The paper went on with a discussion of other cities and states that were struggling, but Hans wasn’t interested in that. He sat back, frowning. Would political upheaval in Munich affect his family down in the Garmisch-Partenkirchen District? Hopefully not, but Uncle Wolfie, who was more like a brother to Hans than an uncle, was a civil servant in Munich. How would that affect him? Hans decided he had better write his mother and ask her those questions. Then another headline caught his attention.
PARIS PEACE CONFERENCE ANNOUNCED—GERMANY AND AUSTRIA EXCLUDED
Negotiations for a permanent peace treaty between the Allied Powers and the Central Powers will begin in Versailles, near Paris, on January 18. Sadly, the German/Austrian Alliance will not be allowed to send delegates to the conference to represent their national interests. In a word, only the victors will be allowed at the table to divide up the spoils.
The conference will be led by two delegates each from France, Great Britain, the United States, Italy, and Japan—the so-called “Big Five.” Their purpose will be to draft a treaty that will form a new government in Germany and set the conditions for demilitarization of Germany and war reparations. It is widely expected that France will demand that Germany repay all the costs of the war incurred by the Allied Forces, including losses and damages to civilian population. That is a staggering figure, which some estimate to be 134 billion marks.
Germany and Austria are already reeling from the effects and costs of the war, and their economies are in chaos. We can only pray that reason will prevail; otherwise, Germany and Austria may face complete bankruptcy. These are dark days for our country.
Hans pushed the paper aside, staring at nothing. Then he got quickly to his feet and walked to the back stairs. He cupped his hand and called up. “Fritzie?”
A moment later his boss appeared at the head of the stairs. “Ja?”
“I would like to call my family. If I pay you for the call, can I use the phone here?”
“Ja, ja. It is bad, no?”
“I think my family is fine. They’re in a little backwater village thirty miles away from Munich. But I have an aunt and uncle who live in Munich. They have two children. He’s a civil servant in the Bavarian Ministry of Public Works.”
“This is not good.”
“No, it’s not. Not at all good.”
“You make call. Don’t worry about pay.” There was a short bark of laughter. “I just make you work more, ja?”
Laughing, Hans waved and moved over behind the bar.
9:17 p.m.
“Hallo.”
“Mama, is that you?”
There was a gasp and then a cry. “Hans?”
“Yes, Mama. It’s me.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mutti. But I’m calling because I just read an article about the government in Bavaria. The paper is predicting that it will fall after the general elections.”
“It will?”
This was good. In their little village, they hadn’t heard any of this. And it probably would have very little effect on them.
“Never mind, Mutti. How are you and Papa doing?”
“We’re good. Life is good to us, Hans. With our farm, we rarely go hungry.”
“Yes, I know. That’s wonderful. Uh . . . how are Tante Paula and Onkel Wolfie?”
Inga seemed surprised by the question. “They are good too. Wolfie is up for a promotion. Paula is very proud.”
“Gut.”
There was a pause, then, “Hans, Emilee called me a few days ago. She told me what you did for her up in Königsberg. That’s wonderful, Hans. She was in tears when she told me.”
“Things turned out well,” he said. He wondered if Emilee had talked about the road block.
“She also told me what happened at the War Ministry. I am so sorry, Hans.” Another pause. “Would you like to come home? There is always a bed for you.”
“No, Mama. Thank you. But I have a job now.”
“Emilee said you’re exchanging work for food. That’s something, Hans.”
“Since I spoke to her last, it has become a full-time job, Mama. It’s not much. Ten marks a day. But that’s something.”
“That’s wonderful. Do you need money?”
“No, Mama. Not now. I’ll let you know if I do.”
“Promise?”
“I promise. Well, this is my boss’s phone. I’d better say good-bye.”
“Bye, Hans. Take care of yourself.”
10:05 p.m.
“Thank God your family is safe, Hans,” Fritzie said.
Hans sighed. “Danke. I can’t believe my home state is now in such trouble.”
