21 Up Against the Wall

In 1971 I took a break from London to live in the divided city. Only this time ,unlike Belfast,the division was official. This was the sundered, storied city of Berlin. Because of the historical images I had of this strategic centre- goose-stepping legions parading down Unter den Linden, daring B-1 7 raids giving them a taste of their own medicine, and then the Russians bagging the city to bring the European war to a triumphant finish, it had always seemed mythic. Then there was in my own lifetime those of tanks confronting each other across the no-man’s land during the Cuban missile crisis. In the shadow of the squat concrete barrier up against which the tectonic plates of the nuclear superpowers now rubbed , I felt I would have my finger on the pulse. Relations between the two German states were always an indicator of the relationship between the two greater opponents – N. A. T. O. and the Soviets, determined that Germany could never launch a ‘revanchist’ third war of aggression on it. The Ostpolitik of F. R. G. Chancellor Brandt, including it’s dismantling of inter-German tariffs, accompanied the détente between the superpowers. Previously such opening of relations was rejected by the F. R. G. leadership refusing to recognize its opponent. This was borne out in January 1964, when Walter Ulbricht, G. D. R. leader, dropped a line to the Federal Chancellor Ludwig Erhard, proposing that the Democratic Republic and the Federal Republic should conclude a treaty swearing off nuclear weapons. He said such a treaty was necessary because “prevention of a nuclear war has become a vital matter for the German nation. No German Government can say how many people will survive such a holocaust. Nuclear war would represent a direct threat to the physical existence of the German nation.” The Chancellor flatly rejected the proposal for safeguards , the same I had put to him. Ulbricht’s letter was returned unopened. Not so my own . I got no treaty but some recognition.  Having to do with a portrait of the portly besuited Chancellor embodying that burgerlich quality associated with his consumer oriented policies.

Puffing on a cigar with the addition of a filtering safeguard. Maybe Ulbricht needed to entice his opposite number with some Havanas.

  West Berlin, a clear anomaly, this island of capitalism locked 100 miles inside Soviet-controlled East Germany, provided an ideal vantage point for making sorties into the East. I was intensely interested to see for myself the reality of spartan daily life on ‘the other side’, under the hardline Communist government which had abolished the power of capital and outlawed private ownership of the means of production -land, real estate, machines. Like the oppressed minorities of Europe, including the ancestors of Heinz Jacobius, who filled the city some hundred years earlier and were instrumental in creating the city as it now exists, I was offered material incentives and freedom of movement in return for residency. There was work to be had . My first job was in the Hilton Hotel where I worked my way up from the bottom to the top. The classic uberkapitalistisch success story? Aw shucks. I started by cleaning the kitchen on the ground floor and graduated to cleaning the kitchen in the penthouse restaurant at the summit.  The hotel workers came from all corners of the globe.  On the ground floor we were supervised with Prussian overseeing, glasses inspected to be gleaming clean, toilet cubicles rattled to rouse any sleepy hands who’d sloped off: ‘There’s no time to lean’, called the straw boss, Herr Mann, ‘you’re paid here to clean. ’Where would you be without me? asked one leaner. ’‘With another new kitchen hand. ’

He never called anyone by their first name. He scowled as he spelled this out to a new hand: ‘It breeds familiarity and that leads to a breakdown in authority. I refer to my employees by their last name only: Schmidt , Jones, Loren . That’s all. I am to be referred to only as Herr Mann . Now that we got that straight, what is your last name?’

The new guy, another Aussie, sighed, ‘Darling. My name is Steve Darling. ’
‘Okay Steve, the next thing I want to tell you is… ’

We were rushed off our feet and it was with some relief that I got sent to the top. On the graveyard shift  this offered a spectacular view with a galaxy of neon rainbows burning below us, rivers of headlights, a million blazing autos raising a roar, and pork fillet and delikat essen as unofficial gustatory rewards for our travails. Living high on the hog?

    ‘You might like to try out for a job here as a chef,’ one of my fellow       workers said impressed by my culinary finesse.

     ’I’d rather be a cook,’I replied.

     ‘So what’s the difference?’

     ‘The difference between a chef and a cook is the difference between a wife and a prostitute; cooks prepare meals for people they know and love, chefs do it anonymously for anyone who’s got the price.’

 Our midnight banqueting came to an end when one of my colleagues took the lift to the ground floor. Our supervisor joined the lift, caught him gorging himself with cake.  and told him off ‘You’re consuming hotel property, not the meal allocated you.  You must control your appetites and show discipline. This is wrong on so many levels. ’

After my shift I would return to the gastarbeiter hostel I was billeted in , in Kreuzberg, in Trizonia, the territory occupied by the capitalist big powers.   This area was effectively an enclave within an enclave, being almost entirely surrounded by the highly guarded Wall.  Moreover politically and culturally it was known for its numerous Turkish immigrants. It was the largest Turkish city outside of Turkey. Kreuzberg was also known as a seat of dissidence. Thousands of pacifists had come from West Germany to avoid compulsory military service and were drawn to this cosmopolitan zone of tolerance and nightlife.

