The Vogels: On All Fronts (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 2)

by Jana Petken

  Biermann had asked Paul on two separate occasions if he suspected Polish hospital staff of helping Jews to escape. “No, sir, certainly not, but if I do hear anything, I’ll tell you about it,” Paul had answered, mildly surprised by the question and thinking it unlikely that any members of the Jewish or Christian hospital staff would be involved in such dangerous undertakings. Now, however, he was not only curious about what Anatol and Hubert were doing, but also imagining a way out for Kurt.

  As he trudged back up the stairs, Paul reminded himself that taking food and medicine to Kurt and his neighbours was at best a courageous effort on his part, and at worst a weak attempt to appease his conscience. He now thought, however, that his efforts were negligible compared to the Polish rescuers of entire Jewish families. News had spread to the hospital about four of Łódź’ Christian residents, dubbed traitors, who’d been caught hiding Jews in their basements and attics. Apparently, their less-than-Christian neighbours had somehow found out and reported them to the Gestapo. Two days after their capture, the four accused men and their entire families were executed.

  Paul had also learnt about a Catholic midwife, Stanisława Leszczyńska, who’d been caught during one of her hazardous trips to the ghetto to smuggle out babies and small children in laundry trolleys. Biermann had mentioned that the midwife had been deported to Auschwitz concentration camp and her sons to the stone quarries of Mauthausen. Occupied Poland, it seemed, was the only country where the Germans had decreed that any help given to Jews was punishable by death for the rescuer and the rescuer’s family.

  When he reached the staff room, he pushed his morbid thoughts aside. If he were lucky, he might find a hot cup of coffee and a piece of bread. He hadn’t eaten for hours.

  “Ah, Doctor Vogel. I was just thinking about you.”

  Startled, Paul spun around. Doctor Leszek Lewandowski, the indolent Jewish Polish doctor who was in overall charge of the medical staff, sat on a lounger behind the door, reading glasses perched on the end of his round, bobble-head nose. He was completely bald, but his upper lip still sported a white moustache, long enough at the ends to tickle his nostrils and thick enough to resemble straw when not groomed. His pristine white doctor’s coat was hanging over the side of the couch, and to Paul’s disgust, he wore his I couldn’t care less expression, which was usually reserved for his patients.

  Paul had, when he’d first arrived, excused the man for his lack of leadership and enthusiasm. He’d presumed their brief stilted conversations were because the Pole didn’t have a great command of German or hated Germans as much as his staff members. But he’d been overgenerous; Lewandowski was dedicated to doing as little as possible for his fellow Jews.

  “You were looking for me, Doctor Lewandowski? What did you want?” Paul finally asked.

  “Kriminaldirektor Biermann has ordered me to supply him with a doctor from this hospital. Due to the nature of the task, you will go. Report to Alexanderhofstrasse in the ghetto at 08:00.”

  “My shift will be finished in less than two hours. You’ll have to send someone else.”

  “No. The Kriminaldirektor specifically asked for you. You are the only German doctor in the hospital, are you not? I presume he wants you for that reason.”

  “What’s going on in the ghetto?” Paul asked, filling his cup with coffee.

  “You ask me that when no one will tell me anything? My position has been stripped from me since you came. I might as well be a piece of furniture in this room. All I’ve been told is a few thousand people are being deported from the ghetto. If you ask me, it’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks. Thinning out the herd in this place will make our jobs significantly easier.” Lewandowski scratched his head and yawned. “Ach, I really don’t know how we’re supposed to cope with such large numbers of people coming in week after week, month after month. Seems to me the Reich is using Łódź as Europe’s Jewish dustbin…” He yawned again. “Think about it, if they’re going to die of hunger in the ghetto anyway, shouldn’t they just be left alone to do it quietly in the tenements? What’s the point of sending them to us, eh? They’re squeezing our resources, and most of them die anyway.” He shrugged, “And now, deportations – what do you think, Doctor Vogel?”

  Paul thought the man, although fluent in German, was an arsehole, but sickening as he was, he seemed to have the ear of the German military command in Łódź.

  Worried about Kurt, Paul asked, “Do you know who, or what ages or sexes are being deported? Do you know where they’re being taken?”

