Crushed Carnation [Dirk]

[Gerhardt Abt]

Location: Streets of Berlin
Time: Week of Easter 1940, 10:32 PM
Weather: Typical Spring Night


Flieger Gerhardt Abt made a dainty stroke with his fork has he scraped away at the slice of cheesecake before him. The delightful treat sat on a small, flowered piece of china flanked by a small cup of cappuccino and an open book. Gerhardt quickly flicked the page of the book as he took a bite of cheesecake from his fork, blueberry sauce trimming the edges of the sweet crust. He enjoyed the cheesecake, even though his dinner had been less than stellar. The small outdoor café had served him Fettuccine Alfredo topped with bell mushrooms and prawns, of which the Fettuccine was blatantly Germanized from the Italian original and the prawns had not been butterfly cut, leaving a large vein in their head that was less than tasty. The cheesecake, however, was fantastic, and even the cappuccino was prepared the way he enjoyed it, with mild coffee and two cubes of sugar. He had stayed at the café long into the night, keeping to himself rather than mingle with the couples and late night diners enjoying meals around him.

Sadly, all great things have to come to an end. Gerhardt slipped a leather marker into his book and took the last bite of the sweet crust, savoring the cheesecake with eyes closed. Abt lay his fork on the edge of the plate and sipped the rest of his cappuccino, letting the caffeine soak into his weary cells. He placed the porcelain cup down on his plate and moved it to the middle of his table, fishing out a few Reichsmarks and adding a few more for the waitresses’ tip. Gerhardt replaced his blue summer Luftwaffe cap, which he had taken off during eating in the typical gentlemanly fashion. The enlisted man brought a leather satchel up from under his chair and put his book into one of its pockets before standing up. He waved to the waitress to let her know he was leaving and quickly opened the gate around the perimeter of the café, his hands moving deftly to allow him escape into the brisk night air of Berlin.

Gerhardt’s powder blue summer uniform did little to protect his skinny body from the chilly spring breeze gusting around the night streets. It was the weekend of the death and resurrection of the Catholic son of god, so many soldiers, including Gerhardt, had been given leave for the weekend. Looking around, the young Flieger could see many servicemen from all branches of the German armed forces milling about the streets, many of them rowdily singing and fooling around near a street lined with pubs. Quieter, more benign groups were gathered around a local Catholic church, paying their respects to their God while clutching rosaries and talking amongst themselves outside of the door. Gerhardt walked down a broad street, his satchel thrown over his shoulder. He yawned quietly, and reminded himself there were only a few more blocks to go before he was able to retire in the Luftwaffe Flak crew base that he was assigned to.

The street he was walking down was mostly quiet. A small bar was built in the middle of the block between a small grocery and a home. Gerhardt’s low boots clicked against the pavement, and he looked around uneasily. Apart from the distant music coming from the inside of the pub, the block was nearly too silent. The soldier pulled his satchel closer, picking up his pace to get away from the eerie street.

“Was zum Teufel denken Sie, dass Sie, Luftie tun? Nachhause zu gehen, um Ihren Schönheitsschlaf zu bekommen?” What the hell do you think you are doing, Luftie? Going home to get your beauty sleep?

Gerhardt turned around, frightened by the sudden slur. The person who had spoken was obviously drunk. Four Heer soldiers stood behind him, three privates and the one that had spoken a Gefrieter. “Ich kehre zu meiner Basis, meinen guten Soldaten einfach zurück. Jetzt, wenn Sie mich würden gehen lassen-” Gerhardt began with a twinge of fear in his voice, but was cut off by the Gefrieter. The drunken soldier grabbed the arm of Abt’s blue tunic, and the poor Luftwaffe soldier could smell the brandy on his breath. “Sie gehen nirgendswohin, Gänseblümchen.” The words stumbled out of the Gefrieter’s mouth as he threw Gerhardt to the ground. I am just returning to my bases, my good soldiers. Now if you would just let me go…, You’re going nowhere, Daisy]

Gerhardt hit the pavement hard. His shoulder impacted first, and he could hear his collarbone make a sickening snap as he hit. Abt’s satchel stumbled out of his grasp and spilled allover the sidewalk, its contents littering the ground at his assailant’s feet. The Fleiger groaned as a well-placed kick found its way into his crotch. A second later a boot-heel smashed into his nose, blood flowing freely from his smashed face and splattering onto his yellow collar tabs. His vision went blurry, but he could hear one of the private’s comments as they rifled through his spilled satchel. “Was zum Teufel sind diese? Ist das ein Kochbuch? Und Teebeutel? Was zum Teufel? Es gibt nichts Wertes die Einnahme in seinem kleinen Geldbeutel. Nicht sogar einige Zigaretten. Überprüfen Sie seine Taschen Jung, vielleicht hat er etwas in dort.” [What the hell are these? Is this a cookbook? And tea bags? What the hell? There is nothing worth taking in his little purse. Not even some cigarettes. Check his pockets Jung, maybe he has something in there.]

