The Vogels: On All Fronts (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 2)
Page 48
“This is my colleague and good friend of … how many years, Manfred?” Biermann said.
“Six, sir.”
“Six years, eh? Where does time go? Paul let me properly present Kriminalinspektor Manfred Krüger. He arrived from Berlin this morning.”
“Are you planning to stay in Łódź for a while, Herr Kriminalinspektor, or is this a short visit?” Paul asked.
“I am relieving Kriminaldirektor Biermann, so I presume this will be an extended stay in Litzmannstadt,” he said, accentuating the German name.
Surprised he had not been told about this appointment, or that his father-in-law was leaving, Paul sat down next to Valentina and gave her a tender smile. Life was going to become even more difficult with a younger and more energetic Gestapo officer breathing down his neck.
“I hear you’re kept busy at the hospital?” Krüger said, interrupting Paul’s thoughts.
“Yes, all four hospitals are extremely busy, but desperately short of medical supplies…”
“Our armed forces need medical equipment and medicines far more than civilians do, and as for the Jews … well, I don’t know why they’re getting medicines at all.” Biermann cut Paul off. “You’ll have to make do … no point complaining about it.”
“I know that, sir, and we do make do. But I’m a doctor, and my job is to care for the sick. To be honest, I sometimes think the Jews who are ill would be better served if they were looked after by family members in their ghetto homes.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Krüger mused. “It would certainly save money.”
Paul raised an eyebrow. The Kriminalinspector apparently hadn’t recognised the sarcasm.
Valentina rolled her eyes, a sign of impatience that Paul had come to know well.
“Darling, can we please not talk about your job at the table?” she snapped. “I’m feeling squeamish enough without having to hear about Jews dying every time you come home. I do wish they’d all just go away.”
Olga appeared from the kitchen carrying a platter of pork. “Good, you’re here, Paul,” she said, leaving again with the promise of boiled potatoes.
Paul focused on his plate, disappointed again with his wife. He was tired of hearing her speak negatively about the Jews; she possessed not one iota of sympathy. “They probably wish they could go away as well, darling,” he said when Olga reappeared with the potatoes and took her seat beside her husband. “I’m sure they’d much rather go back to their own countries than live in a ghetto with curfews and shortages.” Paul picked up his knife and fork and began cutting the meat.
“Oh, really, Paul, how can you say that? I get angry thinking about how much it must be costing to feed them, when real Germans are forced to endure measly rations.”
“Forget about the Jews, darling,” Olga said. “We don’t need to worry about them anymore, do we…?”
“Now, dear, I was going to tell Paul after dinner,” Biermann interrupted.
“Tell me what?” Paul asked, flicking his eyes from Biermann to Krüger and then to Olga. “What have I missed?”
Krüger dug his knife into his potatoes, keeping his blond head lowered as he ate. Olga stared at her daughter, while Biermann beamed.
Paul tensed. “For God’s sake, what is it?”
“We’re leaving for Germany tomorrow morning,” Biermann said. “I am being recalled to Berlin where a rather pleasant desk job awaits me at the Reich Security offices.”
“I’ve never been happy here, Paul, you know that,” Olga added hurriedly.
Paul wasn’t surprised, but he was dismayed at their bad timing. Taking Valentina’s hand to comfort her, he said, “I’m surprised you’re leaving now. Valentina could do with your support, what with me being at the hospital every day. It would mean the world to her if you could stay here until the baby’s born.”
Valentina pulled her hand from Paul’s grasp as though his fingers were scalding hot. “I’m going with them, Paul.”
They were waiting for him to respond, but Paul’s throat had closed, and he couldn’t swallow or breathe. He reached for his glass and forced himself to take a sip of wine, and then another. Even Krüger, a man he’d only met five minutes earlier and who had no right to hear this private family conversation, seemed to be enjoying the moment. Valentina was leaving him. What the hell was he supposed to say?
