by Jana Petken
He stopped walking when he came to a junction. On the other side of the wide road, a building stuck out because of its three-metre half-open iron doors, each divided in the middle like stable doors but with a large square peephole in the upper section. He crossed the road, entered and then walked into a series of courtyards surrounded by the tenement buildings and a patch of snow-spattered greenery. This was the place Gert had eloquently described as the German district.
Paul checked the time and calculated that he had about three hours to spare before he was due at the hospital for his first meeting. He studied the buildings in front of him. They were four floors tall with innumerable windows, some with balconies. Outside the downstairs entrances, children were sitting in the slush. They all had runny noses, malnourished bodies and faces with huge dark-ringed eyes; not how children should look. Few had coats, gloves or scarves, and they looked half-starved, like the men he’d seen earlier with the watery soup. He was overwhelmed with pity while he gently shooed them indoors.
Paul entered a building and stopped short at the stairwell. The wall was pitted with bullet holes, the concrete steps sank in the middle and three were stained reddish-brown with what he could only presume was blood. He shuddered, recalling Gert’s story about the police assault on the Łódź Jews.
He knocked on the first ground floor door he came to. A scrawny child answered then ran away as soon as she saw him. A man and women appeared, followed by four more adults, two of them carrying babies. Fear in otherwise dull eyes, stared back at him, but no one spoke.
“I’m looking for a man with the name of Kurt Sommer – Kurt Sommer,” said Paul, then a thought struck him. “I’m sorry, I meant to say Karl Ellerich.”
A man in his twenties came forward. He bowed his head before speaking, a wholly Jewish gesture borne of fear and defeat, that irritated Paul.
“Well, do you know him?” Paul asked.
“Yes, sir. I know Karl Ellerich. He lives on the third floor … he works … I think he’s not at home.”
“What time does he finish work?”
The man shrugged. “Forgive me … perhaps … maybe five o’clock, sir.”
Paul thanked the man, then told the people with him to keep warm. A look of surprise crossed their faces as they closed the door.
On the third floor, Paul met a woman going into a flat. He asked her for Karl and she pointed to another door. An old man answered it and told Paul that Karl did live there but wasn’t home yet from the factory.
Downstairs, Paul looked again at his watch and decided to wait for a while. After everything he’d seen, thus far, he wasn’t leaving until he’d spoken with Kurt.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Kurt Sommer
Kurt’s hands and feet were frozen. His flat grey cap was threadbare and sopping wet, and melting snow dripped onto his nose from its peak. His thin-soled boots trudged the last couple of blocks, the strength he’d had that morning long since spent on the heavy machinery he operated in the factory. A bath, hot stew with plenty of potatoes, and a coffee to finish off with in bed; what a fantasy that was. Such bliss he felt when dreaming about luxuries.
He pushed open the entrance door to his tenement building and did a double take when he spotted Paul sitting on the staircase. Kurt’s mind flashed back to his last interrogation at Biermann’s hands when he’d been branded with a hot poker on one of his buttocks. “You’ll be seeing a lot of me, Kurt. I am following you to Poland. We’ll have many chats in the future.” At the time, Kurt had perceived the news as a threat, a way for Biermann to carry on his investigation into Dieter’s death. But not once did he mention that Paul was also going to be based in Poland. Seeing Paul sitting there, his friendly face and eyes shining with affection, heartened Kurt no end; it was the best thing he’d seen in weeks.
The two men hugged. Kurt basked in the embrace, the first display of affection he’d received or given since his and Dieter’s final farewell in the Vogel factory. Physical contact with another human being was priceless. He’d almost forgotten what intimacy felt like. He saw it every day; the Jews hugging each other for comfort. Loving and being loved kept every dream alive, every flame of hope lit, made every day a little more bearable in the ghetto.
Kurt drew away to hold Paul at arm’s length. “You look good, Paul.”
Paul shook his head. “I’m sorry, Kurt, but you don’t look good at all. You’re soaked. Do you want to dry off? We could go to your flat?”