Others came to study attracted by generous incentives from authorities desirous of offsetting the aging demographic. I struck up a friendship with Ruediger Abel, a final year medical student from Kiel. Ruediger was learning a great deal about complications of the heart. He had fallen in love with another student from the medical faculty. The problem was she was in the East. ‘You can understand their cruel logic, circumstances not of their choosing’he said, referring to the DDR’s unwillingness to allow her to join him. ‘They’ve had to plug the brain drain. They’ve had to stem the haemorrhaging of the professional manpower they’ve invested so much in to the West. Those leaving earn substantially higher wages there, not only because the West is richer but because it’s a more unequal society, with much higher pay differentials between employees according to their skill levels. I have to use every argument in the book to get an exemption. ’

                             In The Zone.

 I was taken on as a labourer with the British garrison forces based there. Their role was to enforce the political, military division, not merely of Germany, but of the European continent, complementing the political and economic cleavage . For example, any state that recognised the DDR did so on pain of a full trade, diplomatic and cultural embargo from the West Germans until the early 1960s. It was a key part of the Western Cold War project, the eventually successful aim of which was to isolate, weaken and destroy the Soviet Union and the Communist movement. My main work involved keeping things spick and span.

  The Berlin Brigade headquarters occupied the former Reich Academy for Physical Exercise (Reichsakadamie fur Leibesubungen) next to the Olympic Stadium. Today, I am led to believe, it’s the Sport Museum. The Australian military attaché had his office in this building and was of assistance to me in getting this work and with my documentation. As a condition of employment I had to declare that I had never been a member of any Communist Party. Big Brother kept a particularly watchful eye in this realm. I was working in a high security area. At the time the dragnet for the Baader Meinhof group was in full force so presumably everybody was being scrutinized carefully. All-clear, I was deployed with the unit  involved with liaison activities with the Russians at Potsdam.

‘Our role,’explained the military liaison officer overseeing my work, ‘is to coordinate activities to protect units from collateral damage. We work to achieve mutual understanding and unity of effort among disparate groups. For incidence or disaster management,our liaison officers serve as the primary contact for agencies responding to the situation.’

The  moderating of the confrontational policy of the opposing blocs was welcomed in the armed forces. ‘Better a wall than a war’, one of the commissioned straight-arrows confided to me. ‘It has actually helped us to breathe more easily, ‘It’s brought greater economic stability to to the G. D. R. While I wouldn’t want to live there, their per capita GDP has risen above that of the United Kingdom. ’

‘What about the human cost? It has divided families, fathers from sons, mothers from daughters. It has truncated the city’s existence, divorced people from one another. It has prevented the warmth of human contact between two halves of the city, between different kinds of people, the only thing that can save us. It has led to deaths. ’

‘What about all the death and misery the Germans inflicted on the world? They bear most of the responsibility for the Wall. It has brought about a clearer, more stable demarcation line. It has helped to defuse this dispute that’s hung over us from the Second World War. A strong signal from Moscow that the Eastern Bloc is not planning a strategic intervention. ’

‘Weren’t the signals clear enough before this?’

‘Nothing as clearcut as this one. The Wall has pulled up short troops with itchy trigger fingers getting stranded in the wrong places. If it hasn’t pulled up Germans who can’t read the signs properly, that’s their lookout. Now neither side in this standoff can wipe the floor with the other.’

‘That’s the way the mop flops.’

‘For sure.No one wants an all-out white hot nuclear conflict in the heart of Europe. ’

‘Check’, I thought, ‘me especially’. A strike on this garrison meant I’d be selected as a volunteer , one of the cleaning commandos pulling extra duty. One of the hotshots lumbered with mopping up operations, clearing up the god almighty mess. A bit like jumping into someone’s grave. ’

Providing there was no such strike, this was a good job as jobs went. I went happily about my duties. Sweeping, waxing and buffing the floors. You could see your face in them. Dusting surfaces, scrubbing, spraying and scouring, rubbing Brasso into metal, wiping lockers, leaving bathrooms antiseptic. Overlooking no cavity, no detail too small. Removing the human debris shed by the soldiers and mechanics. The flakes of skin, the nail clippings, the wisps of dead hair, the invisible armies of parasites, those minute specks of life that make their living by nibbling at us. With a whisk whisk here and a whisk whisk there and a dustpan for the cinders. With a rub rub here and a rub rub there I would polish up the windows.

