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

by Jana Petken

  Still holding onto the door frame, Wilmot glared at the shocked Inspektor. He was in a world of trouble, yet he didn’t feel like apologising to the morons who were still standing in blood beside Haupt’s body, demanding answers as to why he might have done it, and not asking a single question about who he’d been as a man.

  “May I be dismissed, Herr Kriminalinspektor?” Wilmot uttered, half expecting to be arrested for his insolence.

  The white-haired Gestapo man with small round spectacles perched on the tip of his nose frowned but then surprised Wilmot with a soft response. “I will send someone to find you tomorrow morning, Schütze Vogel. He will escort you to the Gestapo office on Krasnoflotskaya Ul Street. I will also see to it that you have two weeks’ leave, here in Viipuri, starting right now. All I ask is that before you resume your duties, you write a report on how you found Hauptmann Albrecht’s mental state in the days running up to his suicide. It could help his family to understand. Go, you are dismissed – and Schütze, well done for escaping the Russians.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Paul Vogel

  Lodz, Poland.

  April 1942

  Freddie Biermann was still in bed in the ward’s side room five days after his heart attack. Doctor Lewandowski was afraid to transfer him to the Christian or Wehrmacht hospitals because of the risk of making his already serious condition worse, as well as the punishment he’d receive if anything should happen to such a senior Gestapo figure en route. He had, however, removed all Jewish patients from Biermann’s floor, and had procured Christian cleaners and nurses with German family ties from other hospitals. Lewandowski had remarked to Paul, that this, he hoped, would appease the Kriminaldirektor’s Aryan sensibilities.

  Every hospital resource they had was at Biermann’s disposal and, thus far, he’d received the best medicine available. Dissatisfied, however, with Anatol’s depressing prognosis, and worried about a shortage of drugs in the city, Biermann had requested that a senior German physician come from Warsaw to examine him. Two days later, an Oberfeldarzt Lieutenant Colonel arrived with added supplies of the vascular dilator, glyceryl trinitrate, and the foxglove extract, digitalis, to control heart rate irregularities, plus a bucketful of bad news about his patient’s medical prospects.

  In Biermann’s room, Paul discretely observed his parents-in-law. Olga filled up her husband’s water glass. He smiled at her, and then she kissed his forehead. He patted her hand and sat forwards as she lifted the glass to his lips, and after taking tiny sips, he said, “Thank you, my darling.” That they were devoted to each other was indisputable, Paul thought, but it was also apparent that Biermann hadn’t shared his work secrets with his wife, or the true state of his health.

  Ignored in the doorway, Paul wondered whether Biermann had told Olga about the senior physician’s recommendations. Before leaving for Warsaw that morning, the Oberfeldarzt had informed Biermann that even after three or four weeks in hospital, he would still have a long road towards some level of recovery. The doctor had finished his visit by advising Biermann to retire immediately from the Gestapo, but Biermann had vehemently refused, endangering his heart further with his outrage.

  Paul weighed up the risk he was about to take against leaving Kurt to die in the hands of the Gestapo. After spending days pondering over his ambitious plan, he still maintained that helping Kurt and others like him to escape far outweighed the hazard one mighty act of treason might bring. Not even for Valentina would he deny his conscience. He imagined telling her and was horrified when he pictured her reporting him to her father. He often wondered nowadays if he and she had anything in common other than Biermann.

  Paul pushed those thoughts to the kerb and focused on Kurt’s situation. Biermann had mentioned Kurt’s name only once since his heart attack. On that occasion, he’d reminded Paul that he was going to follow through with his threats should Kurt not be forthcoming with a full confession about Dieter’s treachery and whereabouts. And in what must have been a mindless error, he had also mentioned the missing Vogel art collection, confirming that Kurt’s suspicions had been justified; Biermann was being pushed to retire early on a low pension, and given Germany’s economic condition, would love to get his hands on some very expensive masterpieces. Paul had noticed during his short stay in Berlin and Dresden that the walls in both the Vogel houses were bare, but he’d assumed at the time that his mother had disposed of the paintings after his father’s death.

