Frozen Blood In Snow (standard:drama, 5242 words)
Author: Paddy65	Added: Apr 25 2004	Views/Reads: 3364/2385	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Some historical fiction of nazis and communists in the pre-hitler weimar republic.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“Mind if I sit down?” he asked.  “There are no other seats available.” 

I quickly glanced outside at the intensifying snowfall and said that he
should go right ahead.  Holger and this man exchanged this bizarre, 
five-second meeting of their very different eyes.  It was hard to 
pinpoint their respective facial expressions, but I think that the best 
word would be “puzzled.”  Quickly, they pulled their eyes off of one 
another.  The new man sat down and pulled out a book of his own.  It 
was a gray book called Lebenstraum, or in English, “living space.”  A 
man named Himmler wrote it.  I had never heard of this Himmler, but I 
had an inkling of what the book was about. 

I became a little uneasy.  The snow outside gained force, blowing at
about a 75-degree angle.  However, I looked at Holger and the new man, 
and they were both apparently engrossed in their respective books.  So, 
I retreated back to the sea.  Unfortunately, this time I was only able 
to get down to about 10,000 leagues. 

This scene, the three of us reading in silence, proceeding without
incident for about ten minutes. 

However, I began to notice that the new man would periodically dart his
eyes toward Ottenbrauer; just quick glances, as if he didn't want 
anyone to see that he was looking at him.  Then, he finally put his 
book down and said bluntly: 

“Are you a Jew?”  Oh shit, I whispered. 

“Why do you ask?” replied Holger, not taking his eyes off of his page. 

“Because you are a communist,” the new man said.  Here we go, I thought.
 Holger took his intense eyes off his biography of Rosa Luxemburg and 
placed them squarely on the new man's brilliantly blue ones. 

“Who said that all communists are Jews?” he said.  “My name is
Ottenbrauer,        anyways.” 

“And my name's Schumacher, so what?” the new man indignantly replied. 
“And it makes no difference.  Jews and communists are one-in-the-same 
in my book.  You are all November criminals.” I sighed loudly.  Those 
words could have come directly from Adolph Hitler's mouth.  Ottenbrauer 
looked back him, apparently unphased.  Determined to quell any 
escalation of hostilities, I spoke up: 

“Okay, can we just read in peace, please?  I am in no mood to listen to
such unprovoked animosity.” 

“But, friend, this man is a communist,” his outstretched finger nearly
poked Ottenbrauer's face, “surely you cannot sit there and tell me that 
he did not yearn to see Germany fall in the war.  To see Germany 
descend into chaos, making condition ripe for a seizure of power.  It's 
just like Lenin in Russia.”  He paused for a second.  “The war was not 
lost in the trenches on the front, but lost here at home when November 
Criminals like this communist here, stabbed Germany in the back” 

“You don't even know this man, “ I replied, “what if--“ 

“You are the same, you Jews, Communists and intellectuals,” he
continued, turning back to Ottenbrauer.  “You sabotaged Germany during 
The Great War, shedding your own country men's blood, leaving them to 
die on the battlefield, betraying your motherland and giving aid to the 
Triple Entente; perfectly fine with being a coward and a traitor.  On 
top of that, you are a homosexual tramp, and your mother is a whore.  A 
cheap one.  Ten pfennigs for a go . . . Your father too.”  Ottenbrauer 
continued to stare, face motionless. 

Oh shit, I thought.  This guy was clearly a Nazi.  Just my luck.  Why is
it that every time I come all this way on a streetcar to get away from 
this appalling brand of Berlin politics and read some Jules Verne, I 
get sandwiched between a goddamn communist and a goddamn Nazi, who feel 
the need, at every given moment, to spew out their ideological garbage 
right on top of my goddamn coffee shop table.  I wanted nothing to do 
with it. 

These fuckers, who were on the opposite ends of the political spectrum
(the extreme ends), loved to hate each other.  Their hatred often 
manifested itself in the blood-stained snow, there to be frozen for 
posterity's sake for days, to be seen by any and all who walked the 
streets; an inevitable result of an all-too-often, Nazi-Communist 
street fight. 

Outside the snow blew at a sixty-degree angle and Ottenbrauer took a
deep breath. 