He turned his back on Biermann and Krüger and faced Valentina. “Darling, you haven’t thought this through. You’re due in less than two weeks … it’s far too dangerous for you to travel. I can’t permit…”
“She’ll be in a first-class carriage and quite safe with us,” Biermann butted in. “I’ve spoken to the senior physician who visited me from Warsaw, and he has assured me that my daughter will be fine. She wants her child to be born in Germany, not Poland. Do you find that so very hard to understand?”
“Will you give me a minute to discuss this with my wife?” Paul retorted, his eyes boring into Valentina’s. “Dearest, listen to me. We were given the opportunity to live together in married quarters in a foreign posting. Do you know how rare that is? If you leave, you’ll be taking my unborn child with you, and when he or she is born you might not be able to return to me.”
“She knows how fortunate she was to live with you here, but your apartment has nothing to do with the Wehrmacht or your posting,” Biermann piped up again. “I’ve been paying for it out of my own pocket so that you and Valentina could be together, and her mother and I could have her close to us. And it has cost me a small fortune, I might add.”
Paul was dumbstruck, and unable to find a dignified response.
Biermann smirked. “That’s right, Paul. When we leave tomorrow, you will have to vacate your lodgings and go into barracks. I suggest you start packing tonight.”
Paul finally turned to Biermann, his eyes brimming with hatred. It had always seemed strange to him that an officer of his low rank should have the luxury of living with his wife in married quarters, but before leaving Berlin, Biermann had assured him that he’d taken care of everything regarding their move to Łódź. He’d even gone so far as to say he’d signed the Wehrmacht Accommodation application forms on Paul’s behalf.
“You deliberately manipulated me into this posting using your daughter as bait,” Paul said, no longer caring about showing respect for his father-in-law or behaving like a good son-in-law for the benefit of Biermann’s newly arrived Gestapo dog. “You lied through your teeth to me, to my wife, and to yours.”
“Now, that’s enough of that. I demand respect for the Kriminaldirektor!” Krüger growled.
“Shut up, Inspektor. This is a family matter. It has nothing to do with you.” Paul stretched out his hand to Valentina. “Darling, let’s talk about this in private.”
Valentina lowered her eyes, unable or unwilling, to look at her husband.
“Valentina, listen to me. I can afford to pay for the apartment, or this house if you’d prefer to stay here? I can even afford to employ a nurse to live with us until well after the baby’s born and you’re back on your feet. I have money – don’t leave, please. Think about what you’re going back to – the Allies are bombing Berlin. The attacks are more frequent now. You and the baby will be much safer here…”
“Stop it, you’re scaring me. I want to go home.” Valentina sniffed. “I’d never forgive myself if anything were to happen to Papa and I wasn’t with him.”
“What about me? I want to see my son or daughter being born. Is this what you want, or have your parents persuaded you?”
“No. I want to go. I’m sorry, Paul, but I hate it here. And Papa’s right, I want our child to be born in Berlin with Mama and Papa to help me through it. Please understand, I got such a terrible fright when Papa became ill, and I can’t … I won’t have the baby in this horrible country, and with all those thousands of Jews who could riot or go mad and take over the city. Can’t you think about me for a change? You work every day, and I’d be so very lonely without my parents’ company.”
“But we’re a family … you and I, and our baby. We’ve come this far … darling, please, don’t make me miss my baby’s birth.”
“Paul, won’t you try to understand her point of view? She’s made her decision. Please don’t badger her.” Olga sobbed as she clutched her husband’s hand. “You’re upsetting everyone.”
Biermann scowled and picked up his fork, his other hand still held captive by Olga’s. “Let’s eat before this lovely dinner gets cold. Come on, Paul. Valentina has made her decision, and I won’t have you bullying her into changing her mind.”
Paul leapt to his feet, knocking his chair back and throwing his napkin on the table. He was furious, humiliated and felt as though the woman he loved had just slapped him publicly across the face. Love? He wasn’t sure what that word meant to Valentina. She certainly didn’t have anything like the feelings he had for her. “If you’re leaving in the morning, will you at least come home to the apartment with me now? We can have one last night together, can’t we?”