‘Rub a dub dub, where is my tub?’ I asked the mechanics in the store room.while looking for my water container. I received: ‘Hey Diddle Diddle! Right here in the middle!’

The officers  complimented me on my thoroughness and white glove spotlessness . ‘The state in which our unit is left is the best possible test of the efficiency of regimental officers. It is on such matters that the reputation of a battalion and its commander rests,’said one.

Where would the place be without you, ’ asked another. ’

‘With a new labourer, ’I came back.

One stressed the importance of having everything in the right place: ‘Maintenance of facilities and materiel is a vital part of logistics and the movement of troops. No detail is too small to be passed over. It’s the small apparently trivial ones that musn’t be overlooked. ’

I showed him the box I kept for collecting any loose metal spikes I collected from the grounds. ‘They’re better here than in tyres’I said, fastening another to the proverb , ‘For want of a nail, and for one unwanted, the kingdom was lost. ’

Another officer told me: ‘Good going.You’re a safe pair of hands. Your effort hasn’t passed unnoticed. Our bathroom’s as clean as a whistle. With the magic of your broom you can mesmerize a room. It makes us blink, to stop and touch. You and your broom accomplish so much. ’

‘All part of the service. As I say back home, ‘My duties I never shirk. I’m your tax dollars at work. ’

The unit brought fringe benefits-groceries from East Germany- which I helped deliver to the British troops.Unfortunately  being only on the delivery end meant I couldn’t qualify as a ‘Hero of Labour. ’

I was able to procure cheap pork and sundry items from this same source.  These perquisites were part of the modus vivendi arrived at by the various occupation forces. I got to chow down with the soldiers and non commissioned officers and ate jolly well. They called their mess The ‘Cafard Café’.

There they discussed the military history of the places they went to.One in particular was the area around the town of Halbe where a vital breakthrough by the Russians took place in April 1945.

‘This area of pine forests and lakes is one vast graveyard You wouldn’t want be a gravedigger there.There’s still too much unexploded ordnance.’

‘Have you been there?’

We’ve just visited the cemetery next to the Baruth–Zossen road  with our Russian counterparts.We paid  honour to their fallen compatriots,part of the high losses exacted by both sides.We placed wreathes on  graves.’

‘What was the significance of their ferocious offensive?’

‘This was the prelude to the Battle for Berlin.’

‘The Kremlin’s standing orders were to surround the city and drive a stake through the black heart of the Reich.’

‘Correct.To  isolate the  the ill-equipped and tired remnants of German Ninth Army  in the Spreewald ‘pocket’, southeast of here. Stalin’s directive was for it to be surrounded and  delivered a death blow.

 ‘The terrain outside would have been unforgiving and slow to move through.’

 The Soviet offensive launched on April 16, 1945  isolated the German Ninth Army and tens of thousands of refugees in the Spreewald “pocket”, southeast of Berlin.As I said Stalin ordered its encirclement and destruction and his subordinates, eager to win the race to the Reichstag, pushed the 9th Army into a tiny area east of the village of Halbe. To escape the pocket the remnants of the 9th Army had to pass through Halbe, where barricades constructed by both sides formed formidable obstacles and the converging Soviet forces subjected the area to heavy artillery fire. In  the slaughter the 9th Army suffered catastrophic losses compatible with any suffered in the Soviet Union.  ‘The massacre was appalling, wounded were left untreated and screaming by the roadside.

‘Many of these were just kids,weren’t they?’ I said ‘Kindersoldaten given as offerings to the enemy by their fanatical leader,his own days numbered.’

‘Teenaged draftees fought alongside Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS veterans attempting to maintain military discipline amid the chaos and carnage of headlong retreat. Their army commanders strove desperately to extricate their decimated units, hoping to escape the Red Army and surrender to the Allies, seeking better POW treatment.’

‘Quite understandable considering their monstrous, maniacal merciless,military machine had laid waste to Russia and killed so many.’

‘This battle was total war upon soldier and civilian alike. a great and terrible event.’

‘History looms large there.It’s just one generation since these battles took place.The wounds of the Second World War are still not healed.Let’s hope that you never get drawn into such a horror.’

On the Dotted Line

I was curious why young British men still signed up. The losing American war against the Vietnamese  suggested it might finally be getting harder to keep the natives down wherever .This ally’s habit of spreading collateral damage suggested one give their forces a wide berth.

