#680-01 Struggle for Berlin - Volume One: Fresh Start. SC. 62pp. $10.00 - Add this item to shopping cart.

#680-02 Struggle for Berlin - Volume Two: Banned. SC. 83pp. $10.00 - Add this item to shopping cart.

#680-03  Struggle for Berlin - Volume Three: Resurrection. SC. 79pp. $10.00 - Add this item to shopping cart.

#680-903  Struggle for Berlin - Complete Set of All Three Volumes. SC. - Add this item to shopping cart.

Here is an excerpt:

When all our attempts to quiet the meeting through kindness proved unsuccessful, I called the leader of the SS aside and immediately afterward his people moved in scattered groups right through the middle of the raging communist mass; and before the extremely amazed and dumbstruck Red Front fighters were aware of it at all, our comrades had pulled the agitator down from the stool and brought him right through the middle of the raging mob to the stage. That had never happened before; and what I had expected, now also prompted happened: a beer glass flew into the air and fell to the floor with a crash. And thus the signal was given for the first big meeting hall battle. Chairs broke, legs were pulled off tables, massed batteries of glasses and bottles mounted in seconds on tables like guns, and then it broke out. The battle waged back and forth for almost ten minutes. Glasses, bottles, table and chair legs flew through the air randomly and without aim. An ear-deafening roar arose; the red beast had been unleashed and now wanted to have its victim.

At first it seemed as if all of us were lost. The communist attack had commenced so spontaneous and explosive that, even though we had been prepared for it, it came totally expected for us. But hardly had the SA and SS troops, scattered in the whole hall and primarily in front of the stage, recovered from the first stunned surprise, than they launched a counterattack with bold daring; and in the process, however, it was shown that the communist party indeed has masses standing behind it, but that these masses, at the moment they encounter a firmly disciplined and sworn opposition, become cowardly and are seized by the hare’s panic. In the shortest time span, the red mob that had come to smash up our meeting was beaten out of the hall and the quiet that could not be achieved with kind means was now forced through naked violence.

Usually, during the course of a meeting hall battle one is hardly aware of the individual phases of such an action. Only later do they surface again in the memory. I see before my eyes still today the picture that will remain unforgettable for me for my whole life: on the stage stood a young SA man, previously unknown to me, and hurled for the defense of the assembly leadership his projectiles into the charging red mob. Suddenly, he is struck on the head by a beer glass thrown from far away. Blood runs down his temples in a bread stream. He sinks to the floor with a cry. After a few seconds, he gets up again, reaches for a water bottle sitting on the table and hurls it in a wide arch into the hall, where it then smashes with a crash on the head of an opponent.

The face of this young man remains with me. It has implanted itself in my memory in this episode playing out as fast as lightning. This SA man, seriously wounded in the Pharussäle, would very soon and then for all time become my most reliable and most loyal comrade.

Only when the red mob, howling, growling and cursing, had cleared the field, could one ascertain how difficult and rich in casualties this conflict had been; mostly forehead and head wounds and two with severe concussions. The table and the steps that led to the stage were covered with large puddles of blood. The whole hall resembled a single field of ruins.

And in this blood and shard-strewn desert, as tall as a tree, the SA leader stood at this place again and declared in stony calm: "The meeting continues. The lecturer has the floor."

Never before and never again have I spoken under such exciting accompanying circumstances. Behind me, moaning in blood and pain, the badly wounded SA comrades. Around me shards, broken chair legs, splintered beer glasses and blood. The whole assembly petrified in icy silence. Back then, we still lacked a trained medic corps; we were hence dependent, since we found ourselves in a proletarian suburb, after all, on having our badly wounded transported by so-called worker Samaritans. And then there played out before the doors of the assembly room scenes that in their heartless repugnancy are downright indescribable. These animalized people, who allegedly fight for brotherhood in the whole world, let themselves be drawn to cursing our poor and defenseless badly wounded and to assailing them with expressions such as: "Hasn’t the swine croaked yet?"

Under these circumstances, it was totally impossible to hold a coherent speech. Hardly had I began, when a medic unit again entered the hall and a badly wounded SA man was carried down the stage and outside on a swaying stretcher. One of them, whom these coarse apostles of humanity at the door showered with the most nasty and vile expressions, called in his desperation with a voice that reached up the speaker’s podium loud and discernible to me. I interrupted the speech, walked through the hall in which scattered, isolated communist disruption squads still sat – but they silently and shyly pulled aside under the impression of this unexpected beating – and took departure from the badly wounded SA man outside.

At the conclusion of my talk, the word of the unknown SA man was spoken aloud the first time.