Beyond Understanding

Why Germans living in the Russian occupation zone repeatedly protest that they "can't understand the Russians" is illustrated in the following report by John Scott, TIME'S Berlin bureau chief:

Down Potsdam's slushy Berlinerstrasse stumbled twelve haggard men. Halfheartedly they tried to avoid the largest puddles. Their faces had the pale, creased look of prisoners. Behind them trudged a stubby, broad-faced Russian soldier, Tommy gun crooked in his right arm, the wide Ukrainian steppe in his blue eyes.

Approaching the Stadtbahn station, the group met a stream of men & women hurrying home from work. Some started with fright when they spotted the prisoners. Others scowled darkly at the pock-marked Russian Tommy-gunner. Several passers-by produced precious cigaret butts which they pressed into the hands of the prisoners.

". . . Weiss Nicht." An angular, middle-aged woman, who had been weaving through the crowd from sidewalk to curb in a futile effort to keep her ill-shod feet dry, suddenly sighted the twelve men. She stopped in her tracks, stared wide-eyed at them for a full minute. Then she dropped her threadbare market bag, flew across the street in front of a lumbering, charcoal-burning truck and threw herself with a gasping cry upon the third prisoner. Prisoners and passers-by paused and gaped dumbly at the two Rodinesque figures fingering the backs of each other's rough coats and mumbling hysterically: "Wohin?" ". . . weiss nicht;" "Warum?" . . . weiss nicht"

Slowly the Russian walked around his charges and approached the couple. Slowly a grin covered his face. He tapped the woman on the back. She shuddered. Rigid apprehension spread over the faces of the onlookers, but the Russian rumbled soothingly: "Keine Angst. Keine Angst." (No fear. No fear.) Then he waved the muzzle of his Tommy gun toward the prisoner, who instinctively recoiled a step, and asked: "Dein Mann?"

"Ja," replied the woman, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Gu-ut" grunted the Russian, wrinkling his nose. "Nimm mit," and he gave the bewildered prisoner a gentle shove toward the sidewalk.

The spectators exhaled a mass sigh of relief as the couple stumbled off deliriously, hand in hand. Eleven prisoners, muttering to each other, pushed on down the street past the muttering crowd: "Unpredictable Russians . . . incredible ... I can't understand. ... I don't understand the Russians."

"Komm." The Russian shuffled along stoically, gripping a long papirosa between yellow stained teeth as he fished in a pocket for matches. Suddenly his face clouded. He hitched the Tommy gun higher under his arm, took a dirty piece of paper from the wide, ragged sleeve of his shinel, and scowled at it. After a few steps he stuffed the paper back carefully, stared for a moment at the bent backs of the prisoners, then searched the strained faces of a new load of commuters just leaving the station.

With no fuss, the Russian stepped up to a youngish man with a briefcase under his arm and a dirty brown felt hat pulled over his ears, and commanded: "Eeh, Du! Komm!" The German froze, casting a terrified glance over his shoulder at the frightened stream of men & women who were trying not to see or hear. The Russian waved his Tommy gun and curled his lip. "Komm!" He pushed his petrified recruit roughly into the gutter.

Again the prisoners were twelve. The Russian's face relaxed. With a third sputtering match he lighted his papirosa and placidly blew smoke toward the tense Germans scurrying home through the gathering dusk.

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