by Therese Down
As he walked, Karl prayed. He prayed for courage and forgiveness: forgiveness, because he was trying to save just one child, and courage, because he needed it to do even that. He did not try and mitigate his T4 actions with God, considering it futile to construct a legal defence before omniscience. He just prayed for the complicity of God in this one instance; in this one good deed he might actually be able to effect.
The rain began to thunder down, slamming into his cap and driving into his eyes. At one point it was so heavy that he had to turn his back against it, for it was impossible to proceed while facing into it. And so it was that he first saw the enemy planes.
The sirens came a little while afterwards. Visibility on that night was so poor that the RAF pilots had to fly a lot lower over Berlin than they would have liked. But it also made it very difficult to see them approaching, and the anti-aircraft guns in the towers on the city’s periphery were slow off the mark. The drone of the bombers finally became a distinct sound above the roar of the rain, and the sirens wailed mechanically above it all. Karl ran into the road. He was not likely to be a target or even clearly visible to the MK II RAF pilots, but the buildings were. Karl ran as fast as he could beneath the planes’ heavy fuselages and turned left, heading for the location of the nearest bunker of which he was aware. Before he reached the bunker and was ushered down by soldiers, he heard the first explosions. He tried to pinpoint the likely impact, given his estimation of the sound, but one explosion was followed swiftly by another. He gave up imagining the damage, waited it out.
Two hours later, the all-clear was sounded. Karl emerged from the bunker into cold and gusty darkness. Fire engines screamed around streets near to and far from where he stood. People shouted, the eerie glow of flames at intermittent locations made visible the driving rain, fire conspiring with water to confuse and sabotage the recovery efforts. Karl still had to get to Lutzow Ufer Strasse and the warehouse. The chaos of Berlin bombed provided the perfect cover. If he were asked, he could say he was checking on trucks, buildings, supplies.
What he really hadn’t thought he would see, even in his wildest imaginings, as he turned into Lutzow Ufer Strasse, Tiergarten, were the flames licking hungrily around the rubble of the erstwhile T4 offices, gorging on the crushed consignments of drugs and the crumpled trucks inside the flattened warehouse.
The day following the Sunday 24th March air raid, Berlin picked herself up again and began the dogged recovery. Casualties were light; the buildings hit were mainly on the outskirts of the city. The main Berlin target seemed to have been the Putlitzstrasse Station in Tiergarten, and many buildings and a few houses in that area had been hit. Had he set off fifteen minutes earlier, Karl might well have been a casualty.
At eleven on the Tuesday morning following the air raid, Karl was back at the Brandenburg-Gorden hospital, explaining to paediatric staff, including Dr Heinze, that the IG Farben drug consignment had been bombed and there would now be at least a week’s wait until a new delivery and distribution system was established. The inconvenience was regrettable, but that was war. As he walked away from the meeting, he couldn’t help but smile. Small victories, small victories.
As he had hoped, Hedda was visiting Agnette. He had made up his mind that had she not been there he would telephone her house and ask her to come to the hospital. He had Walter’s private number, as Walter had his, and he had already checked that Walter was working in Berlin.
Hedda was more alarmed than pleased to see Karl Muller come through the door of Agnette’s hospital room after Walter’s outburst the previous evening.
“Karl! What are you doing here?” she asked, rising from her chair beside Agnette’s bed.
“I have to speak with you,” he replied, and the urgency in his eyes set her heart racing. Had Walter said something gauche and threatening to him? She coloured at the thought, was about to start apologizing for her husband, when Karl continued: “About Agnette.”
“Agnette?”
“Yes – can we talk somewhere? It is not safe here.”
“Not safe? Karl, what is going on? What can you have to say about Agnette?”
“Please, Hedda.” Karl took her by the shoulders and looked earnestly into her eyes. “Do you love your daughter?”
“What? Of course I do! What a stupid…”
“And do you want her to get better?” Karl searched Hedda’s beautiful eyes for the slightest betrayal of anything less than candour. Found none. Hedda had never seen Karl Muller look so unambiguous about anything. His eyes were bright and passionate; there was a determination in his tone that was uncharacteristic in her experience of the man.