“Everywhere now,” Fritzie said. “Some think we have soviet republic in Berlin too very soon.”
That brought Hans’s head up. “And do you support such a thing?”
Fritz’s answer was a snort of disgust followed by a bitter laugh. “You not serious? Never. Worst thing that could happen.” Fritzie seemed puzzled, then suddenly understood. “Ah, you think I am a Bolshie, no?”
“I . . .” Hans managed a noncommittal shrug. “No, I just. . . .”
He laughed. “You did. You think I am Bolshevik because my name is Kharkov and I speak with Russian accent?”
“Well, I . . . you don’t talk like one, but. . . .” He shrugged again.
“My family not Russian. We come from Belarus. In Belarus, not many Red Communists. We are White Russians.”
“White Russians?”
“Yes. Different from Reds. Reds are communist. We fight against Communist revolution.”
“Oh.” Hans was relieved to hear that. He had wondered about the name and the accent, but he had been so pleased to get food and a small salary that he had kept his mouth shut. And besides that, he liked Kharkov. He was gruff and barked a lot, but he had treated Hans fairly. “So, when did you and your family come to Germany?” he asked.
“In 1905, during first revolutions by Lenin and Marxists. My father want no part of it. He had brother living here in Berlin for ten years. My uncle Anatoly. So he tell us to come. He take us in. Together he and my Papa, they start small restaurant. When I marry my Liliya, I become apprentice cook.” He waved a hand at the expansive room in which they were sitting. “Now we have all this.”
Hans had met Fritzie’s uncle Anatoly on his first day. “I see. And are your parents still living?”
Frtiz looked away. “Mama and Papa die in Spanish flu epidemic last year. So only me and Anatoly now.”
They were both silent for a moment, and then Kharkov leaned in toward him. “I want to talk about Uncle Anatoly. That why I give you newspaper.”
Surprised, Hans nodded. “All right.”
“How you like to work for me?”
Startled, Hans stared at him. “I thought I was working for you.”
“Ja, ja. You like?”
“I do. Very much. I like having good food, too.”
Fritzie reached across the table and poked Hans but then winked at him. “Better than sneaking food out back and eating garbage, no?”
Hans felt his face go red. “Yes. Much better.”
“Gut. You are good worker. I trust you.”
“Thank you.”
“Wish you could stay with Fritzie, but with wife and children, no room.”
“That’s not a problem,” Hans assured him. “The Hotel Lindenberg is only five or six blocks from here, and if I pay in advance for a whole month, then it is only one mark per night.”
“Gut. I give you advance pay, so you pay by month now. Save you money.”
“I . . . That would be wonderful, Fritzie. Thank you.”
“No thank me yet,” he said. “I ask more.”
“What?”
He leaned forward, his craggy face filled with concern now. “I ask you questions first.”
“Okay.”
“You like to make twenty marks each week, ja?”
Hans rocked back. “Twenty? I’ll say I would.”
>
“Is true that you were driver in Great War?”
That was not a question he expected. “Ja, I drove trucks for two years.”
“Were you in war too?”
“Do you mean, did I ever see combat?”
“Ja, combat.”
Surprised at this sudden line of questioning, Hans nodded. “I was in the infantry for two more years,” he said quietly. “On the front lines. Eventually I ended up as a platoon sergeant.”
Fritzie rubbed at the dark stubble on his chin. “Before you say yes to offer of more money, I explain. You may think not a good idea.”
“For twenty marks a week, I’m willing to do just about anything, Fritzie, so what is it that you want me to do?”
“Ride shotgun.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Grinning, he explained. “You have seen American cowboy movies, no? When stagecoach is out in country, they have two drivers, no?”
“Yes,” Hans said slowly, beginning to sense where this might be going.
“One is driver of the horses, and the other one is . . . ?” He made it into a question.
Hans understood him perfectly. “And the other driver carries a shotgun to protect the passengers and whatever the stagecoach is carrying.”
“Ja, ja! Riding shotgun.” He took a quick breath. “Uncle Anatoly is old now. We celebrate seventy-two birthdays last month.”
