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Authors: Volker Kutscher
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report,’ he said. ‘They’ve got a good old-fashioned field kitchen and my stomach’s starting to rumble.’ Police had sequestered two private flats on the first floor of Hermannstrasse 207 to set up an operational base for the troops. ‘Who knows, maybe we’ll find someone looting or erecting a barricade on the way. At least then we’ll have done something useful today.’
It wasn’t until Hermannstrasse that they encountered anybody else, but still no-one they needed to arrest. All the streetlamps had been shattered and broken glass crunched beneath their feet. In several places stacks of wood for the construction of the new underground had been overturned across the carriageway. Not exactly barricades, they were more like minor traffic obstacles. Not that there were any cars on the road.
The tram wasn’t stopping at Hermannstrasse today either as uniform had effectively sealed the trouble spot. No-one came in and no-one went out without police say-so. The Berlin public transport authority no longer sent any of its buses or trains into the communist districts anyway, as rioters had already wrecked several.
Shots rang out and Rath and Wolter sought cover in the entrance to a house. Uncle drew his weapon. Rath did likewise, having taken the episode on the Karstadt scaffolding to heart. He released the safety catch of his Mauser and poked his head out carefully from the entrance. An armoured car was rolling up Hermannstrasse, rattling its machine gun at irregular intervals. ‘Idiots. Just like in the war. Under fire from our own side.’
They put their guns away. Standing in a house entrance in civilian clothing with a pistol in your hand was dangerous. It was all too easy for your own side to become confused.
‘Your attention please, this is the police speaking,’ a voice cried. ‘Keep the streets clear! Move away from your windows! We’re about to open fire!’
Really? Rath thought. We’re about to open fire? They’re announcing that a little prematurely. He peered round the corner and watched the armoured car roll onwards. The few people still on the streets took refuge in house entrances to the left and right. Behind the armoured car were two trucks carrying duty officers. The men had jumped down from the trucks and were cocking their rifles. Rath could feel how nervous they were. With anxious glances, they scoured the windows for snipers, weapons at the ready. For a short time it was quiet, then a rifle crackled and a glass pane shattered.
‘Move away from your windows!’ The voice was drowned by the crackle of rifle fire. The first shot had opened the floodgates.
A man was running across the pavement with his hands over his head as if they could shield him from bullets and falling glass. He came towards them in the entrance, pulled a key from his pocket and opened the heavy front door.
‘Come on then,’ he said, and held the door open. ‘Inside before the pigs get you.’ They burst into the house and the man ran upstairs. Rath banged the door shut and gazed after him.
‘For fuck’s sake, they’re clearing the streets! Deploying a special vehicle. Why the hell didn’t anyone tell us this was happening?’
‘No idea,’ Wolter replied. ‘Probably because the whole thing’s been planned by social democrats.’
There were more shots from the streets. Rath gestured with his head that they should move further back into the stairwell where they’d be safer.
Suddenly they heard a cry. ‘No!’
Not a cry of pain or fear. A cry of horror.
They briefly exchanged glances and hastened upstairs. The door to the flat on the first floor stood open. They burst inside to be welcomed by petty bourgeois conservatism and comfort. Nothing here was remotely out of place, not a person to be seen or a voice to be heard. In the neighbouring flat, Richard Tauber was singing, his voice scratched out by a gramophone. The noise from the street penetrated through the open balcony door. From time to time
It wasn’t until Hermannstrasse that they encountered anybody else, but still no-one they needed to arrest. All the streetlamps had been shattered and broken glass crunched beneath their feet. In several places stacks of wood for the construction of the new underground had been overturned across the carriageway. Not exactly barricades, they were more like minor traffic obstacles. Not that there were any cars on the road.
The tram wasn’t stopping at Hermannstrasse today either as uniform had effectively sealed the trouble spot. No-one came in and no-one went out without police say-so. The Berlin public transport authority no longer sent any of its buses or trains into the communist districts anyway, as rioters had already wrecked several.
Shots rang out and Rath and Wolter sought cover in the entrance to a house. Uncle drew his weapon. Rath did likewise, having taken the episode on the Karstadt scaffolding to heart. He released the safety catch of his Mauser and poked his head out carefully from the entrance. An armoured car was rolling up Hermannstrasse, rattling its machine gun at irregular intervals. ‘Idiots. Just like in the war. Under fire from our own side.’
They put their guns away. Standing in a house entrance in civilian clothing with a pistol in your hand was dangerous. It was all too easy for your own side to become confused.
‘Your attention please, this is the police speaking,’ a voice cried. ‘Keep the streets clear! Move away from your windows! We’re about to open fire!’
Really? Rath thought. We’re about to open fire? They’re announcing that a little prematurely. He peered round the corner and watched the armoured car roll onwards. The few people still on the streets took refuge in house entrances to the left and right. Behind the armoured car were two trucks carrying duty officers. The men had jumped down from the trucks and were cocking their rifles. Rath could feel how nervous they were. With anxious glances, they scoured the windows for snipers, weapons at the ready. For a short time it was quiet, then a rifle crackled and a glass pane shattered.
‘Move away from your windows!’ The voice was drowned by the crackle of rifle fire. The first shot had opened the floodgates.
A man was running across the pavement with his hands over his head as if they could shield him from bullets and falling glass. He came towards them in the entrance, pulled a key from his pocket and opened the heavy front door.
‘Come on then,’ he said, and held the door open. ‘Inside before the pigs get you.’ They burst into the house and the man ran upstairs. Rath banged the door shut and gazed after him.
‘For fuck’s sake, they’re clearing the streets! Deploying a special vehicle. Why the hell didn’t anyone tell us this was happening?’
‘No idea,’ Wolter replied. ‘Probably because the whole thing’s been planned by social democrats.’
There were more shots from the streets. Rath gestured with his head that they should move further back into the stairwell where they’d be safer.
Suddenly they heard a cry. ‘No!’
Not a cry of pain or fear. A cry of horror.
They briefly exchanged glances and hastened upstairs. The door to the flat on the first floor stood open. They burst inside to be welcomed by petty bourgeois conservatism and comfort. Nothing here was remotely out of place, not a person to be seen or a voice to be heard. In the neighbouring flat, Richard Tauber was singing, his voice scratched out by a gramophone. The noise from the street penetrated through the open balcony door. From time to time
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