“No, let’s not,” Kurt chuckled. “I live with eight other people in two rooms. We should talk here. It’ll be quieter, and I won’t have to answer a hundred questions after you leave.”
“You look terrible,” Paul repeated.
Kurt felt ill. Twelve-hour days on his feet in a factory making bullet and shell casings with hardly any calories or protein to sustain him, then sleeping on a hard, cold floor with children crying all night had weakened him to the point of giving up on life entirely. And he’d been there for less than a month.
“I’m all right,” he lied, staring at the packages Paul was taking out of his rucksack.
“You’re not all right at all. Any fool can see you’re starving. Christ, Kurt, I’ve seen nothing but walking skeletons like you all day. Here, take these.” Paul handed over the parcels wrapped in old newspapers and grinned as Kurt ripped them open one by one, his eyes gleaming with joyous tears like a child opening presents.
“Eat as much as you want but slowly,” Paul urged. “Are they treating you well? Do you get enough rations?”
Kurt sniggered as he tore off a lump of bread with his teeth. He chewed, his eyes closed in ecstasy. “We’re not given enough of anything to survive,” he eventually said. “The hardest thing to see here is the children’s gaunt faces and bloated stomachs. Some of them don’t even have an appetite anymore, and the smell of food makes them nauseous. I’ve only been here three weeks and I’ve seen six dead children and two infants being thrown onto a hand cart outside and taken away.”
“They’re starving you?”
Kurt nodded slowly. “Yes. I think that’s their plan; that, or they have no organisational skills. Coal and wood are in short supply. There’s not enough of either to keep the cold at bay, let alone cook food. We don’t have fires, so we’re forced to eat black, rotten potatoes and other vegetables that would normally be cooked. A week ago, a crowd of people went to the wooden fences and outhouses and tried to tear them apart – they were punished, of course – kicked, beaten with sticks, stoned, shot in the head.”
Kurt sighed, the sound more like a sob. “We get 20 grams of coffee for the week, and a loaf of bread every eight days, but it lasts me about two days if I stretch it out. Look at me. How can a man my size get by on that? I’m sick of seeing people with haggard skin, bones, and eyes collapsing and dying every day on the streets. You can’t work a body like a mule without the fuel to keep it going…” Embarrassed Kurt cleared his throat and chuckled. “I’m a thief now, Paul. I’ve taken to running behind potato carts and using a stick with nails on the end to drag the potatoes off.”
Paul’s sorrow was palpable. He took a furtive look around. “I’m going to help you, Kurt. I didn’t think the Nazis’ madness could get any more outrageous but after what I’ve seen … well … I don’t know what to say …”
“I’m all right, just so damn hungry and tired all the time,” Kurt said before devouring another lump of bread.
When he’d eaten as much as he thought he needed to keep him going, Kurt jammed the packages of cheese, lard, more bread and an apple into his coat pockets. He’d give the lard to one of the women in the flat and slices of apple to the children. If they could stomach it and their tiny bellies got fuller, they might let him get some sleep.
“What’s this job you’ve got?” Paul asked.
“It’s in a factory. New businesses have been opening every week since I got here. They work us hard, and those that can’t be useful are dealt with.”
“What do y
ou mean?”
Kurt bit his lip, his fingers opening and closing as he recalled January’s terrible events. “Apparently, the problem with overcrowding started before I got here. The authorities took in five thousand Roma in December, and the council elder, Mordechai Chaim Rumkowski, told the German officials that Jews couldn’t or wouldn’t live with them. He said they’d rob people and set fires everywhere, including the factories and materials in them.”
“I’ve heard that man’s name mentioned before. What’s he like? Is he a fair man?”
Kurt wanted to say, He’s a Nazi loving traitor, an arrogant bastard with an iron rod stuck up his arse. He hasn’t a care for anyone but himself, is lining his pockets with blood money, and systematically getting rid of his political opponents, but instead he replied, “He’s sixty odd and full of self-importance. He was brought in to organise and implement Nazi policy within the ghetto. I don’t know why he was chosen. Rumours are that he was nobody of importance before the war. He’d had an unremarkable life, selling insurance, managing a velvet factory, and running an orphanage.”
