trade I know.’
‘Well, now the workers’ and soldiers’ committees are taking over all your father’s factories, it’s ended up making little difference to you.’
‘Papa will find a way; he always does.’
‘But you seemed happy enough at Lichterfelde.’
‘Yes, I came to like it. I’ve always been adaptable: younger brothers have to adapt to what everyone else wants. And I liked the respect that an officer’s uniform got for me. Do you remember, Alex? Members of the Officer Corps were gods. I loved all that, Alex, the bowing and scraping that I got from civilians. I loved being saluted, and the way that people stood aside to let me pass in the street and let me be served first in shops.’
‘I suppose we all did. And yet here we are: me skulking in civilian clothes and you masquerading as a private soldier.’ Pauli looked at his friend. Alex was wearing a grey bowler hat and an old-fashioned Inverness – a loose-fitting grey overcoat with attached shoulder cape. It wasn’t a particularly odd costume amid the curiously garbed people to be seen on the city’s streets, but it was hardly appropriate for a Prussian officer.
Pauli nodded. ‘And I even loved the Kaiser. I loved the idea that someone knew what was best for Germany and what was best for the army and the Officers Corps and what was best for me. And when the war went on and all sorts of riffraff like Brand managed to get commissions, I still didn’t care, because those people weren’t real officers: the Prussian Officer Corps was still a small elite that outsiders couldn’t enter.’ They walked in silence for a few moments while Pauli collected and ordered his thoughts. ‘And then came the Sturmbataillon. It was a world I’d never known. It let me be myself. I wish you’d been with me, Alex.’
‘You said that in one of your letters.’
‘We spoke using “du”, officers and men alike. I called my men by their first names, and often we’d be sitting around talking together with no rank deferentials. Arguing politics, or talking about what kind of Germany we’d have after the war.’
‘And did any of you guess it would be like this?’ Alex whipped his walking stick through the heaped snow.
Pauli snorted. ‘Who could have guessed it would end like this? No one! Who would have guessed that the Kaiser would run away so that Fritz Esser and his friend Liebknecht would be sitting in the Imperial Palace? Who’d guess that a collection of half-baked intellectuals and socialist draft dodgers would be running Germany as a ramshackle republic, and that the Imperial Horse Guards would be answering their call for help?’
‘I thought you were about to tell me that your time with the common man had provided you with a new understanding of the socialists, Pauli.’
‘Socialists are dreamers. The time for dreaming is long past. Our Fatherland is dying, and no one goes to help.’ He kicked the top from a mountain of snow, so that it shattered into a white cloud.