[Dirk Riedel]

The city of Berlin may have been celebrating the week of Easter, Leutnant Dirk Riedel however did not wish to participate in such festivities for he simply could not be bothered to and, instead, decided to spend his time in a pub along with many other soldiers; it was not so much about belief in this universal merriment but also the mere fact he did not have the leisure of time and space to reunite his family and enjoy a proper dinner with them – his mother was living in their old family house in Hannover, completely unaware of what her children had been up to and more so oblivious to their change of characters, believing the son to be in the army and the daughter to be working in a bomb factory in Leipzig; Julian, on the other hand, the younger brother, had been sent to live in Wolfsburg all by himself, although Dirk was aware his brother had indeed established a connection with several people who were discreet enough as not to question why the young man had not enlisted himself in the Wehrmacht. Dirk had been severe enough in underscoring the importance of Julian not revealing absolutely anything in terms of their secret plan – only the two were to know, for it would provide for security in that way and less people poking in their noses rudely into other people’s business and utterly ruining everything they had built so far, not to mention ending up with harsh and even fatal consequences from the government and its organs of policy undertaking. In any case, Julian had vaguely excused his non-enlistment to physical deficiency and, following Dirk’s advice, attempted to maintain a low profile within the area and never draw any sort of attention to himself. On the whole, it was impossible for the Leutnant to bring his family together for an Easter dinner, despite his mother’s hopes – and disappointment in finding out it would not be so.

As Dirk turned around Waisenstraße, having just enjoyed several drinks in the known pub ‘Zur Letzten Instanz’ with other comrades, intending to drive his way to the small apartment he lodged in Berlin, his eyes slightly narrowed as he heard loud noises from just around the corner, and when he walked some steps forwards and looked over his shoulder the sound of fighting grew more intense, thunderous masculine growls covering the soft whimpers of what he only assumed would be a girl – and yet, when he approached the scene, the locks of golden hair, the lanky figure with the skinny arms and legs lying helplessly on the ground, the pale white skin and light voice – “Julian,” Dirk mumbled to himself, and marched towards the clearly drunken men, petty looters and, shamefully, soldiers of the Wehrmacht. What on earth his stupid brother was doing around the city Dirk had absolutely no idea, but there was no time in pondering that; just the sight, fallacious though it may have been, of his brother being physically abused was enough to have Dirk burst in uncontrollable rage, the veins popping out of his skin, irises widening dangerously, and the muscles ready to respond to what he had considered a personal attack.

Without any warning, he snatched the Gefreiter from the neck, the sheer force pulling the other man backwards abruptly as a noise of surprise escaped his stinking throat, and held him tightly into a headlock, his strong arm wheeled around the other’s carotid and pressing hard against the collar without allowing the remotest chance of an escape. “Gibt es irgendwelches Problem, Gefreiter?” Dirk growled at the man’s ear, teeth gritted, while the other three soldiers, less inebriated than their ‘leader’, soon enough understood the gravity of the situation and the fact they were dealing with a Commissioned Officer. They clicked their boots and immediately saluted him, which in truth proved to be more comic than respectful, as one of them fell over his own feet and the other, completely baffled, tried putting on his cap for the proper military salute but instead ended up placing the Flieger’s cookbook upon his head. One of the Obergrenadiers was loudly and cheerfully singing, “Grenadier und Musketier marschieren auf der strasse, denken an ein kühles Bier in riesengrossem Glase!” until his fellow man nudged him painfully on his ribs, and stopped.

“Kein Problem, Herr Leutnant! Wir hofften nur, dass dieses Gänseblümchen uns einige Zigaretten leihen würde,” one of the Obergrenadiers excused, still bearing the salute, and clicked his heels once more, looking as serious as he could although he strived too much. Dirk snorted. The Gefreiter smelled of brandy and tobacco, and though he attempted to pull out from his grasp, he was not going to go anywhere just yet. The Obergrenadier’s words, however, made Dirk look downwards at the young boy lying on the ground and was utterly surprised to discover it was not Julian but some random young man who, apparently, belonged to a rather affluent family judging from the quality of his clothes – and more so, a Luftwaffe pilot. The resemblance was striking, and yet Dirk’s heart rate decreased on knowing Julian was at the place he should be, perfectly out of harm’s way. Dirk looked at the boy who had addressed him, with scorn in his eyes. “Sie drückten Ihre Hoffnungen höflich nicht aus, Sie, Obergrenadier?” Dirk asked him coldly in a severe tone, his features dark and dour, his grasp on the Gefreiter still firm and unyielding, while the other soldiers were clearly timorous of being reported for such actions and demoted.

