Berlin, Witnesses at the Crossroads of History
an excerpt

Lieutenant Jonathan Stevens Nolan of the 298th United States Army Band looked around at the people who had gathered to listen. On one side, the south side of Bernauer that lay within the Russian sector, there were only a few, and at least a couple of them were official watchers, the informers who were paid by the Russians to check up on everything and everybody. They were standing at the entrance to the church, leaning against the sidewalk pillars, watching and listening to everything. Maybe someone would say something considered disloyal and they could report them. They were the forerunners of the Stasi, the next generation of the Gestapo, alike in everything but name.

On the other side of the street, within the French zone, there were civilians. These were the people who represented the reason they were there. The Lieutenant thought about that. The Russians would never provide music, unless it was used to support the wonderful world of Communism in some way. To them, music was just another tool to control the people. There was good music and bad music, or more correctly put, there was politically acceptable music and politically unacceptable music, as if music somehow had politics! Okay, some music does have political meaning. We can’t very well play Horst Wessel without conveying support for the Nazis, but other than that? Nope, music is music!

So the band played, choosing to face the north, choosing to face the zone that understood, the zone that represented musical freedom. They played the usual stuff, a couple of Sousa marches mixed in with some Glenn Miller tunes. The people watching were polite, but not particularly enthusiastic. They smiled, but only slightly, and the Lt. Jonathan Nolan knew why. This isn’t music they know. This isn’t music they would go anywhere to see. Sure, they’re lethargic and tired, but music should pick them up. Then he had an idea. By the end of the song, he decided.

“At ease, gentlemen,” he said, telling the band to take a quick break. Then he turned to the Sergeant. “Sergeant Murtaw?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to change the program a bit.” The Sergeant frowned. He often thought it was his job to run the band, and the Lieutenant was just along to wave the baton. But, more importantly, he knew it was his job to keep the Lieutenant out of trouble.

“And what would the Lieutenant like to do?” The two of them went way back, playing stateside before coming to Europe just as Paris fell. Their relationship was well beyond their difference in rank, and they had become good friends despite growing up in different worlds. Sergeant Murtaw came from a little town outside Atlanta and his mother had taught him respect for his superiors and the rules. Lieutenant Nolan grew up in New York and rules were something to be used as a rough guideline. Sgt. Murtaw would wait for the light to cross the street at the corner; Lt. Nolan would jaywalk in the middle of the block.

“Sergeant, do you see that?” the Lieutenant said, pointing to the people and families that had gathered in front of the shop and down Ackerstrasse. Murtaw nodded, seeing what he saw but completely uncertain what it was the Lieutenant was seeing. “Those people are not being entertained.” The Sergeant nodded. The Lieutenant was right. They were an audience in name alone.

“Sergeant, how do you think we should change that?” Murtaw had no idea what he was talking about. The band sounded pretty good to him. They were in time, they were playing the right notes, and the instruments were in tune. What else is there?

“Sergeant, we have our music with us, correct?” The Sergeant nodded, sensing danger. “Well, tell the boys to open up those satchels and pull out 41 and 53.”

“Sir, we can’t play them! They’re on the list.”

“You are absolutely correct. They are on the list. But they shouldn’t be on the list, Sergeant Murtaw. Hitler didn’t write them. His boys didn’t write them. They don’t have words like ‘Now we spill the Jewish blood.’ They’re not the Horst Wessel song. They’re just good, old fashioned music, and I think it’s about time we played something these people will know. If we’re going to entertain them, let’s play them something they’d like to hear. They didn’t come down here to listen to Chet Baker play like Harry James!” The Sergeant clearly thought this was a terrible idea.

“Sir, they’re on the list. And the goons over there will report it if we play them. And then Captain Anders will show up and we’ll all be in trouble. And when he’s done, General Scott will show up and…and…we’ll all end up cleaning latrines for the next year!” The Lieutenant smiled.

