The site selected was the Lichtenberg Workman’s Hall, suitable because of only minor bomb damage.
Sean O’Sullivan arrived as a curious observer along with Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury, the sole Americans. They drove with a German named Lenz who worked in American Headquarters. As they neared the Workman’s Hall they were all quick to spot police from the SND, designation for Special Nazi Detachment. The SND was, in fact, Adolph Schatz’s hand-picked political police, the new Gestapo. The SND was augmented by Russian NKVD observing every route to the Workman’s Hall.
Sean was there early as the first of over a thousand delegates filtered in from all parts of Berlin. Ulrich Falkenstein was engulfed by old friends, most of whom he had not seen in a decade. His drowsy eyes found Sean and he nodded coolly; Sean returned the nod.
Lenz pointed out that among the early arrivals were members of Communist Action Squads who scattered through the hall in prearranged locations.
The hall buzzed with excitement as reunion after reunion took place. More “observers” from People’s Proletariat Party drifted in. The stage was being set for a stampede. Sean felt sorry for Falkenstein.
“They’re not leaving anything to chance,” Big Nellie said, pointing to the different colored “yes” and “no” ballots to be cast in case of a voice deadlock.
A murmur arose as the grande dame of the Democrats, Hanna Kirchner, made her entrance down the center aisle. She was swamped with well-wishers.
In the meanwhile, Berthold Hollweg had arrived almost unnoticed by a side entrance and slipped quietly onto the stage.
For two weeks smaller meetings all over Berlin argued the referendum. They met in bomb shelters, hovels, and factories to select delegates, give instructions. Whenever a meeting was known either the SND or Action Squad people hovered nearby.
At last the hall was filled and Hanna Kirchner and Ulrich Falkenstein took their places on the stage behind a long table covered with a green cloth.
The Burgermeister of Lichtenberg Borough, himself a Democrat, gave a formal welcome to this, the first free assembly of a decade. A few more speeches followed and the chair revolved to the district chairman.
“We are to accept or reject a proposition to join the anti-Fascist front ...”
Both catcalls and applause greeted him. He demanded order and continued. “Inasmuch as our Executive Committee is not unanimous we cannot provide you with a recommendation. Before floor discussion and a vote we will call on individual members of the Executive to give their personal views.”
The full-blown Executive Committee of seven argued the issue back and forth. Ulrich realized that some good people had been cowed by Schatz. He also knew that it boiled down to the last three speakers—himself, Hanna Kirchner, and Berthold Hollweg. Throughout the speeches he searched Hollweg for a sign. The old pro played out a bored detachment.
“Frau Hanna Kirchner!”
Half the room rose in respect. She stood to her full height of five feet and four inches. A funny hat was precariously perched on a knotting of silver gray hair. As she approached the rostrum a bevy of catcalls erupted from the Action Squad members who attempted to push her supporters down and drown them out. Schatz’s SND was busy writing down the names of her friends. Fist fights broke out and the chairman threatened, then begged for order.
Hanna rode the storm with calm. She was a wily politician whom Hitler could never cow.
“Those of you gentlemen sent here by Comrade Wöhlman will kindly finish your performance.”
Quiet soon followed.
“Now,” she said, “that is better. I will get in my two words if it takes all day so kindly refrain from further spontaneous celebrations until I am finished.”
A ripple of laughter. Even the American major smiled.
“What a broad,” Big Nellie said.
“Where does this great anti-Fascist idea originate? From no less a beloved Berliner than Rudi Wöhlman.”
Laughter.
“His belated interest in his native city is very touching.”
More laughter of the kind that destroys opposition.
“We see the faces of old friends in this hall today, but we also see the faces of new friends, our guests. We did not invite them, but they came to see that we carried out an orderly, democratic meeting and then voted with different-colored ballots.”
The crowd was warming.
“Who are these beloved Berliners? Adolph Schatz, whose Gestapo is so very busy writing down our names for future social calls ... at night, of course. The kindly Russian NKVD, who have us surrounded so that peace will prevail. Deputy Mayor Heinz Eck, who was thrown out of college as a panderer at the age of eighteen and fled to the Soviet Union and has now returned to give us the benefits of his good advice. And we cannot help but feel the presence of Rudi Wöhlman, whose unseen hand guides us on the path of right. Berlin is fortunate to have so many who love her.
“Comrade Wöhlman wants clean and pretty store windows, but inside he is peddling the same old rotten tomatoes.”
When Hanna Kirchner finished her slashing attack there was sustained cheering. When order was restored, the chairman called upon Oberburgermeister Berthold Hollweg. He was yet one of the grand old men of the party. Time and terror might have taken something from him, but his power was still there.
His eyes were red from sleeplessness and his voice so soft it forced an ethereal silence on the assemblage.
“I stand,” he said slowly, “in favor of the anti-Fascist front. We in the Magistrat have worked well together, all four parties. In these days cooperation among us is urgent and this can be attained only by pulling together. And ... we must be strong enough through such unity that never again will a Nazi madness take us over.”
The rest of what Berthold Hollweg said was hardly important. When a figure so great made an acceptance so spiritless, it brought them all back to reality.
Hollweg continued, in effect, to say: Where are the Americans with their great democracy? Why do they leave us naked? Where are the British? Where are the French? Why fool ourselves into believing we can do something about all this? Why invite the terror again. We are alone, abandoned, and weak, and the alternative is the midnight summons, the beatings, the kidnapings.
Tears welled in many eyes. Truth was bitter, but truth was truth.
When Hollweg returned to his seat the Action Squad people stomped and whistled, but the rest of the hall was stunned.
“I call upon Ulrich Falkenstein.”
He walked alongside the long, green-covered table, stopped for a second behind Hanna Kirchner, his hand squeezing her shoulder, and she could feel the tremor boiling within him. He stood at the rostrum for several moments, looking down on them like an angry Moses whose children had betrayed God. The face of Ulrich Falkenstein, a mirror of German conscience, penetrated every soul in the room and they became transfixed.
In that instant Sean O’Sullivan realized a giant was among them, and Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury knew a moment of magic was happening.
“Berliners!” Ulrich Falkenstein said in a way that hypnotized them.
“Berliners! Are we to hand over our freedom twice in our lifetime without raising a finger!”
“No!” someone shouted from the rear.
“No!” another voice cried.
“Does any man or woman in this room doubt what this referendum means?”
“No!”
“No!”
“Berliners, if we do not stand, we deserve another Hitler!”
Men began standing around the room.
“We will not bend! We will not kneel! We will meet this test and the next and the next and the next! We will be free!”
The hall was on its feet. The roar became deafening!
“Freedom!” he cried from the depths of his being.