The Last Coffee

It was May 1945. The Second World War had already ended on the European front. The Führer was declared dead and so were most of his inner circle by their own hand. Following Hitler's death, the Russians immediately plunged through Berlin like victorious conquerors hungry for the final glory to top their Communist empire. The Allies too were triumphantly enveloping Germany, leaving behind ruins of a once great nation that was severely ravaged by a great evil. It was as if the devil completely had Germany in his hands until total destruction was complete. During this time, arrests were made for Nazi members, war criminals, top German commanders, and the like. Prisoners of war were being set free and horrendous discoveries were uncovered.

Stalag 13 was no exception.

That very night, late in May, Kommandant Klink was heavily wrought with worry knowing full well that he could be next. His beloved fatherland had sorely lost and fallen into a disgraceful despair. The Kommandant had already packed his things in hope of escaping to Brazil or Argentina. He's heard the stories of successful German mini-colonies in those parts of Latin America. But the thought of it was still far-fetched for Klink. He could not sleep, he would not sleep. His eyes were strained and his cheekbones were protruding as if aging. His smooth pate was looking lackluster and his head throbbing. He felt the world was coming to an end as he knew it…

The Luftwaffe colonel gazed into the mirror to muster up whatever shred of dignity he had left to face. But what did he expect to glance back at him? Certainly he admitted that he was a coward. Wasn't that satisfactory enough? All he saw was a dishonored man ashamed to don the uniform of a once proud and glorious nation that had turned itself completely at the devil's mercy. Savage, bloodthirsty, power-hungry, destruction, utter disaster… He was lost in his deep, marbled blue-gray eyes in a pool swirling with fear, confusion, uncertainty, lost integrity, and perhaps even a tinge of anger.

Frightened, Colonel Klink then decided to have a cup of coffee at his desk and contemplate alone. He brought out his antique Prussian coffee set, something that he treasured and only used for special occasions. He let pour a gracious amount of Viennese coffee that was brewing for most of the night. He sat down basking in the quietness of his office.

Your memory arrives in a turmoil

Klink closed his eyes shortly after taking his first sip and rubbed his temples to stop from throbbing any further. Vivid memories flooded from his first days as the camp Kommandant. Reluctance, bravado, anxiety, compliance, obliviousness,…were to mark those days and continued to linger over his career.

It gets dark again in autumn

Although it was May, the sky darkened quickly in the evening preparing for spring showers. Klink glanced at the window, looking if at least the moon would soothe the stark darkness of the sky. Not even a single star in sight. It started to thunder. In a way, it reminded the Luftwaffe colonel of the day he left home at the start of the Second World War. It was a damp, dark autumn morning when he bid his mother farewell and boarded a train to Berlin to be assigned in air combat. His fear of flying never left him since the First World War. Yet he still managed to soar with his Heinkel squadron, despite his unconcealed distress. That even earned him a couple of merit badges. But since his left eyesight was weakening, it was a legitimate excuse and escape from flying in combat. However, his cushy reassignment as Stalag 13's Kommandant left a much deeper impression than his fear of flying.

I watch the drizzle, and while I watch, the coffee spoon turns…

Klink listened to the light rain falling on the window, tapping rhythmically. Perhaps, if he was in a joyous mood, he would have joined nature's water orchestra with his violin playing. Instead, he looked down at his coffee cup and stirred in a small lump of sugar. Stirring, turning…he closely heard the metallic cling-clanging of the spoon and let the coffee swirl into a velvety whirlpool in the dim light of his office.

Of the last coffee, that your cold lips requested on that occasion

He took another sip. He sipped slowly to savor the richness of the caramel flavor to whet his beaten pride. Despite the warmth of the coffee, his lips were left cold. His well-defined lips sunk into a thin, expressionless line. No words left to say. But his mind was still uneasy, wanting to say many things, yet finding nothing. He glanced at his violin case across the room. Klink usually found his violin playing therapeutic when words were at a loss. He could play hours of violin concertos and especially waltzes from the master composers. But he could not find any motivation to do so.

With the voice of a sigh…I recall your disdain

Another sip. He let out a heavy sigh aromatizing the air with his caramelized sorrow. His deep marble eyes fell on his prized Pickelhaube. He stared at it intently, furrowing his brows disappointedly. The old German helmet served as a constant, nostalgic reminder of his noble Prussian heritage and of an imperial Germany steeped in tradition, discipline, order, camaraderie, loyalty to God and Kaiser. Gott mit uns. Now that was lost. Perhaps throughout the war, Klink foolishly believed in that romanticized notion of imperial Germany. However, deep down, as much as it hurt him, he knew the truth of that illusory Germany was never there. He wondered, what was Germany really fighting for? Was it even worth it?

