by Jana Petken
Dieter found the sealed canisters filled with Zyklon B on pallets in the storage room next to the loading bay. Empty bottles of eye irritant were standing in rows against the wall. The chemists, it seemed, had already added the irritant to the less volatile cyanide compound. Together they reacted with water and heat to become hydrogen cyanide, the deadly weapon. “Don’t touch anything,” Dieter warned Kurt.
The name ‘Degesch’ was printed in black letters on the canisters’ labels, propelling Dieter’s mind back in time to when the carbon monoxide canisters, the first gas produced in his factory, was labelled with ‘Vogel.’ Those canisters were much smaller than these, and his twin boys had witnessed first-hand, the damage they’d done.
“I admit, I thought there would be more,” Dieter now said.
“What do you think the fallout will be with this lot?” Kurt asked.
“Production was suspended on the day I attended that meeting with Heydrich, so the explosion should be more contained than I originally thought. I’ve just looked at the gauges on the gasholder cylinders and they’re all showing empty, and it appears that the chemical waste has already been taken away.” He walked around the pallets. “At a guess, I’d say there’s about two hundred canisters here, each one with the capacity to kill about fifty people.”
“Ten thousand?” Kurt was appalled.
Dieter nodded. “And this facility was just a testing ground, producing a tiny amount of gas compared to what IG Farben and Degesch will manufacture and distribute when they build their facilities in Auschwitz and elsewhere.”
Kurt repeated the question. “So, what will the overall damage be to the factory?”
“The blast might destroy half of it. As I said, the storage tanks are empty, and the gas in the canisters will probably burn up in the explosion.” Dieter had helped design the factory when it was originally built some fifteen years earlier, and he knew where the building’s structural vulnerabilities were located. The aim of their mission was to destroy the basement’s gas plant and every canister of gas in it. Dieter desperately wanted to save the bulk of the factory, which produced life-saving products and employed hard working people who needed the money to provide for their families. He also acknowledged that if the Royal Air Force ever did bomb the building, it’s destruction would not be on his conscience.
Dieter cracked open the basement’s outer door and looked up at the peaceful black sky. “We’ll bring the bodies in here before we set the explosives,” he said. “And we should hurry.”
Chapter Sixty-One
“Achtung! Achtung!” the man’s voice sounded over the city-wide Tannoy system, then as his voice died away the sirens wailed their morbid warning to Berliners.
The planes’ engines rumbled in the sky above the capital until their chilling hum was drowned out by bombs whistling louder and louder as they neared the ground.
The numerous, but almost simultaneous explosions at the Vogel factory were as loud as the lethal weapons engulfing the capital from the air. The blast wave blew out window glass that looked like horizontal rain, such was the shattering effect of the chemical explosions in the basement. On the left-hand side of the building, the roof and sections of the outer walls blew outwards; a colossal eruption of smashed brick and concrete. Parts of the building on the affected side weren’t even visible through the slate-grey clouds of smoke and dust, while bright red flames licked hungrily up the remaining façade. But the explosion had damaged less than half the building, leaving the entrance and everywhere to the right of it unscathed apart from broken window panes.
The guard who’d been at the factory gates, ran full pelt towards Gert, the night watchman, while Kurt staggered out of the building, his face bloodied and his jacket ripped.
“Get back! Get away from the building!” Kurt shouted to the young soldier.
The soldier halted, then pivoted and sprinted back towards the gate. Behind him Kurt ran, almost blinded by blood dripping into his eyes, but nonetheless trying to hurry along the elderly Gert who was stumbling and tripping over the rubble.
Kurt craned his neck up at the sky. The British raid was not abating. Instead, the planes appeared to be homing in on the industrial suburbs and dropping every bomb in their payloads. He fought for breath as he ran, but with one misstep tumbled onto the grass in the middle of a field on the other side of the gates, some four-hundred metres from the factory. His face was barely recognisable. His cheeks, pitted with glass fragments had ballooned to twice their normal size, his bottom lip had been split by a shard of metal, and his pale skin looked as though it had been smeared with strawberry jam.
“Where is Herr Vogel and the other guards?” the soldier panted.
“Dead … all of them … I think,” Kurt coughed.
“You left them in there? Didn’t you try to help them? Herr Vogel too?” Gert gasped, slumping to the ground next to Kurt.
Kurt shook his head and covered his face, wincing as his fingers brushed against glass fragments lodged in his skin. “Everything happened at once. The building shook. I thought the factory had been hit but then I saw pipes bursting in the basement … water gushing everywhere, and sparks … I saw sparks.” He coughed again then continued. “The leak must have been caused by the impact of a bomb exploding nearby. We couldn’t hear the sirens at first, but we felt the ground shaking when the bombs hit.” He paused again to catch his breath. “Herr Vogel told me to get out of the building, then he and two of the guards went into the gas plant to try to shut the electricity and water off. They closed the airtight door behind them, and that was the last I saw of them – he and the guards were probably electrocuted, or burnt in the explosion, I don’t know. I was lucky to get up the stairs and along the corridor in time – Christ, my skin stings like hell.”