“Okay.” The sudden change of subject threw Hans off a little.
“Ja. Anatoly drive truck to markets, buy food, bring back.”
“I see. Go on.” Hans was actually elated. He would take driving a truck over scrubbing pots and pans anytime.
Fritzie leaned in and lowered his voice, even though they were alone. “You know about the Freikorps, no?”
“Of course. Soldiers who either should have been or have been discharged from the army. Freed from their army service. Demobilized and unemployed.”
“And they have guns.”
“Yes, some of them have guns.”
“Ja, ja. That’s why I need you.”
“Has Anatoly had problems with the Freikorps?” Hans asked.
“Ja. Yesterday.”
Hans started at that.
“He is home with broken wrist.”
“What? How did that happen? Did he fall?”
“No. He was pushed. Then man who push him, stomp on wrist and kick him in ribs. But Anatoly curl up by then. Ribs bruised but not broken.”
Hans rocked back. “Where did this happen?”
“At butcher shop at Zentralmarkthalle, on Friedrichstrasse.”
Hans fell back, a little shocked. That was pretty brazen.
Fritzie went on grimly. “We lucky they not steal truck too. But we lose two hundred twenty marks’ worth of meat. But worse than money. Meat is very hard to get.”
“And they’ll sell it for two or three times what you paid for it.”
Fritzie went on quickly. “Last Wednesday, at Markthalle XI in the Kreuzberg district, Anatoly also stopped by bad men. We lose eight cases wine, six cases ale and lager, and five cases whiskey. Costing us three hundred marks more.”
Hans was shaking his head in astonishment. Over five hundred marks in three days?
Fritzie got to his feet and went around behind the bar. When he came back to join Hans, he had a German Luger in his hand. He waved it at him, with the barrel pointing at the ceiling. “Last night, after you go home, I am getting ready for bed. I hear shouting out from street. I look out and see four, maybe five hooligans. Screaming and shaking fists at me. I run down the stairs and grab this.” He waved the pistol. “When I step outside, I see one has big rock in hand. I shoot in the air and they run off.”
His hands were trembling with rage as he relived it. “You know what they scream at me?”
“What?”
“‘Go back to Russia, Bolshie! Death to Soviet pig.’”
Hans understood instantly. “They think you are a Bolshevik. That’s not good. Not with what’s happening all around us right now.”
“Ja, ja. They are too stupid to know difference between Russian and Belarusian.”
“And you want me to help you protect yourself.”
“Ja. And go with Anatoly. Must stop this or I am not in business. It is bad enough with no food to buy, but. . . .” He looked heavenward and shook his head.
Hans nodded without hesitation. He was thinking of the five men at the road block. “When do you want me to start?”
“Today is Thursday. Anatoly next go to market Saturday morning.”
“Then I’ll be with him on Saturday.”
Kharkov pushed the Luger across the table. “You take this.”
Hans pushed it back. “No. You keep it here in case they come back. Are you willing to put up a little money?”
“For what you need money?”
“If I’m riding shotgun, I’m going to need a shotgun.”
January 10, 1919, 8:30 a.m.—Bayerischer Biergarten, Prenzlauer Berg District, Berlin
With the morning rush over, the tables cleared, the floor swept, and the dishes washed and set out to dry, Hans went into the kitchen. Fritzie Kharkov was working over the grill, greasing it with lard. He looked up and nodded. “You go now?”
“If that’s all right.”
“Ja, ja. It is good time. How much money you need?”
“How many bullets do you have for that Luger?”
“Six.”
“That’s all?”
“Ja, six.”
“You’re going to need more than that, so I’ll buy a box of nine millimeter shells for you.”
“Gut.”
“And you’re all right if I buy another pistol?”
“I thought you want shotgun.”
“That was just a figure of speech. I’m looking for something easy to keep concealed but with pretty good stopping power. A rifle or a shotgun will be too big.”
“But not Luger?”