One corporal gave me the following personal reasons: ‘In this situation I have power totally out of proportion to my age, experience, training and rank. Why would I want to go home, take off my uniform and be a nobody in a job where I have no independence, no power, and am surrounded by people who have absolutely no interest in where I have been for the past two years or in what I have been doing. Thats if I got a job. I’d probably be pushed to the back of the queue for jobs, overtaken by those in civvy life. And, anyway, what job is there in civilian life to fulfil the expectations of a front-line swatty?

 ‘What’s the first thing you’ll do when you return?’

‘I’ll be heading right for Hyde Park. ’

‘Why Hyde Park? I thought ducks were out of season. ’

‘Not the kind of birds I’m after.I’ve got some savings put aside to give them a great treat. ’

‘What about German girls. How do you get on with them?’

‘Not too well. I’m afraid. I don’t speak German. Besides, I’m very much a wallflower to start with. I went to a Christian boy’s school. ’

‘You’re a presentable man. You can pick it up and them too. I wouldn’t have thought you’d have trouble there. ’

‘I don’t have the gift of the gab in English let alone in German. Never had it. ’‘That’s makes you feel inadequate?’

‘More bored than anything else. It’s why I joined the army,that search for adventure..Moreover I was able to learn a trade. ’

‘That was a drastic choice. You can learn a trade if you don’t. And you can devote your time off to your lass. ’’

‘You can experience more of life in the army’.

‘You think you can become a more authentic person by fighting in a war? Why, given every other possible option, does a man choose the life of a paid killer?

‘Well, it was that or the priesthood. ’

‘Jesus Christ didn’t think it ‘s right to kill others according to the Good Book. ’‘You’re against joining up is what I’m sensing. ’

‘Let’s put it this way: most men kill for fear of being killed, but some kill for joy, racism, duty or career. Some feel there’s something inherently psychopathic about someone who joins the army in peacetime. As far as they’re concerned they join the army because they want to find out what it’s like to kill someone. I hardly think that’s an inclination that should be encouraged, do you? The Commandment ‘Thou shalt not kill’ does not have an asterisk beside it, referring you to the bottom of the page, with instances where it’s OK to kill. ’

‘What about self-defence?’

‘It’s a tricky one, all right. Britain’s hardly being invaded, though, is it?

Who knows what goes on in the Communist mind?’

‘We knew what was going on in it when we were all fighting the Nazis. The legitimate enemy. Is it a different mind now? Do you have inclinations to kill?’

 ‘I have had very violent feelings, I have to admit. It doesn’t mean I could be a wife beater or get out of control.I just feel angry towards people.And warfare being such a natural part of the human identity, I thought, well, if I join the Army those inclinations, as you call them, would be seen as a plus. On the application, they don’t come out and say that’s what they’re looking for. In the ads they tell about seeing the world and all that shite. But I would assume wanting to kill someone would be like having a degree. It would outweigh my lack of qualifications. ’

When my duties were over, I polished my German language and cleaned up my understanding of German history. Like most people I was fascinated by the big question. How a country of such rich culture could have descended to such depths of inhumanity as during the Third Reich.

I was at a vantage point to explore imaginatively how the loathsome thugs and debased elements of society were able to get their stranglehold. Enabling them to perpetrate the most malignant, calculated, devastating crimes in history, liquidating with industrial efficiency the labour movement, slews of the liberal bourgeoisie and the core of European Jewry.

This erstwhile athletic training ground for the sporting elite, still largely off limits to the public, offered a key to understanding this.  It had been a dazzling showpiece for the regime designed to demonstrate the supposed physical superiority of the German people.  It helped to blind people to the social and moral destruction it was perpetrating.  Making my way through the corridors, rooms, halls and grounds of this complex, moving materials and equipment as I went sneaking snippets about it’s history, cleaning and gleaning, led to me becoming intimate with its layout and workings.  Built to high standards with a simple functional décor, the main building didn’t need or receive much alteration when it passed into the hands of the victors. I got the feel of the previous occupancy.

Redolent with the sweat and shouts of marching youths it evoked the valhallan ghosts of a generation devoured by the Nazi state. For this promising young talent of the athletic world, the warrior attributes of courage, sense of duty and simplicity were deemed as vital as fitness, strength and stamina.  The grounds were adorned with statues of heroic figures. These represent the idealised qualities of physical perfection the Nazis wanted instilled in the youth and the power of the state. I could see them coming to life; shotputters, discus and javelin throwers. After burnishing them, whistling Wagnerian strains I moved on to pollarding the trees that dotted the grounds.  In their earlier days their young limbs had become entwined with those of those budding leaders climbing hand over fist to the top.  Agility at climbing trees, swinging from one to another and running zigzag between them was essential to gird the loins of the potential guerilla fighter. As was jumping from the ledges I cleaned onto a large canvas held by other students on the ground. Some of the highest ledges were very narrow . I myself could never have jumped from them. Some people are afraid of heights. Not me. I’m afraid of widths.

