by Jana Petken
“Is everything all right, Willie? You look worried about something,” Biermann said, prompting the boy.
“The last time I had a whisky, I was with my father … it was not long before I went to Russia,” Wilmot said, looking tearful. He drew himself up even straighter. “To be honest, sir, I’m glad I have these few minutes alone with you. Something dreadful has happened at home. I wasn’t sure whether to go to the police or tell you first … it was all a bit of a shock, you see. Christ, I still can’t get over it…”
“Whatever it is, you can tell me, Willie. This conversation won’t go any further,” Biermann assured him.
Wilmot nodded. “After speaking with you on the telephone, sir, I went home and found my house trashed. Everything breakable was destroyed. Someone, or maybe a group of people by the amount of damage I saw, had gone into every room to make a mess. The door to my father’s study was broken – you know it was the first time I’d ever set foot in there? Anyway, apart from the curtains, they turned over everything they got their hands on. The place is in a terrible state.”
“Dear God … scheisse … that is dreadful, Son. Was anything taken?”
“I don’t think so, but I honestly don’t know what my parents had in the way of valuables. My father’s paintings weren’t on the walls, but it’s possible my mother or Kurt put them into storage when she left for England. They’re worth a fortune, so I can’t believe my mother would have left them hanging in there when she knew the house would be empty for months … or years. I’ll ask Kurt when he returns from wherever he is.” Wilmot’s voice hardened in annoyance. “And I’ll ask him why he hasn’t tidied the place up!”
“Can you think of somewhere your mother might have taken the paintings to?” Biermann ignored the remark about Kurt and focused on the only detail that interested him.
Wilmot considered. “The factory? No, she wouldn’t have taken them there. If we get bombed, the factory will be the first place to go up in flames. The garden bunker, maybe?”
Biermann’s damaged heart thudded, skipped a beat, then resumed its normal rhythm. He fought to keep his voice mildly curious. “There’s a bunker?”
“Sort of.” Wilmot rolled his eyes. “My father dug it out for my mother shortly after the war began, but she said she’d never go underground, she’d rather go under the stairs. She’s claustrophobic, you see. I suppose it’s grassed over by now – ach, I don’t know. I never even thought to look out the kitchen window to the back garden – I don’t think my father would have shoved his valuable paintings into a dirt hole.”
“So, it’s in the garden?”
“Yes. At the bottom of the back lawn beside the tool shed.”
Biermann nodded. The night had become a glorious success. How had he missed that bunker? As soon as he’d got back to Berlin, he’d gone through the Vogels’ house with a magnifying glass looking for the paintings. The mess he and his men had made was for show. He hadn’t been stupid enough to think he’d find the framed art under beds or in wardrobes, but he’d thought Dieter might have left a clue or an unexplained address for his wife and children to find. Dieter had always been a sly bastard; probably why he’d done well for himself.
The office: now that had given him surprising insight into his old friend, Dieter’s character. In it was incontrovertible confirmation that Vogel was a traitor to the Third Reich. The discovery of a movable panel behind the desk might have been overlooked by other men, but not by his well-trained subordinates. They had missed nothing … except a damned bunker.
A Kriminalassistent had tapped the walls in Vogel’s office, finding a cavity behind a panel; it had been empty, apart from a solitary book covered in dust on the concrete floor. Pages of the novel, Green Hills of Africa by Ernest Hemmingway, had been marked in places: words, sentences, complete lines, and notes written in pencil on the margins. It didn’t take a genius to work out that it was a code book used for transmitting messages; in this case, to the enemy. Even without the presence of a radio, he’d reported the find as proof of wrongdoing … treason. Dieter had been careless in that instance.
In his conversation with Paul, when he’d accused Paul’s father and Kurt Sommer of being spies, Biermann had not truly believed his dearest friend could commit such heinous crimes. Well, Vogel had perpetrated his treachery time and again, judging by the tattered, well-scribbled-upon book concealed in a secret place.
Biermann shot a sideways glance at Wilmot who was still looking distraught. Your father is a traitor. The crafty devil is in England with your mother and two siblings. They’re safe from the Gestapo, SS, and the might of German justice, but you’re not!