“Actually, the Pistole 8, which is the official name of your weapon, has a high muzzle velocity, but it’s a smaller caliber bullet, so it doesn’t have as much stopping power.”
Fritzie went back to greasing the grill. “I have no idea what you just say. But I trust you. How much you need?”
“I’m not sure. While I was waiting in line at the Ministry of War, some of the guys were saying that a lot of soldiers who deserted before the end of the war simply walked away with their weapons. Now they’re selling them on the cheap.”
“Like to a pawnshop?”
“Ja, exactly. They pawn them off because they need the cash. I’m hoping we can find a decent pistol for about ten marks. Do you know of any pawnshops nearby?”
“No nearby, but one on the corner of Unter den Linden and Friedrichstrasse. You want me to call Anatoly to drive you?”
“No, no. It’s not that far. And besides, I need to go to the telephone exchange, anyway.”
“You are free to use telephone here.”
“Thanks, but once is enough. I don’t want to wear out my welcome here. I will be back in time for the noon rush.”
“Gut.” Fritz reached in his back pocket and brought out his billfold. He extracted two twenty-mark notes. “You think this be enough?”
“Probably more than enough, but I’ll bring the rest back.”
“And you pay hotel clerk for full month rent this morning?”
“I did. Thank you for that advance, Fritzie. That’s a great relief to me.”
“Gut.”
Kharkov was thoughtful now. “I have Anatoly pick you up tomorrow. Five thirty in morning?”
“That’s fine.” Hans pocketed the money, waved a hand, and headed out of the restaurant.
10:20 a.m.—Corner of Unter den Linden and Friedrichstrasse, Mitte District, Berlin
The clerk at the pawnshop didn’t bat an eye when Hans asked to look at pistols. To Hans’s surprise, among the large selection was an American-made Colt Service Revolver, chambered for a forty-fi
ve-caliber shell. The clerk claimed the soldier who brought it in had captured it from an American army captain. It was three marks more than any of the other guns, and six more than the Lugers, of which he had almost a dozen. But Hans wanted the heavier caliber and bought it for the asking price. He also bought three boxes of forty-five shells and a box of shells for the Luger. Total cost, twenty-two marks.
10:50 a.m.—Post office and telephone exchange, Mitte District, Berlin
“Hallo!”
“Heinz-Albert?”
“Ja.”
“This is Hans. Hans Eckhardt. Do you remember me?”
“Ja.”
“Gut. May I speak with Emilee, please?”
“Emee is sleeping.”
“Oh.” He stifled a curse. He should have thought of that. She would have worked last night. “Could you wake her up for me, Heinz-Albert? It’s very important.”
“No. She’s sleeping.”
Hans gritted his teeth. This was Heinz-Albert—simple logic, simple responses, and fierce loyalty to his older sister. Getting angry at him wouldn’t accomplish one thing. Then he heard the murmur of a woman’s voice. Good. Maybe Heinz-Albert’s mother would intervene. But it was Emilee’s voice that came on the line. “Hans?”
“Emilee. Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry to wake you up.”
“I wasn’t asleep yet. I was just in my bedroom reading. When I heard the phone, I was hoping it would be you. How are you? I’ve been so worried about you.”
“I’m good. How are you?”
“Are you really, Hans? Be honest. Ever since you told me about the Ministry closing, I’ve been sick about it. I can’t stop thinking of you. Tell me what’s happening.”
“I have a job. A full-time job.”
“Really?” she exclaimed. “What is it?”
Suddenly he realized that a bus boy and dish washer might be considerably less than what she was expecting. “Uh . . . I’m working at a restaurant. I told you about my part-time job. Well, now it’s full time. It’s actually a Bavarian restaurant, if you can believe it.”
“Wonderful!” And it was said with genuine enthusiasm.
“Right now I just help wait on tables and clean up around the kitchen, but Fritzie—that’s my boss—says he’s going to train me as a cook.” He wasn’t about to tell her the other part of his job description. “He’s paying me twenty marks per week, with all meals included.”