“My parents are dead,” he said calmly.  “My mother of smallpox.  And my
father?  He died in the war.  How could I be a November criminal, if my 
own father shed his blood at Verdun?  He was blown up by a British 
grenade.  How could I even fathom sabotaging the German cause, when my 
father was a German soldier, fighting under von Hindenburg, in honor of 
Chancellor Bismarck?  Anyways, I was ten years old, for god's sake.  No 
one that young can be a conspirator.”  Fair enough, I thought.  He 
paused briefly and sucked on a cigarette as Schumacher stared at him in 
silence.  Holger then continued: 

“I care deeply for Germany and that is why I am a communist.  I want to
help create for Germany a utopia, a classless society.  Where the 
workers, who toil in the factories and make the country work, are given 
their fair share of the pie.  All the while his owner-exploiter is 
punished for his capitalistic sins.”  I shed a sarcastic tear. 

Great, I thought.  Now here this guy goes with his leftist horseshit.  I
didn't want to hear it.  And what kind of Marxist uses the word “sin?”  
Wasn't he supposed to be an atheist?  I was getting quite angry that 
these two men decided that it was my table that they decided to 
pointlessly pontificate at.  Plus, these guys were young.  Ottenbrauer 
seemed like a Marxist novice, characteristic of an impressionable boy 
his age, who has recently picked up some Marxist literature and 
immediately decided to grow out a scruffy beard and stop tending to his 
hair and, in fact, to completely neglect most matters of his personal 
hygiene.  Just like Marx himself, I thought. 

I had similar impressions of Schumacher.  He was a young man; vulgar and
impressionable.  These boys thought they were on the cutting-edge. 

But, you must remember that it was a time when extremist ideologies
appealed to the younger generation of Germans.  It became clearer and 
clearer that Weimar was reaching the end of its road, or a set of vital 
crossroads.  The Reichstag seemed to be perpetually paralyzed by 
endless parliamentary infighting, all the while economic conditions 
sank to critical levels.  After the Great War, Germany was a pitiful 
shell of its old self.  Weak and submissive to the Triple Entente 
victors, red in the face about being forced to submit to the repressive 
and ego-bruising Treaty of Versailles.  It is times like these that 
some people, especially young men like Ottenbrauer and Schumacher, find 
value in radicalism.  Times like these required drastic action, and a 
thing these two movements were not short of, was plans for drastic 
action.  Actions to be taken by any means necessary to rescue the 
country from its economic, social, and political quandary.  Even if it 
requires clashing on the streets.  If physical brutality eventually 
brought about a strong and omnipotent Germany, or a German workers' 
paradise, so be it.    The democratic elements of the Reichstag proved 
to be quite innocuous and powerless against the Entente, Versailles, 
and the spiraling economic downturn, and people were losing faith in 
Weimar democracy.  The Communists and Nazis, perhaps because of their 
penchant for street-fighting, showed that they were willing to take 
concrete action, rather than to wrangle ineffectively in parliament.  
Some people believed that the brutality was worth a brighter German 
future. 

At any rate, Ottenbrauer continued his diatribe: 

“November criminals?  Why do you Nazis feel that you must be Hitler's
parrots?  You are like his cuckold husband, impotently performing his 
every whim.  His blind minions, marching like factory machines.  He 
exploits you and you happily lap it up, like mangy hound dogs scouring 
every Berlin dumpster for a single scrap.” 

What is this guy talking about?  I thought.  Must he insert Marxist
dogma into every thing he says?  Do all communist analogies have to 
include factories and owner-exploiters? 

Schumacher stared right into Ottenbrauer's eyes. 

“Your mother is still a whore,” he said.  “A dead whore.  Your father
is, too.  Your father is still lying there at Verdun, blown to bits.  
Each arm, leg and eye still angry that his son is homosexual Jew-tramp. 
 You disgrace him.”  Jesus Christ, I thought, what is this inflammatory 
shit? 

The snow now angled at a good 45 degrees.  I sighed loudly, but said
nothing.  The men had not left their seats and their voices stayed 
relatively low.  I was still quite uneasy though.  I was worried about 
this coming to blows and about what these apparently strongly 
opinionated and outspoken young men thought of me, an American.  Of 
course, I prided myself on being perfectly fluent in the German 
language and possessing what I thought was an authentic accent.    
However, I realized that they paid me no attention. 

