The German Half-Bloods (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 1)

by Jana Petken

  Laura was ushered into the sitting room of a Knightsbridge townhouse and invited to sit on a small velvet sofa. She gratefully accepted some tea from a woman in an army uniform. Heller then joined her, but before sitting, he handed her a foolscap sealed Manila envelope.

  “Before you leave, you will need to fill out the document inside. It’s just a necessary formality for the Foreign office.” He smiled. “I’ve taken the liberty of bypassing the interview you were expected to have with the ministry. I have a feeling you’ve had enough of bureaucracy by now.”

  Laura sipped her tea but found it hard to enjoy. She had followed Mr Heller’s instructions, had been patient to the point of stupidity by not demanding answers to her questions, but enough was enough. “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness. You have no idea how relieved I am to be back in England. But I’m desperate to see my children, as you might imagine. I have to tell them that their father is dead, you see, so I need to be with them, to hold them in my arms, to comfort them.” She paused, uncertain for a second. “Is there more to this cup of tea than meets the eye, Mr Heller?”

  Heller placed his cup on its saucer and for the first time, hesitated. “Mrs Vogel, I had hoped to handle this better, but there really is no easy way to tell you, so I think I’m just going to have to jump in with both feet.” He took another sip of tea. “I helped you because of your husband, Dieter who, contrary to what you might think, is not a Nazi, Laura, at least not at heart. May I call you Laura?”

  She nodded.

  “You see, Dieter is a spy, a secret agent. He has worked for me at MI6 for more than seven years.”

  Laura gaped, then started to giggle. Heller’s ridiculous suggestion was ludicrous. Tears gathered in her eyes, then poured out of them. She couldn’t stop the half-laughing, half-crying sound, or digest Jonathan Heller’s statement about the man she’d been married to for almost twenty-nine years.

  Then, he said something even more unbelievable. “Mrs Vogel, Laura, Dieter didn’t die in an explosion in Berlin. He is very much alive and right here in London.”

  Laura dropped her cup, the remaining tea spilling onto the table, the saucer cracking. She covered her mouth with her hand and let out a throaty sob. Her dark, wet eyes bored into Heller, daring him to retract what he’d just said, but he didn’t.

  Speechless, she wrapped her arms around her waist and began to weep, conflicting emotions of hope, joy, and anger assailing her mind. Dieter was dead, yet he wasn’t, her head screamed. He was buried in Berlin, yet he was in London, very much alive. “It’s impossible,” she whispered to herself.

  Heller, struggling to speak, stuttered, “Do you want me to bring Dieter to you now, or would you like … do you need some time alone to come to terms with the news?”

  “Of course, I want to see him now! I’m sorry, Mr Heller. Oh God…” Laura wept again until she was gulping for air.

  Dieter, waiting outside the door to the sitting room, gripped the doorknob, his heart beating like a caged bird flapping in his chest, his courage fading with every passing second. He had imagined this scene many times, and in it he’d received an understandably angry response from Laura: a slap to his face, a few choice words from her in a less than ladylike fashion, and finally a sweet delicious kiss and a blissful reunion. But as he listened to her weep, he heard pain, only pain, and he had no idea what to do or what to say when he got into the room.

  He finally entered, crossing to her before she got the chance to stand. He squeezed in beside her and took her in his arms. “Forgive me, my darling.”

  When she wrenched herself away and slapped him, he welcomed the stinging pain. His Laura wasn’t a hysterical mess after all.

  Laura’s bright, unblinking eyes swept over every part of Dieter’s body. “Forgive you? Do you … can you even begin to imagine what hell you’ve put your family through?”

  “Hannah and Max don’t know,” he said stupidly.

  “Freddie Biermann wrote to Paul and Willie to inform them of your death! Those boys went to war to please you and now they think they’ve lost their father. Forgive you? No, Dieter, I’ll be dead and buried before I forgive or forget your bloody deceit … for your years of lying to the people who love you … for having to bury you in the ground. I buried you!”