  Conscious that his knees were knocking when he stepped into the room, Paul headed for the iron railing at the bottom of Biermann’s bed. “Good evening, sir. I have some news for you … Kurt Sommer is critically ill upstairs in this hospital.”

  “Critically ill?” Biermann asked, glancing at his wife.

  “Paul, are you talking about Kurt, your father’s driver … that nice man who used to love my cakes?” Olga asked.

  “Yes, Frau Biermann…”

  “That’s right, him,” Biermann cut in, and smiled at his wife. “Why don’t you go home dear? Put your feet up. You must be exhausted with all this coming and going.”

  Olga, ignoring her husband, asked, “But why is Dieter’s driver in Poland?”

  “He’s a Jew, Frau Biermann. You didn’t know that?” Paul said.

  Biermann shot daggers at Paul, then smiled at his wife. “If you’re determined to stay, dear, give me five minutes alone with Paul, will you?”

  Olga raised her neatly-plucked eyebrows at her husband then got up and left, promising to return after she had taken a short walk.

  Paul closed the door behind her.

  “If you ever mention Kurt Sommer in front of my wife again, there will be hell to pay. What are you playing at?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I assumed you’d already mentioned Kurt to Frau Biermann. I didn’t know it was a secret.”

  “He’s in this hospital, you say? Why?”

  Paul raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Why? The Gestapo brutalised him in your offices on the day of the deportations. I assumed you directed that action.”

  Biermann’s breathing was accelerating, his fists clenched on the bed cover.

  “His injuries are considered fatal. He’s hanging on, but the doctor treating him is not hopeful. He could die at any moment.” Paul shook his head. “Forgive me … I don’t know what I was thinking. I knew Frau Biermann was very fond of Kurt.”

  Biermann’s eyes narrowed, but Paul stood his ground and kept his gaze steady. “I suppose you won’t need to kill him now. You might have already done it.”

  Paul turned on his heel and left the room, revelling in his small victory. His father-in-law wouldn’t dare take a dying man from his hospital bed for further interrogation, especially now that Olga knew about Kurt’s condition. She would, of course, tell Valentina, who’d also been fond of Kurt, and if there was one honest thing about Biermann, it was his craving for respect from the two women in his life.

  Paul realised that the Gestapo hadn’t heard about Kurt’s hospital admission. Biermann, starved of visitors other than family members, had been cut off from his supply of information, and that lack of access to current affairs had allowed Kurt the time to recover. Of course, telling Biermann that Kurt was in the hospital was a risk, Paul admitted, but he was hoping that his upcoming meeting with Anatol and Hubert would permanently remove Kurt from the Gestapo’s grasp before the week was over.

  “Is that you finished for the evening, Doctor Vogel?” a Gestapo guard, placed there for Biermann’s protection, asked Paul as he hurried to the hospital’s main entrance.

  “Yes, that’s it for another day,” Paul answered with a casual wave.

  “It’s great news about the Kriminaldirektor getting better, isn’t it?” the man shouted after Paul.

  I was hoping he’d die, Paul wanted to shout back.

  Paul looked at the address and directions written on Anatol’s note as he stood under the first street gaslight outside the ghetto. It wasn’t far, but it would involve a tram ride and
decent walk afterwards.

  “Let me know when we are in Feilenstrasse, please – it used to be called Popiela,” Paul instructed the tram conductor when it left the station.

  “It will be our fourth stop,” the conductor retorted with a grumpy voice without looking at Paul. No need to ask where he stood on the occupation, Paul thought.

  Anatol’s house, a detached villa, was in a quiet cul-de-sac two streets from the tram stop. Paul, with his crude map, had found the house easily because of Anatol’s drawing of a gate with the letters EG soldered into the iron. The house had once belonged to an affluent Jewish family, and Anatol had once commented that he’d purchased it cheaply after the Jews had been removed – it never ceased to amaze Paul how one man’s misfortune became another’s gift, or how easily the gifted person accepted such benevolence as a God-given right.

