Siegfried Herbst
No distances can weigh you down,
Enchanted you come flying,
And greedy for the light, at last,
A moth, you burn in dying.
A description of Siegfried Herbst’s appearance, based on the recollections of Joanna Weber (neé von Leonhard) and Millan Dolgorukov, as compiled by Karl von Leonhard in the 1950s.
Frau Joanna Weber, my sister, spoke mostly positively of Herr Siegfried Herbst. Before he left for Britain in 1939, his complexion still blossomed with youthful radiance. His slightly curled black hair barely reached his neck, and his hooded eyes always gave a relaxed impression. To outsiders, he appeared to be just another ambitious newcomer in the business world, perhaps even carrying a bit of an artistic wanderer’s aura. However, his style differed greatly from those of unkempt street artists - he preferred solid black suits and trench coats, which, combined with his height of over six feet, gave him a striking presence.
Herr Millan Dolgorukov, however, found Herbst’s fashion sense overly flashy, believing it damaged his reputation by making him seem like a frivolous philanderer. Apart from his choice of clothing, Dolgorukov also disapproved of the silver earring Herbst wore on his right ear. To him, what truly made Herbst stand out was not his accessories, but his deep set of blue eyes. They reflected much more than the decadence and lavishness of the 30s; they carried his boundless love for the sea and sky from the bottom of his heart. “Perhaps this, is his most Aryan trait,” Dolgorukov once remarked, in what seemed to be a biting satire.
Dolgorukov appreciated what could not be changed - the parts that made Herbst himself. Aside from his eyes, there was the tattoo on his left arm: salty waves, a compass, and Maria - the beloved sailboat of his youth - those defining him, embodying his yearning for freedom and peace. He was born into an era that had no tolerance for peacemakers, yet his defiance of the times was permanently etched into his flesh and bones, a charm that could not be masked by simply jewels or cologne.
After spending two dramatic years in Britain, Herbst returned to Munich, and Frau Weber barely recognized him. The once youthful softness and impulsiveness in him had vanished. Except for his shoulder-length hair with a small braid above the ear, the style he always wore, he had grown into a typical German gentleman. His jawline seemed more defined, his expression always sullen and brows furrowed, and even his eye sockets appeared deeper than before. His all-black wardrobe gradually gave way to the inconspicuous grey and brown attires, and he frequently had a cigarette between his lips. These subtle changes went unnoticed by most, except for his keen-eyed neighbour, Frau Weber. Even as close to him as Dolgorukov had only realised his transformation in late 1943, when Herbst finally cut his hair short and slicked it back. Embarrassed by his own lack of observation, Dolgorukov simply remarked, “No matter how he dresses or styles his hair, he was still the him I know - I never judge a person by such superficial details.”
An old newspaper published in the late 1930s, collected by former world chess champion Millan Dolgorukov.
Siegfried Herbst, an Aryan, was born around 1916. He was orphaned by war and later adopted by Lieutenant Heinrich Stuart. Like most German families after the First World War, he did not have the privilege to savour apple pies and caramel puddings, or wake up to piles of presents under the Christmas tree. With his childish nature left unfulfilled, his grades naturally suffered. He dropped out after a year and a half of secondary school and began working in a bar in downtown Stuttgart. By the age of fourteen, he was already laying the foundation for his future career.
Herbst was not a typical teenager. Despite constantly being around alcohol, he never developed a drinking habit. Instead, he took advantage of the opportunity to meet all kinds of people. Driven by a childlike curiosity about the world, he and his friend Kurt Lunes soon embarked on a two-year voyage. They set sail from Hamburg, crossed the North Sea and the Norwegian Sea, and across the whole of Scandinavia they went. According to Herbst, they once met a Viking-like man who introduced them to the local culture and spoke of an approaching golden era, encouraging them to seize their youth and venture into business. The man eventually hired the boys to help in his small tavern, where Herbst’s talents gradually emerged - he always had a beautiful smile when serving his guests.
At sixteen, the boys returned to Germany and, inspired by the Viking’s advice, opened up Florian. At first, it was just a small tavern in Munich, on a lifeless street, their business barely surviving. Though, thanks to the policies of the 30s, life all across the country improved. At that time, Florian’s biggest competitor was a bar owned by a Jewish proprietor, and that gave Herbst immense advantages. Through a fortunate encounter, he met a woman called Joanna von Leonhard, the daughter of a renowned Bavarian brewery owner. They grew close, and Old Leonhard, impressed by Herbst’s sharp business sense, even considered him as a potential son-in-law. Florian received significant support from the Leonhard family, and their brewery became Florian’s largest supplier. However, the engagement between Herbst and Joanna ultimately fell through. By 1937, Herbst had become the second-largest shareholder of the Leonhard brewery. By then, he was no longer just a young bartender who knew nothing besides mixing drinks together, but a successful entrepreneur. His career had been smooth sailing thus far, and the future appeared bright - free like the vast seas he had once dreamed of. All of this, Herbst claimed, was thanks to the great National Socialist Party.
