Two members of the German People’s Liberation Committee sat opposite him. Igor personally disliked most of the Germans on the committee. It was true that all of them were tested Communists who had fled Hitler, yet he felt there was too much German left in their souls.
Rudi Wöhlman’s face reminded Igor of the little field rats that used to attack the grain stores on the family farm ... thin face, thin beard, glinting front teeth. He had brought with him his young aide, Heinrich Hirsch.
“To get directly to the point,” Azov said, “I find your report unsatisfactory.”
Igor had dealt with party people successfully all during the siege and the great offenses out of Russia, across Poland, East Prussia, and Germany. He wished they would let him stick to Air Force problems, but his own talent trapped him; he knew the language. “If the Comrade Commissar would get to specifics I am certain I can offer explanations.”
“Many of our recommendations have been rejected,” Heinrich Hirsch said sharply.
“Let us take the transfer of railroad cars as an example. You deleted it,” Azov said.
“I am certain,” Igor answered, “the Commissar is aware there is a different gauge in the German and Soviet rail systems that make their rolling stock useless to us. With our transport and distribution problems the rail cars have better use in Germany.”
Azov nodded that the point was well taken. “However,” he said drolly, “the German and Polish rail systems are compatible. Our Polish comrades have suffered untold brutality at the hands of the Nazi beasts. The Lublin People’s Committee for a Free and Democratic Poland have asked us to help them in rebuilding their shattered homeland. Delivery of the rail stock in the Brandenburg Province will be among the first Polish reparations.”
Igor pretended to study his folio in order to give himself time to decipher the true meaning of Azov’s rhetoric. Dozens of such conferences had taught him not to be taken by a surprise announcement of policy. What he unscrambled was that the Lublin Poles had been installed to run the country.
“It poses a technical problem,” Igor said carefully.
“Which is?”
“The Brandenburg Province, and Berlin in particular, has never been self-sustaining in food even in the best of days. Furthermore, food surplus must come from eastern German provinces. This means we need rail stock. Also, I have studied the draft of our agreement with the Americans and British. As I interpret it, the immediate areas around Berlin are responsible for feeding the city. This will all be impossible without freight cars.”
Azov tapped his fingers on the tabletop, digesting Igor Karlovy’s line of logic. Wöhlman looked from one to another, not daring to venture an opinion at this point.
“Your interpretation of the treaty with the Western Allies is incorrect,” Azov said. “The Americans and British must feed their own sectors of Berlin from their own sources. Therefore, we will be responsible for feeding less than a third of the city.”
Again, Igor tried to separate political implications from realities. Azov’s words, which were official policy, said that Russia would find a way to break the treaty. America and Britain would be compelled to bring in food from a distance of at least two hundred kilometers, if not from overseas. Furthermore, Berlin depended upon coal for industrial power from the Ruhr. The loss of freight cars was obviously intended to place such a burden on the Western Allies that it might be impossible for them to stay in Berlin. Igor nodded that he understood. “Certainly our Polish comrades should have the rolling stock,” he said. “I will reevaluate the situation at once.”
Next Azov listed several classifications of machinery which had been omitted from the report.
“The machinery you speak of,” he answered, “cannot be integrated into the Soviet system. It is useless to us. Furthermore, it will take tens of thousands of man hours to dismantle it and move it by rail and unload it for the sole purpose of letting it rust in depots. It is an expensive waste of both rail space and man power.”
“However, Comrade Colonel,” Azov came back with “policy,” “even if the machinery is valueless to us it has great value to the Germans, particularly if they entertain the notion of a war of revenge against the Soviet Union.”
Wöhlman now felt safe in handing Azov a list. He cleared his throat. “I call your attention to the recommendations of the German People’s Liberation Committee in paragraph twenty-two, which we presented to you as far back as Warsaw. You have not included them, Comrade Colonel.”
This coming from Rudi Wöhlman was too much. For an instant Igor almost lost his composure. He felt like shouting, “What the hell side are you on, Wöhlman? Are you a German or not?” Of course, he said nothing, stifling his anger with a slight smile.
Colonel Karlovy knew the notorious paragraph twenty-two from memory. It listed the removal of Berlin’s toilets, sinks, doorknobs, window sashes, wiring, light bulbs, chairs and desks, typewriters, window shades, bidets, and many dozen other such items as part of Berlin’s “industrial complex.” How eager to please Rudi Wöhlman was! He’d even take the toilets out of Berlin!
“I fail to understand,” Igor said, now calming himself, “how German toilets will either add to the wealth of the Soviet Union or to future German war-making potential. If Comrade Wöhlman would be so good as to explain?”
Comrade Wöhlman was flustered long enough for Azov to step in and save him. “Before the re-education of the German working class they must be made to realize what happens to those who dare attack the Soviet Union. Only after the Germans atone for attacking our motherland will the Liberation Committee be in a position to build socialism.” With that pronouncement Igor knew the conversation was at an end. “I take it then,” Azov continued, “you are aware of the deficiencies in your report.”
The moment had come. Igor Karlovy nodded his head and mumbled an apology for his mistakes.
“Whatever you do, give priority attention to those sections of West Berlin scheduled for American and British occupation. We want everything cleared out before they come.”
The meeting was abruptly ended upon Igor’s promise to have an amended report ready in seventy-two hours.
“If you will drive me in to our headquarters,” Heinrich Hirsch said, “I will get ready the lists of our original recommendations.”
“By all means, Comrade Hirsch.”
They passed through the gates of Azov’s mansion onto Königs Road and the devastation of Berlin. Heinrich Hirsch was the least offensive of the Germans to Igor. He was the youngest member of the committee and obviously Wöhlman’s right hand. Small wonder. In the meetings they had had, he found Hirsch’s tongue like a razor, an astute brain reacting quickly with a depth of knowledge of the dialectics. Most of the party people pondered on each word, weighed their answers meticulously; not so Hirsch. Igor knew he was the son of a martyred German Communist. Beside that, only a few hazy half facts. One never asked about another’s background or experiences. One had to treat another with basic distrust, for he never knew if he was talking to a spy or just how words would be used against him someday. The fact that Hirsch had emerged as a member of the committee at such an early age testified to his stature. For a long while they were wordless. They passed near the lake with the pale green birch trees forming a mantle on both sides of the road.
“I agree with your position,” Hirsch said at last.
“What position?”
“Your attempt to save Berlin from being stripped down to the last nail and screw.”
“It was not a position, Comrade Hirsch. I am merely an engineer. Positions, as you call them, come from Commissar Azov.”