“Ich denke nicht, Herr Leutnant,” the Obergrenadier responded as seriously as his abilities could muster, and then burped. He immediately covered his mouth with his right hand a few moments later, and his cheeks flushed a shade of crimson. The Gefreiter was, meanwhile, mumbling incoherent words, swearing under his breath, not quite realizing whom he was dealing with at the moment. “Was ist das?” he cried his demand, but the more he tried to free himself from the grasp, the more his fat cheeks flushed an angry shade of purple. “Ich bin ein Soldat des Dritten Reichs! Ich sollte mit Rücksicht verhandelt werden!” he spat, and Dirk had to support him through her grasp to prevent him from falling down on the floor – otherwise his feet would have never been able to carry that junk of a man in that state.

“Horst,” one of his friends called at him sharply, “halten Sie Ihren Mund geschlossen, das ist ein Offizier –”

“Verzeihen Sie ihm, Herr Leutnant,” another one said in his attempt to make excuses for them, but his words came out jumbled, his large eyes looking at the Leutnant and bearing an expression of someone who is trying too hard to understand why exactly one plus one makes two, and how this affects the world around us. “Er hat zu viel Kognak gehabt … und die Kellnerin sagte … dass wir unsere letzten wenigen Getränke umsonst haben konnten!”

“Die letzten wenigen Getränke, die die letzte zwölf Brille von Bier sind!” another one cheerfully intervened.

“Sie war solch eine hübsche Kellnerin!”

“Es ist wahr, ich kann mich verbürgen, für den sie ebenso hübsch war wie der Tag!” the third one cried out with a laugh.

“Ebenso ziemlich wie dieses Gänseblümchen.”

“Ja, er ist wirklich hübsch,” his friend mumbled as he looked down at the Luftwaffe pilot, who, should he lengthen his hair and wear a fancy frilly dress, would easily pass for a young lady. Whether the young man was unconscious or not was still to be confirmed, but his body was not moving as drops of blood had trickled down unto the pavement, his hair messy and his uniform tattered and dusty.

“Herr Leutnant!” one of them suddenly jumped up as a rapid frenzy gripped his beer-pumping heart; he straightened his shoulders, and saluted the Leutnant in a pompous manner, desiring to appear military but instead being quite ridiculous. “Ich will mich im Auftrag meiner besoffenen Freunde entschuldigen und vollen Verntungant … eh … ventungant … nehmen ich will mich Herr Leutnant, dafür entschuldigen –”

“Es ist genug, Obergrenadier!” Dirk cut him short brusquely in a loud, firm and clear voice, his face hardened and severe, unsmiling and unfriendly, as he then released his grip on the Gefrieter, who had by now abandoned every attempt at escape, and let him fall hard down on the pavement. He moaned in pain at first, but then with a final grumbling sigh his eyes closed and he moved no more.

“Oh, verdammen Sie es! Er, schlief dass altes Schwein ein!” one of them nagged in a dragging tone, and made an animalistic sound inside his throat to suggest his dissatisfaction with this chore which, apparently, was what he often ended up doing whenever he was out with these comrades.

“Er schlief ein, stimmt dass?” the other one unnecessarily commented, more so to anger his comrade, but also because he was wasted.

“Nein, nein, nein, nein, nein! Das bedeutet, dass ich ihn wieder tragen muss!”

“Wollen wir hoffen, dass seine Frau Ihnen in seinem Interesse wie letztes Mal nicht eine tüchtige Tracht Prügel verabreichen wird!”

“Ich wünsche, dass sie mir eine tüchtige Tracht Prügel verabreichen würde –”

“Stillgestanden!” Dirk barked at them, and the three of them immediately shut their mouths, clicked their boots and gave him the military salute, one of them maintaining balance on his feet with great difficulty notwithstanding. Dirk glared at them thoroughly, and thought how pathetic they looked, and yet how these men, under more sober circumstances, would bravely fight for their country and offer their lives for a superior purpose; this behaviour was normal during such festivities. Dirk was not frustrated by this – he was angry they should have attempted to abuse and exploit another soldier fighting for the Fatherland. It was most inappropriate behaviour, and though he was not going to report them this time, excusing such conduct on the lightness of spirit coming from these useless festivities, he was certainly not going to let them off the hook so easily. “Wenn Sie sich in Verlegenheit bringen wollen, tun Sie es Publikum nicht. Der deutsche Soldat ist ein Beispiel der Ordnung und Disziplin, und ich werde diesem Image nicht erlauben, von einer Gruppe von Alkoholikern, Ostern verseucht zu werden, oder nicht,” he told them severely, his face still hardened. “Sammeln Sie seine Besitzungen und stellen Sie sie auf der Umhängetasche zurück!” he barked at them, as they rushed to follow his orders like headless chickens, their arms flying left and right and shoving the various belongings into the brown satchel haphazardly.

