Armageddon (35 page)

The old woman in the room was still filled with a fear of the strange young man.

“Don’t be frightened,
Mutter,
” he said softly, “I just wanted to see what it looked like.”

He walked outside into the shambles of Berlin. The homecoming was done.

Chapter Five

I
GOR
K
ARLOVY REQUISITIONED A
mansion in Karlshorst for his billet. It was relatively undamaged, and the twelve rooms were the most luxurious he had ever been in. The headquarters office was established in the main drawing room; he did his own work in his enormous, lush bedroom. Reports poured in from all over the city with data for the dismantling of the Berlin industrial complex. In a few days he was due to hand in his own findings to Commissar Azov and the German People’s Liberation Committee.

A sound of singing reached his ears, the voices of his men. Igor took off his glasses, put them down for a moment, and listened from his desk. The song, known to him from childhood, was called “Volga, Volga,” a song of the cossacks and their lure. It was Russian, melodic, and mournful. Young Feodor’s voice sang with nostalgia.

A fine boy, young Feodor, Igor thought ... my most promising officer. They had been through it all together, Feodor and the colonel. They were more like brothers than senior and junior officers.

The voice of Ivan Orlov joined in the chorus. Ivan sings well, Igor thought, but that is about all. He hangs too closely on the words of the commissars and the edicts. He spies on us.

Igor stretched, yawned, patted his flat hard stomach, and slipped into his tunic without buttoning it and went into the living room. The singers were warmly comfortable after the first flushes of victory and the afterglow of Vodka. They sat about in the deep comfort of the great house with their boots off and their tunics open.

“Sit still, sit still,” Igor said as he entered.

Feodor tossed a mandolin to the colonel; he perched his foot on a stool, lit a cigarette, and caught up in the chorus:

Volga, Volga you’re my mother,

Volga, you’re a Russian stream ...

Captain Boris Chernov came in from the outside just as the song came to its sorrowful end telling of a young princess being thrown into the waters as a sacrifice.

“You’re late,” Igor admonished. “I’ve been holding up the entire report on your account.”

“Forgive me, Comrade Colonel,” Boris said, slyly holding up a woman’s delicate watch. “I got delayed by a little German dumpling.”

Ivan Orlov laughed. Igor set his instrument down, snatched the papers out of Boris’ case, and returned to his bedroom slamming the door behind him.

“What bothers the colonel?” Boris asked.

“He thinks our officers shouldn’t screw the German women,” Feodor snapped, coming to the colonel’s defense.

“Nonsense,” Ivan Orlov said.

“Let me tell you that many officers are condemning the whole thing and want to put a stop to it.”

“I was at headquarters”—Boris laughed—“an old woman was complaining she was raped eighty-four times. The doctor insisted she was enjoying it or she wouldn’t have bothered to count.”

Ivan laughed; Feodor got more angry.

“Come now, Feodor,” Boris said. “Do you think the Germans deserve better?”

“The hell with both of you,” Feodor answered. “Besides, I don’t think much of your taste. As for me, I wouldn’t stick mine between a German woman’s legs.”

Igor Karlovy was standing in the doorway, his fists clenched. “Carry on your goddamned discussion elsewhere. I’m trying to finish my work.”

Forty-eight hours after his report was filed, Commissar Azov summoned Igor to meet with the head of the German People’s Liberation Committee.

V. V. Azov, who made a fine art of keeping himself inconspicuous, mysterious, and anonymous, had a mansion in Potsdam on the Wannsee. His house was in a forest, shades eternally drawn, grounds heavily guarded.

The usual portrait of Stalin hung over the conference table in the dark-paneled room replacing an oil of Prussian nobility. Even in the worst days of Leningrad, Igor thought, there was never a shortage of Stalin’s portraits. V. V. Azov looked expressionless and bored as he took his place at the table.

Two members of the German People’s Liberation Committee sat opposite him. Igor personally disliked most of the Germans on the committee. It was true that all of them were tested Communists who had fled Hitler, yet he felt there was too much German left in their souls.

Rudi Wöhlman’s face reminded Igor of the little field rats that used to attack the grain stores on the family farm ... thin face, thin beard, glinting front teeth. He had brought with him his young aide, Heinrich Hirsch.