“What is happening, Karl? What is this about?”
“Trust me,” came the imperative response. “You can trust me, Hedda. Meet me in about five minutes in the small garden near the casualty area. Do you know where that is?”
She nodded.
“Good. We can talk there.”
The emotions Hedda experienced during the course of the ensuing conversation with Karl Muller were varied to say the least. What she learned was that there was such a thing as a Child Euthanasia Programme, started by the Führer himself in 1939 and managed by some of the finest and most qualified doctors in Germany, as well as by senior SS personnel. Her own husband and, he was mortified to admit, Karl Muller himself were part of the scheme to eliminate children diagnosed as unworthy of life. She understood that if Walter – or any other SS officer for that matter – knew he was telling her this, he would be shot, and in all likelihood so would she. It was vital to the running of T4 that no “ordinary” people should get to know of what was going on, or there would be a national outcry.
He was very sorry to have to be the one to tell her, but Brandenburg hospital was a training centre for child euthanasia methods under the auspices of Drs Heinze and Gutt. If she did not believe him, she should show an interest in the new Gorden paediatric wing. She would get the same decoy-spiel response from all medical staff she asked and nothing more would they offer. And she should check out the entrance to the ward; there was a coded lock on the doors and a twenty-four-hour armed guard. Why did she suppose that was necessary for a children’s ward? They would tell her it was to minimize infection risk. But she could take it from him: he had visited that ward and none of the children was infectious. Dying, yes, but not from infectious diseases.
Hedda tried to take it all in, but it was hard to believe such a horror story. “It is too far-fetched,” she had said. “I cannot believe this and I don’t know why you are telling me.” And so he had proceeded to the immediate reason for this indiscretion, which could cost him his life: Agnette had been assessed and selected for euthanasia.
At first, Hedda had reacted with furious denial. She accused Karl of taking some sort of sick vengeance against her and Walter. Walter had probably accused him of having an affair with her and now he was getting revenge. Well, it was sick! And what was more, she would tell Walter all about it and Karl would be sorry he had ever concocted so vile and cruel a story.
“I do not know what you are talking about, Hedda,” Karl had cried. “Walter has said nothing to me about any affair. I am telling you the truth at the risk of losing my life, because I want to save your daughter. Because it is the one decent, true thing I may be able to do in my miserable, godforsaken life, and if you do not believe me – if you do not believe me, then even that… Hedda, even this one good thing will not happen.”
There was such desperation, so profound an agony, in his expression and voice that Hedda was arrested in her protestations, and the angry flush in her cheeks gave way to pallor. She folded her arms across her middle as though suddenly very cold.
“I will tell Walter,” she said, “because if he is so senior, he can stop it. He can stop them hurting Agnette.”
“No!” Karl had finally shouted, then he looked around nervously lest he had been heard by any passers-by. “You cannot tell Walter because, Hedda, Walter signed the requisition slip. He w
as the one who gave permission for Agnette to be killed.”
Hedda almost collapsed. Karl caught her, held her upright, apologized again and again. “I have seen Agnette’s records,” he said. “My job means I have access to supply rooms, staff quarters, nurses’ offices. I looked at her file – her full doctor’s notes, forwarded from Virchow to Brandenburg when they moved her. There is a copy of the requisition and Walter’s signature next to Agnette’s name. The doctor has included another note, a standard form on which are written the words ‘Eligible for Special Paediatric Care’, and he has stamped ‘Authorized – Reich Committee’ and in brackets – in handwriting – ‘parental consent’.”
“When?” Hedda had finally asked in a tiny voice, pushing herself away from Karl and staring at him. The March breeze lifted her hair, blew her dress against her legs, and tears sped across her face. She was shivering violently. Karl thought with an aching heart that she looked like a child herself. A desperately hurt, lost child.