Explosions continued to pound the area. The night watchman scrambled to his feet, panting with emotion. “They’ve hit it! They’ve got the factory. That’s our bloody jobs gone up in flames!”
“Don’t go back, Gert,” Kurt said, as the old man started to stagger towards the factory gate. “This is the safest place to be other than in an underground shelter. Going back to see if the factory’s been flattened is not worth risking your life for.”
“English bastards! Come down here, and we’ll show you what’s what!” Gert screamed at the sky, shaking his fist in the air. Then he dropped to his knees next to Kurt again.
“Which guards went inside the gas plant with Herr Vogel? What were their names?” the soldier asked, getting back to his questions.
“How the buggery should I know? I’m just a driver. Two of the soldiers went with Herr Vogel as I said, and I don’t know where the third is. He’s probably dead as well.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know the explosion ripped through three floors…” Kurt’s words hung in the air. “Do you hear that?” he said.
“What?” the soldier replied.
“Exactly, what?” Kurt got to his feet and looked up at the sky again. “I think it’s over.”
The air raids usually came in two waves, making the men stay where they were for some time longer until it was clear that the planes had retired. One could be forgiven for thinking that the end of the world had come, for they were surrounded by a ring of flames leaping into the air and lightening the dark sky with an unnatural orange hue.
“This is as close to hell as I ever want to be,” Gert said, weeping now. “You’ll see, Berlin will soon cease to exist. The British are going to destroy my city … Meine liebe Berlin.”
Kurt patted the old man on the back. “Stay here, Gert. Wait until I give you the all clear.” As he jogged back to the factory, Kurt went over the story he’d tell Laura. As an MI6 agent, one was taught to present an interrogator with an account built on half-truths while making sure that one did not lead the enemy to any factual conclusions. The SS soldier had believed him, he thought, for not everything he’d said had been a lie. Dieter had gone inside the gas plant, accompanied b
y not two, but three now-deceased SS guards, and he’d also secured the door from the inside. Kurt had then timed his walk up the stairs and along the corridor towards the building’s main doors, to coincide with the explosive device which had also been on a timer. The explosions had occurred mere seconds before he’d reached the exit doors on the ground floor, thus, the mess on his face from flying glass from the corridor’s windows. He’d followed their plan to the letter, but he didn’t know if Dieter had made it out in time, or if he’d been caught by the blast. He really didn’t know.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Kurt entered the room to find Freddie Biermann comforting Laura, still as distraught a day after the funeral as she had been on the morning after the explosion at the Vogel factory. During the week since the disaster, the Vogel house had been invaded by men in uniform from the SS, the Gestapo, officials from the Ministry of the Interior, and Dieter’s brother-in-law, namely the Arbeitfront Union boss who had taken over the funeral arrangements.
Kurt had been questioned twice about the night Dieter had lost his life, but as he sat on a high-backed chair opposite Freddie Biermann, he was on edge. He recalled saying to Dieter in the car, that the man might not be as stupid or as loyal a friend as they thought he was, and he still believed there was more to Biermann than met the eye.
“What can I do for you, Kriminaldirektor,” Kurt asked Freddie who was still stirring his coffee.
Freddie responded with a half-hearted smile, “A thought struck me the other night, Kurt – you don’t mind if I call you, Kurt, do you?”
“Not at all. That is my name.”
“Thank you. You see I have been mulling over the reason why Dieter would have gone to the basement on a Sunday night when he must have known that no one was working apart from the three SS guards. And to be honest, you’re the only person I thought might be able to give me a satisfactory explanation.”
“Gert, the night watchman, was also there,” Kurt corrected him.
“Yes … yes, of course. The thing is, I read your testimony, Kurt, and for the life of me, I can’t imagine why Herr Vogel was inspecting the gas cylinders and pipes through the window on the basement door when ostensibly, he had nothing to do with the gas plant. I wonder if you would indulge me with your eyewitness account, just once more? If you can remember anything … anything at all that Dieter might have said before his death, it might help to clear up some puzzling inconsistences.”
Kurt cursed the drops of sweat springing along his hairline, making him look like a guilty man under Biermann’s scrutiny. Fortunately, it was a blistering hot day and all three of them were sweating. “Frau Vogel, may I have a glass of water?” he asked, postponing the need to answer.
As he waited for the drink, he calculated whether the Kriminaldirektor was asking for the information because he’d been Dieter’s friend, or as a Gestapo officer who didn’t believe the original testimony. Kurt was finding it difficult to believe the supposed sincerity spewing from Beirmann’s mouth, along with his sympathetic gaze washing over the grieving widow. “You want to know why he went to the basement, Herr Biermann?”
“Yes, please.”
“Well, I cannot speak for Herr Vogel’s state of mind, or for his reasons for going down there, but I can surmise…”
“That will do.”
Kurt nodded. “Then, I surmise that he wanted to check the gauges on the storage cylinders. He mentioned that the entire stock of gas was being transported that week to Poland, and that the operation was being run down at his factory. He said something about … ah, yes, if the gas holders were empty he would ask that they be removed as soon as possible so he could step up production of portable X-ray machines and stretchers. He wanted to meet the spike in demand by using the basement space, you see.”