I evoke you for no reason, I hear you without you being here

Klink's thoughts turned to a more disturbing nature. The sound of Hogan's jaunts and smugness made him cringe. That insolent American grin…his defiance…his smooth effectiveness as a leader…it angered the well-bred, aristocratic Prussian officer to see on a daily basis that tasteless, glib American make a show of himself. And Hogan further gained respect and even admiration from his comrades and foreign peers. Klink paced back and forth angrily hoping to rid himself of those taunting thoughts. He questioned, was it envy or just plain resentment against Hogan? Either way, it made him feel like an idiot.

"We are through", you said in a goodbye of sugar and bitterness

The Luftwaffe colonel sat back down to finish his coffee. The thought of Hogan annoyed him even further knowing that the Allies had won. But he supposed he was never going to see him again anyway. On that note, it was an ambivalent parting mixed with relief and fright. Inasmuch the dominant feeling was fright. His eyes felt like welling up, so he took his monocle off baring his left eye. Knowing that it was over between him and Stalag 13, he stirred an extra lump of sugar in his coffee to soothe out the bitter taste in his mouth. Klink then decided to walk around his office, his Kommandantur and view Stalag 13 from his window. With his coffee in his hands, he took a slow gait in what would be his last place. From the window, he stared into the camp's landscape melding with the rain. At first, he might have felt empowered by the domain but now he felt inevitable powerlessness.

Just like the coffee, like the love, like the forgetfulness, like the final vertigo of a resentment for no reason…

A dizzy spell seized the Kommandant from a headache that returned. He sat back down at his desk and set his coffee aside. He lay his head down for a long moment. His head whirled like the spoon swirls coffee. Wanting to cry, he quickly glanced at his small liquor cabinet. Schnapps, brandy, gin…he sorely wanted to take their offer of escape. But the officer and gentleman in him resisted the fight, knowing it was just going to end up uglier. That was the least in decency he mustered. He clenched his fists, growing angry with himself. Did he really feel that he was to blame for his own demise? But even he didn't know what wrong he committed, yet he felt guilty.

And there, merciless, I saw myself die standing up

The thought of death certainly hit the seasoned German officer. In fact, it was a haunting thought throughout his military career. Receiving constant threats from his superior, General Burkhalter and even the Gestapo. Klink wondered if it was ever certain that he was somehow destined for the Russian front, but as reality had it, the Russian front already arrived. Would he die forgotten by the hand of a Russian soldier? Or perhaps by a shooting squad, lined up with fellow comrades by his sides as if dying for a noble cause? Klink quickly raised his head to rid himself of that terrifying reverie.

I weighed up your vanity and then I understood my loneliness without what for…

Sure, Klink had his standards and measured them to be superior to those of his prisoners. But was his supposed superiority really just a façade for his hidden inferiority? Or his vanity a protection tactic? He realized his bootlicking methods made him more of an idiot than he wanted to let on. Was his authority as effective as he claimed it to be or was someone else running the show? It didn't matter now. Enough blind eyes have been turned. By now he knew that even the POWs have painted a less than dignified image of him. Perhaps the war didn't allow for him to show better qualities, but even others could see through him. The rain started to beat harder. His headache receded but he grew a bit feverish. It struck him that his loneliness was the only company he had to trust in. Klink was often charmed by Hogan's camaraderie among the POWs and it made him jealous to realize the fact that Hogan could even be trusted. Klink never really considered his closest comrade Schultz to be a friend, but viewed him as a pawn to feel more authoritative and as an ego booster. However, he intuitively knew that Schultz discreetly admires him, despite his less than friendly treatment of the humble sergeant.

It was raining and I offered you the last coffee

The weary Kommandant felt his heart grow heavy with each passing moment. He opened his desk drawers hoping to find something to calm his anxiety. He picked up a small, but old pocket-sized booklet. It was a prayerbook that he had received as a child after completing his confirmation, as was expected of aristocratic Prussian Lutheran families. He turned its pages feeling the stiffness and raw yellowness from years of storage. He didn't know whether to cry or pray for himself as a last chance to be saved. He put back the booklet and found letters from his mother in the drawer. He couldn't bear to read them. He could not imagine the hurt it brought his mother. It started to thunder outside.

He realized he needed to finish his coffee. It was cold already, so he poured another cupful stirred in with sugar and caramel. He lifted his cup to toast and said with a frown,

"Here's to you Wilhelm Klink and you Stalag 13, for this may be our last night. What a bittersweet parting that we may not cross paths again. Thanks for the memories, that's the end."

The twilight of dawn was drawing near. The rain was dying out and the sound of motors could be heard from a distance. Foreign voices shouting orders were muffled. No German heard. Klink was trembling with his coffee in his hands. Sips turned to gulps. The Kommandantur still standing…

And the question remained, was it his last coffee?