Armageddon (47 page)

“I heard rumors of it.”

“It’s a lead-pipe cinch Trepovitch is going to blow his top. Today is not the day to push for the nomination of a deputy police president.”

“Speaking quite frankly,” the Englishman answered, “you’re making it a bit awkward, are you not? We can never expect to establish order if we jigger the agenda around every ten minutes.”

Neal Hazzard stifled an impulse to wring Blatty’s neck. “Hans Kronbach is too important for us to lose. Just don’t make a federal case out of this and let things cool down before I put his name up.”

“See here, Hazzard, I’m only trying to run the show properly. Once we impress the Russians that we play the game by the rules through thick and thin they’re not so apt to bugger us around.”

“For Christ’s sake. We’re not on the goddam sporting fields of Eton.”

“Well!”

“I mean, close your eyes this once.”

“If you insist, Colonel Hazzard, but I act under duress.”

Hazzard sighed with relief. “I’ll return the favor.”

The tricolor of France was raised on the third flag pole as Colonel Jacques Belfort arrived. They all met on the first floor in the main conference room around a square table, with seats behind theirs for advisors and translators.

At precisely nine o’clock Colonel Nikolai Trepovitch arrived with a bevy of staff following him. Hazzard watched the Russian carefully. His face was frozen in a cold glare, he was sullen, and there was an absence of greeting. Hazzard knew it was going to be a long, hard day.

Trepovitch nodded curtly to the chairman, Blatty, sat, adjusted his glasses, unloaded his briefcase, and picked up the agenda.

“This session is called to order,” the Englishman said. “We have a request to remove from the agenda the nomination of a deputy police president.” He looked at Hazzard. “This is a unilateral action of the Americans. Do I hear an objection?”

Trepovitch’s interpreter buzzed into his ear and pointed to the agenda. To Hazzard this was another bad sign, for Trepovitch’s English was better than passable when he so desired. He had a knack of forgetting English in order to force slow, tortuous translations.

Blatty continued. “The first order of business will be to continue discussion on a subcommittee report regarding the removal of Berlin’s dairy herd by the Soviet Union before our arrival in the city. The vote stands three to one that we should not be compelled to replace the herd, that being the duty of the Soviet Union. Whereas,” Blatty droned on, “we have agreed to feed our sectors, an original source of food has been deliberately removed in the Soviet act of spiriting 7000 cows away. Speaking for His Majesty’s Government as well as the American and French governments, it is our position that the Soviet Union owes us 5000 cows ...”

“Last night,” Nikolai Trepovitch began as though he had not heard a word the Englishman said, “two soldiers of the Soviet Union were murdered.”

“I say, Colonel Trepovitch, you are most out of order.”

“They were shot down in cold blood by American aggressors.”

“We are discussing the dairy herd, sir.”

“The guilty murderers are to be found, full restitution made to their grieving families, and a public apology is to be rendered to the Soviet Union.”

“There is a proper place allotted on the agenda for the discussion of emergency contingencies. In due course we shall examine your charges.”

“This was an arrogant murder of two soldiers of the Soviet Union who fought the Nazis with valor only to be slaughtered in the streets by American police brutality.”

Thus far, Neal Hazzard had kept a slight smile on his lips, and had otherwise remained expressionless.

“See here, now,” Blatty answered, “you simply cannot twist the agenda about because you are in a fit of pique. It is not done.”

The Russian brought his fist on the table. “There is no other order of business until this is settled!”

“Sir, is it the position of the Soviet Union that you refuse to allow the business of this body to proceed?”

The fist fell again.

“As chairman of the Kommandatura, I shall not submit to threats or highhanded methods. Now then, if you are finished pounding on the table, we will continue to examine the question of the dairy herd.”

“Is it your position then to protect paid murderers?” Trepovitch broke into an impassioned speech filled with such names as warmongers, fascist bullies, gangsters, lynchers. Within moments the translators were unable to keep up and the translation broke down. Trepovitch didn’t mind. He ranted on, alone.

Blatty waited until he had spent his passion. “Inasmuch as Colonel Trepovitch refuses to recognize the orderly procedures and is attempting to submit us to anarchy, I adjourn this council.”

