Before The Brightest Dawn (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 3)

by Jana Petken

  The sun was stabbing Paul’s wet, prickly eyes. The words and the pitiful, terrifying wailing among the assembled shocked faces blasted his ears. He put his sunglasses on and strode away; desperate to put distance between himself and the horrible scene he’d just witnessed.

  How must they feel? The same way I would if I had to hand over my Erika to be gassed. During the last deportations, he’d been naïve and arrogant to think that he would kill to save his child. He had scorned the Jews giving their children up to the trucks, but today, he finally understood the meaning of pointless disobedience. Already, he was hearing rifle fire behind him. People were probably running back to their homes in the desperate hope of hiding their children before the Gestapo and SS invaded the tenements.

  When Paul left the hospital earlier, he’d shadowed police officers in their search for that day’s absentees. They had gone through the tenement blocks with magnifying glasses after the Jews had assembled for roll call and people were reported missing. During their hunt, they’d found babies and children in countless hiding places; some inventive, while others so obvious they might as well have had a sign above their heads saying, I’m here.

  Three babies had been found in laundry baskets in the buildings’ basements, crying loudly and alerting the Orpo long before they descended the stairs. Children had been crouched inside cupboards, in the shoddily made sewage system, under their own beds, and behind curtains – desperate, useless hiding places that earnt them on-the-spot death sentences, regardless of age or vulnerabilities.

  To compound the terrible situation, the Łódź Jews now grasped the true fate of the evacuees. Already, baggage, clothing, and identification papers of their fellow inmates had been returned to the SS offices for processing. The death camp was no longer an inconceivable rumour in the minds of the ghetto’s Jewish, Sinti, and Gypsy residents. It was a real extermination site a mere train ride away.

  Outside Radegast station, Paul came face to face with Krüger. “Inspector, are we ready to leave?” Paul asked in a terse voice.

  Krüger cracked his lips open. “Hmm, yes. My business is done here. We’ll leave the trains to the Jews and the guards.”

  Paul sat in the front passenger seat of Krüger’s Kübelwagen next to the Gestapo driver while Krüger sat in the back with his assistant, Graf, the man who’d taken Paul’s fist on the nose in Alexanderhoffstraffe during the previous deportations. Paul kept his eyes forward, as the vehicle cleared the road exiting the station. It was going to be a long journey, and he wasn’t in the mood for conversation with his two Gestapo companions.

  When the Kübelwagen cleared the suburbs, Paul lifted his face to meet the warm wind hitting him face on. I can no longer claim distance between myself and the Chelmno extermination camp, he thought. For a long time, the place had signified death … murder … wretchedness, but he had not been personally connected to it; at least, that was what he had told himself. Now, however, the murders perpetrated in the name of the Third Reich would be his crimes, as they were for those SS soldiers who had and were still to pull the gas levers. He had reached a new low and was falling into the pit of evil he had tried so desperately to avoid with his empty, pathetic mantras…

  “… wake up. We’re almost there, Oberarzt.” Graf poked his index finger in Paul’s back. “The Kriminalinspektor wants to speak to you.”

  Paul twisted his sore neck from side to side to relieve his muscle pain. His head had sat on his chest almost the whole way. He’d been overcome by tiredness and had slept, despite the rattling exhaust pipe on the military truck that had followed them from the city. A few times, he’d woken, his backside leaving the hard seat when the Kübelwagen went over rocks or dipped into potholes in the road, but thankfully, he’d dropped off again and hadn’t had to endure Krüger’s droning, patronising lectures.

  “Pull over to the side, driver.” Manfred Krüger’s authoritative voice followed Graf’s annoying pokes.

  After being ordered to change places with the assistant, Paul reluctantly got in the back. As always, the smile on Krüger’s face trembled, as though his lips were rebelling.

  “Drive on,” the Kriminalinspektor instructed the driver before saying to Paul, “You slept most of the way. That’s a sign of having a peaceful conscience. Did you know that, Paul?”

  “I’ve not thought about it before,” Paul answered, gearing up for the tedious exchange that was coming.

  “Well, it is.” Krüger stared long and hard at Paul, holding the latter’s eyes as he continued, “I hope your conscience is still peaceful after your visit to the camp. Certain aspects of the operation can be disturbing. Between you and me, I’ve often wondered if there might not be a more humane way to exterminate the Jews. After all, we are not barbarians, and what we do, we do for the Fatherland and for the Führer.”

  “And what in your opinion, would be more humane? The SS in the East have tried mass killing by gun, and that proved too traumatic for our soldiers. Perhaps they could try bludgeoning the Jews to death with clubs or simply halting all food deliveries to the ghettos and camps, in which case all would die, eventually.” Paul’s innocent eyes stared down Krüger, as he asked, “Is that sympathy for the Jews I hear in your voice, Inspektor?”

  Krüger turned away to focus on the road ahead. “If such a thing as sympathy existed in war, no one would die, and soldiers would shake hands with the enemy and march homewards without a drop of blood being spilt. Empathy, thoughtfulness, even conscience, are luxuries we can ill afford. There is only duty – that is everything.”

