“So, what’s with you and him?” Lotte asked.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” came the sharp reply.
“U-hu, I know infatuation when I see it. And he’s clearly smitten by you, in case you haven’t noticed.” Lotte stated the obvious.
“That’s his problem, not mine,” Marlene insisted while her friend laughed, not willing to let go of the topic yet.
“So, the dreamy gaze in your eyes every time he passes by, doesn’t mean anything?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“But why? He seems nice enough, besides being so handsome,” Lotte probed. “What gives?”
“I’m not into communists,” Marlene explained. “We have suffered enough with one dictatorial regime, we don’t need more of the same. If the Russians have their way it will be back to terror all around. Have you heard about the vicious things they do to our prisoners of war?”
“I know all too well, my boyfriend is one of them,” Lotte said with the saddest expression Marlene had ever seen on her face.
She wrapped her arms around her face and murmured, “I’m so sorry, Lotte. But you’ll see, he’ll soon come home. The war’s been over for more than a year and the allies are releasing more prisoners every day.”
Chapter 20
Dean was in his office with his deputy Jason Gardner and glared in disbelief at the report in front of them. The Russians had set the wheels of villainy in motion and the bribes, tricks, threats and other shenanigans they used to rig the elections in their favor made every other crooked politician the world had seen look like a monk.
He’d patiently weathered the spiteful abuse the Soviets had showered on him personally and the Western Allies in general every single day since the decision to hold city council elections, but their latest disinformation campaign filled with lies, phony promises and intimations was simply too much.
“Jason, we need to have our own voice,” Dean said.
“You know, the Russians won’t give us airtime on the Berlin Radio,” Jason said.
Dean knew that his deputy had run from pillar to post in his efforts to convince the Russians to put the Berlin Radio under quadripartite administration or at least give the other powers airtime.
The Soviet Military Administration hedged, stalled, and prevaricated until they outright refused, which was even more annoying, because the Haus des Rundfunks, the radio headquarters was located in the Masurenalle, deep in the British sector, while the transmitters stood in Tegel, in the French sector. And still the miserable Russian thugs claimed the radio station for themselves and controlled access to airtime.
He slammed his fist on the desk. “I’m not taking their shit any longer. I want my own radio station.”
Jason looked up in stunned surprise, but quickly composed himself again. “It’s not that easy. You know that we don’t have a broadcasting tower and can only distribute our Drahtfunk in the American sector program by telephone line.”
“I don’t care. Get me Captain Barley right now.”
Twenty minutes later Jason returned with the Army engineer, whose fame for being a gifted inventor, fiddler and often a savior in cases of need preceded him. He was smallish and thin, gaunt even, and his graying hair sometimes deluded people into underestimating him, but given as much as a piece of wire he could fix basically any technical problem.
“Colonel Harris, you wanted to see me?” Captain Barley greeted Dean.
“Yes, Captain. I need a broadcasting tower.”
Barley’s eyes widened and he apparently didn’t know what to reply to such an unusual request. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not sure I understand correctly.”
“Let me put it this way: The Soviets are making my life miserable spewing their spiteful propaganda over the Berlin Radio. What is worse, the democratic parties are in danger of losing the elections if we cannot provide the German people with objective facts countering the Russian lies and intimidations. Therefore, I want my own radio station.”
“By when do you need to go on air?” Captain Barley asked.
Dean almost let out a chuckle. That’s what he liked about the engineer. He never said it was impossible, but instead accepted the challenge. “Well before the elections.”
Election day was a mere seven weeks away and by all normal standards what Dean was asking, was simply impossible. Barley rubbed his chin, deeply in thought and didn’t answer for a long while.
“A broadcasting tower is impossible on such short notice,” he finally said. “But I have another idea. It’s not ideal, because the power is only eight hundred watts, but you can have it by the end of the week.”
Dean all but jumped up from his seat, giddy to know more about the wonder apparatus Barley was offering. “Sounds like a plan. What are you thinking about?”
Now Barley was in his element and explained about mobile units with a terrestrial mid-wave transmitter, a wire stretched between two wooden poles for an antenna, and a myriad of other technical details Dean didn’t have the patience to listen to.
“Prioritize this task over anything else and report back to me the moment you’re done,” he interrupted the engineer who was positively glowing with enthusiasm.
When Barley had left the room Dean said, “Jason, tell the DIAS staff that they’re about to go on air.”
“Shouldn’t we think of a new name, too?” Jason asked. “ Drahtfunk doesn’t describe it, since we won’t be transmitting over phone wires anymore.”
“You’re right. Tell everyone we have a new sender, Radio in the American Sector, short RIAS Berlin.”
By the end of the week Captain Barley returned and asked Dean to accompany him for a test drive of the new transmitter. And on September 4 Dean personally opened the first program with the words, “Here is RIAS Berlin, the radio in the American sector. You hear us on medium wave 611 kHz.” And he ended his short speech with the words, “RIAS Berlin – a free voice in a free world!”
Operation Backtalk had started and now RIAS Berlin broadcasted every day debunking the lies and myths the Russians spewed, but Dean still couldn’t be sure the Russians wouldn’t get their way. Thus, he made one last effort to keep the Russians from stealing the first free elections in Berlin and put the point of mutual supervision of the polling stations on election day on the agenda.
General Sokolov was not amused and spun a long speech about the virtues of democracy and how the Americans tried to subdue the working people.
“I’m sick and tired of your prevarication. Not a single issue in the Kommandatura can be agreed upon without lengthy, unnecessary and outright stupid discussions,” Dean accused General Sokolov.
“Nothing’s perfect but Comrade Stalin is highly supportive of the first free and fair democratic election process for the people of Berlin. Only thanks to our liberation—“
“If your Comrade Stalin is so fond of free elections, then you’ll have no problem of quadripartite oversight,” Dean cut the general short. “Or would you rather go against Stalin’s wishes?”
Sokolov gritted his teeth and agreed, while Dean felt a surge of elation course through his veins. It was not often that he could wrangle even the tiniest concession from the general.
It was a small victory, albeit an important one.
On election day military jeeps with representatives from each of the four allied powers patrolled Berlin, making regular rounds of the polling stations to see that no irregularities occurred.
Dean was in a jeep with Captain Orlovski, Major Bouchard and General Wilson. All of Berlin were on its feet going to the polling stations and the voter turnout exceeded Dean’s wildest expectations.