Dirk watched them closely the entire time, his hands shoved through the pockets of his pants, eyes narrowed and stern, prepared to teach them a good lesson lest they should deviate from his order due to a short attention span caused from excess of drinking. Once they had placed everything from the pavement back into the pilot’s satchel, he nodded at them. “Nehmen Sie den Kameraden nach Hause. Wenn ich Sie finde, solchen Krawall auf der Straße wieder machend, verspreche ich, dass Sie dabei sind, die Ruhe Ihrer Wehrpflicht auszugeben, die Toiletten reinigt und Kanonenstiefel poliert,” he barked sternly, his raspy voice clear and loud, as he then commanded, “Marsch! Marsch!” One of the Obergrenadiers knelt down to grab the Gefreiter but in his attempt to do so he stumbled over and fell down on the pavement; the other one of them grumbled under his throat, nudged his friend on the elbow, who yawned, and both helped the Obergrenadier stand up on his feet, while throwing the Gefreiter’s bulk on their shoulders. Endeavouring to pick up whatever piece of self-respect they had left, two of them tried to click their jackboots and do a last military salute at the Leutnant while simultaneously carrying the Gefreiter’s junk, but failed miserably, lost balance, then gave up, and continued with their way.

The Leutnant shook his head, and then knelt down by the Luftwaffe pilot. He hadn’t been attacked severely, although his nose was bleeding and he seemed to have been kicked in several parts of his skinny body; Dirk pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his military uniform and cleaned his nose from the blood, letting a hand slip underneath to wheel around his neck and slightly raise him up, while the other one went around his waist. Once the blood had dried off, he pushed him up and supported him in standing up, allowing the pilot’s hand to fly around his shoulder; he wore his satchel on the free shoulder, and steadily walked with him to his motorcycle, parked just around the corner. The Flieger was such a light creature, Dirk was only reminded of his brother, Julian, and how scrawny he usually was; it seemed no matter what he was eating, he would never get any weight, contrary to Dirk. Of course, the Leutnant always worked out even before he had joined the military, but the fact remained that Julian – just as this Luftwaffe pilot – had inherited the scraggy type of figure.

The walk to the motorcycle required only seven minutes, with Dirk holding a tight grasp on the younger man whenever his feet stumbled, and as soon as they had reached the motorcycle, Dirk sat the pilot carefully on the seat and held him from the shoulders lest he should fall down. He needed some moments to get past the aching headache from that sudden experience, although Dirk was going to securely take him to his home and make certain no other uneventful happenings would occur to him tonight; the wind had strengthened and the fresh air was bound to clear his head. “Fühlen Sie sich besser, Soldat?” he asked the pilot. “Erzählen Sie mir, wo Sie leben und ich Sie zurück nachhause sicher nehmen werde. Wir können an Marta für ein Glas von Wasser anhalten, wenn Sie wollen.”


Translation

Is there any problem, Gefreiter?

No problem, Herr Leutnant! We only hoped this Daisy would lend us some cigarettes.

You didn’t express your hopes politely, did you, Obergrenadier?

I suppose not, Herr Leutnant.

What is this? I am a soldier of the Third Reich! I should be treated with respect!

Horst, keep your mouth shut, this is an Officer –

Forgive him, Herr Leutnant. He’s had too much brandy … and the waitress said … we could have our last few drinks for free!

The last few drinks being the last twelve glasses of beer!

She was such a pretty waitress!

That’s true, I can vouch for that, she was as pretty as the day!

As pretty as this daisy.

Yes, he’s really pretty.

Herr Leutnant! I want to apologize on behalf of my smashed friends and take full respinwalibity … eh … respnondi … I want to apologize, Herr Leutnant, for –

That’s enough, Obergrenadier!

Oh, damn it! He fell asleep, that old pig!

He did fall asleep, didn’t he?

No, no, no, no, no! That means I have to carry him again!

Let’s hope his wife won’t give you a good beating on his behalf like last time!

I wish she’d give me a good beating –

Attention! If you want to embarrass yourselves, don’t do it public. The German soldier is an example of order and discipline, and I will not allow this image to be contaminated by a group of drunkards, Easter or not. Collect his possessions and put them back on the satchel!

Take the comrade home. If I find you making such ruckus on the street again I promise you are going to spend the rest of your military service cleaning toilets and polishing jackboots. Marsch! Marsch!

Do you feel better, soldier? Tell me where you live and I’ll take you back home safely. We can stop at Marta’s for a glass of water if you want.