 These were a number of the rigorous, root and branch ‘Mutproben’ or courage tests designed not just for the track and field events, but for fighting for the Fuhrer and the Fatherland.  It was all about readiness for the war to come.

 The crowd roars that went up from the adjoining Olympic Stadium took my mind back to those emanating from there when the great Jesse Owens swept the field with his virtuoso performances. His victory affirmed that individual excellence rather than race or national origin distinguishes one man from another. Nazi propaganda had depicted ethnic Africans as inferior.

If anything might have put a dent in the fiction of Aryan physical supremacy, this would have.  But the Nazis were never ones to let truth get in the way of a good myth.  None of the students or teachers would have dared draw attention to such triumph. Any sign of independent thought or criticism was eradicated by summary expulsion or dismissal proceeded by humiliation.  All had to march in equal step, all had to submit to the regimental mentality.

While I was working around the gymnasia, the apparitions of athletes sweating it out in rigorous drills and of boxers locked in combat formed shadowy outlines.  Boxing that had been made compulsory in the upper school to heighten boys aggressiveness here took pride of place. It was a gloves off approach in which the contenders were egged on to pummel each other to the edge of unconsciousness. They could hardly have been expected to show mercy and pity towards each other, on the canvas, if the aim of the exercise was to stifle expression of such ‘weaknesses’.

Dr Strangelove.

 Some of the former classrooms still had the original blackboards on the walls.  Armed with a piece of chalk and some pictures from magazines, I aimed to go over the top, assuming the persona of the manic twisted Nazi teacher Dr Merkwurdigliebe, whose name loosely translates into Dr. Strangelove. I based him on Peter Sellers’ older disabled character in the film of the same name. My right hand clad in a menacing black glove, I feigned a severe case of alien hand syndrome, this arm shooting out in a Nazi salute when I got all shook up.  In such moments as when I drooled over the joys of Nazism, I cried out “Wunderbar!”.

In this guise I expounded the central tenet of the National Socialist state to the ‘students’, played by any workers and soldiers who happened to be around.  After introducing myself and greeting the class in a guttural Katzenjammer Kid accent, I proceeded to write a series of key words on the board. ‘Eugenics’.  “Zis I explained clunkily, “is our guiding social philosophy. Wundebar!  In it ve aim to recapture our primeval essence of blood and soil. We advocate the improvement of human hereditary traits through various form of intervention. ‘ Vot kind of improvements do ve vant?’, I asked rhetorically. There was a was a pregnant pause as everyone waited for the answer. “Ze Aryan’, I came back churlishly, bunging it on,  ‘Ve want to preserve und enhance ze purity of ze Herrenvolk.  Vot ve vant most-fair skin, blond hair, blue eyes “uberalles”. Ein schturdy build for die frauen und broad hips.  A strong, vell developed body for the men.Slender like Goering,tall like Himmler und blond like the Fuehrer.  Mit kein defects.  This is the vision of the Fuhrer,’  I declared holding up one of those rare photos of Hitler that got past the censors and past Merkwurdigliebe’s notice, showing this ogre wearing spectacles to correct his failing eyesight.  This was just part of the huge discrepancy, obvious to Blind Freddy, between the physique of the dictator and that of the Nazi ideal.  “Dr Goebbels vants it to be known that physical disability must be bred out!” I cried, holding up one of those rare photos of Goebbels that also slipped through, showing him limping along because of his club foot.  This was the only distortion that Hitler, averse to those with physical deformity, would not welcome from this ruthless spin doctor.

“Boys and girls,You wanna see Aryan purity,I’ll show   you who I tink fits the bill. Zis is vot our Aryan Venus looks like”  I held up a picture of Marlene Dietrich that blonde vision whose sensuality came with a cool languorous arrogance.  It was presumably these latter attributes as well as her nice set of pins that had so enchanted Hitler and Goebbels. “A little bird has told me zat der Fuhrer vud like her to kom home from Amerika”.  As with everything the image of the down to earth ‘farm girl’ with braids the regime wanted to promote was different to the glamorous one their own wives and mistresses wanted for themselves.  ‘La Dietrich” would have been expected to tone down her image as a ‘femme fatale’ and become more simply ‘fatale’.

The next word I wrote was ‘Lebensborn’. “I have recommended to the Fuhrer zat I be able to build up a group from you, zer strongest and most energetic of youth, to take part, when you are a little older, in the Lebensborn program under my supervision.  Our aim vill be to breed many of the most racially valuable children for ze Fuhrer unt zer Fatherland.  Ve haf a castle vere you vill be zer knights unt zer yung maidens”.  I was alluding to the Nazis evoking the ethos of the medieval teutonic knights.  Swearing strict obedience to the Ordensmeister, the not so silent knights rode roughshod over the serfs and churls at the bottom of the social pile. And their own children.