“To get directly to the point,” Azov said, “I find your report unsatisfactory.”

Igor had dealt with party people successfully all during the siege and the great offenses out of Russia, across Poland, East Prussia, and Germany. He wished they would let him stick to Air Force problems, but his own talent trapped him; he knew the language. “If the Comrade Commissar would get to specifics I am certain I can offer explanations.”

“Many of our recommendations have been rejected,” Heinrich Hirsch said sharply.

“Let us take the transfer of railroad cars as an example. You deleted it,” Azov said.

“I am certain,” Igor answered, “the Commissar is aware there is a different gauge in the German and Soviet rail systems that make their rolling stock useless to us. With our transport and distribution problems the rail cars have better use in Germany.”

Azov nodded that the point was well taken. “However,” he said drolly, “the German and Polish rail systems are compatible. Our Polish comrades have suffered untold brutality at the hands of the Nazi beasts. The Lublin People’s Committee for a Free and Democratic Poland have asked us to help them in rebuilding their shattered homeland. Delivery of the rail stock in the Brandenburg Province will be among the first Polish reparations.”

Igor pretended to study his folio in order to give himself time to decipher the true meaning of Azov’s rhetoric. Dozens of such conferences had taught him not to be taken by a surprise announcement of policy. What he unscrambled was that the Lublin Poles had been installed to run the country.

“It poses a technical problem,” Igor said carefully.

“Which is?”

“The Brandenburg Province, and Berlin in particular, has never been self-sustaining in food even in the best of days. Furthermore, food surplus must come from eastern German provinces. This means we need rail stock. Also, I have studied the draft of our agreement with the Americans and British. As I interpret it, the immediate areas around Berlin are responsible for feeding the city. This will all be impossible without freight cars.”

Azov tapped his fingers on the tabletop, digesting Igor Karlovy’s line of logic. Wöhlman looked from one to another, not daring to venture an opinion at this point.

“Your interpretation of the treaty with the Western Allies is incorrect,” Azov said. “The Americans and British must feed their own sectors of Berlin from their own sources. Therefore, we will be responsible for feeding less than a third of the city.”

Again, Igor tried to separate political implications from realities. Azov’s words, which were official policy, said that Russia would find a way to break the treaty. America and Britain would be compelled to bring in food from a distance of at least two hundred kilometers, if not from overseas. Furthermore, Berlin depended upon coal for industrial power from the Ruhr. The loss of freight cars was obviously intended to place such a burden on the Western Allies that it might be impossible for them to stay in Berlin. Igor nodded that he understood. “Certainly our Polish comrades should have the rolling stock,” he said. “I will reevaluate the situation at once.”

Next Azov listed several classifications of machinery which had been omitted from the report.

“The machinery you speak of,” he answered, “cannot be integrated into the Soviet system. It is useless to us. Furthermore, it will take tens of thousands of man hours to dismantle it and move it by rail and unload it for the sole purpose of letting it rust in depots. It is an expensive waste of both rail space and man power.”

“However, Comrade Colonel,” Azov came back with “policy,” “even if the machinery is valueless to us it has great value to the Germans, particularly if they entertain the notion of a war of revenge against the Soviet Union.”

Wöhlman now felt safe in handing Azov a list. He cleared his throat. “I call your attention to the recommendations of the German People’s Liberation Committee in paragraph twenty-two, which we presented to you as far back as Warsaw. You have not included them, Comrade Colonel.”

This coming from Rudi Wöhlman was too much. For an instant Igor almost lost his composure. He felt like shouting, “What the hell side are you on, Wöhlman? Are you a German or not?” Of course, he said nothing, stifling his anger with a slight smile.

Colonel Karlovy knew the notorious paragraph twenty-two from memory. It listed the removal of Berlin’s toilets, sinks, doorknobs, window sashes, wiring, light bulbs, chairs and desks, typewriters, window shades, bidets, and many dozen other such items as part of Berlin’s “industrial complex.” How eager to please Rudi Wöhlman was! He’d even take the toilets out of Berlin!

“I fail to understand,” Igor said, now calming himself, “how German toilets will either add to the wealth of the Soviet Union or to future German war-making potential. If Comrade Wöhlman would be so good as to explain?”

