BERLIN: Reaping the Whirlwind (The Schultz family story Book 2)

by Paul Grant

  The registration process started with a roll call. I couldn’t believe how many times a group of people could be counted, but either the Russians were not very good at it or they just had bad memories. Four hours out in those temperatures, in the condition we were, was no picnic. The men that collapsed under the strain were beaten mercilessly which, of course, did nothing to help them to their feet.

  Our mood perked up when we were told we were to be de-loused. We seemed to have been living with the little blighters for months, so the chance to be rid of our lice was a major event in our sad lives. As it was, the process turned out to be something quite unexpected. I don’t know what was in the white powder they threw over our emaciated bodies, but if you were lucky, your eyes stopped streaming after a few hours; the not so fortunate fell into a serious coughing fit from which they didn’t recover. If the primitive chemical they used killed the lice, it was because it also took a few humans with it.

  By the time more than a hundred of us were crammed in a wooden hut designed for less than thirty, we realised we had been better off in the cattle truck. Somehow, our small group had managed to stay together. The wooden slats that performed the function of a bed had to be shared with another. I slept top to tail with Meissner, Schram and Marz took the bunk above, and Koegel was forced to share with the smallest man he could find. Then we slept. I don’t know how long it was but, in the end, there were only two things which woke us; one was hunger, and the other was the return of the dreaded dysentery.

  Towards the end in Stalingrad, Meissner had barely uttered a word. He was a shadow of his former self, haunted by worries of never seeing his family again. It was more than that, though. It was like the loss of his great friend and comrade Ernst Wiebke had finished him off well before he actually died.

  We believed Meissner had fully recovered from dysentery after the Doctor had plied him with the medication. To the naked eye he looked well. However, I could see his willingness to survive was missing. Even after that time, when he spoke he sounded like a beaten man. His reaction to defeat was very different to the anger of Schram, the trickery of Marz or the languid acceptance of Koegel. That’s why, when the dysentery literally ran through all of us at the camp, I suspected Meissner would be the first to succumb.

  The trips to the latrine were frequent events for all of us. The building itself was a desperate place; two long wooden boards with a small gap between were perched over a large, deep tank. The haste to get there, and the relief felt once you’d reached your destination, was comical to the unafflicted. However, a trip to the latrine could be potentially fatal.

  The night it happened, Meissner was thrashing around and sweating profusely at the bottom of our bunk. It was so bad I could feel his sweat on my legs. I gave him my jacket, trying to keep him warm. He was shaking violently, his eyes closed one minute, open the next. When they were open, they were rolling wildly like a pair of billiard balls. It was then he started to talk, mumbling at first, then clearer, like he was tormented by something. I held him and, because I was close to him, I was the only one that heard him.

  ‘No, Ernst, you cannot do it,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Klaus, Otto. Only Klaus is here,’ I said it to calm him, unsure if he could hear me.

  ‘Think of your comrades, Ernst,’ he said. I wondered if he meant Wiebke. He was the only Ernst I knew, and the one he was close to.

  He then became quite adamant, almost electrically charged. ‘Ernst, look how we treated them. You are mad to even consider it.’

  After he said it, he was suddenly becalmed. I was able to lay him down and he fell asleep as quickly as it had all started. The whole thing was bizarre. I remember wondering if it was anything to do with the argument he’d had with Wiebke before he died. If I was completely honest, I was more interested in getting warm again and getting back to sleep myself. I was still drowsy.

  As it was, later that night, Otto Meissner made his final trip to the latrine. The next morning his corpse was one of three fished out of the bottom of the tank as it was discharged. Like so many others badly blighted by the need and the sheer length of time required to fully relieve himself, he’d probably fallen asleep on the boards of the latrine and slid into the tank. He drowned in the camp’s aggregated urine and excrement. After all we’d seen and suffered, it was a particularly cruel way to die. I was beginning to wonder if any of us would make it back to Germany.

  CHAPTER 12

  MAY 1943, BERLIN

  After one last check, up and down the street, Maria headed for the shop door. She’d wondered what the Major from the Abwehr would ask her to do. She had started by anonymously sending letters to families of those who German Intelligence knew had survived the battle at Stalingrad. She knew there were risks attached. She took precautions; she’d perfected writing with her left hand and she used different post boxes each time. After a month or so, she felt she could do more. Writing and posting letters took time. Now, Maria had decided to visit some of the families in person.

  The chemist was on Yorckstrasse in Schöneberg. She had made up her mind to do this. She was determined to tell the chemist and his wife their son had survived the battle and was now a prisoner of the Russians. She was so focused on her task she didn’t see the man in uniform to her left until it was too late. She reached the door at the same time as the young man. As his arm reached for the door, she saw the silver pip on his black sleeve. Her head turned to see the two silver flashes on his collar.

  ‘Allow me, madam.’ The SS man held open the door for her. There was no way she could turn around now. She stood motionless for a split second, trying to shake the shock.

  ‘Thank you,’ Maria mumbled and ducked inside the door.

  Behind the counter there was a man in a white coat, busily arranging bottles on the shelves. Maria instinctively avoided the front of the shop, her heart pumping fast. She needed time to assess her next move. She wanted to bolt, but that would only arouse suspicion. She had to sit it out, at least until the SS man had left. She urged herself to remain calm.

