Das Postamt (The Post Office)

By G.G. Hernandez

Following Germany’s defeat in the First World War, tension was heightened in the 1930s as the nation fell in the grip of a power struggle that will decide the fate of the populace.

Achim Ehrlichmann operated an auxiliary postal office in a remote town in Bonn. Together with his family of migrant workers, they face turmoil that would deteriorate to the birth of the Second World War.

Enshrouded by the myths and legends of the old, this fantastical story offers a curious revelation of a conspiracy that led to the persecution of the Jews, the spark that set the world on fire and how the world got back up on its feet after the most destructive war in history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781663211996

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

T hick, cold fog crawled through the German countryside. It was a quarter past five, the crack of dawn. German soldiers were drinking lavishly in a bakery in a small town in Bonn, the home of Germany’s most famous legend—Siegfried and the Nibelungs, home to the mythical stories of gold, dwarves, and maidens who were believed to have existed in the fabled Rhine River.

The stench of alcohol and cigars was coming out of their burly bodies. Several chairs were toppled over, and the tables were littered with empty bottles. One Nazi was down on the floor, and a few others were passed out, their heads plunked on the tables. Some were singing and howling—explicit displays of their drunkenness. It was a celebration of the advocates, the rising of a political force that would soon be felt.

Except for the merriment at the bakery and a few civilians who were up and out to buy bread, the town was quiet, oblivious to the world. The year was 1921, the wind was ferocious, and the sky was showing signs of resentment and protest but jubilation for the radicals and hopefuls. Adolph Hitler had just been elected leader of the Nazi Party after a three-year war that had ended in Germany’s defeat.

Two sullen Nazis were locked in an argument. Es macht nichts! shouted one to the other. Provoked by that, the other inebriated Nazi, alcohol dictating his actions, stood and pushed the offending comrade so hard that he went sailing to the floor.

At a snail’s pace, the shaken one forced himself up. His eyes were red, grave, but blank. He drew his pistol. He cocked and pointed it clumsily at the other, who was two feet away.

A roar from the drunken comrades erupted. A number of soldiers rose and formed a semicircle around the two, provoking and goading them to add some excitement to the otherwise pitifully dull time. Other soldiers rudely pushed through their ranks, and a general brawl ensued. Chairs were thrown as were the bottles of wine, loaves of bread, and sausages sitting on the tables—pandemonium.

The men were wild dogs. The two comrades glared at each other until a clumsy index finger pulled an innocent trigger. A shot rang out in the cramped bread house. The mangy soldiers shrieked and howled. A body was sprawled on the floor drenched in blood.

The town awoke. Women, men, boys, and girls were in a frenzy. People in the bakery jumped to their feet, their pace quickened by the event. Their adrenaline rose, their hearts were pounding. Panic filled the air.

Amid the people running about cursing and crying, a girl not more than five in a brown dress stood motionless in front of the bakery. She was alone. She was ashen and pallid. Her face was long, peculiar. Her shoes were grubby from long walks in the muddy roads of Westerwald and Bonn. People kept shoving past her, and some even knocked her down, but every time she fell, she got up, seemingly oblivious to the chaos around her. She stood there precariously and unnoticed until somebody snatched her off her feet and carried her out of the bustling crowd.

She hung slackly over a lanky man’s shoulder. The man anchored the girl’s legs with his hand and dashed madly through the mud-spattered side streets while he pushed his broken eyeglasses up on his cold, sweaty nose. The condensation on his glasses made it hard for him to see the road and people ahead. He gripped the girl’s legs as he ran as if his life depended on it. He slowed down only when he felt his legs couldn’t carry him any farther.

They reached a deserted alley heaped with garbage. The only noises were his footsteps treading heavily in puddles and his labored breathing. The middle-aged German was worn out. He had never run that hard or that far before. He put the girl down. The silhouette of his frail structure arched in the walls of the alley like that of a hunched, slender giant.

What were you doing out there? he hollered at the little one in between his hoarse gasps. His face was reddened by anger, fatigue, and desperation. He grasped his knees and sat sprawled out on the damp, dirty redbrick ground.

Wo ist deine mama?

The girl, thigh-high to the man, didn’t budge. Her hands were buried behind her as if bound by a rope. Her eyes rolled from left to right before they landed on the old, wrinkled chinos he was wearing. Her long hair concealed her face.

Do you know you could have been killed back there? Where is your mama?

Achim, a frail and politically skeptical German in his late thirties, stared at the girl. And what does she have behind there? he asked in an unaffected tone.

She didn’t appear anxious or scared despite what had happened. She bit her lower lip, her eyes fixated on the ground.

Achim, growing impatient, shook her bony shoulders. Do you understand what I’m saying?

Perspiration trickled down his forehead; his veins were bulging.

The little girl slowly held out her hands to show him fist-sized pieces of wheat bread.

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CHAPTER 2

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I t had been seven years since Achim had found Mona in that Bonn bakery. She had grown into a beautiful young girl. She had long black hair and deep-brown eyes, but her slender figure and undeveloped chest made her look more like a child. She was like any normal girl except that she never talked; all she did was nod and smile. Her paleness and childlike appearance made her look immortal. She was peculiar to everyone but Achim.