“You know, Sergeant Murtaw. I think we need to remember why we’re here. Look at that kid. How old is he…eight maybe?” Sgt. Murtaw looked where he was pointing and nodded. “So, when was the last time he smiled and played and had fun? I’ll bet he’s forgotten how to smile, or maybe he’s never even learned. God knows he hasn’t had much to smile about in the last eight years. Sergeant, I think it’s time we give these people something to smile about. Their lives aren’t very good right now, but they’ve got to believe things are going to get better. Today, I think that’s our job.”

He stopped and looked around, seeing all the children, the dirty, ragged children, standing with the dirty, ragged adults, all of them dressed in rags which were a sad combination of their Sunday best and what they wore to work the rubble. They were dressed in the only clothes they had! When he turned back to face Sergeant Murtaw he had tears in his eyes.

“Sergeant, we will play 41 and 53. And I don’t care who else knows about it.” Then he turned and hollered to the watchers standing at the front of the church. “Boys, we’re going to play 41 and 53, so make sure you write that down correctly.” As he turned back, the band was pulling music from their satchels…music they knew well. It was old music, from the old days. And for them, that was just fine.

Lieutenant Nolan raised his baton once again, and behind every instrument in the band he saw a face wearing a smile. The war was over, but they were still in a fight, and it was time to confront the enemy again, not with rifles and mortars, but with cymbals and horns. Lieutenant Nolan glanced over his shoulder, and then brought down his baton. On the sheets hastily shoved into the music holders it said Radetsky March. On the street, in the crowd of emaciated, dirty Berliners, it said something completely different, something much more significant.

After a few bars, everything in the neighborhood changed. At the church the watchers quickly pulled out their pencils and started writing, unable to believe what they were hearing. Behind the Lieutenant, the change was even more pronounced. The men stood up straighter, the women dusted off their rags, and the children started to smile. It was music they knew. A few of the older people remembered another time when another military band played that song, right here on this street as they marched by.

The reason for that wasn’t important, they simply remembered fondly another time, when they were proud to be German. This was music they loved. It wasn’t “Hitler’s music”, it was their music. It was German music. For a moment, they were proud to be German once again. For a moment they weren’t the vanquished servants of the victors, they weren’t the evil Huns! They were a people, with proud traditions and a heritage worth remembering.

The band was facing the crowd, and they could easily see what was happening. The Lieutenant was facing the band and could see nothing. As they reached the end of the first coda, a small boy ran out into the street. He couldn’t have been more than 5, and possible much younger. He slowed a little as he ran up the Lieutenant, but nonetheless didn’t stop. When he reached his side, he reached up and tapped his leg.

Without losing a beat, Lieutenant Nolan looked down, finding a dirty smiling little face looking up at him. The little boy held out his arms, and without thinking Lieutenant Nolan knelt down and picked him up, continuing to conduct with his right hand while his left arm supported the little boy. The child wrapped his arms around Nolan’s neck and hung on as the band continued to play, struggling to maintain their discipline while witnessing something they’d never seen before.

When the song ended, the street broke into applause. Not the polite, restrained applause they’d heard before, but real, honest, from-the-heart applause and cheers. The little boy’s mother walked forward hesitantly, uncertain what would happen. Lieutenant Nolan casually shoved his baton into his hip pocket and wrapped both arms around the boy, sharing a hug with a child who’d perhaps never known his father. And then, with a smile, he set the boy down and allowed his mother to reclaim him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly to the mother. “Danke.” The woman had started to reach for the boy, but froze. Thank you? He’s saying Thank You? My son did THAT, and he’s saying Thank You? The woman did not understand at first. She was a proper German woman who knew her place. Her child had committed an unthinkable act. And the officer said “Thank You.” She could not begin to fathom what he meant.

The watchers at the church were similarly confused. Though they could not hear his words, his actions were inconceivable. It was a trick, they were certain. But what could it mean? Lieutenant Nolan looked around, seeing smiles and grins and tears running in tracks down those dirty faces. I don’t care, Captain Anders. I did the right thing today. And…I’ll do it again any time I can!

Lieutenant Jonathan Stevens Nolan turned to the Sergeant and smiled. “You see, Sergeant. It’s about time we saw a little more rule breaking… and a few more happy kids. Boys, let’s play 53.”