 “You will be selected according to how highly you score in terms of Aryan features and strength.  Girls, you vill vurk hart making die kindereggs.  Boys you vill rule der roost.  You vill have two partners each. Wunderbar!”.

Becoming very animated at the thought of this scheme I broke into song with a Mel Brooks take on “Surf City’ written by Brian Wilson from the Beach Boys.

‘Two girls for every boy.

We’ve got a castle on the Rhine where the country is quite woody.  Serf City here ve come.

You know it’s not very modern, its an oldie but a goodie. Serf City here ve come.

Well it’s more of a village than really a city.  But it still gets us vere ve vanna go.

And ve’re going to Serf City cause its two to one you know ve’re going to Serf City, gonna have some fun.

You know ve’re going to Serf City gonna have some fun now, two girls for every boy.

You know the serfs do all the verk and we’re sitting pretty.

They’ll pour our drinks as I sing this ditty and when ve get to Serf City

I’ll be shootin some churl and checkin out the Party for an Aryan girl.

Und ve’re going to Serf City cause its two to one.

You know ve’re going to Serf City, gonna have some fun.

You know ve’re going to Serf City, cause its two to one.

You know ve’re going to Serf City, gonna have some fun now.  Two girls for every boy.

You know zey never roll the streets up und zere’s alvays somezink goin on, Serf City, here ve come.

You know the boys are out street fightin cause we’ve got a Party growing, yeah, and there’s two swinging honeys for every guy, and all you you’ve got to do is just vink your eye. refrain.

My next item was ‘Racial Hygiene’.  ‘Ve haf to remove those degenerates who are mentally or physically unfit. Their blood can gush out anywhere at any time  and pollute and defile our’s .  The worst ones – the Jewish.  While I spat out this word of contempt my right hand slowly rose, moved to the inner pocket of my jacket, and with considerable stealth took out my pistol with the intent of brandishing it in the direction of any imagined Jewish intruders.  At the last minute my free hand seized the other holding the weapon and both grappled for its control.  My free hand prevailed. After a moment I, the respectable scientist, realized I had gained the upper hand and was able to contain any further overt expression of this violent sub-conscious urge. Regaining my composure, I warmed up again to my special talent as the Reich’s singing spinmeister. I filled the class in about how I would approve each applicant. “Jungvolk, zere is a German song vot is taking the world by sturm. Ven I hear it I think of young maidens like Marlene and their place in the Reich. I vood pass them mit dieser vords,  “Of all the girls I’ve met, and I’ve met some. The moment I met you, it was awesome.  And when you came in sight, dear, my fist grew tight. And the Old Order seemed New to me.  You’re really swell I have to admit you, deserve expressions that really fit you.  And so I’ve racked my brain, hoping to explain all the things that you do to me.  Bei mir bist du schon, please let me explain.

Bei mir bist du schon, mean that you’re grand.

Bei mir bist du schon, again I’ll explain.

It means you’re the fairest in the land.

I could say “sehr gut” sehr gut, even say Wundebar, our language tries to tell how grand you are.

I’ve tried to explain, beir mir bist due schon, so listen and say you understand.

While I was happily rapping away, one of my “students”, a workmate, and a plant for this occasion was unsuccessfully trying to catch my attention.

“Junge, Junge, was ist los, whats up?” I asked him.

“Mein Doctor, I’ve been trying to tell you. Haven’t you been reading? he said, handing me a copy of the Party’s magazine ‘Youth and Homeland’. Its banner headline trumpeted ‘Marlene Dietrich Betrays The Fatherland’. ‘Zis shiksa keeps company with those Jew moneymen of Hollywood ”, groaned the shill. ‘Not only that, “Bei Mir Bist de Schon turns out to be a Yiddish song. ’

Dumbfounded, hit between the eyes, I reeled under the shock of such news while my alien hand inched threateningly towards my throat.  Fighting off this assault with all my might and main, I slumped into a chair, crestfallen, groaning “Mein Gott! Ist nuffink sacred?”

A Uniform Appearance.

Assigned the duty of removing certain items of clothing from the stores and taking them to be destroyed, I came upon some items of interest.  One was an Air Raid Precautions coat which was worn by Air Raid Wardens who marshalled people to shelter during the blitz in London.  This coat must have had some stories to tell.

I would have had one big one to tell if they had dropped another Big One.