Valentina began to cry, using her napkin as a handkerchief. “Papa’s driver helped me to pack this morning, and I … well, I just don’t want to go back there … sit down, Paul. I’m very upset, and you’re spoiling the night for our guest.”
With his pride and marriage in tatters, Paul leant down and kissed Valentina’s cheek. Unable to suffer Biermann’s smugness and his sidekick’s amusement, he backed away from the table. “What time is your train tomorrow?” he asked Valentina.
“Nine o’clock. Where are you going?”
“I’m going home. I have a very early start at the hospital, but I’ll come to wave you off at the station…”
“This is preposterous! How dare you walk out on your wife and us and this wonderful dinner. Sit down, Vogel!” Biermann barked.
“Freddie, please don’t excite yourself,” Olga cried.
“Blame him if anything happens to me.” Biermann coughed.
At the door, Paul gave Valentina a long, hard stare before saying, “You’re leaving me. You understand that?”
She nodded.
“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow before you depart.” Defeated, Paul mustered what little pride he had left, raised himself to his full height, clicked his heals together, and gave those at the table a shallow bow of his head. “Enjoy your meal. Goodnight.”
Chapter Sixty
On his way to the apartment, Paul had little trouble justifying deserting his wife on the eve of her departure. He had no excuse, he knew that, but his pain had been too much to bear. The indelible stamp of humiliation, made complete under his father-in-law and Inspektor Krüger’s barely concealed sniggers, would never wash off him. Any remnants of respect, mutual trust, and loyalty between he and the Biermann family had disintegrated, and it would never be retrieved. Valentina had chosen. She had elected to leave him and return to Berlin despite the ongoing Allied air raids on the German capital and her pregnancy almost at term. He was the outsider, the last consideration in all her decisions.
He closed the door behind him and cast his eyes around the almost empty apartment: a bedroom, a living area, a kitchen and a bathroom. The place looked abandoned. Valentina’s feminine touches were gone: the ornaments and flowers, home-made cushion covers, bedspread, curtains to match, and her clothes. His heart pounded erratically. All gone: the baby’s crib, towels, nappies, and the bits and pieces lovingly gathered for the infant’s arrival had been removed. All, but the residual fragrance of baby talc remained; Valentina loved to sprinkle the powder on her body, and that reminder pained him more than anything else.
He picked up a red presentation box containing the gift his father-in-law had given him upon his arrival in Poland; a 1936 bottle of Glen Grant. At least Valentina had left that.
On the kitchen counter, he found a brown paper bag. He put the bottle into it and then headed to the front door. He didn’t need this empty nest; he needed a friend.
When Paul arrived at Anatol’s villa – it was not the first time he’d turned up without an invitation – he suspected he was going to interrupt his friends’ dinner. It had been a gruelling day at the hospital with multiple cases of influenza being reported in the ghetto, and Anatol, who’d left the hospital five minutes before Paul, had remarked that he was going straight home to his wife.
As Paul predicted, Anatol and Vanda were finishing their evening meal. Anatol invited Paul to sit at the table whilst Vanda fetched two long tubular glasses for the Scotch. Upon hearing that Paul hadn’t eaten anything since that morning, she then brought a plateful of chicken pieces and a potato.
“Like everyone else, we don’t have much, Paul, but chickens we have. Had,” she said with a heavy sigh.
Anatol poured the whisky into the glasses, and then he and Vanda remained silent as Paul related his rotten evening at the Biermanns’.
“What will you do, Paul?” Anatol asked.
“What can I do? Valentina has made her feelings clear.” Paul clasped his expensive whisky in both hands and took a sip. He’d been candid. Without hesitation, he had aired feelings about his wife that he, thus far, had held very close to his chest. Trust had grown between him and Anatol, and Paul was grateful for the shoulder to cry on. The least he could do was be completely honest. “So, there you have it. I can’t see a way forward.”
