5. Heinrich
5
Heinrich
Berlin, September 1944 (six months later)
C oming home had felt right.
I doubted I would ever make another mistake as monumental as that decision.
The whole of Germany was under assault.
Berlin was the epicenter of an impending cataclysm.
Of course, our forces had driven others to their knees, bombing capitals and razing villages. Those who resisted our liberation deserved whatever they received, but now the world had turned its ire on the Fatherland, and not even the wisdom and power of the Führer could withstand their combined might.
Berlin was a city gasping for its last breath.
Once vibrant and proud, my birthplace had transformed into a shell of desperation and quiet terror. Everywhere, the city bore the deep scars of war. The air was filled with the scent of charred buildings and cold stone—a mixture of smoke and crumbling mortar.
In the handful of neighborhoods that remained standing, civilians clung to the last remnants of their old lives.
Food was scarce.
Fuel for heating dwindled.
Even the black market had become too risky for most.
Bread, meat, and vegetables had long ago become luxuries. People rationed whatever scraps they had, queuing in silence, turning lines into silent funerals.
Hope, once as brilliant as the noonday sun, was more scarce than any commodity or supply.
Each day, Berliners awoke to fresh sounds of destruction.
Bombing raids were as pervasive as the falling rain—on the few days we saw rain in September. Each detonation that rattled the city’s bones loosened the last bits of confidence and resilience from our people.
Those with cellars cowered beneath the ground, sheltering in claustrophobic quarters. Whispers about the approaching Russians, stories of unimaginable horrors passed from neighbor to neighbor in low voices, painted the Red Army with brushstrokes of retribution and annihilation.
Rumors of what the Americans and Brits would do when they crossed our borders from the east carried their own notes of terror.
At night, the city was steeped in darkness.
The Reich’s elders rationed electricity to preserve what little resources remained and guard against the aim of Allied bombardiers.
The quiet held an edge sharper than any bayonet. It filled everyone with apprehension. Neighbors feared betrayal or punishment for showing the slightest weakness or dissent. The propaganda machine still churned, ordering them to be brave, to remain true, to hold on for Germany and for the Führer.
Most Berliners’ loyalties had already faded into exhaustion.
Survival was all anyone cared about—another day of waiting, rationing, hiding, hoping to somehow endure.
My return to the city had been greeted with a quick reassignment to an intelligence unit whose mission was to decipher documents, missives, and other items intercepted or captured from enemy troops and insurgent groups. Information was our weapon, and it, too, was in short supply.
Late one night, after a particularly fruitless day of sorting through boxes of pilfered papers, I sat in my flat and stared at my heavily curtained windows. No one dared reveal light lest the Allies mistake a home for something worthy of destruction.
Curtains seemed a silly precaution against tons of explosive steel.
Two items sat on the table beneath the window: a metal canister holding the film I’d taken from Konrad’s camera and the wooden statue of the wizened rabbi I’d stolen from the Polish synagogue. I hadn’t paid either much mind. The looming threat of the loss of everything I held dear made thoughts of art or entertainment pointless.
But something in how the statue sat there, unmarred amid the crumbling city of my youth, held my gaze.
“What are you staring at, old man?”
I shook my head.
I was talking to a Jewish statue, seeking what? Wisdom? Answers? Guidance?
The irony took a moment, but when it struck, I found myself doubled over in laughter.
Tears I’d not shed in longer than I could remember trickled down my cheeks.
When I glanced up, I was sure the old relic smiled down, a grandfather amused by a wayward child.
The canister of film offered no assurance, no grin.
“Konrad, why did you take those photos? What was the point? All you earned were bullets for your bravery.”
Konrad wasn’t a friend, but he was my partner, my compatriot, the man who’d dodged bullets with me until one had found its mark. Visions of his mussed hair poking out from beneath his cap added a wistful curl to my lips.
On a whim, I rose and strode to the table, picked up the film, and removed it from the canister. Careful to keep my fingertips off the delicate surface, I unrolled the film and held it up to the candle that lit the room. Images of men, women, and children herded before Soviet soldiers appeared.
I couldn’t see their eyes.
We’d been too far away.
The posture of many begged for mercy.
Those on the ground lay on pillows of blood-soaked snow.
One photo, then another, and another.
Each revealed more final moments.
As I was about to return the film to its case, a final photo stilled my hand.
The Soviet colonel.
Konrad had captured him in perfect, vivid detail. How was it even possible? We’d been so far away. I saw the set of his jaw, the hardness of his gaze, how his hands curled slightly by his sides. He despised those he now condemned.
But why?
I hadn’t understood in the moment. Time had offered no new understanding.
He was clearly a powerful man, in command, a leader whose troops hadn’t hesitated in carrying out his gruesome orders.
I searched the film again, squinting for every detail on every face, searching for understanding where none had been found before.
The Reich held no love for the Jews, but our solution was to make them work, force them into labor camps where they fueled our ambitions and armed our men. We only killed those who resisted or tried to flee. 1
The Führer and his inner circle spoke of Soviets as a vengeful, backstabbing nation who betrayed the Reich’s greater intentions. It was only after Stalin stabbed Hitler in the back that our Father sent men to liberate the Soviet Union. Our failure to subdue the Soviets—largely due to the claws and teeth of the Russian bear’s winter—drove Stalin to send what remained of his forces on a vengeance-filled quest for retribution.
But were they killers of Jews?
Was that how they sought to be viewed by the world?
Was that what Joseph Stalin would want to be printed on the front pages of American or British papers?
“Of course not,” I mumbled as an odd spark flickered to life, a pinprick of something I’d not felt in far too long: hope.
Rolling up the film as carefully and quickly as I could, I returned it to its canister and set it beside its wooden guardian. I’d spent years serving my country, protecting its secrets, unraveling the mysteries of its enemies.
It was time to make a new future for myself, and the Soviets would pave that path.
1. Despite the volume of information about the Nazi extermination plans now publicly available, during the war, not every soldier had direct, detailed knowledge of the “Final Solution.” Many would have had a general understanding that Jews and other groups were being systematically removed, segregated, and faced severe violence or death. Some actively participated, some turned a blind eye, and others may not have fully grasped the scale and horror of the genocide until the full horror was reported in the years following the war’s conclusion.