Feeling calmer and warmer and more like his old self, Kurt continued, “You’d think he was the bloody Chancellor. He’s replaced German currency with ghetto money that bears his signature – can you believe that? People call the new money Rumkies. He’s also created a post office with a stamp in his image. The only decent thing he’s done is build a sewage clean-up department since the ghetto has no sewage system.”
“Maybe he’s doing some good?” Paul suggested.
“Doing good would be feeding the children and keeping the elderly warm, and that takes me back to why I mentioned the man in the first place. When the Roma arrived in December, they were housed in a separate area of the ghetto because of Rumkowski’s protest. But shortly after, and I can only tell you what I heard from a man who’s fond of licking Rumkowski’s backside – you know, does his bidding, runs errands for him, finds out what Jews are saying about their situation and what they truly think of their Jewish leader – anyway, this man told me that the Nazis had wanted to deport twenty thousand Jews out of the ghetto. Apparently, Rumkowski talked them down to ten thousand. The lists of deportees were put together by ghetto officials and the Sinti and Roma were at the top of it. Next were people who didn’t work, had a criminal background, or were related to someone in those two categories. When I got here in January, the deportations had already started. I saw children and the elderly being put on trucks and driven away with their families running, screaming and weeping after them.”
“It’s like Brandenburg all over again.” Paul shook his head.
Kurt’s mouth settled into a tight line. “Why are you looking so glum? You had your chance, Paul.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know damn well what I mean. You could have gone to England with Max over a year ago. You of all people know what your kind is doing to Jews, so don’t sit there looking shocked.”
Paul flinched. “My kind?”
“Yes. You’re working for the Nazis, the Jew killers. Once you put that uniform on, you became the executioner you were in Brandenburg.” Bitterness coloured Kurt’s words. “We’re starving to death, Paul, slow, horrible deaths. Women, children, men who used to be strong, wealthy, and law abiding are falling in the streets like sacks of bones. It makes no difference to the Gestapo or SS who dies, and you being here won’t change a bloody thing.”
“You’re being unfair…”
“Am I? Tell me, are you the doctor you aspired to be?”
Paul looked sheepish. He had no response to Kurt’s words.
“Well, are you a good German doctor?” Kurt goaded.
The two men held each other’s eyes until Paul finally broke the silence. “We’ll talk about my failings another time. Go back to your story. Where did they send the deported people?”
“I don’t know, but I was working in a factory near the train station and saw at least a thousand people being put on trains every day during the last two weeks of January. We were told they’d gone to Polish farms to work – liars – babies, children and the old who had to be lifted into the train carriages, and we’re supposed to believe they were going to work in the fields, in January? Ridiculous.”
Another uncomfortable silence followed. Kurt stared at his sodden shoes, turning his fury inwards. Paul’s face was ashen, his jaw muscles jumping under his skin.
“I’m sorry, Paul. It’s good to see you, but it’s hard to keep a cheery face in this God-forsaken place. Sorry for my foul mood, and for not telling your father I was a Jew. I hope you understand.” Kurt lied, aware now that he couldn’t share any secret with Paul because of his association with Biermann. Dieter had known from day one that he was a Jew, and he had not told a soul, not even Laura.
“It wouldn’t have made any difference to us,” Paul asserted. “My father, for all his Nazi-loving ways, wouldn’t have thrown you out or had your name put on a register. This is me you’re talking to, Kurt. I am not a Nazi. I’m your friend. I always will be your friend no matter what my uniform says or forces me to do. And if my father was still alive, he’d have had something to say to Freddie Biermann about your predicament.”
Kurt took out another lump of bread and began to chew slowly, savouring every morsel. He wondered what Paul might say if he saw the letter J for Jew branded on his left buttock? He hadn’t been able to sit down for days. Paul didn’t know his father-in-law, not the real Biermann. He hadn’t the slightest notion of what the cruel bugger was capable of or what he was investigating, and that was a good thing.