  “No. I know nothing other than what I’ve just told you – they’ll probably take the children. They contribute the least to the ghetto.”

  Judith Weber and her sister, Hilde, came to Paul’s mind. “Why do you hate Jews when you’re one of them? What have they ever done to you?”

  “I don’t hate them, Doctor Vogel. I just wish they weren’t causing all this palaver. Were it not for the ghetto, I wouldn’t be treading water in this place and getting no thanks for my efforts. This hospital was very different before the war. We practised real medicine.”

  “Don’t you worry you could be deported?”

  Lewandowski looked horrified. “No. I’m important. I serve a purpose. The hospital wouldn’t function properly without me. Why should I stick up for the Jews in the ghetto when I’m trying to prove my case is very different to theirs?”

  The poor man, who also lived in the ghetto with every other Jew, had no idea how precarious his situation was. He was delusional, in denial of reality, Paul thought, with a modicum of pity. “Tell me, Doctor Lewandowski, why should you be treated any differently?”

  “I’m not talking to you about that.” Lewandowski scowled at Paul and heaved himself off the lounger. “Go do your job. I want five minutes to myself.”

  ******

  Paul thought about placing a call to Valentina to tell her he wasn’t going home yet, but it was only 7am and he didn’t want to wake her. When he left the hospital building, he checked his watch again; he had almost an hour to find Kurt, and unlike his other unplanned visits, he was confident of finding him at home. The Germans had a curfew in place until 08:00 for everyone except German military personnel, doctors, and the Jewish ghetto police, and Paul surmised that the ghetto’s residents would be speculating about the reason for the recent order and already panicking.

  On his way to the German tenement blocks, he passed through Alexanderhofstrasse where he’d been told to report at 08:00. Jewish policemen were already at work, placing desks and chairs in a row in the road and marshalling endless horse-drawn carts. Military trucks were also in situ, supported by SS squads. Notably absent, however, was the habitual stream of factory workers. They normally walked through this street on their way to the factories situated outside the ghetto’s main gates.

  No work would be done today. Doctor Lewandowski had remarked that it made sense for workplaces to remain closed until the deportations had been completed. But it also begged the question of how many workers would be expelled, and whether it would affect factory outputs. It was typical of the insufferable man to be concerned with profits and money rather than the fates of his fellow Jews.

  As instructed, Paul carried his medical bag, but his rucksack, half-full of food and medicine for Kurt and the people he lived with, was slung over his shoulder. Paul had been siphoning goods from the hospital for days in anticipation of seeing Kurt during the forthcoming weekend. The meeting had been arranged ten days earlier, when they’d last spoken to each other.

  After taking a cursory look over his shoulder, Paul entered Kurt’s building and went up the three flights of stairs to the third-floor. He knocked on the door of flat number fifteen and it was answered within seconds by a young girl of about ten years old. “Hello,” she said, recognising him from previous visits.

  “Hello, Gertrude. Is Karl at home?” Paul asked.

  Paul had never entered the flat, although he’d been invited in many times. The people living there didn’t kn
ow his name or where he worked. They saw him as a German doctor who was helping them, but no one seemed inclined to ask questions. And that was how Paul wanted to keep it.

  Kurt appeared, sleepy-eyed but dressed. His health had deteriorated significantly, Paul noted. His body had shrunk further; he was like a slowly deflating balloon. His cheekbones were becoming more prominent, making his lips and mouth look bigger, and his once bright blue eyes were now dull, red-rimmed, and sunken in their sockets.

  “We need to talk,” said Paul, handing Kurt the rucksack. “Hide that somewhere safe and then meet me downstairs?”

  Kurt frowned but took the bag inside, closing the door behind him. Five minutes later, he joined Paul in the hollow behind the ground floor stairwell. They talked there sometimes, unseen but able to pop their heads out to observe who was coming and going in the building.

  “Why are you here, Paul? What’s happened?” Kurt whispered.

  “At eight o’clock, the Gestapo is going to order all residents from this district to gather in Alexanderhofstrasse. They’re deporting people … thousands, Kurt. I came to warn you and your neighbours.”

  Kurt’s face fell. “Christ, not again. Who’s being expelled this time?”