He had made numerous attempts to find her family. He had taken her to town every day, hoping to find her parents or guardians but to no avail. Days, weeks, months had passed, but nobody had claimed Mona.

It was December 1928, the beginning of a political intrigue that would break up the young republic of Germany. There was a political strife in the Reichstag; futile and ineffective governance was on the rise. Many people were jobless. Sporadic fighting and killing occurred in the streets. The nation was in bedlam under old Hindenburg’s Reich.

In three years, Adolf Hitler of the Nazi Party would oppose President Hindenburg, and the slogan Freedom and Bread would turn millions to Hitler and his promise of a better future.

Achim sat near the fire. He sipped coffee and wondered how he could find a cure for Mona’s disability. The post office wasn’t earning much, and most of its income went for food and supplies for his five adopted workers. He could not afford to take the girl for a consultation with a specialist.

He was sensible; he guessed there was no cure for such an illness. He even doubted it was an illness. What can I do? I still don’t have the money anyway, he thought. Achim, deep in thought, sat in a worn armchair by the fireplace in an old, three-story manor, a timber-framed house on a winding, lonely road far from any village in Bonn. A big sign that read Das Postamt hung outside.

The living room’s high ceiling made it look more like a barn than a mansion. The house had no rooms, but one could easily identify the kitchen area and the dining area. The living room was the largest area of the house; it was where the inhabitants spent most of their time working six days a week.

In the evening, this area was transformed into a sleeping area when everyone set aside work and set up their cots. Behind the living room was a humble staircase that led to the only room on the second floor, which appeared more like a storeroom than anything else. The room was badly worn out. Like a single eye, the window in the room peeked out on the perimeter of the building.

A 126-inch steel mail sorter divided the room into a loft area and an office, where stacks of envelopes sat on desks and heaps of letters littered the floor. Mailbags with brass grommets and ropes were stacked in every corner. The mail sorter section was also divided into two. There were two signs: Der Brief and Das Paket.

Achim owned this independent, self-supporting agency under the direction of the German postal service. He and the others sorted mail according to the cities, towns, and countries the letters were addressed to. Mail from Western Europe to Bonn and neighboring towns and rural areas passed through this post office, which the government licensed.

On Mondays, a dilapidated green diesel truck picked up stacks of sorted mail for distribution. On Fridays, a dilapidated red diesel truck left bags of mail to be sorted.

The night was quiet except for the crackling of the fire. Merry Christmas! Deep in thought again, me lad? the Irishman asked Achim.

The Irishman’s name, Beagan, which incidentally meant short, fit him perfectly. He was barely four feet tall. He often ran his short, stubby fingers through his long, gray beard. The wrinkles on his forehead and under his eyes were prominent. His hair was wiry gray, and his face was chubby. He had almost no neck. He said he was more than a hundred years old, but nobody believed him of course.

The cold winter night chilled the manor. Achim was half-finished with his coffee when the old dwarf came in holding a chipped and stained mug as big as his head. He handed the mug to Achim and struggled to hoist himself up on an old but sturdy wooden chair. Though age had caught up with the old Irishman, he was still as strong as a horse. His size, though, made it difficult for him to do some things. He shifted and stirred a few times before finding a comfortable position on the chair.

Achim handed Beagan his mug after he had settled in his chair, and they sipped their coffee. Neither spoke; they were enjoying the warmth of the fire. Their exhalations formed a vapor in the chilly room.

Where’s de spirit, lad? the Irishman asked, breaking the silence.

Frohe Weihnachten, Achim said, his expression unchanged.

It’s Mona, is it not? I tell ya, dat little girl is perfectly fine. Der is notting wrong wid ’er. Just a slight speech impediment that’s all. Let ’er be. Ya nu she’s happy. Ya see it in ’er eyes when she smiles. It’s been … What? Beagan raised some of his chubby fingers. Five, six, seven years since ye first picked ’er up from the madness in the bakery? The Irishman’s voice trailed off as if he were talking to himself.

Achim snorted. He pushed his worn glasses up on his nose. He changed the subject. It’s almost Christmas all right. Tomorrow, we shall have onion soup and bread for supper. I will go to town to replenish our supplies for the month.

Should I go wid ya? asked Beagan.

You don’t have to. I’m taking Martha. You can stay here and watch over the routine.

The dwarf was second in line to Achim. He ran the post office whenever Achim was away.

Please watch over Dziecko. He’s been working tirelessly without enough sleep and food. Do remind him of his schedule—when he should stop, eat, and rest.

Achim had been worried about his unstable staff. He worried that someday Dziecko might hurt himself or another occupant in the house. Dziecko was a red-faced, balding Pole. His head was peppered with curls of red hair. His face was usually rosy pink because of Bonn’s weather. The blend of his uneven beard and patchy facial hair made him look repulsive. His huge forehead and chin made him appear abominable, horrifying, like what stories of legends and myths are made of. He had thick arms and legs, and he weighed almost half a ton. He was nearly nine feet tall; one would easily mistake him for an ogre or a troll.

His eyes, however, gave him away. His small, sleepy, sad eyes allowed a peek into this Polish giant. Beneath his hideous visage was a timid, gentle giant with a big, soft heart. The most disquieting and dangerous aspect of his personality, however, was his total inability to control himself. It was a curse he had lived with all his life.

As you say, Achim. I shall watch over Dziecko, Beagan