Werner listened silently while the others were livid at the outrage. That the Russian soldiers had been caught in the act of raping a German girl was not a matter of concern, whereas, the shooting stirred fierce indignation among the men.
“Do we walk around shooting Americans? No! So, what right do these assholes have! Wicked imperialist devils!” Petrov slammed his fist on the table.
“And for what? I bet that German slut has done it before, probably with the whole brigade!”
“Right! Since when do the Germans have rights all of a sudden? We’re the conquerors and we can do as we please.” Petrov was talking himself in rage, and even the whores in the nightclub who normally clung to every unattached man, retreated from the vicinity of their table.
“Didn’t you say it happened in the American sector?” Werner interjected in the hopes to cool down the exuberant emotions. “It’s not the first time the Americans have issued a warning that they won’t allow these things in their sector.”
The men erupted in a roar of disapproval and anger, hotly disagreeing with his statement.
“Are you a friend of the imperialists, Böhm?” Bagrov, a red-faced officer retorted. “Perhaps you are the one who reported our soldiers to the Americans.”
“What an insulting thing to say to a comrade,” Werner shot back, standing up and making ready to leave.
“Come on, men, take it easy,” Orlovski said. “We have enough enemies without turning on our own.”
Bagrov growled, “Easy for you to say, for the shot comrade wasn’t your brother.” A shocked silence ensued and Werner feared the man could look right through him and find out that he’d been there. He hadn’t personally told on the now-dead soldiers, but he hadn’t prevented Georg from doing so. Either way he was as good as dead should Bagrov ever find out.
“I swear I’ll tear the informer apart with my bare hands. Collaborating with the Americans to shoot our war heroes.”
“To move forward, we might find something to learn from this incident,” Werner said, though he knew he should probably retire for the night on the excuse that he was exhausted, which he was. Physically and mentally.
“Learning from a cold-blooded murder?” Bagrov was getting heated again.
“The Americans have found a way to endear themselves to the German population by stopping the crimes and taking the local side,” Werner said, keeping his cool and trying to explain his point of view to the drunken men. “This strategy works for them nicely, while we are hated more every day. Can’t you see there is a lesson to be learned in this?”
“We must have no witnesses?” said Petrov, further dumbed down by the amount of alcohol he had consumed.
“This is the problem with intellectuals, they think too much,” Bagrov said and the army officers burst out laughing. “Böhm, you should leave the problem to the army and stick to what you are assigned to do. Let’s hope you can manage that well enough.”
Werner was relieved from giving an answer by the appearance of the beautiful Fräulein von Sinnen. She nodded in Orlovski’s direction and the captain made his excuses to leave with his lady-love in tow. Werner got up as well, figuring he had spent enough time with these witnesses to ensure his defense.
Chapter 13
Dean was on his way to the Kommandatura, hoping General Sokolov was in an agreeable mood. The general suffered from peptic ulcers and on the days they were tormenting him, he returned the favor by abusing the other attendants at the Kommandatura meetings even more than usual.
Sometimes Dean wished he could solve the issue in the good old-fashioned manner with a blow to Sokolov’s chin. But alas, the war was over and physical violence was frowned upon, at least in the US Army.
The first point on the agenda was the refugee problem. Berlin was in a shambles as it was, food scarce and housing hopeless. The influx of hundreds of thousands of German refugees expelled from Russia, Poland, and Czechoslovakia, along with returning Wehrmacht soldiers further aggravated the food situation, and also the public-health problem. Many of the people arrived full of lice, sick of typhus, typhoid fever, tuberculosis and other contagious diseases.
Especially the soldiers were a pathetic sight, and Dean’s heart constricted every time he saw one of them. He’d been enraged at the despicable treatment of his compatriot prisoners of war by the Nazis, but what the Russians had done to the German prisoners of war was on par with the Nazi treatment.
Wretched, dirty, hollow-eyed, and scraggy men trudged into the capital wearing filthy, tattered uniforms, their only belonging – a tin cup – wrapped around their necks. And those were the healthy ones. The wounded, sick and injured hobbled on wooden splints and had grimy bandages wrapped around their heads, arms, or legs. Shoes were a rare sight and many of the soldiers tied old newspapers, rags and wooden planks around their feet. Never in his life had Dean seen more dejected, defeated and desolate soldiers. Abysmal despair.
Dean had a few ideas what could be done to discourage people from coming to Berlin and trying their luck in the less crowded smaller towns and villages instead.
The first measure of not issuing staying permits had not been very successful. He’d already talked to his French and British colleagues that they needed to do something drastic. And now he hoped to convince General Sokolov to agree on a joint effort using a press and radio campaign throughout the Soviet zone, urging the refuges to stay away from Berlin and warning them that disease and hunger would be their only welcome.
But as he arrived at the Kommandatura, the refugee problem was brushed aside by a livid Sokolov insisting to address a more pressing immediate emergency. The cold-blooded murder of two of his men in the American sector the afternoon before.
Dean inwardly groaned. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if those bloody Russians didn’t start to discipline and control their troops. He glanced at his deputy Major Gardner, who’d already requested the police report and caught Dean up on the topic. An attempted rape, a German informer, two American military police coming to aid the girl, and two insolent Russians who’d threatened them with a gun.
It would be long day.
Sokolov began with his usual hateful tirade against the Western imperialists and then demanded satisfaction by handing over the murderer to Soviet jurisdiction. Obviously, everyone in the room knew this was an absolute no-go, but Sokolov probably used it to make his point: the lack of cooperation from the Americans to dispense justice.
“General Sokolov, I’m afraid your facts are entirely wrong,” Gardner said and began reading the details of the incident from the police report. Sokolov’s face became increasingly convulsed with anger and Dean secretly hoped he’d burst asunder in the midst, gushing out his bowels.
“So maybe they had a few drinks and stepped over the line. That’s no reason to shoot our men,” Sokolov conceded.
“We usually don’t shoot your men either, but in this case the Russians drew their weapons first and threatened our people,” Gardner said.
Sokolov looked thoroughly uncomfortable. “Well, you should know that this was only symbolic, they never intended to actually kill your men.”
Dean had difficulties to suppress a laugh. He’d recently come to the conclusion that this was the fundamental difference between the two armies. In an altercation with the Western Allies, the Russians usually drew their weapons to threaten or impress, and often fired warning shots, if they fired at all. An American soldier, though, only drew his weapon to shoot, and if he fired, he did it to kill.