  “I don’t know … children, the elderly … but it could be anyone who’s too weak to work.”

  Kurt’s jaw muscles twitched. “Is this why the factory is closed today?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps. I’ve learnt not to ask questions,” Paul answered.

  “Yes, you’ve learnt a lot, Paul. Duty to the Reich always comes first. No need to ask questions, right?”

  Paul shook his head, but then brought out an unopened pack of cigarettes from his pocket and gave it to Kurt with a wry smile. “At least I’ve learnt to always bring you these. Have you still got the Zippo lighter I gave you?”

  “Yes, miraculously, I’ve hung onto it.” Kurt opened the pack, jerked it upwards until a cigarette popped up and then stuck it between his lips. He lit it and closed his eyes as he drew on it. “What do you suggest I do, Paul? What do you want me to tell the people I live with?”

  Paul hesitated, unsure if Kurt could do anything other than warn the residents of what was coming.

  “You can’t help me or them, can you?” Kurt sighed. “No. You can’t. Go back to your hospital, and forget about me. You made your choice long ago.”

  Annoyed at Kurt’s increasingly surly attitude, Paul snapped, “How many times are you going to tell me what you think of my choices? I’m doing my best for you. I can’t wave a magic wand and get you released. Maybe if you had told my family you were a Jew using false papers, my father could have got you out of Germany.”

  Kurt said nothing.

  “For God’s sake, Kurt, what do you want me to do? Disobey my superiors? Stop coming here? Where would that get us? I hate this place. I wish I could get back to Germany or Paris or bloody Russia, but I’m stuck here, just like you…”

  “No. No, Paul, you’re nothing like me. I’m a prisoner who’s going to die in this shit-hole. You’re a free man consciously helping the Nazis to kill me. I had raw carrot leaves for my dinner last night. I have dreams of standing before the whole world telling the masses that we’re being systematically starved to death. What we are suffering here is beyond human endurance.” Kurt pushed his fingers through his thinning hair, then glared at Paul. “Thank God, I still have dreams. My imagination is all I have left, my only break from the horrors of my reality.”

  Kurt drew again on his cigarette then exhaled with a ragged breath. Tears gathered in his eyes, and as he wiped them away with the back of his hand, he uttered, “Sorry … sorry, Paul, I’m not angry with you. God knows I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But I can’t take this. I’ve tried, but they’re killing us and we all know it … fuck …”

  Unable to continue, he drew on his cigarette and tapped his knuckles against the side of his head. “I keep seeing it … over and over. I watched a man hang himself in the stairwell two days ago. I got to him just as his backside slipped off the banister. I tried to pull him up but sometimes I’m as weak as the babies I live with. I went down the stairs and looked up at him. His worry lines were still on his face, but I swear he looked relieved that it was all over.”

  “I didn’t know…”

  “They will kill themselves.”

  “Who?” Paul rushed out.

  “People in here. The last time there were deportations more than a dozen families in the ghetto took their own lives – mothers, fathers, children, grandparents, old couples. They’d rather commit suicide together than be separated.” Kurt exhaled, the blue smoke clouding his eyes. “No one ever comes back, Paul. We all know there won’t be reunions further down the road. Deportation is like death – it’s a permanent goodbye, and some people can’t bear it.”

  “You don’t know that,” Paul said.

  “Yes, I do. Grow up. Open your eyes.”

  Paul’s lips trembled at the hopelessness of Kurt’s predicament. “I’ll get you out. I will, Kurt. I might have found a way.”

  Kurt’s eyes brightened for a split second, and Paul saw the old, powerful, confident thirty-year-old Kurt Sommer.

  “You must hold on, promise me, Kurt.”

  “I will if they don’t deport me today. And even if they do, I’ll go out fighting when they put me on a truck. I won’t leave here for an even worse destination.” Kurt’s anger disintegrated as he switched gears again. “Forget about me for the moment, what can we do to stop them taking Gertrude and her brother Joachim?”

  “Find me in Alexanderhofstrasse. Bring them to my desk. I’ll give you all medical certificates ordering you to the hospital, or I’ll quarantine your flat and its occupants, stating typhus symptoms. They won’t want you on transports if you’re sick, not if they’re sending you to other work camps.” Paul’s voice broke. “Find me, Kurt … and don’t do anything stupid.”