“I cannot be certain,” he had answered, stemming his own threatening tears by pressing the corners of his eyes with the forefinger and thumb of one hand. “I think you may have a week now. But we cannot take anything for granted. There’s a number of ways they can do it. You must keep a watch on her chart – any change in drugs regime, any injections, question them immediately. Assume the worst.”
“Oh, dear God in heaven!” Hedda sobbed, fell to her knees on the wet March grass. “Oh, no, no.”
“Get up, Hedda. You must get up. If someone sees us… Have you got a cigarette?”
“What?”
“A cigarette? Come on, get up. Light a cigarette. That way you have a reason to be here. Here…” he took off his jacket, put it around her shoulders, lifted her to her feet. She fumbled in her handbag, but her hands were shaking too much. “Let me.” Karl found the packet, took two cigarettes out, lit them both, gave her one. It was obvious in seconds that he did not smoke. He coughed and almost retched as he inhaled the smoke. “You cannot leave her alone at night. They may move her to the Gorden Wing and then there is no one to stop them there. You will get a letter telling you she died in the night.”
“Stop it!” Hedda hissed at him. “Stop it! I have to think.”
“There is no time. Go back to the ward. Look at the second page of her observation notes. In the top right-hand corner, there is a blue plus sign. It means she has been selected. If you get time and you can do it discreetly, look at the other children’s notes – children in the side rooms. Some will have a green minus sign and some the blue plus sign. Green is good. Stay beside her. Don’t ask too many questions all at once. We have to stop them from being suspicious until…”
“Until when? What, exactly, are we going to do to stop it happening?” Hedda looked at him in desperation.
“I shall think of something. Stay by her side. If you have to go home, get a maid or a nanny or someone to stay with her, and give them strict instructions not to leave her side. Tell the matron you have decided to sleep on the ward.”
“Well, that will make them suspicious. I haven’t slept there since we moved to Oranienburg. We live eight kilometres from the hospital, for goodness’ sake.”
“That’s up to you, Hedda – think that one through. I have to go now. I have stayed long enough. Too risky. I will find you.” Then, more gently, “My life as well as Agnette’s is now in your hands, Hedda. Hers is more important. Just give me the time I need to save it. Please, don’t speak to Walter. Everything I have told you is true – before God.”
“God?” Hedda widened her eyes in exaggerated surprise, almost choked on the word. “You think there’s a God, after all you have just said?”
“Hitler and the SS are killing these children, Hedda – not God.” And he threw his unsmoked cigarette on the ground, took back his jacket and walked away from her.
Back on the ward, Hedda asked a nurse if she could make a private telephone call.
“Of course, Frau Gunther,” came the reply. “Please, use the office.”
“Marguerite?” Hedda kept her voice as low as she could, kept checking the door to make sure no one was approaching the office. She asked her maid to listen very carefully. “Marguerite, I need you to do exactly as I say, OK?” Marguerite agreed at once. “I need you to pretend that Anselm is unwell… I don’t know, Marguerite – think of something, something infectious – a rash and a temperature – nothing too serious, but… yes, yes… keep it vague. Leave Anselm with the cook and come at once to Brandenburg hospital. Get a taxi. Ask it to wait when you get here; I’ll give you the fare. Come to the children’s ward and ask for me. Bring with you a bag with some overnight things in it: toiletries, change of clothes – you know. And Marguerite –” Hedda paused, realizing how very strange all this must sound to the poor woman – “Don’t tell anyone, please. It’s very important that you say nothing. Even to Walter – if he turns up.”
Hedda stopped again. What if Walter came back from Berlin? He didn’t usually come home during the first half of the week, but he was unpredictable. “If he turns up and asks where I am, just say… just say you think I have gone to stay at my mother’s, but you are not sure. He shouldn’t come home, Marguerite. Don’t worry. I’m sorry this is so mysterious. Just trust me, OK? Yes, yes. That’s right. Good. See you very soon.”
