Four

“It’s about time you showed up,” a booming voice greeted Harold.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Major.” He pointed to the scrapes on his head. “I ran into a wall and had to clean myself up.”

“Indeed, this must be the strangest excuse I have ever heard.” He motioned to Harold to join him in the courtyard of the office building. Just when he wanted to ask Harold some questions about their prior session, one of Godunov’s guards, a Tatar, walked by carrying a bag filled with war souvenirs. Somehow he was not looking where he was walking and collided with a Russian soldier. His bag opened up and the loot spilled on the ground.

As he gathered the booty, the other soldier assaulted him with a barrage of grunts and snorts. They sounded to Harold like curses or invectives. Despite the fact that the Tatar was bigger and stronger then the Russian, he kept quiet and there was no visible reaction from him. He kept on picking up his belongings and when he was done he wanted to continue his walk. At this point the Russian screamed even louder. Not only this, but he also hopped up and down in front of the Tatar.

“What kind of a language is he using?” asked Harold, surprised by the stoic attitude of the Tatar. “Apparently the Tatar does not understand a word that is being hurled at him.”

“He is talking in Buryat and the Tatar understands him alright. However, watch this. I will also speak Buryat to him.” The Major got up and addressed the still unperturbed soldier in quiet tones. But, the more he talked the more agitated the former tranquil Tatar became. Before the Russian could retreat, the Tatar was on top of him. It was not much of a fight. The Tatar was so upset that it was no contest. He grabbed the hapless soldier by the arm and hit him with the bag mercilessly over the head until he collapsed. For good measure he added a few kicks with his boots. It was over as fast as it had begun. After grunting some more unintelligible words at the Major and offering something like a salute, the Tatar took his bag and sauntered away.

“What the heck was that? What did you tell the guy?” Harold wondered.

“There is a lesson for you, Harold.” The Major sat down again. “First of all there is no real difference, other than a few limited languages, between the Tatars. In effect they are all of central Asian ancestry.”

“The guard with the loot only understood Buryat and the Russian had some obviously very limited knowledge of it. For one reason or another he was jealous of the Tatar and called him a worthless piece of animal dung and human shit.”

The Major smirked at Harold. “This had no effect on the Tatar because in the Buryat language you cannot insult someone by calling him names. It simply makes no sense to them.”

He smiled some more. “In order to insult them you have to explain to them that you desire to insult them. So I explained to the plunderer that the Russian wished to insult him and in his mind the Tatar was stinking like a combination of human excrement and pigs manure and that the refined nostril of the Russian soldier was deeply offended by smell of it.”

“Good grief,” Harold looked at the Russian soldier who had slowly gotten up and limped away. “Is this the same in the Russian language?” He wanted to know.

“Oh no. You call a Russian a pig, he will deck you. No explanations are necessary. Never confuse the languages.”

“Good to know,’” agreed Harold. “By the way, did the Tatar just thank you for your explanation?”

“Yes, he did,” confirmed the Major. “The Mongolians are very polite, when they are sober. Now, let’s get on with our regular lesson.”

Harold absorbed everything the Major taught him. He was willing to learn and his mind was like a sponge. By the time the sun went down he was in command of a few helpful words and phrases.

When the Kommissar entered the courtyard Harold was able to inquire if he had experienced a pleasant day. Godunov’s answer, however, escaped him.

“Don’t worry,” the Pompolit assured him. “You seem to have a natural talent for the Russian language. You are doing very well.”

The evening was spent again in the boys’ bedroom and Harold finally answered some of Karl’s question.

“We know that the surrender of Berlin was on May 2nd,” Harold started.

“Of course. How could I forget?” Karl wondered what his friend’s statement could mean.

“We also know that some of our Wehrmacht troops tried to fight their way from the Russians, to surrender to the Western Allies and that the actual surrender of Germany occurred on May 8th,” Harold continued. “Now, do you also know that some pocket guerilla forces still exist around Berlin?” he asked.

Herr Veth answered instead of Karl. “Yes, we heard of German partisan commandos. Supposedly SS and HJ units.”

He looked at the boys. “When we were taken prisoner there were several rumors that they would be able to liberate us. They were supposed to hide near the railroad stations to sabotage the transport trains to Russia.” He wiped his forehead. “Nothing but stupid rumors. Nobody came for us.”

Karl looked at his friend with an incredible expression.

“You contacted a Werewolf unit. (Werewolf was the name for various small resistance commandos in Berlin and in certain parts of Germany after the surrender. They consisted of fanatical SS and HJ members and were mostly very ineffective.) I can see it in your eyes. Are you insane?”

“Not at all, I am just getting even,” Harold answered calmly.

“Getting even, for what, with whom?” Karl really feared that his friend had lost his reasoning.

