Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [142]
Ulrich wondered if there was anyone left who could say he was a German who fought Hitler. There were too few to really be counted in the first place. “Maybe it would have been better if I died in Schwabenwald than return to this.”
“No, Ulrich, one by one the Berliners will begin to climb out of the ashes. They will need you if we are to put the pieces together again.”
Ulrich grunted.
“We did the best we could, Ulrich ... the best we could ...”
At last, Ulrich Falkenstein made the last stop of his bitter homecoming. As the light of day faded, he had found his way to the Plötzensee Prison, which bordered on another ravaged woods and stood opposite the destroyed inland harbor. He got out of the military jeep which had brought him and walked alongside the high brick wall. The main gate was guarded by a post of British soldiers. He showed them his papers.
“Do you speak English, sir?” an officer asked.
He nodded.
‘We have received a call from the Americans that you were coming. If you will follow me, sir.”
The gate clanged open. The officer’s hard boots cracked on the stones. They crossed out of the main compound into a dirt courtyard just beyond the main wall and came to a small brick building of twenty by twenty feet.
The officer pushed the door open. Ulrich entered. The room was concrete and bare. A single iron beam bridged the room. From the beam dangled a half-dozen meat hooks. Six thousand men and women were hung by Hitler in revenge for the bomb plot. They had dangled from piano wires in slow strangulation. His brother, Wolfgang Falkenstein, was among their number.
Ulrich stared out of the narrow, barred window. The red wall of the prison and a high chimney hovered over them. That was the last thing that Wolfgang saw.
He walked from the place. The door slammed behind him.
Chapter Four
“JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE mother!”
sang Shenandoah Blessing,
“I am thinking most of you!
While upon the field we’re watching,
With the enomeee in view!”
“Slob! Quiet!” Sean demanded. “You’re gonna wake up Bo.”
“Filled with thoughts of home and Gawd!
For well they know that on the morrow ...
Some will sleep beneath the sod!”
“Friggin’ blubber!” Sean puffed as he lugged the massive, enormously drunk policeman up the steps. They stopped on a landing, Sean propped the big man against the rail and caught his breath. Blessing threw his arms apart and bellowed ...
“Farewell mother you may ne-ver, Prrrrrreessss me to your heart agin!
But oh, you’ll not forget me mo-ther, If I’m numbered with the slain!”
“You’ll be numbered with the slain all right if you don’t shut up!” Sean draped Blessing’s limp arm over his shoulder and continued the tortured climb. “Bo!”
Bolinski’s door opened.
“Help me with this fat son of a bitch!”
“You woke up Bo.” Blessing emoted, switching suddenly from latent musical aspirations to a crying jag. “Goddam, Major, they don’t write songs like that no more ...
“Hark! I hear a bugle sounding,
Tis the signal for the fight,
Now may Gawd protect us, moooother...”
“This bastard must weigh a ton,” Bo said.
“How about it, Major, baby? Did yore little ole’ fat boy here clean the Russkies? Did we win a pile or did we win a pile? Huh, Major, baby?”
“You’re a sweet old fat bastard,” Sean admitted.
The strangeness between the Russians and their former allies ended explosively. Throughout the ruins of Berlin parties at all levels of command erupted. There were enlisted men’s brawls in makeshift cellar night clubs, and plush vodka and caviar affairs of the top echelon ... brotherhood flowed freely.
General Hartly Fitz-Roy, the British governor, gave a boar hunt from a lodge, still intact, once belonging to an elector of Brandenburg. The Englishman was aghast when Marshal Popov showed up with a submachine gun. It was damned unsporting, but as host he could say nothing except for a mumble under his breath.
The French arrived in Berlin and threw a great feast in their own honor. General Yves de Lys grimaced in horror at the way the Russians belted down their superb