Evening, August 28, 1942, the capital of the Third Reich, Berlin.
It was the season when the summer heat retreated and autumn arrived; beneath the towering and majestic Brandenburg Gate, pedestrians and vehicles moved in a hurry.
Although newspapers and radio broadcasts kept singing the praises of the victories achieved by the imperial army on the Russian front, everyone with any sense knew that the war had become a protracted one.
It took a little over a month to defeat Poland, and less than two months to blitz Western Europe and force France to surrender, but since the start of Operation Barbarossa, the war in Russia had been going on for a full year and two months. Although grand reports of occupying millions of square kilometers of land and destroying hundreds of divisions kept coming in, no one had yet received news of Stalin kneeling in surrender, and even the most optimistic citizens did not believe they would see the hope of total victory before the New Year.
Old Karl was the owner of the "Berlin People's" bar; though the name sounded grand, the actual business area was less than 100 square meters, and the decor could hardly be called luxurious.
Fortunately, the location was good and the prices were reasonable, so business was barely getting by.
The bar was originally a place frequented by ordinary Berlin workers; people would often come here after work to have a few drinks with their coworkers and then happily engage in high-flown discourse—it was their best place for socializing.
During the war, discussing the fighting was clearly the top priority. Any rumor, big or small, as long as someone mentioned it, was guaranteed to spread as if it had grown wings. If someone happened to return from the countryside and missed the latest news, they only needed to sit in the bar for half a day, and regardless of whether the Stavka had issued an announcement, they were guaranteed to hear a version of the truth that was close enough.
However, although the liveliness of the bar had seemed the same for the past year or so, Old Karl fully sensed that the situation was slowly changing.
The scenes of groups of five or six people rushing in, bragging and chatting about everything under the sun, and ordering beer by the dozen were no longer to be seen; the crowd of drinkers was increasingly being replaced by refined middle-class citizens.
These petty bourgeois, who either worked in government units or were freelancers like editors, journalists, writers, and painters, would not have frequented a bar of this level before. They usually found it crude and lacking in class; places with poetic names like "Rhine Dreams" or "Danube Nights" were their favorites.
However, circumstances were stronger than people; the taxes the imperial government levied on beer were getting higher and higher. With all supplies rationed and incomes only enough to feed their families, the working class clearly could not afford it.
And while the petty bourgeois could still barely afford it, they consciously cut back on this seemingly "luxurious" expense and lowered their standards to come here.
"Berlin People's" was still bustling with people, but Old Karl knew that the hearty drinking of before had long since been replaced by sipping and whispering.
He had an unusual sensitivity to material supplies and prices. In his memory, after the victory of the French Campaign, Berlin seemed to have suddenly entered a joyful mode. Various materials were extremely abundant; red wine from Bordeaux, Belgian chocolate, and all kinds of cheeses flooded the market at surprisingly cheap prices. As for French-style clothing, tableware, furniture, and perfume, they were everywhere, reportedly brought back by the soldiers and officers who had participated in the war in France.
It was embarrassing to say, but although the industry of the Third Reich was second to none in Europe, it was often reflected in fields like machinery, equipment, electrical engineering, and metallurgy; when it came to enjoying life, it seemed to fall far short of half of what the romantic nations like France, the Netherlands, and Italy had.
Old Karl had heard people comment more than once that compared to Paris, Berlin, apart from some large-scale buildings and modern transportation facilities, was in other respects so backward it was practically a 19th-century village!
But these happy days did not last long. With the progression of the war in Russia, material supplies gradually became tight, and prices were quietly rising; many times, one couldn't get goods even with money.
How did the situation become like this? He couldn't help but fall into deep thought.
"Old Karl, give me a mug of your best Bavarian dark beer."
"Sorry, none left." Old Karl replied mechanically, then followed the sound to see a tall, thin man stepping in from outside. It was his old customer, 35-year-old Hanning, and he immediately greeted him warmly.
"I have money, really." The man shook the money bag in his hand, which made a clinking sound. Clearly, the amount was quite significant; it was the distinct sound of 5-mark coins, which Old Karl was very familiar with.
"It's not that I won't sell it to you; it's that there really isn't any. We've been out of stock for several days." Old Karl looked helpless. "Haven't you heard the radio constantly broadcasting that we are going to switch to a wartime system in a few days? The government has issued an announcement that beer, which consumes a large amount of grain, will have its supply reduced. I don't know if others can still get stock, but I certainly don't have any, and there won't be any in the future either."
"This damn wartime system." Hanning looked a bit dejected, sighed, and sat casually on a high stool in front of the counter. "If there's no dark beer, just give me a mug of any other beer. It's on me; let's have a drink together."
Old Karl deftly set up the glasses, poured a full mug for Hanning first, and then poured himself a little more than half a mug. "To the Führer's health, cheers."
The glasses made a "clink," a not-insignificant sound, but not a drop of foam spilled out. As he drank, Old Karl asked curiously, "How come you have time to come to the shop for a beer at this time today? Usually, you should be taking the Baron's daughter to piano lessons."
"Don't mention it; I've been fired." Hanning continued to shake the money bag. "This is my severance pay."
"What heaven-defying, earth-resenting thing did you do, kid? You didn't get the Baron's daughter pregnant, did you?"