When she got off the telephone and left the office, Hedda spoke to a nurse, affecting as much charm as she could. “I am so sorry, but I cannot go home tonight. I was worried about my other child, my son Anselm, when I telephoned this morning – I’ve been staying away on some family business. The cook said he was a bit off colour – grizzly, you know? I have just called the house to see how he is. It seems he has a temperature and a little rash on his tummy. It may be nothing, but I don’t want to expose myself to whatever it is. I don’t want to be prevented from seeing Agnette.”
“But you may already have been exposed to the infection,” answered the nurse. “These things are often contagious before the spots or fever appear, Frau Gunther.”
“No,” said Hedda stridently, “absolutely not. As I said, I have been very busy lately – away from home. The cook has been looking after Anselm.” Then, with great indignation, “Do you think I would expose Agnette knowingly? I know how infections work. I am not an imbecile!”
“So, what would you like us to do, Frau Gunther?”
“Well, I’d like to stay here tonight, please – until Anselm is well again, actually, or until we know it’s nothing to worry about.” The nurse looked perplexed, began to protest. “I will not expose my daughter to an illness!” Hedda was suddenly fierce, fixing the nurse with an uncompromising glare. “I think you of all people can understand that?” The nurse nodded, said she would see what she could do, but would have to speak to Matron.
“Do that,” said Hedda. “I think Matron will understand. Either that, or she will have to explain to my husband why I cannot stay with my child.”
The nurse coloured. She had never seen Hedda like this. She was only too aware of the identity of Hedda’s husband, but Hedda had always been so polite and modest; she had never used her connections to command special treatment before.
Back at his Voss Strasse office, Karl wrote two letters by hand. One was to His Eminence, Cardinal Orsenigo, papal nuncio in Berlin, and the other was addressed to Albert Goering, Export Director, The Skoda Munitions Factory, Pilsen, Bohemia. In the first, Karl asked for a meeting with Orsenigo, to discuss with him matters of the utmost importance to the church. He would hand it to the nuncio himself first thing in the morning. In his letter to Albert Goering, Karl reminded Goering of who he was and how they had met. He expressed his great sorrow that the Jews of the street-cleaning party had been shot to death by the Gestapo. He told Goering of the T4 Child Euthanasia Programme and what he had seen on the Brandenburg- Gorden ward. He told him of the murders of mental patients, the appalling treatment of prisoners in Sachsenhausen. He told him about Agnette Gunther and Hedda, and how Oberführ
er Walter Gunther, Administrative Director of Sachsenhausen and Agnette’s own father, had signed the papers condemning his daughter to death. He explained that the child’s mother, Hedda Gunther, had known nothing of her husband’s actions.
Karl added in his letter that Agnette was semi-comatose in Brandenburg and would not last much longer now that she had been assigned “unworthy” status. He asked Albert Goering to use his influence to save Agnette in any way he could, to sabotage the work of T4 in any way possible. Karl finished by stating that he cared little for his own life, except that he might use what remained of it to do some small good before he was, inevitably, caught and disposed of.
It was just over 300 kilometres from Berlin to Pilsen, a little further than the distance from Berlin to Leipzig. Karl intended to deliver Goering’s letter by hand. Although he could not afford to meet with Albert Goering, because the Pilsen Skoda munitions factory would be crawling with SS and army personnel, he could pull up in a taxi outside the factory, assume his most authoritative SS demeanour, choose a soldier, and insist the letter be put into Goering’s hands immediately. He would order that the soldier confide discreetly to Herr Goering that the letter was top secret and to be read only in private. He would demand to know the soldier’s name and then threaten that he would be checking that Herr Goering had received the letter. He would say that he could not spare the time to deliver the letter himself as he was busy pursuing top secret Reich business, but as soon as he returned to his office, he would be telephoning Herr Goering to discuss its contents. Then Karl would be driven back to the station to catch the next train to Berlin.
He applied for twenty-four hours’ leave to attend to an urgent family matter in Leipzig. He submitted the application to Dr Brandt’s IV Office on Vosse Strasse. Brandt and his team of doctors were most impressed with Karl’s work; he was a dedicated, quiet man who worked Sundays. If he were requesting leave, it must be urgent. It was granted within two hours.