Ach, maybe he wouldn’t punish this Vogel. The boy had been awarded the Iron Cross, was loyal to the Reich, and was going to be much more manageable than Paul had ever been. He might even sit Wilmot down and tell him all about his father’s treachery; that would be punishment enough for the boy, and perhaps, Dieter as well. If Wilmot got out of the war alive, he’d never speak to his father again.
Biermann looked at the wall clock. Olga was going to call them for dinner any minute and he still had a lot to get through with Wilmot. The last thing he wanted was Valentina or Olga shooting their mouths off about Kurt Sommer being a Jew and living and dying in the Łódź ghetto. That information had to come from him. He’d say it in his own way at the right time.
“I promise you, Wilmot, I will have my men investigate this crime, although it appears more like the hateful acts of jealous men than a robbery. You know how people are … always wanting what others have. It’s a damned disgrace, having to come home to find your house in that state. Thank God, your mother wasn’t there.”
“Thank you, sir. I hate the thought of the bastards getting away with it. After I see my aunt and uncle, I’ll go to Dresden for a few days. I don’t want to live in that house the way it is. I don’t even want to clean up the mess.”
Biermann cleared his throat; he’d ransacked the Dresden house as well and had found nothing. “About Kurt, Wilmot … he won’t be coming back to Berlin.” He paused, partly to give the boy a moment to absorb his words, but more for effect. “This is going to come as a terrible shock to you, but you have the right to know. Your driver was a British spy. We caught him transmitting messages to the enemy – he confessed to treason and signed his confession in front of my own eyes.”
“My God.” Wilmot’s face turned purple, and his eyes widened in shock as he stared at Biermann’s grave expression. “Our Kurt … a spy?” He let out a nervous chuckle. “This is a joke, right?”
With an exaggerated shake of his head, Biermann said, “I wish it were. He was arrested and detained in Spandau prison. I questioned him myself … oh, he denied it at first, as all spies do, but eventually, he admitted to me that he’d been a British agent for years.
“There’s something else.” Biermann played the silence for a long time, the expression of sorrow and pity on his face worthy of recognition as künstlerisch wertvoll by the Deutsche Filmvertriebs, the German cinema industry. “Willie … Karl was a Jew. That was his real name, although you knew him as Kurt.”
Wilmot’s face drained of colour. His stomach heaved, then he let out another high-pitched, nervous giggle.
“I was lenient with him,” Biermann continued. “I could have had him executed at the prison, but because he was in your father’s employ for years … and I knew you were all fond of him, I spared his life. He was sent to the Łódź ghetto in Poland as a Jew, not a traitor … that crime that would have seen him hanged. My intention was to interrogate him further to find out who else was involved in his treachery, but unfortunately, he died of typhus before I could obtain that information.”
Biermann could almost hear Wilmot’s thoughts: Not Kurt. Impossible! The blood had returned to the lad’s face, tears were sprouting from his eyes, his lips were quivering, and questions, lots of questions, were on the tip of his tongue.
Freddie sipped his water, allowing Wilmot the time he need
ed to take in the news. The boy wouldn’t get answers, not from the Gestapo nor his brother in Poland. Before leaving Łódź, Biermann, as Kriminaldirektor, had taken steps to block Paul’s outgoing mail. He could receive letters from Wilmot, should the boy choose to write, but in them, he would hear glowing reports about what a generous, supportive fellow Kriminaldirektor Biermann was. Paul, however much he might want to disparage the Biermann family, would not be able to send letters to anyone, including Valentina or his family in England, should he try to slip a letter through the Red Cross. He was incommunicado.
“I’m sorry, Wilmot. Karl … Kurt, whatever you want to call him, was given the best treatment available, but Paul’s Jewish doctors couldn’t save him. I suppose he got justice from God in the end, if not from the Third Reich.”
Wilmot’s eyes widened in surprise. “Paul is in Poland…?” he began as the door opened, and Valentina popped her head in.
“Dinner’s on the table,” she announced gaily. “Let’s eat before Erika demands her next feeding. She’s such a good baby, Wilmot, but she is always hungry.”