  The young man was already standing at the counter waiting to be served. Maria appeared to be intently studying the baby talc, whilst keeping an eye on the front of the shop. She’d noted the man’s uniform was of junior rank, but the runes of the SS struck fear into her, especially knowing the reason she was in the shop.

  The man in the white coat eventually stood to his full height and faced the man.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ The SS man barked out the Führer greeting.

  The shop was still and quiet. The pharmacist didn’t respond, he only stared straight through the man. Maria was intrigued. The Hitler greeting was less prevalent these days, especially since the war had started to turn against Germany. The pharmacist wasn’t intimidated by the man’s uniform in the slightest. Maria felt herself smile.

  ‘Corporal, what can I do for you?’

  The SS man hesitated slightly, probably not used to the lack of response his greeting had received. Maria was just grateful the atmosphere between the two men had diverted the attention from her.

  ‘I have a note here with a request for medication from my regiment doctor.’

  The young man placed the piece of paper down on the worn wooden counter.

  The pharmacist reached for the note without taking his eyes off the soldier. He read it, then handed it back to the SS man.

  ‘This medication is restricted. Do you have a prescription?’

  ‘My regiment doctor said it would be no problem to receive the medicine if I presented this note.’

  ‘You need a prescription just like everybody else. I’m sorry, I cannot give you these medicines.’

  The Corporal became indignant. ‘This request is from Dr. Gerhards of the Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler regiment. You understand who is asking here?’

  The pharmacist was unmoved. ‘I don’t care if Heinrich Himmler himself is asking. No prescription. No medicine.’

  Maria was transfixed by the exchange. Not only
was she fascinated to see the outcome, but also emboldened by the pharmacist. Now, she knew she would remain and do what she came here to do.

  The standoff continued. Maria heard the SS man’s leather boots squeak, breaking the awkward silence. The soldier snatched up the note and snarled, ‘I will see to it that Dr Gerhards is made aware of your lack of co-operation.’

  The pharmacist had his arms crossed in front of his chest. He simply raised his eyebrows in response to the threat.

  The man scuttled out of the shop, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Can I help you, Madam?’

  Maria had been so caught up in the confrontation, she wasn’t prepared for the question.

  ‘Perhaps you need something?’ the pharmacist persisted.

  His demeanour had changed. He’d lost the defiance and was back to plying his trade, the helpful pharmacist. Maria took a deep breath and walked towards the counter.

  ‘I came to see you about your son, Herr Schneider.’

  The man looked confused. ‘I am sorry but you must be mistaken. Both my sons have... How do you know my name? Who are you?’

  ‘Your son, Helmut Schneider, Private 1st class, Sixth Army.’

  The man nodded slightly, now seemingly intrigued.

  ‘He survived the battle, Herr Schneider. He has been taken prisoner by the Russians.

  ‘But we were told by telegram he fell at Stalingrad...’

  ‘I know, but I can assure you, he survived the battle.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ The man turned and shouted through the door behind the counter. ‘Helga, come through here, darling. There’s somebody you must see.’

  ‘Letters have arrived from the camps. We have the names of the people who are being held by the Russians.’

  The man was joined by his wife. She looked tired and her eyes were puffed up as if she had been crying. He turned to her and put his hands on her shoulders, ‘Helga, dear, this lady has come to tell us Helmut is alive. He’s in a camp in Russia. Isn’t that the best news?’

  The woman’s eyes immediately lit up as if she had been touched by something. Maria knew the feeling well. ‘But we were told...’

  ‘The lady said it is not true. What they told us is not true.’ The pharmacist turned back to Maria, ‘How can you be sure?’

  Maria placed a list of names on the counter. The list was official with the Wehrmacht stamp, courtesy of the Major.

  He picked up the paper, avidly searching for the name. ‘His name his here, Helga, look.’

  The woman stared at the list. Tears started to stream down her face and she fell into her husband’s arms. Maria looked nervously towards the door. She had expected emotion, but she still had to be vigilant. These people could easily report her to the authorities.

  ‘I can’t leave the list. You understand I have taken a risk to come here and tell you this.’

  The man looked at the paper again. ‘Why did they keep this from us?’

  Maria shrugged. ‘It doesn’t meet their mythology of the fallen hero? I don’t know. What I do know is that there are tens of thousands of men who did not die in the battle, who are now in camps somewhere in Russia.’

  The woman, more in control now, wiped her eyes quickly. She handed back the list. ‘Thank you for coming here and telling us this.’

  ‘It is important you do not mention this to anybody else. If I get more information about Helmut, I will get it to you.’

  The man had tears in his eyes. ‘Why are you doing this? Why would you take this risk for us?’

  Maria bit her lip, feeling the emotion welling in her.

  ‘Because the bastards did the same to me.’

  Maria dipped her head at the couple and left the shop.