  Paul’s words were drowned out by the sound of whistles and dogs barking. Then came the evacuation orders being issued by a man shouting through a megaphone.

  “Every man, woman, and child must present themselves now in Alexanderhofstrasse. Report now! Bring your belongings and those of your children! Those who remain in their houses will be punished! Raus! Raus! Beeilung! Macht schon und zieht euch eure Mäntel an! Hurry up and put your coats on!” The orders went on and were repeated time and again in an ominous monotone until shots sounding like fire crackers drowned out the man’s commands.

  Both men panicked. Paul wondered how he could leave the building unseen, and Kurt worried about being caught breaking curfew as he rushed back up the stairs to give courage to his neighbours.

  “Go,” Paul urged. “Remember, come to me at the desk. I’ll write the hospital orders before you even get to Alexanderhofstrasse. Good luck, Kurt.”

  Alone, Paul pulled in a huge breath. He had to move. On the stairs, children were crying and were being told to hush. Scuffles were erupting, and tempers were flaring with angry words and shouts over the children’s weeping. And now in the mix came the dull thuds of German rifle butts banging on doors. Paul counted to ten and then left his hideout to join the residents’ disorganised exit.

  Once he got into the street, Paul picked up his pace. But before he’d got twenty metres, he was stopped by the SS.

  “Herr Oberarzt, what are you doing here?” said a short, vicious-looking SS officer.

  “I’ve been here for almost an hour visiting a sick child. Bad timing, Scharführer. And now I really must go. I’m needed in Alexanderhofstrasse.”

  Paul, praying that the SS had more important things to do than interrogate one of their own, set off through the crowded streets towards the selection commission without waiting for the Scharführer’s response. It was not yet eight o’clock.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  As he zig-zagged through the ghetto’s congested streets towards Alexanderhofstrasse, Paul was struck by the paradox between the Jews’ panic-stricken
faces and their well-ordered procession towards their destination. Men, women and children, backs bent under the weight of their bundles, formed an endless line. This was not the first time the ghetto’s residents had been given an order to congregate with their suitcases; did they already know it was pointless to resist?

  Paul struggled to comprehend the submissiveness of the Jews. It was possible, he supposed, that families truly believed their children were going to a camp in the countryside, as had been suggested, or to farms where they’d get more food and lots of fresh air. But he scoffed at those ridiculous scenarios. He no longer believed the Nazis capable of any benevolence towards the Jews and suspected that today’s deportees would be going to even more appalling conditions. Not yet a father, he couldn’t conceive of lining up calmly and quietly. He could only imagine fighting to the death to keep his child safe.

  German military trucks were parked every fifty metres or so with SS soldiers training rifles on the residents still making their way to Alexanderhofstrasse. The Jewish policemen marching on both sides of the lines were also carrying their suitcases, or those of others. Paul wondered if their names were on one of the lists for deportation. In this prison complex, political organisations continued to exist and even engage in strikes when rations were cut. A rich cultural life, including active theatres, concerts, and banned religious gatherings, were, according to Kurt, used to counter official attempts at dehumanisation. Yet, willpower and strength of mind could not halt the ubiquitous separations of Jewish families or save Jewish policemen who threatened their own people with batons – this was the Nazis’ most egregious and powerful tool to further demoralise a race of hated people – a Jew was a Jew, and in that spirit, not even those who worked with the Gestapo were safe from expulsion.

  Chaim Rumkowski, the Ghetto’s Jewish self-styled king was talking to a Gestapo officer. Paul passed the two men, his contempt hidden behind a friendly nod to the Kriminalassistent. He’d only seen Rumkowski once before this morning. Whilst making a speech about rations and the state of the ghetto, he’d surveyed his surroundings like an emperor, sweeping his arm across the backdrop of carts carrying vegetables, and Paul’s hospital colleagues transporting a stretcher-bound woman. “Look, the streets are devoid of beggars, and only the faecal workers hauling away people’s waste are out roaming. Everyone is happy, everyone is safe. We are very organised, are we not?”