“For my mother, for one thing. With the SS for another.” In contrast to Karl, Harold was not agitated at all.

“Your mother I can understand but it was not the Zampolit who raped her.” While Karl was berating his friend, Herr Veth listened to the boys without understanding what the ruckus was about.

“What is it to you? Besides you should have known better than to ask. Deal with it.” Harold prepared to go to bed. “One more thing, so you sleep better. I have not even begun to avenge my mother.”

“Harold, I implore you, what do you mean by getting even with the SS?” Karl honestly feared for his friend. If the SS partisans found out that Harold was working for the Kommissar he would be as good as dead. And all this after they had survived the war. He had thought that they would be friends forever. But what Harold was doing now was as close to suicide as he could come.

“What do I mean? I told you not to ask but since you persist I will tell you. The Kommissar thinks I am his partner and now the SS thinks that I am their partner too. In truth, the fun has not even begun and I am enjoying myself already.” Harold was on his cot and turned on his side facing the wall.

Karl didn’t say another word. He knew his friend too well. He knew when to stop.

“Listen to me, Karl. Remember, I learned a lot from you. There is nothing that can go wrong. It will get interesting. Promise.” Harold felt that he had to end the evening on a lighter note because he knew that Karl would worry for him. Probably all night long.

“Good night, Harold. Good night, Pappa.” Karl could not think of an answer, mostly because he knew that his friend had done this for him; to get him off the hook with the Kommissar.

The next morning the hours passed swiftly. Harold resumed his lessons with the Major and Karl finally had the time to bond again with his father. He showed him the two postcards he had received from his mother during the weeks before the surrender, which were of great news to his father. They talked about Willy, Karl’s 8-year-old brother and Monica his five-year-old sister, who had also added her name to the last message. After exchanging some memories the conversation returned to their primary concern; how to get out of the Russian-occupied territory.

“These shoes fit really well and I could easily walk thirty kilometers or more each day,” Herr Veth assured his son.

“I am glad to hear that and I think that once we are out of the city it will be easy for us to hide. I assume that there will only be motorized patrol units and we should see them coming from far away.” Karl had decided to concentrate on one part of their escape route at a time. “The real task is how to get out of the city. It seems that the individual Auffangslager (camps to catch fugitives) are still functioning. Just yesterday I saw more than three of them between the Moorenstrasse and the Uhlandstrasse. They are constantly being supplied by the roaming patrols.”

“Does not sound that we will get very far without being picked up,” Herr Veth agreed.

‘There is however, the possibility of using the flooded subway system.” Karl looked searchingly at his father. He tried to guess if his father would consider stepping in the contaminated water. “At the very least we should be able to reach the suburbs. I can’t imagine that the Russians patrol the evil stinking mess.”

“Didn’t you say that it was flooded?”

“Yes, it is flooded but not very deep. I doubt that the water would reach our chests. It is the many corpses which are floating in it, plus the excrements and rats, which might deter the Russians. There are whole hospital trains which were flooded when the SS blew the bulk heads to the Landwehr Canal.” Karl reached for a piece of bread that was left over from the morning and started to chew on it.

“Maybe some of the wounded survived but the odds were against them.” He fingered the back of his neck which sometimes still bothered him. “If we decide on this route we will, however, have the additional challenge of keeping our food from getting wet and contaminated.”

Karl got up and waved at his father. “Let’s go down to the kitchen and search for some lunch.” He sniffed the air. “Most likely it will be some cabbage soup. They always spice it with plenty of onions.”

It had been an easy guess. It seemed that the whole building smelled of cabbage. Alex was already seated and greeted Karl with his usual choppy grunts. “Ka, Ka, Poodel, Ka, Ka, Poodel.”

“Do you understand what he is saying?” Karl’s father was amazed when his son answered with “Poodel, Poodel”.

“No, I don’t understand a word. His name is Alex, but for one reason or another he does not respond to it. I have to call him Ex, Ex to get his attention and he calls me Ka, Ka.”

Alex had left the kitchen and came back with some pieces of moist black Russian bread. His smile spread across his entire face as he handed the bread to Karl. “Poodel, Poodel, Ka, Ka,”

“Oh, yes. He calls the bread Poodel. And he always finds some somewhere,” Karl continued to explain to his father.

Herr Veth broke the bread apart. It smelled fresh and he could not figure out why it was so clammy. “I fear that this might get moldy within a day,” he remarked.

The door opened and Harold stuck his head in the kitchen. “The Major will take me to the Becker’s,” he informed Karl. “I need the civilian clothing again. If I am not back by dark you might start searching for me.”

Karl was immediately concerned. “Where are you going? Where do I search for you?”

“Herr Becker will tell you.” He didn’t wait for another question from his friend; he just hurried down the hallway.