  An attractive young woman took Paul’s coat, and then ushered him into the living room. Three men were present: Anatol, Hubert, and a third man who got up from the couch and turned to face Paul.

  Paul gasped, flicking his eyes from Anatol to Hubert until they settled again on the third man.

  Gert Wolff, the half-Polish SS Untersturmführer Paul had met on the train to Łódź smiled, “Hello, Paul.”

  Paul backed away, but the woman who’d taken his coat locked the door before he could reach it. His breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. He’d walked into a trap; he was more livid than afraid.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, Gert. What a pleasant surprise.” Paul said with a nervous smile. He hadn’t done anything to incriminate himself, yet. Anatol and Hubert were Poles, he was a German; therefore, Gert would believe his word over the that of the Polish men. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with my hospital colleagues.”

  “Sit down, Paul. I’m not going to bite you,” Gert grinned. “We’re all friends here.”

  “Friends?”

  Anatol spoke up. “Yes. Gert is one of us. He helps in ways you couldn’t imagine. Do sit, Paul. You look like a stuffed dummy. Sit, let’s get down to business.”

  “I’m not sitting anywhere until he tells me why he’s here?” said Paul, his eyes narrowing at the nonchalant Gert, relaxed and appearing amused at Paul’s discomfort. “Last time I saw you, you were chasing a woman with a baby on the day of the deportations.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Gert acknowledged. “I was trying to get to her before the sniper took his shot. Unfortunately, I saw him in the window preparing to fire and had to back off.”

  Gert moved towards Paul with a genuine smile. “Look, I was just as surprised to hear about your request as you are to see me here. Ever since Hubert told me about you, I’ve been keeping tabs on your movements. I saw you in the ghetto with the orderly and ambulance cart. I watched you go into the tenement block, and then come out some time later with your friend, the Jew that Anatol and Hubert had mentioned to me. I wanted to be sure you weren’t trying to trick us, and to be honest, I’m still not convinced by your motives.”

  “We told Gert we trusted you,” Anatol said.

  “And if they trust you, that’s good enough for me. For now,” Gert added.

  Paul relaxed, although his pulse was still racing. He was shocked at seeing Gert, but trust had to go both ways, didn’t it? If not, he might as well leave now.

  Once Paul had taken his seat, the woman opened the door and left the room.

  Paul wondered what might have happened had he made for the locked door. “Your wife, I presume?” he asked Anatol.

  “Yes. Vanda.”

  “All right, I’m listening.”

  Anatol glanced at Gert who nodded and said, “Good, but before we begin, we need to set a few ground rules. We have no reason to doubt your sincerity, Paul. However, in the event of a double-cross on your end that results in our arrests, we will hand over a dossier containing proof of your own treasonous acts against the Third Reich. From this moment on, we are inextricably linked. If we go down, you go down with us. Is this acceptable to you?”

  Paul gulped then nodded. “Yes. That’s fair enough.”

  For an hour, the three Poles talked candidly about their operations, how they executed their rescues and what precautions they took. Paul had noted early in the discussion that they were steering clear of mentioning other Polish networks within the city and surrounding areas. He assumed the different cells might cooperate with each other, but it was clear that they were sharing only the vaguest of information about them, which was smart; if he knew nothing about these other units, he wouldn’t be able to give the Gestapo information on them should he ever be interrogated.

  What dismayed Paul the most was the growing threat to the rescuers’ efforts, not from the Gestapo or SS, but from Jews.

  “…we find it hard to believe as well, Paul, but Chaim Rumkowski is an autocrat.” Anatol continued to elaborate on the Jewish menace against escapees. “His ghetto currency prevents people from smuggling food into the ghetto because the Jews no longer have real currency to barter with outside the walls. He makes sure his opponents are on the expulsion lists and reports those he feels are a threat to his position or are trying to subvert his rules.”

  Gert added, “He also testifies against people he’s caught trying to escape even though he knows they will be executed.”

  “Anatol and Gert are hard on Rumkowski, but he brings a measure of stability and jobs to the Jews.” Hubert puffed away at his pipe. “And we all know that were it not for the productivity of the factories contributing to the war effort, the ghetto would have no purpose and might even be shut down. And where do you think the Jews would go then, eh?” Hubert was much older than the other two men, and seemed to prefer listening to speaking, but Paul surmised nothing went on without his approval.