With it’s array of shiny silver buttons, it well may have prompted strangers to ask me for directions and assistance to the nearest bomb shelter.

Epitomising the strong supportive man and the elegant one at the same time, I offset its grandeur by wearing it over more casual attire — jeans, cardigan and T-shirt — a look that suggested I came into possession of my outerwear not from being in a service but from, say, a vendor at a chic market.

 My son Sean with his certain rakish elegance would wear it to keep him warm on those occasional cold Sydney nights. Who wouldn’t mind being identified as marching in style’s infantry?

It did something for me back then. It convinced me that with the right material I could make dramatic theatre to rival anything that had taken place here. It was a plain uniform which struck me as being similar to the type Hitler wore.  This was the first prop I needed for my rendition of Fuhrer’s address to the Academy’s convocation. Pastiching the style of Chaplin’s burlesque of the demonic tyrant in “The Great Dictator”. I had a lectern already in place in the assembly hall. Knowing the speech backwards, I kept in mind the requirements of a good one. It had to be like a mini skirt; long enough to cover the subject and short enough to create interest.

 all I needed was a make up flag drizzled with red paint, a drum and a large balloon to captivate my audience with. Rather than the gibberish and gobbledygook that Charlie mastered in order to ridicule, I stayed with simple English. I aimed to convey Hitler’s ideas on education lacing the flowery and bombastic language that characterized his compelling oratory with as much iron, sturm and drang as I, beating back butterflies, could muster.

Slipping into the skin of the most sinister figure who had ever drew breath, with my studied technique I slowly and solemnly mounted the rostrum from where I’m told he delivered his speech to the Academy.

Cue the rhythmic beating of a drum played by a fellow cleaner to accompany me .  A hushed silence fell as I approached the lectern, clicked my heels together and, thinking on my feet, hamming it up, launched into my demagogic spiel. Ta da!

Heil, O doughty youth!

Athletes of the Third Reich

From our hills and lowlands,

Champions of the world.

The shining destiny of our cherished Reich,

Stronghold of light,

whose honour and instrument I am,

 commands me to guide you.

Let no one believe that I am

 Other than the Fuhrer.

 As I gaze upon you

I pride myself on your physique

Temple of the Aryan spirit

From top to bottom

You embody our ancient heroic values

Brains unsullied by egghead Marxists

Moulded not in stuffy classrooms

But in gyms and open fields

Encased in thick skulls

To batter down unopened doors

And butt in when not asked

Versatile eyes

Unstrained from reading

That can home

In on distant prey

Yet see nothing,

no further than your nose. ’

Up to now I have been studiously restrained waxing lyrical about the excellence of my subjects. Holding the audience in the palm of my hand, I proceeded to tear myself into the part, work myself up more into my characteristic rant and rave, shrieking hate, barking, baying and spraying bile on my enemies, pacing back and forwards to drive home the message.

‘A good nose for stinkers

For smelling out rats

Best kept to the grindstone

To crush them like gnats

The sharpest of ears

Kept close to the ground,

Turning deaf in a moment,

Mourn not that our men are dead ,

Since more will die tomorrow.

If there’s sorrow around

Bite your lip when this happens

Cut it, there’s nothing wrong.

Keep a stiff upper lip

And you’ll always be strong

A tongue that is forked

To promise the world

And lash all our critics

When our flag is unfurled

Your bronze tinted skin

Treated to ample fresh air

For pasty faced Limeys

Is something quite rare,

A spine that is rigid

Ramrod and straight

Unbent from study,

Bound to our fate

A heart that is brutal

Unyielding and callous,

Throbs violent always

With purpose and malice

Flesh of our flesh,

Blood of our blood

Aryan Superman

Never a dud

Blood of the man gods

Pure hale and hearty

For sheer bloody mindedness

“Ve are ze Party!”

Picking up the large inflated globe of the world I held it up to show the Eurasian land mass.

“As leader I’ll take you

For one mighty ride

Through Eastern Europe

And much more beside

We need living space

Lots of room to expand

For those babies we’re breeding

Who’ll need lots of land”

Did I not promise a miracle and is this not so?

 To restore German glory to a forgetful world.

Let mountains and deserts tremble,

Let cities shudder,

Let our enemies in near and far places mark this moment,

 Turn in fear of all those miracles to come.

I spin the globe around in my hands,

“We’re part of an axis,

Around which friends rally,

A fortification

From which we may sally.

Our comrades in England

Will rise up quite soon,

Their state will be marching

To a different tune

The Union of Fascists

Is tagging along

They’re singing our anthem

Our Horst Wessel song”

As this point I hold up the ‘bloodstained’ flag, symbol of the Nazi martyr, yelping:

“Give up your pleasures,

Your lives for your country

That from me

Is my ultimate advice

Regrettably, Volk,

As your mentor and saviour,

I only have vun

To sacrifice”.

