Chapter 303: Should Be Long Live

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On the streets of Berlin, people hurried along. The tall chimneys in the distance had been spewing black smoke from morning until late at ni

On the streets of Berlin, people hurried along. The tall chimneys in the distance had been spewing black smoke from morning until late at night. Germany’s factories were not worried about having no orders now; they were only worried that there were too many orders and that they still couldn’t keep up, even with overtime.

This was a cold city. The pedestrians on the streets rarely greeted each other. They had countless things to be busy with. The cold iron gates of the factories, the cold iron windows in the workshops, the cold iron rails in the industrial zones, the cold iron hammers by the workbenches… it could be said that the whole of Germany was now a cold country.

“Ding-ling!” The doorbell rang. The main door was pushed open from the outside, and a man with high cheekbones, clutching a large-looking leather bag, walked into the small shop at the corner of the block. He was not dressed decently, but at least he was clean. His pair of leather shoes looked very old, but they were impeccably maintained.

He had hesitated outside for more than half an hour, dawdling from the time he got off work until dinner time, before he finally pushed open the door and walked in. His expression was a little flustered, but more than that, it was dejected. He lived in a building nearby and was a standard office worker.

“Oh, Mr. Pansen,” the shop owner said, adjusting the black-framed glasses on the bridge of his nose. As soon as he saw a familiar person walk in, he immediately put down the pen and small notebook in his hand and greeted him with a smile. “Welcome. What can I get for you?”

“Boss, I’ve come to buy some flour and potatoes,” the man named Pansen who had walked into the small shop said in a low voice after looking around the store and seeing that there was no one else. “I heard that you here…”

“Mr. Pansen, I don’t know what you’re talking about. There are plenty of potatoes here. I can pick out some fresh ones for you,” the boss said with a smile on his face, his tone showing no fluctuation. “But you should know that flour is a limited supply item in the Reich. You can only go to the food distribution center to get it with your supply coupons.”

Pansen placed the large leather bag on the counter in front of the boss, opened it, took out a few new-edition Imperial Gold Marks, which the Reich government had promised would not devalue, pushed them toward the still-smiling boss, and pleaded, “I know you only accept this for this kind of transaction here. I want some flour. My little daughter is sick, and she told me she wants to eat white bread… Please.”

“Is there more?” the boss asked, placing his hand on the few Gold Marks, rubbing them slightly, and glancing down at them.

“Huh?” The man was taken aback. He looked up at the boss, not knowing what to say.

“Is there more?” the boss asked again.

“Yes… yes!” The man quickly fumbled in his leather bag, took out the remaining few Gold Marks, and handed them to the boss. Although he knew that with this much money, he could buy a lot of flour under normal circumstances, now that the rationing system was in effect, most things could not be bought with just money. So he took out the money without hesitation.

The shop owner took the money, counted it, pushed one back to the man, and then turned to get a sealed paper bag, on which was written “Military Supply” in thick black font. He then took out a tin can from a compartment under the counter. Looking at the packaging, it was actually premium natural butter.

“Fifty Gold Marks is for the flour. The rest is for the butter. To eat white bread without natural butter is to waste food… Don’t tell anyone else that I have butter here,” the boss said with a smile, pushing the two items toward the stunned Pansen. “I hope your daughter gets well soon.”

“Thank you… thank you so much,” the man was so moved he was about to cry. Most Berliners had not had natural butter for several years. Their luxury foods were only margarine and black bread.

“Ding-ling!” The doorbell rang. Before Pansen could turn his head, the main door was pushed open from the outside again. Pansen subconsciously turned his head when he heard the sound and was immediately so scared that his face changed color. He even felt as if the sky had fallen, that the world had been destroyed.

An SS officer, followed by a soldier with a Mauser 98K rifle on his back, walked leisurely into the small shop. The SS officer in front had his hands behind his back. The guard behind him had one hand holding the door and the other gripping the sling on his gun. The two of them were staring at Pansen, at the flour and butter he was holding in his hand.

Silence. A silence that made one tremble. The faint clinking sound was the sound of the butter can in Pansen’s hand hitting the button on his leather bag. The reason was simple: his hand was trembling nonstop.

The officer took a step forward with his hands behind his back. Pansen was so scared that he slightly moved the tip of his foot. He had thought of running away, but after glancing at the rifle on the back of the SS soldier at the door, he lost the courage to flee.

It was said that the SS were all demons who had been trained, the most terrifying cold-blooded killing machines of the Reich. They could shatter your head with a single shot from a thousand meters away. They could drive a tank and smash through dozens of enemy tanks in one go. They would drag people out of their beds in the middle of the night and slit their throats in the street. They would eat those who were disloyal to the Führer and divide up their property.