  CHAPTER 13

  JUNE 1943, BERLIN

  Maria Schultz was having a difficult day. The British bombs of last nights’ raid had removed her kitchen window. By the time she’d managed to clean up the mess, she’d missed the first serving at the bakery. Also, Eva was off-colour. Maria knew spending hours in the close confines of the cellars during the raids, not to mention the poor diet, didn’t help anyone, and certainly not a two-year-old. On top of that, Maria was becoming increasingly concerned about Ulrich. She’d been called in to see the stern Herr Trippelsdorf at his school. What he had had to say didn’t please Maria one bit.

  The apartment door slammed shut. Eva’s eyes brightened and she smiled. She knew her big brother was home.

  ‘You’re back at last,’ Maria said.

  ‘What’s for tea?’

  Maria looked at his pale cheeks. They were all hungry and she didn’t see it getting any better in the short term.

  ‘Later, Ulrich. Could you sit down, please? We need to talk.’

  He threw up his arms in frustration. ‘What, again?’

  His behaviour was getting worse. Maria had never been pleased with all the military maps on his bedroom wall, all the excitement about the weapons of war, but at least then there had been a spirit, an interest. Since the news about his father, there had been nothing, little interest in much, except for food, of course. There were only clean squares on the dirty wall where the maps of Europe had once been. She’d tried to talk to him before, but it was difficult. If only she could tell him what she knew about Klaus.

  Ulrich slumped in the dusty armchair, avoiding eye contact with his mother.

  ‘Mr. Tripplesdorf called me into school today.’

  Ulrich shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, his blond mop dipping over his left eye.

  ‘You know what he told me?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘I’ve told you a thousand times, Uli, you have to be careful what you say and who you say it to.’

  ‘Ah, old Tripps doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s important to respect your teachers...’

  ‘I don’t respect him because he talks rubbish.’

  Maria could sympathise. She knew what the kids were being taught in school, constantly spoon-fed propaganda.

  ‘It’s best not to talk about the war, Uli.’

  ‘How can we not talk about it? It’s all around us. It’s all I know!’

  ‘Yes, but telling the teacher, in front of the whole class, that Germany cannot win the war is not a clever thing to do. It can get you and me in a whole lot of trouble.’

  Ulrich was up now, his eyes popping out. ‘Trouble? Don’t you think we’re in enough trouble already? We have no food. Bombs are dropping all around us and Eva and I have no father...’

  Maria had seen this reaction so many times before. She knew he was hurting. He got up and turned for the hallway before Maria could stop him.

  ‘Uli, please sit down.’

  It was too late. She chased him to the hallway, but he was already out of the door.

  ‘Just leave me alone!’ he shouted, over his shoulder.

  Maria sighed deeply.

  Back in the living room, Eva was nodding seriously. ‘Uli angry.’

  ‘I know, darling, I know.’

  Maria slumped into the armchair herself. For once, she didn’t cough at the cloud of brick dust. She had to do something to help him. She wanted desperately to tell him his father had survived, but he was too wild and unpredictable at the moment. She feared it would bring more trouble. Could she trust him not to tell anybody else? It wasn’t fair an eleven-year-old boy had to go through this because of the war, because of what the Nazis had done. She hated what they’d done to Germany, what they’d done to Berlin.

  There was a sharp knock at the door. She sighed, wondering what Ulrich had been up to now.

  Maria opened the door to two men in leather coats.

  ‘Sicherheitspolizei!’

  Her heart sank. One of the men held out his identification, as if the coats weren’t enough. She noticed, briefly, the other arm was missing from the man’s sleeve.

  ‘May we come in, Frau Schultz?’

  The words were friendly enough, but Mar
ia feared the worst. Did they know what she’d been doing? Did they know about her meetings with the Abwehr Major?

  Maria stepped aside and tried to compose herself. As she went to close the door, she noticed Ina Stinnes loitering on the stairwell. The gloating was apparent. Maria slammed the door shut.

  Back in the living room, the man who had shown his identification was bent over Eva, fussing. ‘What a beautiful daughter you have, Frau Schultz.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Maria managed. ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’

  The man stood to his full height. He was mid-thirties with dark, swept back hair. Maria felt his smile to be warm and genuine, which surprised her given his job. She knew she must not let her guard slip. She noticed the other man, probably the junior, snooping around, inspecting the photographs of her and Klaus, and especially the one of Klaus in his uniform.

  ‘I am Kriminalkommisar Reitsch, and my colleague, Kriminalassistent Schmidt.’ Without invitation, the man sat down next to Eva on the threadbare couch.

  ‘Please, Frau Schultz, take a seat. There is a matter we would like to discuss with you.’

  ‘I’d prefer to stand, if it’s all the same.’

  Reitsch shrugged. ‘It must be very difficult with a young family in these...trying times.’

  ‘We get by.’

  ‘Of course, Frau Schultz. I am sure you do. And very admirable your stoicism is too.’

  Maria could feel the man starting to toy with her, trying to increase her unease.

  ‘I really meant it must be difficult knowing your husband won’t be coming back from the war. It’s very hard dealing with sacrifices.’

  Maria hated the words the Nazis used, like Klaus and all the others were lambs to the slaughter. She told herself to keep calm and not rise to the bait. As charming as he first appeared, he wasn’t pulling any punches now.

  ‘I’m no different to thousands of others.’