“I see,” Biermann said, looking unimpressed, “… but why go there on a weekend?”
“We were supposed to be going to Dresden the next morning, Freddie,” said Laura, handing Kurt a glass of water. “Perhaps that was why he thought it was an urgent matter.”
Biermann wrote something on a piece of paper, giving Kurt the time to further study the Kriminaldirektor. He was trying to find contradictions, but the man with all his Gestapo power behind him had nothing to go on – nothing. The SS investigators and Biermann’s secret police hadn’t found the explosive materials on their first search of the place, and now that the damaged site had been gutted, they never would – the clowns had missed the boat entirely.
Kurt wanted to grin, gloat, and declare this small victory to the world, but had a sip of water instead. The authorities had found three burnt cadavers inside the gas plant. The men’s remains had been nothing more than bone and ash, but one of the bodies had been identified as Dieter’s by the two missing bottom teeth from its skull. The gummy space had always been evident when he smiled, but he had never wanted to replace them for he’d always maintained they were badges of honour from the Great War.
******
After Freddie had dismissed Kurt, he continued his tea-drinking visit with Laura in a more relaxed setting. He’d replaced his notebook and pen in his jacket pocket and now sat back in the armchair in Laura’s living room, grieving with her, as they talked fondly about Dieter.
“I was so very busy making arrangements for Dieter’s funeral, I didn’t have time to think about what’s to become of me,” Laura confided.
Freddie placed his cup on its petal-patterned saucer and gave Laura a weak smile. “I have something for you. In fact, I’ve had it since 1916 … I don’t know … I suppose I kept it for sentimental reasons.” He withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket and studied it. “When Dieter and I were in the trenches at the Somme, we exchanged letters in case anything should happen to either of us … you know, if we didn’t make it home. I’ve often wondered if Dieter kept the one I gave him, but I … well, as I said, I couldn’t part with his.”
Laura took the letter and her eyes welled up when she saw Dieter’s handwriting. “Thank you, Freddie,” she said, opening the faded, mud-stained envelope with one page inside it.
My darling, Laura.
Freddie Biermann and I have become as brothers here in the hellish trenches we reside in. In this ugly world where black landscapes and burnt out buildings blight our eyes, we find light in friendship, for that is the only pure thing we can wholly believe in and cling to, even as death claims many of us every single day.
Freddie is a fine, upstanding man who has saved my life on more than one occasion, as I have his. We made a pact, my dear, a solemn oath to look after each other’s wives should the war take one of us to eternal sleep, so, if Freddie comes to you bearing this letter you will know that I thought of you until my last breath and that I go to that rest knowing that you will be taken care of.
Heed Freddie’s advice, as I have on many occasions, and my dearest Laura, do not hesitate to do what is right for you and the children. I pray that will I live to see my boys in their father’s and grandfather’s birthplace, and that you and I can be together without the destructive prejudices and politics that have landed me in this almighty darkness. But, if that is not to be, you must do as you see fit, and live where you will have the most fulfilling of lives.
I shall write to you now about my time here. You will probably never receive the letter, of course, or any others I might pen for we are surrounded here on all sides. To ask a British Tommy to deliver mail for me is hardly plausible under the circumstances, but nonetheless, I shall put my heartfelt words on paper and pretend that you are reading them.
Please, kiss the twins, and tell them who their father was and how much he loved them.
Forever,
Dieter.
Freddie stared out the window while Laura sobbed, as she read the letter to herself a second time.
“How strange,” she said eventually, “that I should have this letter now, twenty-six years after it was written, that you should still have it in your possession. This is the most wonderful s
urprise I could have ever imagined, and I am eternally grateful, Freddie. I’ll look for your letter among Dieter’s things. You should have it back.”
Freddie moved to the couch and sat beside her. He patted her trembling fingers and then lifted them to his lips. “Laura, now that you have read it, what can I do for you?”
The question struck her as being far too complex to answer straight away. He couldn’t bring her Dieter back, or her children. She needed neither money nor belongings. Both her homes had been left unscathed by the bomb strikes, and the only thing she really wanted was her husband’s fate to be reversed.
“… how about that idea?” Freddie asked.
Laura gazed at him, so deep in thought she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “Forgive me, Freddie, what did you say?”
“That’s alright my dear. I asked if you had thought about going to Dresden for a while. I’m sure you’d feel better if you got out of Berlin.”
“Oh, Freddie, I’m afraid that’s not far enough away for me to feel better about anything. To be honest, the only thing that might comfort me right now is my family. I know I can’t have Paul or Wilmot with me, but I was just thinking about Kent. Hannah and Max are there … my sister and cousins.”
Freddie lit a cigarette. “It could be done with my written approval, but if you go, you won’t ever get back into Germany. Is this what you truly want?”
Laura had not seriously thought about leaving Germany before today, but her going back to England made sense. Freddie had very kindly sent death notifications to Wilmot and Paul, but she wouldn’t see them for months, perhaps years, and it had struck her how lonely she was, and would be, rattling around this house like a pea in a drum. She nodded, confirming her request. “I want to go back. I can’t stay here, not without my husband or my children.”