"I wish I had that ability." As the amber liquid went down, Hanning opened up. "My situation is exactly the same as yours; it's all thanks to this wartime system—didn't the authorities call on Junker nobles and wealthy families to dismiss domestic help as soon as possible to free up labor for the imperial cause? The patriotic old Baron certainly wouldn't go against the government. Besides, even if he kept employing me, it would be useless. The Baron's stock of gasoline ran out last month. You know, gas stations outside haven't been providing fuel for a long time. The old Baron pulled every string he could and, at great cost, only managed to get 3 barrels. He said he wanted to save them for a critical moment. From now on, the young lady will have to take the tram to her piano lessons herself... So, I was kicked out. I've served the Baron for 10 years; thinking about it, it's really a bit sad."
"Let a young lady of noble status squeeze onto a smelly and dirty public bus?" Old Karl frowned. "That is truly a disgrace to decency."
Hanning shrugged, looking indifferent.
"So what are your plans for the future?"
"I'm planning to go to the front. The Wehrmacht is recruiting drivers. I signed up and passed the physical examination. I'm leaving on the 3rd of next month. Here, this is the employment notice." He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, which had the imperial eagle clutching a swastika on it, and a bright red seal from the recruitment office at the bottom.
"Does this count as military service? But you're over 35." Old Karl took a quick glance and handed it back to Hanning, asking with a suspicious face, "Whose general are you going to drive for?"
"A general? Don't make jokes. I'm going to drive a truck. You know, before I went to the Baron's, I drove trucks for 5 years. Whether it's BMW or Opel trucks, I'm familiar with them."
Old Karl lowered his voice and asked, "Why not go drive a public bus? Although the income might be a bit less, it's safer after all, and you have elderly parents and young children to support."
"A public bus?" Hanning shook his head. "I would like to, but they don't want me—the latest recruitment notice clearly states that they only want young female drivers."
"Why?"
"How long has it been since you went out?"
"A few months. What does that have to do with this?" Old Karl was puzzled.
"That explains it." Hanning slapped his thigh. "No wonder you don't know anything; the rules have changed! The higher-ups want female drivers to take on the work, and because they are all young, pretty girls driving, there are now even more people riding the buses. I heard they are going to expand the recruitment of female drivers to replace male drivers under 40—they will all be sent to drive trucks. I thought about it; if I have to drive a truck anyway, I might as well go to the front, where at least the income is much higher."
"This deadly wartime system." Old Karl murmured in agreement. Just as they were speaking, a shrill air raid siren suddenly sounded, and Hanning looked a bit flustered.
"Don't panic; this is just a preliminary warning. The British bombers are still far away." Old Karl said confidently, pointing to a door nearby. "See that door? If the planes really come, just push the door open and go down. It used to be a wine cellar, and since there isn't much stock left anyway, I simply converted it into an air-raid shelter. It's very safe inside."
"I wonder if that fat man covered in medals has changed his name to Meier yet?" Hanning complained, downing the rest of the beer in his glass.
The Reich Marshal Göring had once publicly promised on the radio, "If a single bomb falls on Berlin, I will not be called Hermann Göring; you can call me Meier (this is a common Jewish name)."
Such terrifying air raid sirens might sound two or three times a week in Berlin. Although most of the time it was just a false alarm, it was still unpleasant. So now, whenever there was a bombing, everyone would bring this up to mock the Reich Marshal's broken promise.
The air raid alert was quickly lifted, everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and Hanning's expression finally eased.
It seemed the Wehrmacht's boasting about Berlin having a powerful air defense system was somewhat reliable; at least the British bombers were bypassing it, though one wondered which city would suffer today.
Seeing that his beer was at the bottom, he paid his tab and was just about to get up to go home when suddenly, the loudspeakers spread across the streets started working.
"People of Germany, all German patriots, we are now broadcasting urgent news."
Old Karl muttered, "I don't know what battle was won on the front this time. The Russians are all madmen; they haven't surrendered even after fighting to this extent."
Hanning didn't respond, just listened quietly to the broadcast, "...Under the personal command of the great Führer, the Imperial SS recently uncovered an assassination plot against the Führer. In this attempted assassination, they brazenly brought a bomb into the military conference venue. Fortunately, the Führer reacted in time and was unharmed... The imperial army is constantly achieving victories. Our enemies, unable to defeat us on the battlefield, can only resort to these despicable, shameless, and low-down methods. Instigated by international Jewish organizations, the ringleaders of the war profiteers from the UK, the US, and the Soviet Union have colluded with the rebel elements and traitorous lackeys within the Empire, attempting to stab us in the back and repeat the story of 1918! This incident also shows that as the Empire continues to advance, those scums who infiltrated the National Socialist ranks and usurped high positions in the past few years have finally been unable to restrain themselves and have exposed themselves; their conspiracy is destined to fail! Now, the ringleader of this treasonous group, Hermann Göring, has committed suicide out of fear of punishment, and other core cohorts have also been captured one by one. I hope all German people will keep their eyes open, always adhere to the principles of National Socialism, and draw a clear line with the small handful of rebel elements and lackeys of foreign powers... Long live our leader—the great, glorious, and correct Führer, Adolf Hitler! Long live the invincible, ever-victorious German people!"
"Hermann Göring?" Hanning's eyes widened, and he muttered to himself, "It seems he doesn't have to change his name to Meier anymore."