This time I picked my spot, my knife penetrating to the hilt into the left side of his chest. His lids flickered briefly, while the light in his eyes faded and finally went out.
I moved the body to the corner of the room and covered it as best I could with debris. I wanted to be well away from this area before it was discovered. I was tempted to take his knife and water bottle, but thought better of it. To be found with Russian military equipment would be an instant firing squad, or worse!
As I leaned against the wall to catch my breath, I heard the unmistakable sound of women talking close by. Keeping close to the wall I edged towards what had once been a window, now just a frameless hole in the brickwork. Easing slightly away from the wall, I could just make out three women standing talking in a group. An old man walked by, exchanging greetings with them as he went, and another woman pulling a small four-wheeled cart passed by, nodding to the women as she did so.
I flattened myself against the wall again as I tried to internalise what I had seen. But of course, the war was over. Life goes on. People have to get on with what they must do. The Russians would want things to normalise as quickly as possible. They would want people to get on with their lives, turn up at their place of work, if they had one. The more people who were occupied, the less problem they would be for the Soviet authorities.
I relaxed. I could now walk out in broad daylight, an old man hobbling along, minding his own business. It would seem entirely natural.
However, it was still with some trepidation that I shuffled out onto the pavement, raising my stick and calling a greeting to the women, far enough away to prevent them seeing me up close. They acknowledged me and one woman called over. “Good day, Opa. If you wait here, the Russians will be bringing a mobile bakery soon. You can get some fresh bread.”
“I have to get on,” I called and moved away with a wave of my stick. That display of optimism on the part of the lady I had briefly spoken to was the last I saw or heard as I shuffled my way down Zimmerstrasse. Everyone else I saw looked downcast, weary and unhappy. Berlin was now an open grave, with many of the corpses still animated. Unless I could contrive to survive in this living nightmare, I too would become one of the victims.
I paused when I reached a school and looked towards the crossing at Friedrich Strasse. The junction of Zimmerstrasse and Friedrich Strasse was a main intersection and would, in all likelihood, have a Soviet soldier on point duty. Turning back would bring me into the proximity of the dead soldier. Not a healthy option. Just standing there would make me conspicuous, and conspicuous people invite curiosity. I didn’t want anyone to become curious. I had to move on. There seemed to be people milling around at the junction. That would be helpful, it might allow me to become invisible. I just hoped it wasn’t a security incident.
In the event, it turned out to be a Soviet mobile bakery, with people jostling each other to reach the front. I mixed in and allowed myself to drift gradually to the back of the crowd. Once at the rear, it was a short distance to the other side of the road. I had a quick look around. No sign of any soldiers, so I took my chance and shuffled across, continuing down Zimmerstrasse, crossing Charlottenstrasse by the post office and turning right down the next road, Markgraffenstrasse, bearing left almost immediately. Originally, I was minded to continue walking to the end of Zimmerstrasse, but that would have brought me into an administrative area which included the tax office and Reich stationery office, and I wasn’t sure what sort of Soviet presence they would have required. Probably none, but I wasn’t prepared to take that chance. Instead, I determined to circle the area to the south and then travel north-east towards the old Lusisenstadtische church on Alte Jacobstrasse.
As I turned into Junkerstrasse, I was dismayed to see a group of four Russian soldiers moving towards me on the opposite side of the road. They seemed light-hearted and in good spirits, laughing and gesticulating. As they drew opposite me, I stopped and turned towards them, bowing deeply several times.
“Willkommen, Kameraden, willkommen!” I called. They were laughing and pointing at me. One of the soldiers dug into a side pouch and produced a half loaf of bread, which he threw across the road to me. I made a great display of being the bungling old man as I caught it, shouting my thanks across at him, “Danke, Kamerad! Vielen Dank!” before shuffling off down the road and breathing a sigh of relief.
As soon as it was safe to do so, I ducked into one of the ruins and, perching myself on the remains of a wall, devoured the loaf. It was the first food I’d had in two days. At that moment I felt intensely grateful to my Soviet benefactor. At least it appeared as if there was a hint of humanitarian feeling among some of the invaders. I wondered what he would have thought if he’d known that he had provided much-needed sustenance to a Fallschirmjäger sergeant major. I didn’t dwell on that.
I was now extremely weary. The stooped pose and shuffling gait I had adopted were taking their toll. My knees were sore and my back ached continuously. It was early afternoon and I decided to try to get to the old church and perhaps spend the night there. I was deeply saddened