The communist was obviously disgusted by what Schumacher had said to
him.  His calm demeanor seemed to systematically melt away.  I think he 
loved his parents very much for suddenly, he slapped Schumacher in the 
face.  The two men rose quickly and started yelling unintelligle, yet, 
no doubt, vulgar and disparaging things, as they swung at each other.  
I stood up and with the strength that only adrenaline can provide, 
grabbed their collars and forcibly plopped them back into their chairs. 


“Will you guys just shut the fuck up already?!”  I yelled resonantly. 
There was silence in the whole damn place.  Schumacher and Ottenbrauer 
looked at me, bewildered.  I think they had, before this, forgotten my 
presence.  In a voice a slight decibel lower, I angrily and crazily 
went on.  I was just about out of my mind. 

“I fucking come here to get away from you fucking extremists and your
horseshit politics, in which you hold the whole goddamn city captive 
every goddamn day, as we innocent people try to get on with our lives 
during these crazy, motherfucking times,” this is the best I can 
translate the cursing, “and I try to read 20,000 Motherfucking Leagues 
Under The Goddamn, Piece-Of-Shit, Horse Manure Fucking Sea, but you two 
young, impudent, little pieces of bird dung, thinking you're goddamn 
ideological little geniuses, spew your dogmatic horse shit all over 
this goddamn table, after I generously offer you seats, I might add, 
and can't even keep quiet and read for half-an-hour without trying to 
kill each other!  You're not men!  You're not even little boys!  You're 
little, baby animals!  So, either shut the fuck up, or get the hell out 
of here and kill each other on the streets, like the rest of the good 
extremists do!” 

As you could expect, the whole damn place was silent.   I took a couple
deep breaths and sat back down.  The three of us sat there for a 
minute, just looking at each other, wondering what the hell just 
happened.  In the coffee shop, the people gradually stop staring at me 
and started to talk amongst themselves again.  I retrieved my 
composure. 

“I'm sorry,” I said, “but I am really getting ticked off at all this.  I
came here to get away from you guys.  Can't you realize that you're the 
same?  You both want complete domination of Germany and you both are 
willing to shed blood for it.  You should get together and have a big 
party, radicals only; tilting back a few cold ones and terrorizing the 
streets.  Jesus. I don't respect either of you.  Yours is the politics 
of intimidation, of subversion, of brutality.  How can you defend that, 
goddamn it?” 

The two men stared at me intently with their eyes.  Apparently, they had
stopped thinking about their differences.  Schumacher then spoke up. 

“I must apologize for ruining your plans, but let's get a few things
straight.  All that you said is easy for an American to say.”  Ha, I've 
been found out.  “Things are, how do say?   A-OK, over there in 
America.  There are no wars with Canada or Mexico.  But, over here, in 
Europe, we Germans are hated by almost everybody and they, apparently 
along with you Americans, will stop at nothing to destroy us.  Our 
country is in danger of disintegrating.  To me, National Socialism can 
bind Germany together.  Hitler is a strong man, a good leader.  He has 
the power to bring all Germans, from Bavaria to Berlin, together.” 

“Except Jews or Communists.”  I replied. 

“Ah, but they are not real Germans.” 

I looked over at Ottenbrauer and he stared at the Nazi, but seemed to be
under control. 

“And the brutality?”  Schumacher added, “well, I am not a part of that. 
Those are Hitler's shock troops.  I am not even an official member of 
the party.  But I support Hitler.  I sometimes have problems with the 
brutality, but then I sometimes think, ‘if you want to make omelets, 
you need to break some eggs.'” 

“Oh, that's a load of horseshit.”  I said. 

“It is,” agreed Ottenbrauer. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?  That's the whole purpose of
Marxism.  To me, it seems like you guys are real good at breaking eggs, 
but your omelets taste like shit.  Both of you guys.  It's horseshit 
and it's irresponsible” 

“Well, I must say, that, I too, am not apart of the violence and I too,
am new to my party.  The violence comes from our militia.  But, I 
actually agree with this Nazi.  You Americans don't understand what's 
going on here.  We need action.  Drastic action.” 