  Dieter opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut, unnerved by her glare.

  “They found your body with missing teeth and your medal … what did you do? How did you do that?” She demanded to know.

  “Laura, hush, please, let me speak,” said Dieter, raising his hand in the air. “I promise, I’ll let you slap me again as soon as I’ve finished if that makes you feel better. I will if you’ll just let me explain.” He held her eyes and to his relief, finally saw her swallow her anger and hurt. “Freddie Biermann suspected me of espionage and it was only a matter of time before he arrested me,” he began. “Had I run, you and our boys would have paid a terrible price. Had I been captured, you would have been detained with me. When we stayed the night at Freddie and Olga’s house, I overheard him talking to someone on the telephone. We had gone to our beds by that time, but I crept to the top of the stairs when the telephone rang in the downstairs hallway. My name was mentioned during Freddie’s conversation, and so was the word surveillance. Laura, when one hears those two words in the same sentence it can only mean one thing.”

  “You think he was on to you?”

  Dieter nodded, heartened that she was at last willing to listen. “I could go into details about how I set the explosives in the factory, how I got out alive, where I went afterwards, and how I escaped Germany undetected, but all I need you to know is that I did what I did to safeguard you and the boys. I am deeply sorry for the heartache I’ve caused you and our sons, but I couldn’t ask you to lie to Freddie. It’s his job to interrogate people and he would have seen through you in minutes. Your ignorance was the only way I could keep you and Kurt safe. Tell me, darling, would you have been able to lie to the Gestapo?”

  Her expression softened, and she shook her head. “Why were you convinced that Freddie suspected you of … whatever you were doing?” she asked, calmer now.

  “I had no evidence to say he did, but I watched his behaviour change towards me.”

  “I didn’t see that,” she said.

  “Neither did I until it struck me that he was wanting to be around me rather more than usual.”

  “Did Kurt know you were a spy? Or was he a pawn like me?” Laura asked.

  “Kurt knew nothing.” Dieter lied as he caressed her face. “Jonathan Heller is a friend, darling. He wants to help, but first you need to answer his questions about your conversations with Freddie after the explosion at the factory. Will you do that for me?”

  “I suppose…”

  “You might not have realised it at the time, but Freddie might have said something to you that could tell us if he did or didn’t believe my death to be real – it’s important. I wasn’t the only MI6 agent in Berlin, and we, Jonathan and I must do everything we can to ensure the safety of the other operatives – and, Laura, our two sons could be in danger if Biermann suspects I’m still alive.”

  Laura blew her nose with her handkerchief and then looked at Dieter’s hand. “They also found your wedding ring … Oh, Dieter, I don’t know how long it will take me to get over this shock. I feel betrayed and hurt, and now … now, I’m worried about Willie and Paul. I can hardly look at you without wanting to throttle you.” She crossed her arms. “I’ll answer your Mr Heller’s questions if you promise to take me to Hannah and Max straight afterwards, and when we get there you will tell the truth to your children?”

  “Of course, mein Schatz.” He saw her anger and hurt and decided to give her some long overdue good news. “Dearest, Hannah and Frank have a son, Jack. I couldn’t tell you before, but I was desperate for you to find out.”

  Laura took a sharp intake of breath and started to cry all over again until the sound of weeping became bubbles of joy. “I’m a gran
dmother – oh my Goodness, I have a grandson – I hate you for not telling me about something that important – wait ‘til I get my hands on that Hannah, for telling you and not me.”

  He pulled her to him, counting the number of other lies he’d told her since sitting beside her. He imagined he’d tell her a lot more in the future, for that was the nature of his job. But nothing could dampen this wonderful moment with her snuggling into his chest, finally succumbing to joy not pain.

  “You are an incorrigible man, but I love you, Dieter Vogel. This is a miracle.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “The worst is over. I promise you calmer seas from now on, my darling. No more secrets or lies.”