Chapter Six
During dinner, Wilmot tried to keep the company entertained with his experiences in Russia and Finland. Numerous times, however, his voice broke with emotion and he was unable to speak about the events leading up to and during his time as a prisoner of war. He couldn’t focus on what was being said or answer the questions Frau Biermann and Valentina were throwing at him. His mind was full of Kurt, treason and deceit, death, his house being trashed, and the brother in occupied Poland who couldn’t be bothered to write a letter to find out if his youngest sibling were still alive.
He was heartbroken and bitter. He had meant to ask about Paul’s situation the minute he arrived at the Biermanns’ – Paul had been foremost in his mind on the drive over – but Herr Biermann had been kind and supportive and easy to talk to, and he, Wilmot, had instead plunged into the emotional conversation about the break-in at home as soon as he’d got there. He should have left that nasty subject until the end of the night after he’d enjoyed his evening with his new, extended family, now related through baby Erika.
“More carrots, Wilmot, dear?” Frau Biermann asked.
“Yes, please. This is delicious, Frau Biermann. German chickens are the best.”
Wilmot didn’t even feel like boasting about meeting Adolf Hitler in Finland. He wanted to go home. He needed to be alone, not sitting here with a false smile planted on his lips while fighting to keep his tears at bay. Kurt was dead, and Paul was ignoring him. It was too much to take in.
“… and of course, I said to my Freddie that you couldn’t be dead. I always knew you’d be found safe and well, as Paul was.”
Wilmot raised his head. How long had he been staring at his plate? “Was Paul missing, too?” he asked Olga.
Valentina answered, “Why, yes. He was in France, and those criminals – those terrible people who call themselves the Resistance – kidnapped him. He was brave to escape the way he did.”
Wilmot finally concentrated on the conversation, “And he’s in Łódź, you said?”
“Yes. He’s the supervising doctor at a hospital,” Valentina said, a touch of scorn in her voice. “The downside is the place treats Jews from the Łódź ghetto, and he’s not allowed to touch that filthy, diseased lot. He’s not getting any surgical experience. That place! All he does is order his Jewish staff about all day.”
“Paul was frustrated because he wasn’t allowed to personally treat the Jews,” Olga explained further, “but I do agree with that law. There are plenty of Jewish doctors in that city. Let them get their hands dirty.”
Valentina then remarked, “Your brother can be moody at times, Wilmot. He’s never been the same since his ordeal in France.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s become attached to his Jews. I’m convinced he likes them as much as he does real people. I don’t know what’s come over him.”
“The question we should ask ourselves is why would he want to treat Jews?” Olga said. “They’re contaminated with sicknesses that spread like the lice on their heads. I suppose they’re born with some ancient plague in their blood … they all carry nasty germs from birth, you know.”
Wilmot’s night was being ruined. He didn’t like the conversation or the tone the ladies had taken. It was a shame they felt this way, for he had long since rejected that overused assessment of the Jewish race.
Valentina patted Wilmot’s arm. “I was sorry to hear that your poor papa’s driver, Kurt, died in Poland. Paul was upset about it all.”
Olga shovelled more mashed potatoes onto Wilmot’s plate, then noisily tapped the serving spoon against the bowl’s lip. “Who’d have believed he was a Jew? I thought he was such a nice man when I met him.”
“Will Paul be coming home soon?” Wilmot asked, wishing his brother were with him right now.
“No, it’s unlikely. Leave is a luxury few soldiers get, Wilmot. You’re lucky indeed.” Biermann finally joined the conversation.
Haupt’s dead eyes, blood running from his wrists and down a floor drain. The memory hit Wilmot like a punch to the face, pushing him to his limit for the evening. “Me, lucky? Lucky, you say. I don’t think so, unless you consider being a starving prisoner of war – or rather, a bag of bones on legs – to be fortunate. Yes, I’m luckier than some. I’m alive when every day I watched my fellow soldiers being executed for no reason at all. Once, I was standing in line, and a Russian guard shot the prisoner next to me – funnily enough, his name was also Wilmot. I closed my eyes, waiting for my own death, wondering what it would feel like … was it going to hurt? Would I linger between life and death, or would the blackness be instant?
