Dialogue Between Enemies

TIME'S Correspondent John Scott went to a Swedish airport in the hope of getting a plane seat to Stockholm. Instead he got a story:

The plane from Berlin arrived--an American-made DC-3, with "Sweden--Schweden" painted in huge letters on both sides. A dozen grave-faced Germans emerged. Out-prioritied, I resigned myself to the night train. While waiting for a taxi I stood around and watched the Germans. Their clothes looked unpressed and faded but still good. Their faces were grim. I particularly noticed one grey gentleman. He had on a fine, fur-collared coat and new overshoes, a prewar and rather frowzy hat. He walked and spoke with dignity and authority, but his face looked haggard.

The German, a uniformed Danish pilot and I shared the 20-minute taxi ride from the airport to town. After a minute or two in the taxi, the German turned to me and said: "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

"Ja. Ich bin aber Amerikaner," I said without looking at him. I turned to the Danish pilot and began talking about bad flying weather.

At the station, the ticket agent did not understand the German's German or his French. It seemed silly to stand there while they held up the whole queue, so I helped the German to buy his ticket. While we were putting our tickets and money into our billfolds, the German turned to me and said: "Rather stupid to be mechanical about things when one is in a neutral country, nicht wahr? I just came from Berlin, but I am a Hamburger." As he said the last word, his mouth twitched convulsively.

Beer and Fear. Journalism is journalism, news is news. We went across the street to the Savoy Hotel and ordered beers.

The German lifted his glass. "Also Mahlzeit," he said, and added: "For peace." We drank. "Good beer," said the German, licking his lips. It was Swedish Pilsener Klass Tvae, an extremely mediocre beer. "We can still get beer in Berlin, but it is not so good," the German said.

After I had pushed the conversation around to Hamburg two or three times he said: "You understand I cannot talk about Germany. I am a good German and besides I wouldn't last ten minutes when I get back under German jurisdiction if I talked here about anything like bomb damage or antiwar feeling among the German people or economic conditions. You understand my position." He pulled his forefinger across his throat.

"Of course," I said, and ordered two more beers. The German glanced over his shoulder. There was no one there. He asked how things were in America. ''I used to listen to your radio broadcasts," he said, "but now it is too damn dangerous. In my house I could listen to the radio fairly safely, but then came the big raid of July 27. Nothing was left of my house but matchwood, so my wife and I had to move into a one-room flat where it is dangerous to listen to the radio."

I told him some things about America--about our plane production, our big Army, the relative plenty throughout the land. The German looked grave. His face twitched. We finished the second beer. The German said, "Let's take a look around the town." When we reached the street it was dark; street lights and neon signs were shining. The German shook his head in astonishment. "I have seen nothing like that for five years," he said.

We walked along the lighted street. "It seems unreal to see all the buildings intact," the German said. "You should see Hamburg and Berlin. But my plant is still functioning almost normally. Factories are hard to destroy. So far the bombings have had two immediate effects--firstly, the people are becoming Communist. When a man loses everything he has he becomes Communist. Secondly, everyone realizes they must fight. The war has become national, a people's war."

"We Must." We walked back toward the Savoy. "Tell me," said the German after a pause, "are we, that is--er--do people hate us?" I said that the Germans were pretty universally hated in many countries. "Ja, I was afraid it was so. But people will forget," he said.

I ordered more beer. We drank. "Damn good beer," said the German, "damn good beer." His face twitched. There was music in the dining room; some laughing Swedes in evening clothes came into the bar for a drink. The German's face twitched badly and he drank more beer.

"We must win," he said, suddenly, in a low voice, looking at his glass. He looked up at me and repeated: "We've got to win." He raised his voice and struck the table lightly with his hands to emphasize his words. "We must win!"' The German's face had no animosity, but simply blind, desperate resolution. His face twitched. He hammered his fists on the table and raised his voice till it cracked: "We must win!"

People at the other tables looked around. The German got hold of himself. "Excuse me, please," he said, "I am speaking too loudly. I shall return immediately," and he rose, walked with dignity through the door toward the cloakroom and the men's room.

I waited nearly two hours, until I had to go to the station to catch my train. But the German did not come back.

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