If Herbst were to be likened to a cocktail, it had to be a Margarita made with blue curaçao as the liqueur, Florian’s signature. It had a subtle sweetness beyond the usual triple sec, but carried a lingering bitterness of orange peel. Its refreshing taste would captivate you instantly, almost as if it was sucking out your soul. One could say its vibrant blue hue resembled either a cloudless sky or the mysterious glow of a forest lake. Herbst was a chivalrous young man, naturally sociable - even without neatly trimmed blonde hair, he could charm all the ladies with his unique aura. Yet, an elusive air always shrouded his words, like a thin veil that concealed his true self from all, even his lovers were not spared. Despite becoming quite a capitalist as he was, he continued to visit Florian’s four locations frequently, sometimes even donning a bartender’s uniform to serve the guests himself. When tipsy, all he could speak of were the vast ocean, the endless horizon, the salty sea breeze, and the seagulls swooping down to snatch breadcrumbs from the docks... A touch of freedom, a dash of indulgence, and a measure of ambition and enthusiasm for the future - congrats, you just made the perfect shot of Siegfried Herbst.
Excerpt from Karl von Leonhard’s Entrepreneurs of a Bygone Era, compiled from various sources, including the recollections of Siegfried Herbst’s close friend, Millan Dolgorukov.
The roaring automobiles of Stuttgart mixed together with its bustling nightlife, blending into a fine glass of Cosmopolitan. Pungent blue fumes curled around a dimly lit street corner. The streetlights cast a hazy orange glow, masking the stars - urban fireflies blinking against the dark. One such firefly flickered into the doorway of a rundown bar, darted through a crowd of drunkards in a dead-end alley, and landed on Siegfried Herbst’s dishevelled fringe. He flicked it away with a casual motion, sending it off into the night.
The bricks at the alley’s edge were riddled with holes, eroded by rain and filth dripping off the roof, leaving them pockmarked and rough. Moving toward the glow of the streetlights, one would find a shabby pub with a peeling signboard. The wooden frame beneath was exposed, its stripes standing out sharply. A few metal stools sat outside, their coarse red rust clinging like hardened calluses to their backs and legs, drenched from the rain. The air was thick with musty moisture, carrying a faint stench of mould.
A man with a beer belly and thick beard staggered out of the bar. He wiped the stools swiftly, balancing two under one arm, pinning another between his head and shoulder, while clutching the rest in his hands. He nudged open the glass door with his foot, manoeuvring his way inside before disappearing behind it. Across the street, a broken street lamp flickered erratically, its unpredictable light flashing in disjointed bursts. Behind it once stood a branch of the Danat Bank, which had gone bankrupt in July, and no business had replaced their place for two months. Though the bank’s interior had been cleared out, the exterior remained unchanged.
“Damn it, can’t even afford cigarettes nowadays,” Siegfried grumbled, scuffing his shoe against the grimy pavement, and spat on a sprawled-out drunk at his feet. The drunk, his face flushed crimson, groaned and wiped his face with a clumsy hand, only to smear the spit into his damp beard with a mix of rainwater and vomit. As he tipped sideways toward Siegfried’s legs, the latter kicked him away, then he flopped in the opposite direction, landing face-first in a murky puddle with a wet slap. The brown-green water splashed outward, sending flies enjoying their feast buzzing into the night. Siegfried swore under his breath, swatting at them with his hand.
Leaning against the bar’s outer wall, Kurt chuckled, dusting off his clothes. He pulled a half-crushed cigarette stub from his pocket and tossed it to Siegfried. “Stole it on the way here. Make do.” His pocket flapped open, its lining hanging out like a dog’s ear, adding to his almost comical appearance.
Siegfried didn’t thank him. He caught the cigarette, its frayed end curling upward. His fingers, darkened by dirt, pinched it as he fumbled for a lighter. The fake silver casing was speckled with rust, its dull surface catching the streetlight like a pockmarked face. He flicked it a few times - sparks danced, but no flame followed. After several attempts, frustration took over. With a grunt, he tossed the cheap lighter onto the wet ground and gave it a kick. It arced through the air, glinting silver before landing with a sharp thunk—right on the bald head of the unconscious drunk. The two lads erupted into laughter.
“Nice shot, Sieg!” he cackled.