It was clear that Paul believed Dieter to be dead. Had he thought otherwise, he’d have asked outright if it were true or false, regardless of Biermann’s presence. The Kriminaldirektor, even now, was deliberately keeping that gem to himself, which meant he had neither the solid evidence he’d claimed to have nor Dieter’s artworks. Kurt was desperate to tell the lad that Dieter was alive, but to do so would make him a target for Gestapo interrogations.
“I presume your father-in-law will be arriving soon?” Kurt sighed. “Don’t tell him you’ve seen me.”
“He’ll ask me,” Paul responded with a bitter smirk. “When I came to Spandau prison to see you, he made me read the charges against you. He accused you of being a British spy. Is he right?”
“No. It’s fabricated nonsense. I was imprisoned and deported because I’m a Jew … me … me, a spy? Absurd.” Kurt cocked his head to one side as a thought struck him. “Don’t you find it odd that you were given the same posting as your father-in-law?”
“Yes.” Paul nodded. “I also think it strange that he forbade me to see you, when he must have known you’d be my first port of call. I might be wrong, but I think he wants me to get information from you. He claims that my father’s artwork in the Berlin and Dresden houses was either stolen or taken somewhere before the factory explosion. Apparently, my mother didn’t know where the paintings went either. Do you know anything about that?”
“No.” Kurt exhaled another lie. “You should go, Paul. The ghetto police patrol this area when people are coming back from the factories. Sometimes they come in to do head counts in the buildings.”
Paul’s misery was etched on his face as he pushed his cap down his forehead.
Kurt, regretting his earlier outburst, said, “Paul, I’m very grateful to you. I know you want to help.”
“I do, and I will.”
“Could you find out where the Roma and Jews were sent? I’d like to be prepared for whatever might be planned for me.”
Paul nodded. “I’ll tell you whatever I find out, but you mustn’t tell anyone else.”
“Of course. No one trusts anyone around here. Everyone’s scared of spies, and Jews telling tales on other Jews to the Nazis, hoping for more food or special treatment in return. And don’t you trust Biermann for one second. Don’t tell him anything.”
Paul grimaced and slung his rucksack over his shoulder. “That bastard’s getting
nothing from me.” And as reached the door, he added, “This is a bloody awful situation. I’ll be working in one of the hospitals, and I don’t know how often I’ll be able to see you, but I’ll bring food and medicine whenever I can. I’m going to get you out of this place, Kurt. I don’t know how, but I swear to God I will.”
The two men shook hands, then Kurt watched Paul disappear into the falling snow. Life had just become a little more bearable. He had a friend.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Paul and Biermann
Litzmannstadt Ghetto, Łódź, Poland
February 1942
After they made love, Paul purred like a contented cat as he ran his hand over Valentina’s developing tummy. “It’s good to be home, darling. I wish we didn’t have to go out. I could stay like this until tomorrow morning. To hell with dinner,” he whispered playfully in her ear. “To hell with the world.”
“To hell with you, Paul Vogel,” Valentina responded by removing his hand. “I’m starving, and I promised my mother and father we’d be there by seven o’clock. They’re looking forward to spending time with you. You don’t want to let Papa down, do you?”
Paul yawned and looked at his wrist watch. It was five-thirty in the afternoon and he was just beginning to relax. He’d give anything to let Papa down. He’d got home at 15:00 after a particularly trying morning. Heart disease, tuberculosis, and malnutrition were rife in the ghetto. Two cases of typhus had been confirmed, and in both cases the patients were elderly Jews who had died shortly after being brought in. He stroked Valentina’s hair. He wouldn’t tell her about the horrors he saw at work. His job upset her.
His place of work, the medical centre called Hospital No.4, was located on Mickiewicza Street inside the ghetto. It was an aesthetically drab, four-storey building with a dirty cream façade and an ugly entrance and interior. Since his arrival, he’d learnt a lot about the place. The nurses and orderlies were all Jews, supported by five doctors, two of whom were Christian Poles. The centre’s chief administrator was also a Jewish physician, but Paul had never seen him treat or even speak to patients, most of whom were ghetto residents.