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Max Vogel

  Paris, October 1941

  The Paris safe house was situated in the busy Rue Durantin, a stone’s throw from the Moulin Rouge, a cabaret hall Max had frequented many times. Almost two weeks after his spectacular landing in Saint Quentin, he had finally made it to Paris, accompanied by Marcel, the Frenchman he’d grown to like and trust.

  Max had not recovered from his injury as quickly as he’d hoped. He still shuffled like a penguin with the aid of a walking stick, and was in a great deal of pain with every step he took. He was not ready to trudge the Paris streets in search of Klara, who had not been in her shop on the three occasions he’d sent Marcel to contact her.

  She was, however, safe. Marcel had reported after his first attempt to find her that an old man called Jean who worked with her in the photographic studio, had informed him that she was out but would be returning that evening. Marcel had gone back then, but had missed her yet again.

  After the third attempt, Max had asked Marcel to buy a gold hand mirror to take to Chirac’s. Inside the gift box was a note, see me in your reflection. Max had been confident that Klara would know its meaning. She knew his code name, Mirror, and would remember the day they had picnicked at a lake in Poland. The water had been so calm they’d seen their reflections in it, and when Max had made it ripple, they’d laughed like children as the two images melded into one.

  Max heard the apartment door open and limped eagerly into the hallway. “Was she there?”

  “Yes, she was,” Marcel smiled. “I gave her your gift and she invited me up to her flat above the shop, away from Jean. She opened the package and then she asked why you hadn’t brought it yourself? I didn’t want to say too much, Max, so I said it was little complicated and you had thought it safer to meet somewhere else. I suggested the Café des Chiens at 3pm. And she agreed.”

  Max limped back into the living room and sat gingerly down on the sofa. “Thank God for that.”

  Marcel followed him and sat in a nearby armchair. He fished a large folded piece of paper from his pocket. “But your Marine is the least of our problems, Major. You’d better look at this.”

  Marcel unfolded the paper and smoothed it on his knee. “I don’t know who this is, but I have a feeling you might.”

  Max took the paper from Marcel, his heartbeat quickening as he gazed at the roneoed photo of his brother. Paul, looking proud and happy was dressed in a Wehrmacht officer’s uniform, the cornflower-blue epaulets of a doctor gleaming on his shoulders. But underneath the photograph was a warning written in French:

  Missing German Officer, Oberleutnant Paul Vogel must be handed back alive and well to an Occupying forces’ commander immediately, or we will take measures against the people of Paris. The bearer of information about his whereabouts will be well rewarded by the Wehrmacht.

  The poster fluttered to the floor. Max squeezed his eyes shut and then covered his face with both hands. His shoulders heaved, thoughts barged into each other as his mind filled with dread: why was Paul in Paris? Was he dead? If not dead, where was he? What had happened to him? He grunted, swallowing the sob that threatened to burst from his mouth.

  Marcel was talking. Max hardly heard him. Just loud ringing in his ears. What was he saying? He glanced at Marcel’s questioning, furious face.

  “…Max! Listen to me, this is serious. This man doesn’t just look like you; he’s identical. Who is he?”

  Max, breathing as if he’d just run up a Scottish hill, was trying to deny the numerous conclusions tumbling through his mind. Was Paul beyond hope? That horrific logic was as clear as if somebody had thrust a picture of his twin’s dead body in his face. Yet, somehow, he didn’t feel his brother’s death, couldn’t sense his demise or his absence at all. His eyes smarted.

  “Max! Answer me. Who is this?”

  Max opened his mouth, but, like a fish gasping for air, nothing came out until finally he uttered, “This is my brother, Paul – my twin.”

  Marcel blanched.

  Max got to his feet and headed for the sideboard where an unopened bottle of Cognac was calling his name. He drew the cork and poured two glasses. Behind him he heard Marcel’s pistol being drawn from its holster and the thought ran through his mind that if his brother was dead, he might as well be too. He shrugged and brought the two glasses and the bottle to the coffee table.

  “Do you want one?”

  “Stop it, Max. If your brother is a German soldier, you have some explaining to do, and I suggest you do it quickly – my trigger finger is very shaky.”