“Gold medal worthy,” Siegfried smirked, motioning with his chin. “Now quit blabbering. Got a light?”
Kurt proudly held out a golden Ronson lighter, watching for Siegfried’s reaction.
As expected, Siegfried’s eyes widened. He examined it with the awe of someone seeing a lighter for the first time, so entranced that he didn’t even notice when his cigarette slipped from his lips and fell to the ground. “Holy hell... this real?”
“Hundred percent,” Kurt boasted. “Saw some fancy-looking guy in a suit the other day—guess what he had in his bag?”
“Yeah, right. If you managed to rob a rich guy, I’d sleep with a man.”
“Swear on my grave,” Kurt said, crossing his heart. “Bunch of fountain pens, a pocket watch, and a weird letter. Sold the valuables. Still got the letter. It’s full of fancy cursive. Read it for me—can’t read that nerdy shit.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his coat and handed it over.
The letter was yellowed, coffee stains darkening its corners. It had been carelessly stuffed into Kurt’s pocket, leaving it wrinkled and creased. Siegfried flattened it against his knee and scanned the slanted handwriting. The loops, dots, and flourishes blended together, creating an elaborate yet artificial elegance with an uncanny tinge to it. He moved closer to the streetlamp for better light.
“‘Dear Herr Heinz, I hope this letter finds you well, and that you remain just as dedicated to our Party’s cause as ever. In these challenging times, it is, of course, our utmost priority to rise to the occasion and lead our nation toward a brighter future...’” Siegfried read aloud before scoffing. “Another ambitious nobody spouting nonsense. Heard it all before.”
Kurt elbowed him. “As if you know so much. Shut up and keep reading.”
Rolling his eyes, Siegfried continued, his speech slurred with uninterest: “‘Germany’s economy is in a severe crisis. Rampant inflation, unemployment, and instability have cast a shadow over our citizens. Clearly, the leadership of the Weimar Republic has failed to address these urgent issues. Bureaucrats and certain insidious elements are deceiving the public and siphoning vast amounts of wealth. I believe you understand my implications, Herr Heinz.’”
He paused, frowning. “What are his implications?”
“Probably that the government’s run by some underground group, the Illuminati or something...” Kurt muttered. “Fine by me. Cops are too busy dealing with politics to catch small-time thieves like us.”
Siegfried nodded and read on: “‘Foreign influences, particularly those of a certain heritage, pose the greatest threat to our society. It is time to unite the disillusioned people, awaken their broken spirits, and rebuild a greater German nation from the ashes. The sky's the limit, Herr Heinz. My hands tremble with excitement as I write this. We must break free from the chains of the Versailles Treaty—enduring humiliation is never in the German spirit. Our great leader, with his profound understanding of our society’s plight, will rally the people and make sure their voices are heard. It is our duty to ensure this victory in the upcoming election.’” He skimmed the rest—pages filled with dense, feverish rhetoric, like countless needles piercing his eyes. “I’m done, Kurt. Every word’s got thirty damn letters in it. Government, economy, party struggles—none of my business.”
Kurt shrugged. “That’s where the good stuff probably starts. If they need to ‘ensure victory in the upcoming election,’ they must be planning something, and these are their plans. But fine, dumbass, shouldn’t have trusted you anyways. Hand it over. I’ll figure it out myself.” He reached for the letter.
Unexpected by him, Siegfried crumpled it into a ball and hurled it at the bar’s glass door. It zipped through the gaps between passersby and smacked against its target. “Go fetch it yourself, nerd.” He laughed, raking a hand through his fringe. Inside, the bearded bartender looked up sharply, his bushy brows bristling with anger, as he made eye contact with Siegfried. The boy’s spine stiffened. Without waiting for Kurt’s punch or a curse, he bolted into the night, vanishing into the crowd like a wisp of Irish mist.
Excerpt from “An den Mond”, by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Flow on, beloved flood: flow on!
I’ll never know joy again,
Laughter and kisses, both are gone,
And loyalty flows away.
There was a time I had as yet
Life’s most precious thing!
Ah, a man can never forget
That which torments him!
Excerpt from the memoirs of Sylwester Ciszewski, the owner of a vinyl store in East Berlin.
Though Stanisław and I lived vastly different lives and even once served opposing nations, I long ago stopped harbouring anger over an unchangeable past. The years of separation were not his fault, nor our parents’, nor the soldiers who saved him. The first half of the twentieth century was ravaged by war and upheaval - in such turbulent times, merely knowing that Stanisław had survived brought the greatest solace to my heart.