“Hey,” I replied, “I've lived here for eight years, I know what is going
on.  And by the way, I thought that America should've remained neutral 
in The Great War.  That was Wilson's original plan.  But then, the 
goddamn U-boats were sinking our merchant ships all over the place.”  I 
paused.  “Look, all I am saying is that I want you to realize that you 
are both Germans and that Germans shouldn't fight each other, 
regardless of ideological differences.  Leave it to the rest of the 
world to fight Germany.  And leave us peaceful Germans in peace.”  I 
gave each man a separate glance.  “Now, if you want to sit here at my 
table, you guys shake hands, or else get the fuck back outside in the 
frigid weather.  I want to help you maniacs work out your differences.” 
The two men looked at each other, each motionless. 

“Fucking do it!”  I said forcibly. 

They slowly and obviously very reluctantly, brought there hands up for a
quick shake.  I think my older age and crazy outburst had an effect on 
them. 

Satisfied with my diplomatic mediation, I pulled out old Jules Verne
again.  Out the window, the snow was back at a semi-tolerable 75 
degrees. 

“Now, I came here to read 20,000 Leagues Under the Goddamn Sea, not
baby-sit a couple of pseudo-radicals.  So, I suggest that if you guys 
can't get along, you can just read your indoctrinating psycho-babble in 
silence.” 

Grudgingly accepting this, they pulled out their books. 

It took me twenty minutes to finish my book.  The finale was riveting,
and for a delightful yet short period of time, my mind was off of 
Berlin politics, and down in the briny deep.  Wishing I could stay 
there, I closed the book and looked at my two fellow Berliners.  They 
read quietly and I felt like a good parent. 

However, I looked out the window and saw that the snow had suddenly
reached near-blizzard proportions.  Through the snowfall, I could make 
out some tightly compacted rows of men camouflaged in all-white 
uniforms.  They marched down the street in perfect sync, like . . 
.well, like a damn machine.  The communist was right.  I immediately 
recognized that Hitler's vaunted shock troops, the SA, were on the 
march.  What in the hell were they doing here, I thought. 

Ottenbrauer and Schumacher hadn't noticed this new development, noses
still buried in their books, minds being poisoned.  Suddenly, shots 
rang out outside.  A phalanx of men dressed in red flooded the streets, 
and thus began a clash of red against white.  This finally got the two 
men's attention, as on the street right outside the coffee shop, their 
brethren slaughtered each other, spilling the color of revolution and 
radicalism onto the snow, to be immediately frozen.  Ottenbrauer and 
Schumacher stared half crazed and half frightened at the events 
unfolding outside.  I could not tell if they wanted to join in, or run. 
 Before they could do either, I grabbed the backs of their shirts and 
tugged them towards a back exit.  It led to an alley, safely away from 
the bloody street.  They did not resist, and once outside, we ran. 

We ran for a couple of blocks till we felt out of harm's way, but still
kept a brisk walk, straight into thickets off blowing snow.  My two 
little comrades seemed rather shaken up.  I was on edge as well, but 
undoubtedly, I had witnessed more bloody, ideological street-fights 
than they had.  Perhaps this was, to each, their first. 

“You see?”  I said as we walked.  “What good does this do?  We just got
out of a war to end all wars, and now, Germany is at war with herself.” 
They said nothing. 

“Man,” I continued.  “I don't know if I can take this anymore.  Berlin
is just not a safe place to be, nowadays.”  They were still silent.  
Just the sound of boots crunching the snow.  The two men did not look 
at each other, just the ground. 

“Well, I need a beer.”  I said emphatically.  The two other men nodded. 

We were now about a mile away from the street-fight.  We still heard
gunshots and screams echoing in the distance.  The snow beat down on us 
hard, so we stepped into the first brauhaus we could find. 

Inside, it was warm and dry.  The place was fairly busy at this hour,
with a bunch of Berliners drinking themselves to a good time, 
apparently unaware that a mile away, blood spilt into the streets.   
Hearty German laugher echoed throughout the room, harmonizing with the 
clinking of glasses and shout of drink order.  The crowd was mixed; 
cigar-chomping old men played cards in a corner, while packs of 
youngsters sat at tables, telling dirty jokes and humorous stories. 

