“It was attempted. One American opened fire, wounding our soldier. Fortunately, we have a good photograph of him. Do you have further instructions, Comrade Marshal?”
“Stand by!” he said as he set down the phone, now frowning with worry, “Call my car! Reach the Americans and tell them I am on my way to speak to General Hansen,” he snapped at his aide.
He was driven under siren-shrieking escort into the Babelsberg Kaserne, marched with a trail of aides up to Hansen’s suite, ordered them to wait in the hall, and entered. Neal Hazzard was in the outer office.
“Good morning, Marshal Popov,” he said. “What brings you out so early?”
“My business is not your business. I demand to see General Hansen.”
“Sorry, sir. General Hansen is not available.”
Popov blanched. “It is advisable that he becomes available.”
“Yes, sir. If you will have a seat I will attempt to get the message to him.”
Hazzard left the room. For the next thirty minutes the Russian cooled his heels. The instant he saw General Stonebraker return in Hazzard’s place he realized he was being fleeced at his own game of musical chairs. Popov’s voice lowered ominously. “I demand to see General Hansen without further delay.”
“He is not available.”
“General Stonebraker. Please believe me that my patience is at an end. If I do not see General Hansen in exactly two minutes I will order my troops to open fire.”
Hiram Stonebraker sat behind a desk, opened a file of papers, began to read through them as though he were alone in the room.
“The minute I leave this office you will have condemned your soldiers to oblivion!”
Crusty Stonebraker looked up slowly. “Marshal,” he said, “we are going to have to live with each other for a long time. You’ve got to start learning to say please.”
Popov’s anger grew, but he knew how to conceal it. “For the sake of the lives of your innocent soldiers, I request an interview with General Hansen.”
“In that case, sir, come right in.”
“Morning, Marshal Popov,” Hansen said. “What brings you out so early?”
He looked from Stonebraker to Hansen, regained his threadbare temper, and tried to understand the situation. His confidence had wavered. The Americans were bluffing, he knew ... yet, they were not the kind to risk lives on such a gambit. What was behind it?
“Why do you push me to force my hand,” he said.
“We are only asserting our rights in Berlin,” Hansen answered.
“There is no formal agreement!”
“How about the Brandenburg Agreement?”
“The what?”
“The same crap you have been using to harass our convoys and to keep us locked up here,” Hansen said. “The game works two ways, Marshal Popov.”
“I assure you I am not bluffing.”
Hansen looked at his watch deliberately. “In a half hour, American troops are scheduled to begin evacuation of Saxony and Thuringia. If you are advising me we are not entitled to take physical control of our six boroughs of Berlin, I am advising you that American forces will remain in those provinces.”
Popov’s physical and strategic advantage was leveled. His decision held implications too vast. He was faced with a fait accompli. He smiled warmly, and became amazingly friendly as he picked up the phone and ordered his troops out of western Berlin.
When Popov had left and confirmation of the Russian withdrawal phoned in and the guards in the Kaserne lifted, Hansen allowed the luxury of a sigh of relief.
“O’Sullivan is a smart young man,” Stonebraker said.
“I guess we all learned something today, Crusty.”
The phone rang and Hansen answered. It was Lieutenant General Hartly Fitz-Roy, the British Military Governor of Germany who called from the other wing of the Kaserne.
“I say, Hansen. What the devil are you chaps up to. You can’t take unilateral action like that, you know. Here, we have already set up negotiation meetings with the Russians.”
“Negotiations are finished. You can occupy your boroughs at once.”
“Can’t do that. We need all our troops to welcome the Prime Minister for the conference.” He continued to protest American rashness.
Hansen shook his head when the conversation ended. “Sometimes I think I understand the Russians, but I’ll be goddamned if I’ll ever understand the British.”
Chapter Three
ERNESTINE ANSWERED THE KNOCK. She pushed against the makeshift board that served as a door until it gave enough to see an older-appearing man. He was large, a bit stooped, and seemed tired. She studied him curiously. “Yes? What is it you wish?”
“Falkenstein?”
“Yes.”
“May I come in?”
The voice drew on her memory. She pushed the board open wider. “Are you ... my uncle? Are you Ulrich?”
“I am.”
“I am Ernestine.”
“You? Little Ernestine?”
“I am very happy to know you are alive. Please come in.” Bruno’s eyes widened at the sight of his brother, he arose slowly, backed up. “You! he whispered harshly. “You!” Ulrich! Alive!”
“Quite.”
“But ... but ... but .. .”
“You need not fear, brother. I am thoroughly decontaminated.”
Bruno was distraught with confusion. “You! In Berlin!”
Herta Falkenstein kept her wits. She knew that he must be among the clean Germans and must have come in with the Amis. “You have never been out of our thoughts,” she said quickly. “Please forgive us, but you come as quite a shock.”
“Humpf.” He looked past the candlelight to where Hildegaard sat near her cot, puzzled. “You must be Hilde.”
Hilde did not know how to greet the man whose name had been spoken in curses from childhood memory. After long spells of silence her father raged that both of his brothers were traitors and their record limited his advancement in his bureau. She was only ten years old when Uncle Ulrich was sent away. She hardly remembered him.
“Stand up, Hilde!” Frau Falkenstein commanded. “Let your Uncle Ulrich see how you have grown.” She stood awkwardly, bowed stiffly.
“Gerd?”
“He is in a prison camp in America.”
Bruno began to recover his composure, and caught his wife’s eyes to leave them alone. “I am sorry there is nothing to offer you to eat,” she said.
“I am not hungry.”
“This is a great occasion. We all wish to be with you but I know you and Bruno want to speak.” She herded the girls from the room.
The brothers Falkenstein were alone. Ulrich looked at the shambles, the gaunt, stubble-bearded man. “There is so much to say, one does not know where to begin,” Bruno said.
“With general rejoicing to a glorious homecoming,” he answered bitterly. “What have you heard of my wife, Hannelore?”
“You did not know of the divorce?”
“Rumors reached me.”
“She divorced you when the war began, moved to Vienna. It was difficult for her because of your ... opposition. She passed away last year.”
Hannelore, dead without the steel to see it through. It must have been dreadful for her.
“Where is Wolfgang? I have searched high and low.”
Bruno shook his head, his voice broke. “Our brother is dead.”
Ulrich let out one long deep pitiful groan of resignation. “Everything is dead.”
“You must have heard of the July plot to kill Hitler. Wolfgang was involved. There was a terrible revenge.”
“How did he die?”
“He was hanged.”
Ulrich dragged himself to his feet wearily, flopped his arms to his sides. “I shall not wear out my welcome.”
“Ulrich! We are still brothers. Nothing can change that.”
“No, nothing can change it.”
“You don’t know what it has been like,” Bruno sobbed. “You can’t imagine how we have suffered.”