  Max grunted, “Drop the dramatics, Marcel, you know me better than that, and this is not what you think … whatever you’re probably thinking. Calm down. Have a drink for God’s sake.”

  Marcel’s chest was heaving, his arm trembling from trying to keep the gun steady on Max.

  “Listen Marcel … and for Christ’s sake get that gun out of my face. My father is a Berliner, and my mother is from Kent, near London. I gave up my German passport when I joined the British Army years ago – do you know how many Germans are spying for the British against the Reich, and putting their lives on the line every day?” Max took another slug, but Marcel’s resolve hadn’t weakened. “You’d be surprised. I’m a British Army Major, not a double agent for the Nazis and not loyal to the Third Reich.” He picked up the poster again and shook it at Marcel. “If this means what I think it means then I’ve just lost the one person I loved most in the world. I’d like to spend some time grieving for him, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Marcel hesitated, evidently deciding whether to believe Max. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “You don’t. So, either shoot me, or put that fucking gun away before I ram it down your throat. We have a mission to complete, and I could do with your help.” Max took another slug.

  Marcel finally lowered his gun as he stared at the poster on the floor. “Is it possible he deserted?”

  “Of course not. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes, for some reason that evades me, I do. I’ve watched you operate in the last two weeks with Pasqual, your sergeant. And I’m not surprised to hear there are a few Germans fighting with the British. You can’t all be fascist bastards.”

  Max gave Marcel a weak smile and then reread the poster. “He would never desert. Paul is the most loyal person I’ve ever known. I’d lay odds he was abducted, and whoever took him still has him.”

  “If a Resistance group took him they won’t let him live for long. You know that as well as I do.”

  “I know how it works, but Paul and I have a connection. We’ve never been able to explain the feeling of being bonded to each other even when we’re hundreds of kilometres apart. When I look at his picture I know he’s still here.”

  “Or you don’t want to believe he’s gone.” Marcel put the pistol back in its holster and accepted the brandy.

  “I want you to use every contact you have within the Resistance movements to help me find him – someone has him – he’s alive, I know he is,” Max said.

  Marcel took a sip of brandy but worry still shadowed his face. “Max, there’s something else you don’t seem to have considered. These posters were on lamp posts and windows all over the city. You’re blown here … finished. You’ll be recog
nised the moment you leave this flat. Anyone who’s seen the posters will hand you to the Wehrmacht and take the reward. We need to get you out of Paris today.”

  As Marcel’s words sank in, Max realised that not only was his cover blown in the city, it was probably in jeopardy throughout France. The Germans would make a big deal of Paul’s disappearance for he was a doctor, and as such, held a protected non-combatant rank.

  At 3pm, Marcel went into the Café des Chiens while Max waited in the back of the van. After about ten minutes or the time it took to drink a cup of coffee, Marcel returned with Klara and handed her into the front passenger seat, and then drove north out of Paris.

  An hour later, Marcel parked the vehicle in a side turning off a country road with nothing but cows and sheep as witnesses. He opened the back door, helped Klara into the back of the van then shut the door behind her and went to the grassy verge to smoke a cigarette.

  Max, sitting on a vegetable crate, took Klara’s hand and without a single word drew her to him in an embrace that left them panting with desire. For just a moment, he allowed himself to feel the joy she brought him. Seeing her, touching her, holding her, blotted out everything but her; it had been so long. Salty tears merged in their mouths as hungrily they kissed and tore each other’s clothes away leaving them naked. Max spread his coat on the floor of the van and laid her gently down, his kisses following her until she lay beneath him. She pulled him into her, throwing her head back with the rekindled pleasure of him inside her. Their eyes never left each other’s until, gasping, their urgent passion was spent.

  He rested his face on her bosom and wept, tears of anguish melded with those of joy. She wept with him and held him close, her sobs mixing with timorous kisses as they lay together.

  At last when all the tears were expended, Max cupped her face and gently pushed himself away. Time was running out. It was time for her to know why he’d come for her.