defiant speeches
threatening rebellion, as if they’d forgotten that Germany had lost the war. The Officer Corps was especially alarmed by the
Allies’ insistence that Germany disarm. The newspapers were filled with reports of bloody skirmishes: between soldiers and
socialist or communist factions; between socialists and communists when the soldiers were not around. The machine gun emplacements
and roadblocks infesting Berlin attested to the fact that the fledgling Weimar government was prepared to clamp down on this
dissent using whatever means necessary.
Goldstein turned left onto the Friedrichstrasse, past the imposing State Library. He was on his way home to his room in a
boardinghouse near the railroad tracks, on the far side of the Spree River, about a quarter mile from the Weidendammer Bridge.
He’d been walking for quite a while, and he still had a couple of kilometers to go, but the doctors had said that the more
walking Goldstein did, the faster his legs would mend.
He had the money to take a motorbus if he chose. He was getting by earning a living doing odd jobs. He’d put on his old uniform
and go calling at shops and residences with his pack of tools on his back. With the terrible inflation, the mark was worth
only a fraction of what it had been at the beginning of the war. Most everybody was broke, but people, seeing a young veteran
at their door, seemed always able to find the money to pay him to fix something, and often invited him in to share a meal.
For the chance to eat, Goldstein was especially grateful. Food was scarce, like most everything else in Germany excepting
bitter recriminations. With his injured legs it was difficult for him to stand in one place for very long, and the lines were
long at the sporadically open bakeries and groceries.
In the evening, Goldstein went for long walks to exercise his legs, or read: either technical books on aviation and mechanics,
borrowed from the library, or newspapers. He enjoyed current events. It was interesting, for instance, to follow what was
going on in Palestine concerning the Jews, and to read about the American President Wilson, who especially fascinated Goldstein.
In print, Wilson seemed an uncommonly just and kind man, considering the American President’s Fourteen Points for what would
have been a merciful settlement toward Germany, and his attempt to establish a so-called League of Nations to mediate all
future international disputes, and thereby avoid another world war. The more Goldstein read, the more it seemed to him that
only America had a leader wise enough to want to put aside vindictiveness towards vanquished Germany. The Americans had certainly
seemed more willing to be fair at Versailles than the English, and especially those bastard French…
A crowd was backed up at a government sentry point on the Dorotheenstrasse, near the Winter Garden Theater. Goldstein was
waiting his turn to pass when he saw Heiner Froehlig of all people, seated alone at a table for two in a sidewalk cafe across
the street. Froehlig was wearing blue pinstripes and a derby, and had clipped back his once luxurious walrus moustache, but
Goldstein was sure that it was his old comrade.
In November, after the Armistice, Froehlig had frequently visited Goldstein in the hospital. For a few months Froehlig showed
up a couple of times a week, to pass Goldstein his silver flask when the nurses weren’t about, and talk about their intended
partnership in the motorcar garage.
Gradually, though, Froehlig’s visits began to taper off. Finally, he no longer came at all. Goldstein was mystified, and deeply
hurt. He concluded he’d been naive to have expected anything different. When would he ever learn? With the economy the way
it was, the idea of starting a business was utter foolishness. Anyway, what did he have in common with Froehlig? Their friendship
had been the result of a particular set of circumstances, a
threatening rebellion, as if they’d forgotten that Germany had lost the war. The Officer Corps was especially alarmed by the
Allies’ insistence that Germany disarm. The newspapers were filled with reports of bloody skirmishes: between soldiers and
socialist or communist factions; between socialists and communists when the soldiers were not around. The machine gun emplacements
and roadblocks infesting Berlin attested to the fact that the fledgling Weimar government was prepared to clamp down on this
dissent using whatever means necessary.
Goldstein turned left onto the Friedrichstrasse, past the imposing State Library. He was on his way home to his room in a
boardinghouse near the railroad tracks, on the far side of the Spree River, about a quarter mile from the Weidendammer Bridge.
He’d been walking for quite a while, and he still had a couple of kilometers to go, but the doctors had said that the more
walking Goldstein did, the faster his legs would mend.
He had the money to take a motorbus if he chose. He was getting by earning a living doing odd jobs. He’d put on his old uniform
and go calling at shops and residences with his pack of tools on his back. With the terrible inflation, the mark was worth
only a fraction of what it had been at the beginning of the war. Most everybody was broke, but people, seeing a young veteran
at their door, seemed always able to find the money to pay him to fix something, and often invited him in to share a meal.
For the chance to eat, Goldstein was especially grateful. Food was scarce, like most everything else in Germany excepting
bitter recriminations. With his injured legs it was difficult for him to stand in one place for very long, and the lines were
long at the sporadically open bakeries and groceries.
In the evening, Goldstein went for long walks to exercise his legs, or read: either technical books on aviation and mechanics,
borrowed from the library, or newspapers. He enjoyed current events. It was interesting, for instance, to follow what was
going on in Palestine concerning the Jews, and to read about the American President Wilson, who especially fascinated Goldstein.
In print, Wilson seemed an uncommonly just and kind man, considering the American President’s Fourteen Points for what would
have been a merciful settlement toward Germany, and his attempt to establish a so-called League of Nations to mediate all
future international disputes, and thereby avoid another world war. The more Goldstein read, the more it seemed to him that
only America had a leader wise enough to want to put aside vindictiveness towards vanquished Germany. The Americans had certainly
seemed more willing to be fair at Versailles than the English, and especially those bastard French…
A crowd was backed up at a government sentry point on the Dorotheenstrasse, near the Winter Garden Theater. Goldstein was
waiting his turn to pass when he saw Heiner Froehlig of all people, seated alone at a table for two in a sidewalk cafe across
the street. Froehlig was wearing blue pinstripes and a derby, and had clipped back his once luxurious walrus moustache, but
Goldstein was sure that it was his old comrade.
In November, after the Armistice, Froehlig had frequently visited Goldstein in the hospital. For a few months Froehlig showed
up a couple of times a week, to pass Goldstein his silver flask when the nurses weren’t about, and talk about their intended
partnership in the motorcar garage.
Gradually, though, Froehlig’s visits began to taper off. Finally, he no longer came at all. Goldstein was mystified, and deeply
hurt. He concluded he’d been naive to have expected anything different. When would he ever learn? With the economy the way
it was, the idea of starting a business was utter foolishness. Anyway, what did he have in common with Froehlig? Their friendship
had been the result of a particular set of circumstances, a
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