No sooner was he gone before Kete came to summon Karl to the Kommissar.

“We will have to go to the victory celebration. General Berzarin expects me and my detail to arrive early. He informed me that Marshal Zhukov and several of his officers will also attend.”

Godunov seemed to be in an excellent mood. His daughter had spent a peaceful night and thanks to Karl’s ointment her wounds were starting to heal. He intended to keep her in hiding for the time being. If everything went in accordance with his plan, he would be able to transfer her from her present unit to a research hospital in Moscow.

“You will stay with your father and my daughter in this building. I assigned some Russian soldiers to assure your safety,” he continued.

“Will there be any American or English visitors at the party?” Karl wondered if he missed a chance to meet an American officer. He was not sure how that would benefit him or his father, but in his mind he thought of all kinds of possibilities.

“Not that I know of, but I think I know what you are thinking. Don’t worry, if you are taking care of my problem I will find a solution to yours.” Before Godunov dismissed the boy he turned to Kete to give him some instructions.

A few minutes later Karl found himself with his father in their regular sleeping quarters. Four Russian soldiers had arrived and split up. Two of them took positions at the door to the Kommissar’s bedroom and two sat on the table chewing on some onions. Alex had been very hesitant to leave Karl and it took the Kommissar’s direct order to finally get him out of the room.

“This giant is really attached to you,” Karl’s father observed after he was gone.

“Yes, I wonder how this will end when Godunov leaves Berlin. Alex and Kete are his primary body guards and I am sure that they will have to go with him. But, I am equally sure that Alex wants to stay with me.”

Karl continued to tell his father how he had cared for Alex’s feet. “The Russians treat the Tatars worse than we would treat a mangy animal, Pappa. I am sure that Alex never, ever, experienced any kindness.” He finished his story and went downstairs to the restroom. One of the Russian soldiers scampered after him and he suspected this was also for his safety as the Kommissar had told him.

While father and son were deliberating all kinds of alternative ways to get to Westphalia, Karl became increasingly anxious about Harold. The last he had seen of him was when he had looked out of the window. Harold had been sitting next to his language instructor in a dilapidated Russian truck and that was several hours ago. Karl had no idea how he could possibly get away from his Russian guards in case he needed to search for his friend. To top it off, the Becker’s apartment was a good thirty minute walk away.

And then what? Without a car or truck and without Alex or Kete, he could not really imagine how he would look for his friend. With every passing hour his tension mounted.

Herr Veth could not help noticing his son’s nervousness. He had heard Harold’s remark before the boy left and he understood Karl’s anxiety.

“What do you think is causing Harold’s delay?” he asked his son to show that he shared his concern.

“I don’t know what to think anymore.” Karl was nearly beside himself. It was getting dark and he had to get away to talk with Herr Becker.

The only thing he could think of was to escape through the restroom window. However, he had no idea if the guards had orders to shoot. He could not imagine that the Kommissar had given any instructions to this effect, but he didn’t know. All he was sure of was that his friend depended on him.

“Whatever happens, Pappa, please don’t leave the room. Godunov assured me of your release and I don’t think that the guards will follow me. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

He got up and went out the door. To his surprise none of the soldiers followed him. When he got to the ground floor he heard a car drive up and some shouting. The front door busted open and the Kommissar came storming in followed by Alex, Kete and the rest of his guards.

He took one look at Karl and grabbed him by his coat.

“Is my daughter alright? Where do you think you are going?” he demanded.

“I need to find Harold. I’m afraid that he is in some kind of trouble.”

“Trouble?” Godunov repeated. “There is trouble all over the city. Your SS Werewolf units ambushed Kozlov’s convoy in Gatov and supposedly killed him. Another group tried to attack the gathering at General Berzarin’s headquarters. Luckily we got tipped off. None of them survived.”

He stopped himself and stared at Karl. “Did you say Harold is missing?”

Karl did not miss a beat. “Did you just tell me that Kozlov was killed?”

Godunov understood in an instant. “Take Alex and Kete with you. Go, go, go; Poti is still in the car.” He yelled some commands to his guards and ran up the stairs to look after his daughter.

Karl was already sitting next to Poti when the other two Tatars joined him.

“To the Becker’s!” shouted Karl and then realized that Poti did not understand him. He drove on anyhow and Karl directed him to their destination.

“Open up. It’s me, Karl, open up, please.” Herr Becker took a step backwards when he saw the three Tatars next to Karl.

“Come in,” he wanted to wave them in, but Karl wasted no time.

“Tell me where Harold went!” he almost screamed.

As Herr Becker hesitated to answer, Frau Becker spoke up from the background of the apartment. “Tell Karl what he needs to know.”

A moment later Karl was back in the car, mentally repeating the information he had received.