Horst Wessel
by Hanns Heinz Ewers
translated by Joe Bandel
Copyright 2018
For purposes of historical research
Chapter 1 (pages 1-5)
Berlin by day: two students meet at the University. – One evening: the storm leader and his mother. – In the night: a gathering and misfortune travelling; Redshirts and S. A. shoot it out on the streets. – How Horst Wessel got his friend out of jail.
Helmut Mingard, medical student, came slowly down the broad steps of the university administration building. He could just barely hear – the medical professor lecturing in the next building; but today he was only here to pick up his exam papers. That meant he needed to wait; the registrar was completely overwhelmed with the flood of students. He cursed. He was in the middle of preparing for an exam, and he needed every hour for homework. But it couldn’t be helped – His papers would not be ready for one or two more hours. So he wandered down the long hallway, and then entered into a lecture hall with a latecomer.
What was the professor talking about? Oh yes, history – the history of the newly awakened freedom movement after the Prussian defeat at Jena. What did he care about that – he was a medical student. The speech of the old Herr was dry and boring; Mingard only half listened. Yet still, out of habit, he took a pencil and paper out of his pocket, and wrote down a couple of names. Steffens, Dörnberg, Schleiermacher, Arndt, Fichte – and naturally Körner. Yes, and the Friesen – the professor’s voice became passionate, as he spoke of them. The Friesen, those athletic irregulars, whom Jahn founded, as Lüßow’s adjutant – the young, handsome, radiant Friesen. [Friesen-a political party]
Their name has been completely forgotten, said the professor. Yet the name had a good ring to it:Schill, Lüßow – all the poets sang of them. But what did people today know about the Friesen? They had fallen in Ardenne’s forest, hypocritically killed by farmers: not one defenseless soldiers had lifted a hand against them. Their gaze had been so noble. They were secretly buried there, and the place was discovered after long years – the Freiherr of Viettinghoff took one of the skulls, traveled around with it for 30 years,and would not part with it. That’s how beautiful the young Friesen were.
The medical student smiled. How romantic, he thought, sky-blue romantic! A skull? The fashion had changed since then. Once crude German princes cut off the heads of their enemies, and made beer mugs out of the skulls, guzzling red wine from them – ha, the blood of the enemy! Brave citizens of the Baroque painted still lifes of them, and there always had to be a skull in the paintings. It was called vanity – a reminder of the past and of everything earthly and mortal. But today a skull was only good for the study of anatomy, for students in the first semester.
The clock rang; the lecture hall emptied itself – Mingard went down the steps. He remained standing in the hallway, threw a glance at the colored shields of all the fraternities and student unions – my God, who wasn’t represented at the Berlin University! Nationalist students, Social Democrats, Populists, Communists – Catholics, Jews, Protestants – gymnasts, fellow countrymen, singers, athletes, all members of fraternities. Look over there, there hung the shield of his fraternity: the student union in Kösener, S.C. Normania, blue – silver – black.
Bread-and-butter eating students, boys and girls, books in their hands, glasses on their noses. Most were pale, overtired, and undernourished. He turned around, went through the crowd and out into the back garden, stepping between benches and trees in the bright October sun. In the back, near Dorotheen Strasse, was the memorial for all the students who had fallen in the great world war. He stood there, looking at the fresh wreathes. They were not forgotten, the youth from Langemark. –
He went across the street, over to the quiet, spiritual place of the folk, and looked at all the things that lay spread out on a book cart. Then a voice called out, loud and clear:
“Hello, Mingard!”
A young fellow sprang across the street, and stretched out his hand. “Good day, Helmut, what’s up?”
Mingard laid down the book that was in his hand.
“Horst Wessel – you? And here at the University – so are you finally going to begin serious studies?”
The student laughed. “No, not yet. It’s pure coincidence that I was passing by.”
A soft reproach rang out of Mingard’s voice.
“You should not allow yourself to be seen outside of Grunewald – since you’ve been back from Vienna you haven’t been seen at the fraternity. You have two ribbons now – you should really care a little more about your young fraternity brothers.”
A shadow flew across the face of the young student; his upper lip trembled slightly.
“How many new foxes are there? Five, six perhaps! If only there were 600! They should learn fencing, with the saber, rapier – should learn to duel against fellow students, even those as polished as we are. Learn how to settle their own disputes with opponents. Learn to carry steel rods in their pockets, knives, pistols, each according to his own liking –“ He hesitated suddenly, then continued slowly. “Especially these times, you see, especially these times –”
“Well – what?” Demanded Mingard. “Why are you always so closed mouthed? What’s bothering you anyway?”
Horst Wessel held his gaze.
“Visit me sometime” he said, “then I will take you along.”
“If I only had the time!” Answered the older boy. “You know of course, that I am in the middle of my exams.”
“Really, really”, the fellow nodded. “You need to study! One must fight, and the other must drink. One must sail before the winds and one must wander about and discover Berlin. And no one –“
“And no one – what?” Insisted the medical student. “Allow the young foxes their play. Soon enough they must be buckled into the harness and pull the bread cart. Since when are you one to preach morals?”
His fraternity brother stared at him.
“I? What has any of that to do with morals? Don’t you understand, there is only one thing people are singing about these days? Only one thing – Germany!”
His gaze stabbed; his hands were balled into fists. And the words came out in a suppressed whisper, “The storm! The storm! The storm! The clocks sing it from tower to tower! The men sing about it, the old men and the youth. People sing about it in their sleep, and the girls sing about it at the fruit stands in the market place. Mothers sing about it whenever they rock their cradles! They sing about the storm, and even the earth itself rises up with the thunder of our coming vengeance and salvation. That’s what the folk are dreaming of today – Germany is beginning to wake up!”
Mingard thought: “This youth is on fire. He stands in flames.”
He asked: “What kind of song is that?”
“A poet wrote it – no one knew it in Germany, while he was still alive, but they will learn it soon enough: his name was Dietrich Eckardt.” Horst Wessel laughed. “We sing his song among us. But it should ring out through all the streets: it should threaten and resound in the air, race with the thunder of vengeance – awaken the dead from out of their graves – Germany awakes!”
He seized his friend’s hand, and pressed it hard. “Live well, Helmut – perhaps you will have enough time yet, despite all of your exams!”
He nodded to him, and then sprang down the street with a light step.
Mingard watched him go: the fellow was slender, tall grown. He was bare headed, the soft morning breeze blew through his blonde hair. He wore a leather joppe, as well as a short lederhosen; his knees were bare. He stood at the corner, then turned around one more time, and waved back with his hand. He laughed just like a young boy – his face was sunburned, his sharply arched nose was noble. He had a high forehead and his eyes glowed.
Mingard nodded back at him. “A Friesen”, he murmured, “He is a young, beautiful, radiant Friesen!” – He went back over to the garden – wasn’t that a brand new wreath laying on the student memorial ? His eyes fell on the dedication, he read: “Invicti Victis Victuri –”
Something pulled at him, tore at him, urging him to pursue his fraternity brother .
“The youth burns,” he thought, “he’s on fire!”
But he restrained himself, speeded up his steps – and headed back into the University. God damned exams!
*****
Hanns Heinz Ewers 