Comrade Wöhlman was flustered long enough for Azov to step in and save him. “Before the re-education of the German working class they must be made to realize what happens to those who dare attack the Soviet Union. Only after the Germans atone for attacking our motherland will the Liberation Committee be in a position to build socialism.” With that pronouncement Igor knew the conversation was at an end. “I take it then,” Azov continued, “you are aware of the deficiencies in your report.”

The moment had come. Igor Karlovy nodded his head and mumbled an apology for his mistakes.

“Whatever you do, give priority attention to those sections of West Berlin scheduled for American and British occupation. We want everything cleared out before they come.”

The meeting was abruptly ended upon Igor’s promise to have an amended report ready in seventy-two hours.

“If you will drive me in to our headquarters,” Heinrich Hirsch said, “I will get ready the lists of our original recommendations.”

“By all means, Comrade Hirsch.”

They passed through the gates of Azov’s mansion onto Königs Road and the devastation of Berlin. Heinrich Hirsch was the least offensive of the Germans to Igor. He was the youngest member of the committee and obviously Wöhlman’s right hand. Small wonder. In the meetings they had had, he found Hirsch’s tongue like a razor, an astute brain reacting quickly with a depth of knowledge of the dialectics. Most of the party people pondered on each word, weighed their answers meticulously; not so Hirsch. Igor knew he was the son of a martyred German Communist. Beside that, only a few hazy half facts. One never asked about another’s background or experiences. One had to treat another with basic distrust, for he never knew if he was talking to a spy or just how words would be used against him someday. The fact that Hirsch had emerged as a member of the committee at such an early age testified to his stature. For a long while they were wordless. They passed near the lake with the pale green birch trees forming a mantle on both sides of the road.

“I agree with your position,” Hirsch said at last.

“What position?”

“Your attempt to save Berlin from being stripped down to the last nail and screw.”

“It was not a position, Comrade Hirsch. I am merely an engineer. Positions, as you call them, come from Commissar Azov.”

“Nevertheless,” Hirsch countered quickly, “you chose to ignore Rudi Wöhlman’s recommendations and drew up different plans.”

“On what I believed to be a purely scientific basis. I was only thinking in the mathematical terms of work hours and transportation. Now that I have been made aware of the political considerations my position, as you call it, has been clarified.”

It was the kind of wording both of them knew well. “Hell, let’s face it,” Heinrich persisted, to Igor’s discomfort, “it’s damned bad business. Not only the stripping of the city but abuses by the soldiers.”

Igor stared directly ahead, pretending to be bored. His brain worked feverishly to avoid being drawn into such a discussion. Igor took the road that cut diagonally across the Grunewald. There was not too much damage in this area. “The present behavior of the Red Army is destroying a great image.”

“Just a minute, Comrade Hirsch. The Soviet Union did not invite the Nazis to invade, destroy our cities, burn our fields, kill our children, and rape our women,” Igor recited from the standard line. “Our men have fought hard and have been bloodied for thousands of miles. After what has been done to us, the German people would be fools to expect less. Besides,” he added as an afterthought, “soldiers are soldiers.”

Hirsch struck back immediately. “In all candor Comrade Colonel, this continued rape can only diminish the stature of the Red Army regardless of the provocations. Both Marx and Lenin have pointed out that in order for us to successfully carry out world revolution we must first have the support of a socialist German working class.”

“The German working class will be rebuilt after every vestige of the Nazi is purged from him.”

“But, Comrade Colonel, I raise the question of whether our soldiers are discriminating between Nazis and non-Nazis in their ... er ... sport. Certainly the rape of a ten-year-old girl will do nothing to induce the Germans to accept the Soviet way of life.”

“There are bound to be a few mistakes,” Igor answered weakly.

“A few hundred thousand is more like it. Colonel Karlovy, I dare this conversation with you out of mutual love of the Soviet Union. I have begged Comrade Wöhlman to speak to Azov. The fact of the matter is that Wöhlman at times appears to be more intent on pleasing the commissars and keeping in their good graces than he is of representing the new Germany. If these abuses are allowed to continue it must end in earning the everlasting hatred of the German people and it must sow the seeds of a war of revenge. You are a hero of the Soviet Union in a position to exert pressure. Many Red Army officers are disgusted with the events in Berlin.”