International: Incident at the Widow Lehrte’s

Who but the neighbors cared about what passed in the house of the widow Lehrte? So unquiet were the times, and so jumpy the world, that Frau Lehrte and a young soldier out for an afternoon of fun last Week caused an excited incident in besieged Berlin. Some U.S. newspapers reported it under black headlines. Said one story: “Russian troops have opened fire inside the U.S. sector.”

For some time, the neighbors had been indignant over Frau Lehrte’s activities. She lived in the southernmost part of Berlin’s U.S. sector, on Landshuterstrasse, a pleasant street which runs across the fateful boundary between Berlin and the surrounding Soviet zone. Lately an increasing number of Russian officers had walked over the boundary to visit the widow Lehrte.

One afternoon last week, a Russian lieutenant, a rifle slung over his shoulder. drove a motorcycle up the street. He was young, short and fairly handsome except for two scars, one on each side of his face, which looked as if they had been made by a single bullet. Dozens of eyes peering through curtained windows saw the Russian walk unsteadily up the steps and enter Frau Lehrte’s house. Soon he walked down the steps and into a nearby orchard, where he leaned wearily against an apple tree: the widow Lehrte was not home, and the Russian intended to wait for her return.

Then a German police car and a U.S. MP jeep arrived (they had been summoned by an indignant neighbor who had finally decided to inform the authorities of the goings-on at Frau Lehrte’s). The Russian jerked himself erect. Forgetting his motorcycle, he walked off in the direction of the Soviet zone. But when he saw a second U.S. jeep pull up, he ducked behind a tree, raised his rifle and fired four quick shots. German and U.S. police flung themselves behind the parked cars; the Russian slipped away. A German policeman, wounded in the leg, lay on his back before Frau Lehrte’s house. Germans clustered around him and stared at the Russian’s abandoned motorcycle.

“No Joking!” At this moment, Frau Lehrte returned. She was a handsome woman of about 40, with a broad peasant face. She hurried up the street, glancing apprehensively at the crowd before her house. None of the neighbors spoke to her. Edward A. Morrow of the New York Times, who happened to be on the scene, walked up to her and asked: “Were you expecting a Russian officer?”

“I suppose so,” she answered. “I know some Russians. He might have been a friend of some of them.” Then she hurried into her house.

“Here he comes again!” Children who had been playing down the street raised the cry. “Here he comes again!” The Russian lieutenant reappeared. He saw the Americans gathered near his motorcycle, and slipped back out of sight. One block away, in a tree-lined sidestreet, Morrow caught up with him. The lieutenant was now accompanied by a Russian private, whose Tommy gun he carried. Morrow said (in Polish, which the Russian understood): “I am unarmed. I want to find out what’s happening here.”

Struggling to maintain the composure befitting an officer, the lieutenant said, “I want my motorcycle back.”

“What motorcycle?”

“No joking!” said the Russian. “All I want is my motorcycle.”

“Why did you fire at the police?” Morrow asked.

The Russian’s face turned red. “Oh, that woman!” he shouted. “All this trouble for a woman who is not even home! I thought the Americans wanted to capture me. I just fired in the air to scare them off.”

Afternoon of Fun. At this point Lieut. Colonel Thomas Lancer, U.S. provost marshal in Berlin, arrived in an olive drab staff car. “Now tell me what has happened here,” Lancer told the Russian through an interpreter.

“Why are all the American troops after me?” blurted the Russian, nervously puffing at a cigarette.

“Well, why did you shoot at them?”

“I am not drunk, and do you think I am crazy?” cried the Russian. “I just fired to scare off the Germans—and that’s nothing. If I wanted to shoot the Americans, I could have picked them all off—like crows.”

“You wounded a German policeman,” said Lancer.

The Russian looked pained. “I don’t believe it. I am too good a shot and I wasn’t aiming to hit anyone,” he said. “Why should anyone be concerned about a German getting shot? All right, I created an incident. I want to apologize profusely. Now may I have my motorcycle?”

“Not yet,” answered Lancer. “You have shot a German and I must have a written note of apology sent to me. Then we will deliver the motorcycle to you.”

Pleadingly, the Russian turned to the interpreter. “Tell the colonel I will give him five bottles of vodka for the motorcycle. I have them right in my barracks.”

Colonel Lancer ignored the offer and looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. You are welcome to come into the American sector any time—but not carrying arms.” He shook hands with the hapless Russian and started back to headquarters. The lieutenant looked after him. “All I wanted was an afternoon of fun,” he muttered miserably. “There, wouldn’t have been any of this trouble if the woman had only been at home.”

It was a bad time for anyone to try and have fun in Berlin. Next day, the U.S. Military Government sent a formal protest against this latest instance of armed Russians entering the U.S. sector. Then the city once more relaxed into its normal state of tension.