GERMANY: The Bear of Berlin

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Newly arrived in Berlin, TIME'S Bureau Chief Emmet Hughes last week cabled a first impression of the struggle for Germany:

In this strangest of world capitals, perhaps the strangest of all meetings takes place each week in a neat, white stucco building on the Parochialstrasse. Here the 130 duly elected representatives of the people of Berlin—the "Stadtparlament" or City Assembly—convene in a third-floor room. Its straight rows of wooden benches suggest a classroom more than a parliament. But to the front, below grey curtains emblazoned with a huge emblem of the bear of Berlin, two large, raised benches rather suggest a courtroom.

On the lower of these benches sit the assembly's presiding officers, behind and above them are the representatives of the four occupying powers. Perhaps the suggestion of both classroom and courtroom is apt. For here, Berlin's people are expected to learn the ways of democracy, and here the Big Four of World War II are supposed to sit in solemn judgment on their efforts. But, this week, it was difficult to tell who was judge, who the accused.

The Strangled City. The two immaculately uniformed Russian officers stared down expressionlessly from their high official bench at the small woman in navy blue who spoke to the assembly. She was Berlin's Mayoress, grey-haired, matronly, bespectacled Louise Schroeder; and her hands gripped the rostrum firmly. She attacked the restrictions on transportation within Berlin and on the shipment of packages to the Western zones. Prosaic issues? Yes—but they involved orders of the Russian occupying army.

Her crisp, strong voice did not betray her 61 years as she declared: "We"must have all communications flowing freely. We must keep Berlin unified, within a united Germany." This was little less than Berlin's German Mayor calling on the Russians to stop strangling the capital. The two Russian officers showed their unconcern—one by strolling out, the other by reading a newspaper. The assembly (all but the score of S.E.D. Communists) applauded.

It is a strange assembly that the eight representatives of the great powers (two from each nation) look down upon. The women match the men in the shabbiness of their dress; there isn't a firm trouser crease or an even hemline. There is only a hushed attentiveness, as their eyes move studyingly from the speaker to the faces of their conquerors of three years ago. Occasionally, there sounds the discreet rustle of wax paper as a representative of the people unwraps his brown bread sandwich, neatly folds the paper and tucks it back in his pocket for future use. The linoleum floor beneath their feet is spick & span because this group has nothing with which to litter it.