Amid the intoxicating melodies of Marlene Dietrich, he laughed in the ruins of the postwar Weimar Republic, riding the Third Reich’s rising tide… Stanisław built himself a shimmering, liquor-soaked ‘American Dream,’ fermenting his outcast soul into the lead of a Puccini opera. When sweethearts with blonde curls gathered around his sides, he traced their delicate cheeks with his calloused fingers, burying a past that had long since blurred at the edges.
Stanisław was Siegfrie’s secret - even to himself. Back during the First World War, my parents, along with their ten children, lived in the small village of Siedliska, just miles east of Przemyśl. Life was difficult, and in desperation, my parents made the painful decision to abandon their youngest - Stanisław, my only younger brother - in Siedliska, while the rest of us wandered until we finally settled in Lviv. There were only six mouths left to feed when we arrived. My eldest sister, Sofia, always teared up when recalling this, but I was barely three years old at the time and remembered none of it. As a baby, Stanisław was bursting with energy, always making it difficult for our mother to breastfeed him. I sometimes wished I could have harnessed that limitless energy of his for my own purposes during the Second World War - but in the end, it was a greater fortune for our family that the Germans never got the chance to use his talents for their own ends either.
The abandoned Stanisław did not simply perish in obscurity. He was quickly picked up by German soldiers and became a sort of mascot for their unit. While tens of thousands of strong young men shed their blood across the vast marshland named Europe, little Stanisław somehow emerged from the battlefield unscathed. No - by then, he had become Siegfried Herbst. The German boys, singing their folk songs, gave this babbling child the name “Peace” and “Autumn.” Their boots kicked up pebbles from the muddy ground, perhaps reminding them of the fields and paths of home. Knowing they might never live to see another sunrise, they still smiled at the red-cheeked little boy who gazed up at the scattered clouds above, and they passed him amongst themselves like a torch, carrying with it was the missing warmth of autumn. Little Siegfried, enjoying it all, became German to the core.
And yet, perhaps because of the Polish blood flowing through his veins, Siegfried never considered joining the Nazi Party, no matter how much others urged him. I once asked him about it over drinks, and his response was: “I never cared for politics, nor did I ever dream that someone as small as myself could change the fate of a nation, let alone the world.”
I laughed and teased him: “Exactly - clear-headed people are rare in chaotic times. And you, my dear Staś, even though you always seem a little slow on the uptake, never disappoint when it matters.” He waved his hand and said nothing more. Perhaps, in his eyes, explaining himself to me was pointless.
Stanisław was neither a traditional hero nor a Hitlerian villain. Most of us exist in the grey area of moral ambiguity, but he was the very embodiment of greyness. He ran Florian, a gathering place for foreign spies, and even maintained ties with the British during the war; yet when the Reich faced its downfall, he voluntarily joined the secret police and was alarmingly efficient at hunting down members of the resistance. Many of his choices seemed utterly illogical to me, and his beliefs contradicted themselves - the only constant about him was his inconsistency. Thinking of it this way, he was not an incomprehensible eccentric after all.
Moon River, wider than a mile
I'm crossing you in style someday
Oh, dream maker
You heartbreaker
Wherever you're going, I'm going your way
Two drifters off to see the world
There's such a lot of world to see
We're after the same rainbow's end
Waiting 'round the bend
My huckleberry friend
Moon River and me
A yellowed letter found in an empty apartment in Munich, by Frau Joanna Weber in 1946.
Dear Mil,
It’s been a long time since we last spoke to each other. How have you been? Oh, how much I wish I could see you once more, now, at last, this stormy era seems to have finally come to a pause.
Every time I pick up my pen to write to you, my mind goes blank, or perhaps it’s more like a tangled mess of yarn, impossible to smooth out with ink and paper. The war has changed so much. Ever since the Russians pressed on toward Berlin, I haven’t written a single letter, and aside from Kätzchen, nothing could’ve made me smile from the bottom of my heart anymore. So, I can’t guarantee you the quality of this letter, and my handwriting has gotten worse; I’m quite embarrassed. Watching everything familiar to me fall apart right in front of my eyes and feeling powerless is not a pleasant experience. It’s laughable, really. But as a German, I probably have no right to complain to you about these.
Do you remember this time last year? I was holding Kätzchen, watching you ride away in E Minor’s car, slowly zooming out to a small black dot in my sight, then disappearing over the horizon. You probably didn’t see me. I was leaning against a wooden post outside a shop, wearing a plain beige trench coat, and my old, faded leather shoes scuffed the cement pavement wet from the rain. Cars drove by on the road next to me, their tyres squealing on the damp asphalt road. The first autumn leaves drifted in the puddles by the curbs. The sky was grey, like the colour of your hat. At that moment, I really wanted to rush up, feeling that I could catch up to E Minor’s car, to tell you it was all a mistake, that I couldn’t bear to let you go. How embarrassing, I bit my lip and almost cried right there in the street. Little Kätzchen, however, was a lot more sensible - he nuzzled against my chest, and when I looked down at his head, he didn’t say a word, but stared at the direction in which you left, as if he already knew something. In the end, I’m emotional and impulsive, painfully cowardly and helpless, unable to hold onto anything I treasure - my Munich, my Florian, and you, my Mil.