On that note , my rapid-fire delivery done and dusted, the audience leaping to it’s feet,  I was rewarded with rapturous applause, outstretched arms and sustained‘sieg heiling’. It went well into injury time—and not one person in that pullulating space would have wished it to stop. I had swept them off their feet. How much this was a response to my blazing display of bravura, or just showing off Nazi saluting and ‘sieg heiling’ that everyone has jocularly indulged in, I’m not sure. The showing off wouldn’t have come about if my audience hadn’t got something out of it.  What mattered was that I had played a tiny part in chipping away at the pedestal upon which Hitler has somehow remained. A testament to his mystique, it has continued to impress and mystify some, full of frustration and hatred. The very hard feelings produced by The Treaty of Versailles ending World War I, imposing requisitioning that the victors knew were impossible for Germany to sign off on. The war’s victors, who were determined to crush the German spirit by dismantling Germany’s military and consigning its people to abject poverty, thus helped spawned Adolf Hitler. He rose to power on the backs of the wealthy establishment who, blinkered by its fear of the “enemy within” – Communism and the alien Jew, thought it could both control and use him.

After the collapse of the Soviet bloc economies, there would be concerns that his new generation of henchmen could get their boots in the door again exploiting the crack that feelings of subjugation and humiliation had created, manipulating people’s despair and unhappiness. An enemy is at work the people are told there as elsewhere. A scapegoat is sought and hounded while the well off, anxious to defend their positions join in the hunt or look the other way.

 Under the veil of “night and fog”, the streets outside this former academy would once again resound to the sound of boots – this time bovver not hobnailed, trampled on lockstep by screeching neo-Nazi romper stompers out to beat up blacks and Asians considered inferior. Oy gevalt, this reverence for Hitler has even attracted a following amongst some young Russian migrant golems in Israel itself. A scenario recognizably possible at other times, it continues to raise its ugly head in conditions of unemployment, social insecurity and poor education.

The ultimate in systems of state terror, its’ camps the lowest circle of hell, nothing can ever surpass the Nazi template in its pathological efficacy. With respect to education it succeeded supremely in exploiting the natural exuberance of the youth, their craving for action and spectacle. It offered them a sense of belonging.  It provided an opportunity for many to develop superb physical strength unrestricted by traditional class barriers.  At the same time it’s strangulation of intellectual life, its purging of any teachers considered politically unreliable, regardless of their proven head for teaching, resulted in academic insecurity and timidity which lowered educational standards disastrously.  National Socialist teachers of questionable ability indoctrinated students with propaganda which was then parroted back by their students as unshakable points of view with no room for disagreement or discussion. Newly hatched professionals lacked basic skills in maths and science.  Biology had become corrupted bag and baggage. Nazi scientists would complain they were partially hindered in developing new sophisticated weaponry by the lack of trained scientific personnel.  This would be central to the downfall of the ‘thousand year’ Reich. The torchlights guiding their processions through the Brandenburg Gate would be dimmed forever.

 One of my first outings was to inspect this iconic potent symbol of Berlin’s division, IIIItright at the border between East and West Berlin, just inside the death strip. From the western side I mounted a viewing platform, constructed so that western spectators could take a squiz over the wall into the east.

Atop the gate could just make out the back side of the Quadriga, a chariot drawn by four horses driven by Victoria, the Roman goddess of victory. Berlin’s synbol as a place of both truculent militarism and enlightened idealism. The iron fist of rule and the velvet gloved hand of elegant ideas. The tussle over it’s adornments mirrored those of the authorities competing for power. After being wrested back from Napoleon, the wreath of oak leaves, conceived as a symbol of peace, was supplemented with a new symbol of Prussian power, the Iron Cross, changing the figure’s interpretation from a courier of peace into a goddess of victory. The Cross wasn’t there during my stay, having been removed by the East Berlin authorities, deeming it an inappropriate symbols of Prussian militarism. Instead they displayed their own on the flagpole behind it. The something I could just about make out in the middle of the flag. The hammer and compass emblem of the German Democratic Republic.

There was no crossing point here – indeed, the wall was particularly thick at this point, in case of any attempted attack by tanks. To view it as it faced the other direction, I had to go to some length via a slightly unassuming street, actually one of the most iconic locations of divided Berlin – Checkpoint Charlie.

 The desolate Pariser Platz leading up to the gate on the eastern side was designated part of the border defences, so even walking up to the gate was impossible except for V. I. P. s. I It even had it’s own “baby Wall” drawn across it , rendering it off bounds to East Berliners as well.