  “My uncle is too soft on Rumkowski,” Gert spat, “the old rat wouldn’t hesitate to report any of us in this room.”

  Surprised, Paul stared up at Gert. “Hubert is your uncle?”

  Gert chuckled. “My mother’s brother.”

  Paul continued to listen to talk of the Jews acting on behalf of the Gestapo and SS. He had long since questioned Rumkowski’s motives for siding with the Nazis, and asked, “What does this Jew get out of supporting the Gestapo?”

  “He gets to live a little longer,” Gert said. “He sees the successful escapes of fellow Jews as his failure and worries that he’ll have his authority taken from him. Without his position, he’s an old, fit-for-nothing Jew with his name on the top of the deportation lists.”

  Anatol added, “We’re as wary of him as we are of the Kriminaldirektor, your father-in-law.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about him,” Paul said. “With his health as it is, he’s on his way out.”

  Anatol nodded, “To be honest, it’s a miracle he’s still alive.”

  “Hah, it’s bad luck if you ask me,” Hubert grunted.

  Vanda returned with black tea for everyone. She then sat on the arm of Anatol’s chair.

  Paul looked at the wall clock and realised he’d been there for almost two hours and that dinner wasn’t coming. “I meant every word I said about wanting to help you,” he said to Hubert, “but my biggest concern now is Kurt … Karl … I’m sorry, I can’t get used to that name. I don’t know how much Anatol told you about him, Gert, but he’s running out of time.”

  “Anatol and Gert have come up with a plan. Listen to them,” Hubert said, then grew quiet.

  “We have safe houses dotted around the city, and despite the ongoing threat of execution should we be caught, our network continues to grow,” Anatol began.

  “But removing patients from the hospital to our safe houses has become more dangerous because of the Schupo guards at the ghetto’s exit,” Gert added. “They didn’t used to look in the back of ambulance carts or under the sheeting covering the corpses until Biermann arrived in Łódź.”

  Paul, becoming more disheartened by the second, was wracking his brain for a way to get Ku
rt out, even as Anatol and Gert seemed to be closing every conceivable avenue. “How do you get people out if not in a cart going through the checkpoint?”

  “We rarely do now. We concentrate on helping those we can, like the Jews who have been in hiding in the un-walled parts of the city.”

  “I have SS clearance to remove live patients from the hospital to our SS immigration headquarters outside the ghetto,” Gert said. “But even I can’t transport Jews without the proper paperwork.”

  Paul shifted his gaze from the fireplace and directed it at Gert. “As I told Anatol, Kurt is known to the Gestapo. It’s a wonder that they haven’t found him in that hospital storeroom yet. I can’t ask you to risk…”

  “Listen, Paul,” Anatol interrupted. “Gert will not be involved in Kurt’s rescue until after we get him out of the ghetto gates in a coffin.”

  Paul’s eyes widened in confusion. “Jews don’t get coffins.”

  “That’s right, and that’s why we’re going to have his dead body transferred to the mortuary for research. The pathologist will take samples under the pretext of Kurt having died of an unknown, probable communicable disease such as smallpox, which would put the fear of God into the Germans. But of course, it will not be Kurt’s corpse.”

  Hubert added, “It’s the only time we get access to coffins.”

  “The head of the hospital pathology department is a friend of Hubert’s. He often takes Jewish cadavers illegally for medical research for the ongoing education of junior doctors, and given that your father-in-law is out of action, we will have the time for us to get Kurt to a safe location from the public mortuary whilst taking another body already there to be buried in his place.”

  Hubert, packing his pipe with tobacco, said, “Even if Biermann finds out and sends one of his Kriminalassistents to the mortuary to confirm the body is Kurt’s, he’ll be too late. I’ll make sure the anonymous cadaver is disposed of within an hour of Kurt’s arrival at the mortuary.”

  “You can do that?” said Paul. “When will you do it?”