Berlin blood

The sun tried to penetrate through the gray clouds. Gunther stood aside and smoked a cigarette, which was kindly provided to him by his new comrade, Ludwig. He was one of the first people Gunther had the honor of talking to. Ludwig, like Richter, did not have time to hide from the Russians and was tied up almost at the very beginning after raising the white flag. Ludwig said that he began his career as a simple private in the SS under Himmler, then began to command several units. By his nature, he was not the kind of person who was capable of murder. Ludwig, of course, supported some of the ideas of the Reich, but overall he was more of a positive person than a bloodthirsty Nazi. And, of course, like many, he was looking for benefits on any side. — Ludwig. — Gunther turned to Ludwig, who stood nearby and was also smoking a cigarette, blowing a stream of smoke into the sky. — A? — Ludwig responded. — Do you hear anything? — Gunther asked hopefully, because only Ludwig knew about the latest news. He had a reliable source, and he made good acquaintances among Soviet officers. Gunther guessed that his new acquaintance received such connections only because he agreed to cooperate and probably told about all the plans of the German army that were previously known to him. People like Ludwig could have avoided trial. And Gunther did not lose sight of such a person. Ludwig blew out several smoke rings and looked at Gunther with his pitch black eyes. “No,” he chuckled, “nothing yet.” Next to them stood another man named Ravich, who quietly remarked: — Of course, nothing. Fresh news only comes after lunch. Gunther looked at Ravich without interest. This man was melancholic and in no hurry. After listening to him once, Gunther came to the conclusion that Ravich was a pessimist to the core and always saw the situation in the worst light. “Ravich,” Richter sighed, shaking his head, “you could at least look at the situation a little differently.” We are alive, and that’s already good. — And you call this good? — Ravich waved his hand, pointing to other prisoners. — We’re in a damn camp. We are prisoners. Do you know what they usually do with prisoners? They will be executed! Don’t worry, you will soon meet your deceased colleagues. And I, being from the Wehrmacht, cannot look at life happily and am preparing for the worst. Gunther rolled his eyes and turned away from Ravich, not wanting to continue this pointless dialogue. “Let’s just think about the good,” said Zimmer, an optimist on the other side of Gunther. He was the complete opposite of Ravich, and Gunther liked to communicate with him more. “They won’t kill us, and we will all survive.” The only unpleasant outcome may be that we will be sent to prison, unfortunately for life. But,” he raised his hand and smiled with all his remaining teeth, “this is much better than dying.” Gunther grinned, and his soul somehow even brightened. Zimmer was famous for the fact that inside him there was a great desire to live and a love for life itself in general. He was a man with a gentle disposition, and Gunther honestly did not understand how Zimmer managed to get into the war. During their conversations, Richter found out that Zimmer, at one time, traveled a lot and made music. His instrument was the violin, which, according to Zimmer himself, he mastered excellently. He fought through the war along sea routes and surrendered voluntarily. This is probably why he is still alive. — You know what, let’s not think anything then. We all have different thoughts and unwavering opinions. We can only wait for the remaining handful to be captured, and then they will carry out a trial on us, as a result of which we will all be given the same sentence: prison. — Pilot, you may be right, but how much time will pass before this happens? Instead of Richter, Ravich will answer: — I don’t think it’s a lot. It will all be over soon. — I think Gunther is right. Zimmer spoke again. “They will look for everyone and bring justice to all of us, and not to each soldier separately.” I repeat once again: we are lucky to be alive. Let’s just wait. I understand that this place is depressing, but we are deprived of the right to choose. There is nothing more we can do. — Zimmer looked at their small group, and everyone agreed with him. Each of these soldiers was unique in their own way. Each had a different, pre-war life behind them. Some were a violinist, some an artist, some a mechanic, some a cook. Some people liked to swim, and others liked to run in the morning. They all had a familiar way of life, their own needs, their own interests. Nothing united them until military service was announced. And the men, abandoning all their hobbies, their professions, went to war. And the war became their common interest. Many understood that to some extent the world needed the war. It was needed in order to change something in people’s minds. The old built systems no longer worked, and it was necessary to come up with something new. Changes were needed. Perhaps it would have been worth looking for other solutions, other than starting a war, to change the usual