Paul picked at the chicken, forgetting his awful situation for the moment. “Thank you. This is just what I needed. Do you have your own chickens, Vanda?” he asked.
She frowned. “I had twenty, but the SS confiscated eighteen last week. After we suck the bones of this one, we’ll be down to one – it’s not even producing eggs anymore, poor thing. I think it must be lonely – I don’t even want to eat it.”
Anatol stroked his wife’s hand. “She was very fond of her chicken coop, Paul. We have a large garden at the back of the property that no one can see from the street. Vanda used to give the eggs and chickens to neighbours and family, and those who are helping to hide Jews.”
“I had roosters, hens laying eggs, and others producing chicks. I can’t imagine who told the SS we had poultry. I was very careful not to broadcast their presence to anyone.”
“To be fair, darling, they did make a racket,” Anatol said.
“I know, but why would someone want to tell the Germans about them when I went out of my way to feed the neighbours? Oh, well, it doesn’t matter who it was, I suppose. I was lucky to hold onto them for as long as I did, considering the Germans take whatever they want.” She got up, smiling though clearly upset. “I’ll leave you two to talk. I have ironing to do.”
After pouring two more whiskies, Anatol said, “Tell me more about this new Gestapo Inspektor.”
Paul tensed. He was still furious, and even more so now that he’d got the disastrous Biermann’s last supper off his chest and a whisky in him. “He’s cocky, as you’d expect from a Kriminalinspektor. He and Biermann seemed close … I mean very friendly. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that the new man is every bit as nasty as Biermann but with more energy. I’m worried, Anatol. I think you should warn the others that Krüger means business.”
Anatol poured water from a jug into an empty glass. “I’ll certainly mention him to Hubert and Gert, but as long as we keep our noses clean and continue to use the systems we already have in place, we should be all right. It’s you who should be concerned. If your father-in-law’s malevolence is as bad as you say, the new Kriminalinspector will be keeping a close eye on what you’re doing. It might be better if you continue to pilfer drugs for us when you can, but don’t take part in any rescues.”
“You’re right. I understand.” It upset Paul that he couldn’t contribute more to the network. “I’ll try and do more pilfering in the future.” He grinned.
Anatol sighed and smacked his lips. “Ah, I never thought I’d taste a Scotch as good as this again.”
Paul chuckled. “I find it hard to believe that my father-in-law once liked me enough to give it to me.”
“Yes. Maybe it is.” On the tram journey there, Paul had considered that with Valentina out of the picture, he’d have more freedom to help what he now, secretly, called the Polish Resistance. “With her gone, I’ll be moving into the barracks. It will have its challenges and drawbacks, of course. The Wehrmacht loves its inspections, and as an officer I’d feel compelled to socialise in the officers’ mess, but it could work...”
“… in our favour?” Anatol mused.
“Hmm, yes, I suppose it could. Officers love to gossip. It might help us.”
“Paul, I have to ask this,” Anatol said. “I trust you, I do, but this has been on my mind since you got here. Blame the whisky, whatever, but … you see, I don’t understand why people like you and Gert are still serving in the Wehrmacht when you both detest what you’re being ordered to do. Why not run – fight the Nazis? That’s what I would do – how can you want to…?”
“… you don’t understand how it works, and you certainly don’t know me well enough to judge,” Paul retorted, then instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry, Anatol. You’re not the first person to ask.” Paul took a slug of Scotch. “I have a twin brother. His name is Max – we’re identical – and I mean identical in every way.”
Anatol’s eyes widened in surprise. “Well, that is something I didn’t know about you.”
Paul felt liberated just saying Max’s name. Too afraid to mention him to Valentina and Biermann, who had made Max the unclean, the outlawed before Paul had married into the Biermann family, he now felt his eyes welling up with emotion.
Anatol had relaxed, his look now strangely sympathetic as though he sensed Paul’s pain before he’d even mentioned his earlier troubles. “What’s really bothering you?” he asked while pouring Paul two-fingers of neat whisky.