The Russian jumped to his feet, pointed a finger at Blatty, and further accused him of covering the American crime. He snapped out orders to subordinates, and began to stuff his briefcase. The obvious threat of a walkout existed.

“Gentlemen,” Neal Hazzard said, uttering his first words, “I am completely willing to waive the other order of business to take up the Soviet Union’s charges.”

“That is commendable,” the French commandant said quickly, “and in keeping with the spirit of working together.”

“Sporting gesture,” Blatty said, “but if we permit this we would be endorsing chaos.”

Son of a bitch, Hazzard thought. Between the two of them, you could go nuts. Blatty was so adamant he would even allow a disastrous Soviet walkout.

“I’d like a vote,” Hazzard said.

“I will veto if I am outvoted,” Blatty warned.

Hazzard had guessed that part of Trepovitch’s tirade was pure play acting, but the Englishman was genuine in his stodginess.

“Yes or no?” Trepovitch demanded.

“Sir! Does His Majesty’s Government take that to be an ultimatum!”

The Russian continued with the business of preparing to walk out.

“I propose a ten-minute recess,” Jacques Belfort said.

It was stiffly agreed to by all parties.

When the session reconvened, T. E. Blatty made a final stubborn retreat. “Inasmuch as I am rotating the chairmanship to my French colleague tomorrow and inasmuch as Colonel Hazzard voices no objections, I will recognize a change in the agenda provided that Colonel Trepovitch places his proposition in the form of a request rather than a demand.”

Face had been saved.

“It is a request,” Trepovitch agreed. He replaced his glasses, sat, unloaded his briefcase.

“You heard the charges, Colonel Hazzard. Are you prepared to answer?”

Hazzard nodded, looked over his shoulder to Lieutenant Bolinski, who had the crash job of investigating the case and preparing the report overnight. Bo sat beside Hazzard and read slowly.

“Three soldiers of the Soviet occupation forces were intercepted in the act of committing armed robbery against a dozen German civilians at the Südende elevated station at approximately 1630 yesterday evening. An American peace officer arrived on the scene and attempted to dissuade the Soviet soldiers and to have them return to their sector. One of the Soviet soldiers fired several shots at the feet of the American peace officer from a submachine gun, and further menaced him to a point where the American peace officer had no choice but to disarm him and otherwise defend himself. The other two Soviet soldiers reached for their side arms against the advice of the American peace officer, and when they refused to comply were shot dead.”

“A fabric of lies!”

Bolinski placed a sheaf of papers on the desk. “These are the supporting statements of the twelve German civilians and a German police officer.”

“The Soviet Union will never accept the testimony of fascist liars. I demand to interrogate the aggressor you are hiding.”

“Colonel Trepovitch,” Hazzard said, “one of your people escaped. He should be easy enough to find. He’s most likely in the same unit as the two men who were killed. If you will produce him, we will produce our peace officer.”

Trepovitch changed the subject. “Do we kill your soldiers? Are they not all welcome in the Soviet Sector? What about your black marketeers with their cigarettes? Do we send them back in coffins?”

Hazzard knew now that Trepovitch really did not want an investigation but satisfaction. He answered deliberately. “According to rules adopted by this body we categorized major and minor crimes of our occupation forces. Petty black-marketeering and the breaking of nonfraternization are in a misdemeanor category. However, rape, murder, armed robbery, and assault are considered by this Kommandatura as major crimes.” He nodded to Bolinski, who was now proving to be a walking fact sheet.

“In the last sixty days,” Bolinski said, “we have arrested or apprehended six hundred Soviet soldiers in the American Sector. Over five hundred of these arrests resulted with us taking back your soldiers to your sector for drunk or disorderly conduct. However, we have made a hundred arrests in the major crime category and have, in addition, another hundred German complaints of unsolved cases. To date no American soldier has been arrested in the Russian Sector for rape, armed robbery, or murder.”

Trepovitch turned hot under the collar. “We’ve been damned patient,” Neal Hazzard said. “It is a miracle that more of your people haven’t been killed. This homicide was in self-defense and entirely justified. Your people are going to have to learn that six boroughs of Berlin are under protection of the American flag.”

The Frenchman sensed that Trepovitch had been paid back double. “I suggest that a neutral committee of ourselves and the British investigate the charges.”

“Neutral! You are both hirelings of the Americans!”