The three of us took a seat at a table in front of an empty stage. 
Ottenbrauer and Schumacher still hadn't spoken a word to each other, 
or, for that matter, to me either.  But, it seemed like the images of 
Germans bleeding into the snow had settled them down.  At least, it 
appeared as thought they didn't want to kill each other anymore. 

Then, a blond waitress with classically German handsome looks came up to
our table.  Both Ottenbrauer and Schumacher smiled at her.  I think it 
was the first time I had seen either one of them smile.  Actually, I 
smiled at the waitress too; she was very pretty, and she reciprocated 
with a smile that could make Marx himself forget about ideological 
conviction.   I ordered a St. Pauli's Girl(the waitress actually looked 
like that prostitute pictured on the label); Ottenbrauer, a vodka sour; 
and Schumacher, a straight whiskey. 

Soon, the waitress returned with our drinks.  The three of us looked at
each other, all giving each other these strange nodding gestures, 
acknowledging the waitress's beauty. 

“So guys,” I said, “what do you think of the fraulein waitress, eh?  She
is a looker.” 

“Ja.”  Ottenbrauer and Schumacher said in unison. 

“I could ride her all the way to Munich,” Schumacher said. 

“Yeah,” I said, “she really makes you forget about fighting each other,
right?  Like little children.  Little animals.  Bloodthirsty animals.” 

“Will you just shut up about that, you stupid American.”  Said
Schumacher. 

“Yes, please stop.  We are not children.”  Agreed Ottenbrauer.  “You
Americans think you have all the answers, but frankly I am getting 
annoyed with your bourgeois jocularity and self-righteous 
pontificating.” 

“Yes, why don't you just stick your foot in your mouth,” said
Schumacher.  I started to laugh. “See?” I said, “You guys can agree on 
something.  You hate Americans.” 

“Yes.  Apple pie-shit Yankee,” Schumacher said in heavily accented
English. 

“Ha.  Apple pie-shit Yankee,” repeated Ottenbrauer. 

“Yeah,” I replied, “keep it coming, you German motherfuckers.  How about
this: all German women are hogs.” 

“So is your mother,” responded Schumacher, back in German, laughing. 
Ottenbrauer laughed too. 

And so this went on through several rounds of drinks; the young,
polarized radicals defiling American women, especially my mother, in 
complete ribaldry.  Actually, they defiled almost everything American, 
including American literature and art. 

“I agree,” I slurred loudly.  “That's why I fucking came to this
god-forsaken place.  I'm a painter, y'know” 

“What do you do, Yankee, shit on a canvas and sell it as art?” 
Ottenbrauer chuckled. 

We were having a grand old time ribbing each other, trying to push each
other's buttons.  Looking back on it, it was one of the proudest 
moments of my life.  The Communist and the Nazi, having a laugh, 
brought together by a deep-seated hatred of everything American, and a 
love of alcohol and vulgarity.  Timeless things.  I was happy to be 
their laughing-stock, as long as they weren't fighting.  The waitress 
too, by her very femininity and her presence brought them together.  
They talked about her.  Speculated what she looked like in the nude.  
Alcohol, lust, humor; these are things that anyone can agree on.  Even 
such deeply ideological people, diametrically opposed to each other. 

That bar was exactly the place I wanted to be at that exact time.  It
was the opposite of the bloody street.  All differences were thrown 
out, checked at the door.  It was about having a good time, nothing 
else.  It was the Germany one comes to Germany for.  The Germany of 
Gemutlichkeit.  Good feelings, rabble-rousing.  It was the Germany of 
good beer and good sausage.  Beerhall Germany.   Oktoberfest Germany.  
Germany that lifted steins and sang songs.  Germany that told dirty 
jokes about my mother.  Germany that drank out of glass boots and 
danced to polka music.  It was Germany of the heart and soul.  At the 
beerhall, ideology had no place, for it inevitably hindered 
Gemutlichkeit. H 

owever, ideological Germany had steadily crept in since the onset of the
20's.  Germany of the coffee house and of the street fight.  Germany of 
the head and fist.  It was becoming as much Germany as Gemutlichkeit. 