Mil, I never imagined you would take up such a large part of my life. You are like a moonlit path in my rusty soul, a moon river, with tiny waves breaking the pale white moonlight and scattering it across the water, like stars, flickering and shining. The moon river leads to the end of a rainbow, where wild blueberries grow in clusters along the riverbank. The river water wets my body, and the shards of moonlight coat my hair with a silver sheen. The bottom of the river is lined with cool, smooth pebbles, and with a little push of my foot, I glide effortlessly downstream for several meters. I float down along this slow water, with fish kissing my skin, our Kätzchen weaving through the bushes on the shore, and occasionally, the moonrock gazes at him. His big, sapphire-like eyes glisten like jewels, and their light is almost dazzling. In the dream of the moon river, there are no flying bombs, no deafening sounds of artillery, no sharp air raid sirens - only you calling from the end of the rainbow, my Mil, while I float along the winding bends of the river. We chase the same rainbow beneath the same silent night sky; at the other end of it is a utopia, a world that only belongs to us. Do you see this, my dear?
Berlin in May is scorching hot, but my fingers are freezing. The streets are no longer streets; huge holes blasted in the walls of apartment blocks, balconies dangling off the edge of the buildings. I could almost still catch a glimpse of the blonde girl who used to live her quiet life in a building like this, sitting lazily in a small rocking chair on her terrace. With delicate fingers, she carefully opened a yellowed envelope, the breeze ruffling the hem of her skirt. A smile would creep on her rosy face as she read the sweet love letter from her husband, away at war. Oh Mil, what mood would you be in when you read my letter? The winding path isn’t just your moon river; it’s also the entwining streets and alleys scattered across Berlin, full of rubble and broken bricks. I wandered here for a long time, dust rising to smear on my eyes, and everything in front of me became grey—whether from the dust or the dull greyish-white sunlight behind the rain clouds, I couldn’t tell. Your blonde hair and sapphire eyes must be far more vivid than the unsaturated hues of Berlin in May. Mil, I’ve always loved letting my imagination run wild. Every time a shadow darted across a street corner, I’d hope it was you. I wanted to believe it was you coming to find me, that you haven’t forgotten me, that the moon river still flows, the rainbow hasn’t faded, and the sun still hasn’t hidden behind the clouds.
Mil, even if you are on the other side of the horizon, far beyond my reach, I still believe this moon river will guide me to where you are. On the other side of the river, in a world of vibrant colours, Kätzchen paws through the wild blueberries in the bushes, and there are no clouds to block the twinkling stars in the night sky. When the moon tilts westward, raindrops hit the shimmering surface of the river, and the current quickens, carrying me over the North Sea, exchanging greetings with the Norwegian Sea, then slowing down, looping around, and finally stopping in Reykjavik. The rain continues to fall, gentle and sweet, like dewdrops mixed with soda drinks. It falls on the flowers, and the flowers nod; it falls on Kätzchen, and he shakes his fur; it falls on my head, drifting off my hair and drips into the river, its touch slowly melting me into the gentle embrace of the moon river, melting me into the love-filled gaze of your eyes.
The twilight touches the raindrops, the sky is clear and blue, with no clouds in sight. I turn back to look at the moon river, bidding me farewell as the ripples absorb the last slivers of moonlight. In a quiet dream, morning birds sing, and where the sun rises, a rainbow stretches across the sky, like a long, curved bridge, following the moon river towards me, while I walk towards its other end, buried in the sand. The day has arrived, and the moon river has taken me away; it has brought my heart to you. The sunlight in my dream is warm, the pale yellow morning mist gently moistens my cheeks, and it makes me think of the faint scent of wood that always clung to you, so pleasant. Or perhaps it’s the fragrance of flowers, the faint dew on cornflowers mixed with the rich scent of roses. My dear, I think of you constantly, of everything about you.
Mil, I love you. No matter how far apart we are, as long as my heart beats, I will love you always. It’s already past midnight here in Berlin, so it’s the 17th of October here. Happy birthday, Mil. I’m sorry I couldn’t buy you roses this year, but please promise me - you’ll take good care of yourself, okay?
Forever yours,
Sieg Herbst