Cold War

Jakob Liebherr lifted his head and looked up as yet another aircraft dropped out of the cloud and growled its way across the sky. It flew so low that Jakob felt as if he could reach up and touch it. Tempelhof Airport, the only airport in the American Sector, was just four kilometres away and all the aircraft passing directly overhead were on final approach. They sank through the clouds with their wheels and flaps already down. You could see the white stars on their wings and the oil stains on their bellies.

Liebherr was amazed they could land in these conditions. He supposed it was very dangerous and there might be a terrible accident, but he didn’t want to think about that just now. For the moment, these dirty old cargo planes were like angels from heaven. It was not so much the flour, milk, and coal they were delivering, he reflected as he continued towards the unadorned building that housed the offices of the SPD. It was the message of hope that they carried on their wings: hope that the Western Allies would not abandon Berlin.

A glance at his surroundings reminded him of just how important hope was. The hulking building ahead of him had been diminished by half by aerial bombardment, and the façade had been pock-marked by Russian artillery. Most of the plaster had fallen off, exposing the underlying bricks. Many of the windows were still boarded up with cardboard and plywood. Beyond, the roofs of several buildings were missing, and the top floors had been gutted by fire. As Liebherr passed into the SPD headquarters, he remembered that more than 200 people had been trapped in the air raid shelter across the street and suffocated there. Now the same air forces that had done the killing were attempting to supply the city with all vital necessities. It was a mad world.

Although Liebherr was tired after an hour’s walk to get here, he knew there would be no electric power in this part of the city until later today. That meant the elevator wouldn’t be working. He had no choice but to walk up two flights of stairs to the large conference room where the SPD representatives of the Western Sectors were meeting to discuss the situation. There was no point rushing. Two years in a Nazi concentration camp had left him with weak lungs, and he became very short of breath when climbing stairs. All he could do was take it one step at a time, literally. Fortunately, he was almost half an hour early.

Halfway to his destination, he was overtaken by his colleague Jeannette Wolfe. Just ten days ago, she had been attacked by a Soviet-incited mob and beaten before they could shepherd her to safety. Yet the sixty-year-old had not been intimidated and had raised her in voice in the Assembly to protest against Soviet demands. Now she slowed her pace to walk with him. “Everything healing?” Jakob asked her, nodding at her fading bruises.

“Tsch! You know what they say: what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. You and I saw the inside of concentration camps. A few amateur thugs aren’t going to frighten us. Besides, I feel better with each passing aeroplane!” With a twinkle still in her eye, she pointed towards the ceiling that was vibrating as the next aircraft flew low over the roof.