This brought the expected outburst from both Blatty and the Frenchman.

Hazzard knew the Russian was being pressed too far. The points had been won and a face-saving settlement was all that was needed. “Gentlemen,” he shouted over the oratory, “inasmuch as this matter concerns ourselves and the Soviet Union, I suggest that we be allowed to work it out ourselves.”

These were the right words at the right moment.

The Kommandatura returned to the business of Berlin’s missing dairy herd, and, after four hours of argument, ended in a deadlock.

Later that evening they all met with their staffs at the French Headquarters, the Napoleon Quarters, for the banquet traditionally given by the outgoing chairman. This month, however, the French were to take their first turn as chairman and Colonel Belfort was allowed the honors.

The Americans gave the most austere of the receptions, the Russians the most lavish. British liquor was excellent although the food poorly prepared.

Now, Jacques Belfort was determined to give Trepovitch a run for his money. The spread was lavish and flanked with the finest French wines and champagnes. All was harmony again. There were toasts to Allied unity and brotherhood.

Colonel Trepovitch, whose English had deserted him earlier, found it again. He cornered Neal Hazzard as the entertainment got under way.

“Confidentially,” the Russian said, “we are not so concerned with the shootings. There are some ruffled feathers in our command.”

Hazzard nodded. It was an opening gambit for some down to earth horse trading. A platter of
paté de fois gras,
France’s answer to Trepovitch’s pounds of caviar, passed between them.

The Russian continued. “A note from the Americans would smooth a lot of things out, particularly to the Germans.”

“A note might be possible.”

“In exchange for approval of the nomination of Hans Kronbach?” Trepovitch said.

“Quite likely.”

What Hazzard did not know was that a quick line was drawn on Kronbach by the Russians. Hirsch, Wöhlman, Eck, and Schatz all struck an attitude that anyone who was as anti-Nazi as Kronbach was automatically sympathetic to the Soviet Union. In their basic philosophy, the West and the Nazis were similar inasmuch as both were enemies of the Soviet Union. Kronbach was anti-Nazi and, therefore, pro-Soviet

Trepovitch passed on Hans Kronbach’s appointment to deputy police president. Neal Hazzard read a note regretting the death of the Russian soldiers.

A new attitude of respect was visible by the behavior of Russian soldiers visiting the American Sector. Russian crime halted.

The surprise at the next meeting of the Kommandatura was not the quick agreement, but that Nikolai Trepovitch returned promoted to the rank of brigadier general, a notch higher than his Western counterparts. The meaning was obvious.

Chapter Eleven

O
N THE HIGHWAYS, THE RAIL
lines, the canal ways into Berlin the warning was posted: keep
OUT OF BERLIN! BERLIN IS FORBIDDEN!

The hundreds of thousands of refugees pouring east to west and west to east in search of homes and loved ones were steered wide of the prostrate city. It was said that a crow flying over Berlin would have to carry his own provisions.

Winter chilled the air. The cold brought new terrors as the great forests of the city dropped their leaves and the waters of her seventeen lakes danced under wind-whipped whitecaps. It was that time of year when heavy gray clouds looked eternal and sleet and snow poured from their misery.

Schools and factories closed, transportation froze to an agonized trickle. The old died in bed of freezing and the young lay under piles of rags and papers in numbed confusion.

Berlin was a spawning ground for those who lived best in slime and who moved best in shadows... . Hildegaard Falkenstein was drawn to them.

It began, innocently enough, with an accidental meeting of an old schoolmate, Elke Handfest, who had also been in her troop of Hitler Youth.

Before the war Elke was remembered by Hildegaard as plump, acned, and homely. Elke covered her physical misfortunes with a riotous sense of humor with which she played out the part of a buffoon. Her humor was a defense created out of sorrow, but proved of great value later.

Elke’s search for love taught her that, as a woman, there were things men wanted from her and many would overlook her appearance if she supplied the commodity liberally.

In the wild years of the war, Elke Handfest plunged from one affair to another. Although she looked quite presentable now, her humor had deepened to a morbid and scathing kind of self-damnation. She had been forced into sex for recognition; she had never received happiness from it. The more she tried to find its pleasure, the more it eluded her, the more it all became distasteful. And she drifted powerfully toward her own sex and began to find it fulfilling.