“I prayed for forgiveness. I worried I might not have time to confess all the terrible things I had done to innocent people … yes, including Jews. I asked myself if I was satisfied with what I’d achieved in my short life and the answer came back, no. Every night, I wondered, is tomorrow the day I die? When will a bullet come to me? I was convinced it would, eventually.”
Wilmot’s eyes shone, and like an out-of-control train, his words sped on. “When prisoners collapsed with exhaustion, the Russians didn’t pick them up or even allow us to carry them. They shot them where they lay and walked on – bang – snap! Those were the sounds that accompanied us on our long treks. Bang! Another one of us gone … lost and forgotten, I’d say to myself.”
Tears slipped from his eyes. “There were days I craved the oblivion of death. The peacefulness of it appealed to me – is that the way fortunate men think, Kriminaldirektor?”
Wilmot sipped his water, wishing he had something stronger. The Biermanns had lost their appetites. Valentina’s fork remained in the air as though frozen. Olga swallowed uncomfortably, and Herr Biermann stared at his plate of uneaten food with the bones under his gaunt jaws dancing with anger.
Wilmot couldn’t stop himself, even as he sensed their growing resentment. They didn’t want to hear the truth about a war they’d never experienced; not the way he had. No civilian would ever understand the nightmares that encroached on his waking hours. They didn’t want to. Well … too bloody bad for them!
“Before I was captured, I spent months at the Leningrad Front, fighting against Russians who kept coming and coming … now, they were like the head lice you mentioned earlier, Frau Biermann. We’d kill one Russkie, and five more would appear in his place. We had Leningrad in the palm of our hands, yet they ordered us to wait and wait until, finally, the Russians dared to push us back.”
Wilmot continued, not giving a damn about the Biermanns’ horrified expressions begging him to shut up. “I dreamt of marching victoriously through those city streets to the sound of our drums and our swastika banners fluttering above us. Instead, we, the aspiring conquerors, were marched like a herd of nanny goats while being battered with sticks and bomb-damaged rubble by Russian civilians who didn’t look the least bit defeated.” Then Wilmot, winding down, laughed, “Maybe more soldiers like me shoul
d get leave, by law. It might stop them from ranting on like me, eh?”
Genuine sympathy swept Olga’s tearstained face. Valentina’s eyes were also wet, but Biermann’s expression was as sour as vinegar on his sick-looking face.
“Please forgive me,” Wilmot muttered.
“There’s nothing to forgive, Willie, although I don’t like seeing my Olga and Valentina upset. There are some things women don’t need to know about, don’t you think … hmm?”
Biermann’s words were a gentler rebuke than Wilmot would have expected.
“I know how dreadful it is over there,” Biermann went further. “We at the Reich Main Security Offices are worried about this new Stalingrad development. I believe we’re about to see the start of a terrible battle that could make or break the war…”
“Oh, Freddie, how could you say such a thing?” Olga cried through her tears. “Nothing will break Germany. We’re going to win despite all the setbacks we have and might still face. To say otherwise would be an insult to all the young men who have died … like the friends Wilmot lost … those poor prisoners, forced to march for days and weeks with hardly enough food to keep them alive.” Olga sniffed. “It breaks my heart to think of the mothers waiting for news of sons who will never come home from that awful country. Oh, why did we have to go to Russia?”
Biermann took Olga’s hand. “Forgive me, mein Schatz, neither Wilmot nor I should be talking about battles at the table. I know how much war-talk upsets you.”
“You can’t keep the war from her, Father,” Valentina said. “We should all know what’s going on at the Eastern Front, and on any other front for that matter. It’s our duty to support our troops, not hide in Berlin and pretend they’re not suffering. Mother, don’t you agree? After all, wouldn’t it be an even greater shock to you if you found out we’d lost thousands of our men, and you knew nothing about the battle they’d died in? I told you, you should be like me and join one of the ladies’ clubs … you know you want to.” Valentina’s eyes shot to Wilmot. “We gather warm clothes and food parcels from donors to send to our troops. I know it’s not winter, but by the looks of things, we might still be fighting in the Soviet Union for another year…”