Now it was finally his turn. Purchasing military supplies was a serious crime, punishable by up to two years in prison. He would be sent to a terrible concentration camp to serve his sentence, to labor day and night, and to be beaten with whips and fists for the slightest slackening.

Thinking of this, Pansen couldn’t help but swallow hard. He let the sweat slide from his forehead to the tip of his nose, not daring to wipe it away with his hand. Until the German officer walked up to him, he didn’t dare to move an inch.

“Flour, butter. Having a birthday party?” the officer asked, pressing the flour bag with his finger and revealing a scary smile. “Are ordinary office workers in Berlin so rich now? What a luxury.”

“His daughter is sick, so he found a way to get some,” the boss said, continuing to smile harmlessly. “What can I get for you, sir?”

“Daughter… how old?” the officer asked, as if he had become interested, leaning against the counter.

“Thir… thirteen…” Pansen replied, steeling himself.

“Thirteen… My son is sixteen,” the officer said, taking out his cigarette case and offering one to Pansen. “Smoke?”

“No, I don’t smoke. Thank you…” Pansen was about to cry. How could he be in the mood to smoke? The infamous reputation of the SS for arresting and interrogating people had been circulating among the citizens of Berlin for a long time. Based on the idea that “solicitousness for no reason betokens evil intentions,” Pansen felt that in a little while, he would definitely be hung from a lamppost.

“You are very fortunate to have a daughter by your side,” the officer said, taking out a cigarette for himself and putting it in his mouth. He then put the cigarette case away and continued to ramble on. “He joined the Führer’s Youth Army training camp last year, and I haven’t seen a shadow of him since.”

As he rambled, he took out a few Gold Marks and handed them to the boss. “Get him a few more bottles of Coke. The drinks for our little patient are on me.”

“Sir… you…” Pansen felt as if his brain was about to shut down. He could no longer process the development of the situation before him.

“Want to know why we don’t arrest you?” the officer smiled. He still looked a little scary. This had to do with the wrinkles in his facial muscles. Some people are born with a sinister and terrifying smile, while others smile like a spring breeze. It was clear that this officer belonged to the former category.

He laughed twice and then continued, “Then what do you think I’d arrest you for? I know you all secretly call us demons, and we have indeed killed people and confiscated homes. But we are the SS, the Führer’s personal army. If we don’t do these things, then who will? The first time I killed someone, I was so disgusted I couldn’t eat for three days…”

“Heh, why am I telling you all this?” the SS officer sighed, then shook his head and laughed at himself. “You should go. Don’t be discovered by others.”

These few minutes had felt like several decades to Pansen. He walked with his back hunched, holding his heavy leather bag, which contained the precious butter, flour, and two bottles of the fashionable drink, Coca-Cola. The moment he passed the SS soldier standing at the door, the sense of release almost made him collapse and faint, but he still kept walking, all the way to the end of the street.

Just as he pushed open the door to his own home and saw his wife and his daughter lying in bed, he suddenly broke into a laugh. Life was indeed getting better. He had money, he had food, and recently he had even been thinking of improving his life—all of these were the benefits brought by Germany’s strength, weren’t they? Compared to the past, during the Weimar Republic, he had lost his job, had wandered the streets, and had slept in a cramped little house with his wife and children.

It was the new economic stimulus plan that had allowed him to find a job and to earn a very high salary. As a result, he had now bought back his own house and had saved up a few hundred marks. If he thought about it this way, that wise and brilliant Führer really should live for ten thousand years.

“Business has been good recently?” the SS officer asked casually, looking at Pansen walk away, to the shop owner behind the counter.

Pansen did not know what a big official that SS officer was, but the shop owner clearly did. This colonel was in charge of intelligence gathering for the SS, had considerable real power, and also had a direct relationship with this small shop.

“Business is not bad. The demand for flour with the military supply label is very high. General Heydrich is truly brilliant. Even if this grain were to be put on the market, it would be snatched up. By selling it secretly and dispersedly like this, we both alleviate the civilians’ dissatisfaction with the food rationing and also earn a large sum of money,” the boss replied with a smile.

“This was a stratagem that August set for the Führer. The entire plan includes stabilizing employment, gradually restoring the free trade of food, a system of overtime subsidies, and many other aspects. The purpose is to enhance the sense of belonging and to mobilize the patriotic enthusiasm of all German people,” the officer said, standing up to walk out. “I can’t say any more… Have there been any unusual situations recently?”

“Everything is normal,” the shopkeeper said, still maintaining his kind smile. “The residents in this vicinity have always been very honest.”

The officer pushed open the door and walked out. “Then you continue to be busy. I’m going to the next shop to take a look.”