foundations, but would anyone have looked for them? War is the simplest, fastest, but as it turned out, not entirely effective method. Whoever started the war ultimately lost. But it still changed people’s consciousness. And now the whole world has turned upside down. *** A little more than three months have passed since Gunther’s imprisonment. Summer was already coming to an end, and he, like his newly-made comrades, was still in the camp. His days turned into absolutely identical ones, devoid of meaning, and sometimes Gunther didn’t even know what day of the week and what date came with the sunrise. His only salvation was that he began to write letters to Ilsa. Thanks to his friendship with Ludwig, Gunther passed through him folded notes in which he wrote about his feelings, sensations and thoughts. Ilsa did not answer him, but Richter knew that she received them and read them, knew that in this way he supported her. On another day, I think it was the thirty-first of August, Gunther was sitting in his cell and intended to go for a walk around the small perimeter, when a breathless Ludwig burst into the room. “Our fate is decided,” from his lips it sounded like a sentence, “we are going to trial in the city of Nuremberg.” — So far? — Zimmer was surprised. — But why there? Ludwig shrugged. — How should I know? — When are we leaving? — Gunther asked. — Tomorrow’s night. Let’s go by train. “I need to write to Ilsa, tell her where I will be.” Ludwig shook his head. “It will no longer be possible to convey another note to your beloved.” Big shots will arrive any minute now, and no one will be properly friendly with me anymore. I, of course, will still be held in high esteem, but they also know their limits. — Ludwig walked up to the drooping Gunther and patted him on the shoulder, urging him to cheer up. — This case will be loud. And I think that dear Frau will know where you are. And if she has the opportunity, she will come to you herself. Gunther resigned himself to this thought, and the rest of the day passed without changes for him. After dinner, all four took a last walk around the camp grounds and admired the setting sun. Gunther recalled how back in 1939, the last day of summer was marked by a bloody event, and something that would forever go down in history began. Why did he have such a fate: to be born shortly before such events? After all, he had a wonderful childhood and an equally wonderful youth, now crossed out by a terrifying youth, in which he saw all the “delights” of war. As soon as the last rays of the sun disappeared behind the horizon, and the moon began to reign in the sky, a general formation began near the gate. They were taken out under escort, and Gunther did not even bother to look around. He walked with his head raised and looked forward, thinking that he would like to see Ilsa and hug her. And he also wanted freedom. They were stuffed into carriages like sardines in a barrel. Gunther exhaled when he saw familiar faces near one of the walls, and hurried to his friends to while away the travel time with them. The train started moving and the wheels clattered on the rails. Gunther had not traveled by this type of transport for a long time and was even, to some extent, glad for the small changes. To the rhythmic sound of the wheels, Gunther fell asleep with only one desire: to see Ilsa quickly. *** September greeted them sadly. There was no trace left of yesterday’s summer sun. The morning dawned gray and cool. They arrived in Nuremberg at five o’clock in the morning. They were dragged outside and then loaded into large trucks and driven to a huge building. Each prisoner was given solitary confinement and breakfast, which consisted of barley, a stale piece of bread and terribly cold, sickeningly tasteless tea. After breakfast, Gunther looked around the cell to which he was led. She was tiny, about four meters long and about two meters wide. There was a cot against one wall and a toilet attached to the other. More precisely, it was like a toilet, which was a hole covered with a plank. “It could have been worse,” Gunther thought. “Zimmer has definitely found optimism in his cell. I can try it too. The main thing is not to be like the pessimistic Ravich. Sadness and melancholy will not help me now.” Gunther knew that soon they would come to him with a notepad and start asking him everything from the very beginning: who he was, what his rank was, who his commander was and what he did at the front. And Gunther was ready to answer these questions if they guaranteed him that he would leave here a free man. Although he had no choice: he would still have to answer. And either he will make contact and earn his favor, or he will be sent to prison immediately after the end of the trial. His thoughts were interrupted by a shot. Gunther shuddered: he was so unaccustomed to these sounds. Approaching the small window that overlooked the courtyard, Richter saw someone’s body lying on the dusty asphalt. Looking closer, he noticed a swastika on his sleeve, and realized that they had killed an overly avid Nazi. “Well,” Gunther thought again, “I’d better be polite.”