The beerhall was becoming the last place for political neutrality, or at
least, respectful differences of opinion.  But, even this was in 
danger.  Some beerhalls were used by both the communists and Nazis as 
HQ's and recruitment centers.  Luckily, the one Ottenbrauer, Schumacher 
and I stumbled on, appeared to be free of any ideological disagreement. 
 For everyone in there was having a blast. At about midnight, the 
curtains on the stage opened and a brass band played old German folk 
songs.  Every person in the bar stood and waved their stein around, 
singing their lungs out.  During these deeply troubling times, when 
hope seemed dangerous to have, and fascism lurked over the horizon, and 
as everything appeared to be in jeopardy, this was most beautiful thing 
I had ever seen.  The patrons, the bartenders, the waitress, me, and 
not least of all, Ottenbrauer and Schumacher; everyone belting out 
these wonderful, old tunes about old German myths, children's games and 
drinking.  Not one word about National Socialism or Communism.  These 
were songs that predated any of that shit.  Songs that people like my 
two companions enjoyed when they were children.  Songs that transcended 
the brutal politics of Berlin.  They were not from the head or the 
fist, but from the heart. 

But after about the fourth song, it all abruptly ended, as white and
red-uniformed men, poured in from the street outside, where apparently, 
masked by the passionate singing, another street-melee occurred.  It 
madness, chaos.  Bodies flew and shots were fired.  Blood spilt all 
over the floor.  Right in front of me, a man gauged another man's gut 
with a large knife.  Than a random fist cracked me square in the nose.  
I only had a second to ponder that it was broken when another man 
kicked me several time in the ribs as I lay on the ground.  I couldn't 
believe it.  Did these extremists follow me around wherever I went, 
just to ruin my good times?  After I while, I cease getting pummeled.  
Probably, I went unnoticed writhing on the floor.  When I got the 
strength, I stood.  Ottenbrauer and Schumacher were nowhere to be 
found, and I got the hell out of there, stumbling around on the street, 
unable to see more than three feet in front of me.  The snow fell 
horizontally and in sheets. 

* * * 

Indeed, I did get the hell out of there.  Out of Berlin, out of Germany.
 Hitler soon grasped the reigns of power and I knew I could live in 
Berlin no longer.  I retreated back to the cozy Middle West, where the 
most important considerations were harvests and making ends meet. 

Soon after, I moved to New York City, which actually had an art scene to
rival Berlin.  Plus, the weather was a little more moderate, as well as 
the politics.  After Berlin, good old Tammany Hall corruption and 
patronage seemed like the Boy Scouts. 

I actually became a pretty successful painter.  You've probably never
heard of me, but in some circles of pretentious art aficionados, I am a 
semi-known name.  One reviewer said my work “seethes with stark emotion 
and smacks you right in the heart.  No one has ever made brutality so 
beautiful and true.”  I've attributed my success as an artist to my 
time spent in Berlin, where I learned that there were realities 
elsewhere in the world that were worlds harsher than the American 
ordeal. 

I never saw Schumacher or Ottenbrauer again, as I expected I wouldn't. 
I'm retired now, so I have a lot of time on my hands.  A couple years 
ago, I returned to Berlin for the first time since 1933.  Well, West 
Berlin.  The wall came up a few years ago.  I was curious about what 
happened to Ottenbrauer and Schumacher, so I investigated.  My searched 
for Ottenbrauer led me to make calls to Moscow.  Apparently, he 
emigrated there about the time I left.  So, he made it to a Communist 
utopia after all.  Or so I thought.  I found out, that he had been a 
cog in the Party machine, but was killed in 1937, apparently a part of 
Stalin's Great Purges. 

As for Schumacher, I found out that he died, too.  He was in the German
army, and was killed storming Stalingrad in 1942.  So, the two men 
stuck with their ideologies and died for it. 

All I can do now is look over the wall to the Russian sector known as
East Berlin, where to me, the irony is that Communism and Nazism 
created East Berlin.  Sure, the snow has melted, but you can still 
smell the blood in the streets. 


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