  Paul’s heart was thumping so hard he could feel it vibrating in his throat. His hatred for Krüger scared him, as did his own unrehearsed responses to the man’s often ludicrous statements. “I agree, Inspector, duty is everything. This is all for the Fatherland and the Führer … ah, and let’s not forget his most ardent supporters in the SS who came up with the solution to the Jewish problem.”

  Now Krüger looked stumped for an appropriate response. “Yes … of course. The SS High Command has played a major role in the Jewish Solution,” he eventually stumbled. “No doubt about it, the gassing model is the quickest and least painful method ever to be tested. Herr Himmler and Reinhard Heydrich have developed a sterling plan. Do you agree, Paul?”

  Graf, in the front seat, twisted his neck to hear Paul’s answer.

  “Yes. It was a sterling plan, indeed.” Paul forced a smile.

  Krüger continued, as though he were verbalising his thoughts and not caring if Paul were listening or not, “Not many people know this, but the SS cannot take the credit for being the first to gas prisoners. Gas vans were being used by the Soviet Secret Police ten years ago. In fact, it’s a bit of a strange story … the vans were supervised by a man called Isay Berg. He was the head of the administrative and economic department of the NKVD of Moscow Oblast until he was arrested and convicted by the NKVD in ‘37 – he was probably gassed by his own men. Gassed by the men he trained!” He finally looked at Paul. “Ironic, eh?”

  “It is,” Paul replied drolly.

  “How long to go, driver?” Krüger asked.

  “Ten minutes if the road remains clear, Herr Inspektor.”

  “Before we arrive, there are a few things you should know about the camp,” Krüger told Paul in a more formal tone. “Chełmno was set up by SS-Sturmbannführer Herbert Lange. He did a marvellous job getting things started, but he’s recently been replaced.”

  “I see,” Paul responded dutifully.

  “Hmm, I thought you would have known the name, Lange. He worked at T4 on the euthanasia programme, as you did. You never met him in Brandenburg?”

  Paul shook his head. He had no intention of getting into a conversation with Krüger about that first rotten period in his medical career or any period since.

  “Lange toured this area with your father-in-law. Kriminaldirektor Biermann has a good eye and excellent judgement when it comes to site logistics. He recommended Chelmno – you see over there – just to the
left of the trees?”

  A large, brick two-storey country house stood in front of a treeline. “Yes,” Paul answered.

  “It’s not visible from here, but the Ner River is beyond those trees. The camp is in a large forest clearing about four kilometres northwest of Chełmno. It’s off the road to Koło where the prisoners must change trains. We use the manor house for admissions. Its rooms have already been adapted to use as the reception offices, including space for the Jews to undress and to give up their valuables. You’ll shadow the Commandant’s assistant today. Where he goes, you go.”

  “Do you know why the camp’s Commandant requested me?” Paul dared to ask.

  “No, you’ll have to ask him.”

  Paul fought the urge to retort, I already know. It’s because my father-in-law is directing my future from Berlin and making it as ugly as possible for me. He could think of no other reason. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and eyed the camp coming into view in a clearing to his left.

  A high wooden fence surrounded the grand manor house and grounds. Another clearing further on, in what looked like a forest camp, was also fenced off. “What’s in that clearing?” he asked Krüger.

  “The Jews’ final destination.”

  After manoeuvring the tricky country lane leading to the estate, the Kübelwagen pulled up outside the brown brick house. Krüger got out and threw over his shoulder, “Assistant Graf and I won’t be staying long. We’re going back to the ghetto as soon as I conclude my meetings. You’ll have to make your own way back to Łódź. I suggest you find out the train times.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Chelmno extermination camp, Poland

  A Gestapo Kriminalassistent by the name of Richter met Paul in the manor house’s reception hall. “Heil Hitler. Good morning, Herr Oberarzt. I’ll be showing you around the palace today,” the friendly youth said, as though he were hosting a museum tour.

  “Thank you, Kriminalassistent Richter,” Paul responded, then followed the man in silence straight to the basement.

  A thick wooden door stood at the end of a long passageway. Outside, three vans were parked side by side, each with a ramp leading to their back, double doors.

  “Well, here they are,” Richter said, his face as animated as a brick.

  Paul studied them. They looked like any other military vehicles except they were clad in steel. The doors to one of the vans were open. He looked inside. A Jewish inmate was cleaning the floor. Paul covered his nose with his handkerchief and recoiled as the stench of excrement and vomit hit him.

  “SS-Sonderkommando Lange was initially supplied with two vans. The men call them Kaiser’s Kaffefahrzeuge – Kaiser’s coffee vans. Each one carries about fifty Jews who are gassed here before the vans leave for the forest,” Richter began, apparently smelling nothing out of the ordinary. “Another van arrived recently to deal with the larger numbers of Jews we’re receiving, and, thank God, it has speeded up the procedure.”

  “I see,” Paul said, still eyeing the killing machines. “How do they work?”

  “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  Richter opened the back doors of another van and pointed to the floor inside. “The vehicles have been converted to mobile gas-chambers. The sealed compartments installed on the chassis have floor openings – about sixty millimetres in diameter – with metal pipes welded below, into which the engine exhaust is directed.”

  Paul’s mouth became dry, and his throat constricted as he imagined how the victims spent their last moments.

  “Innovative, is it not, Herr Oberarzt?” an SS-Rottenführer called out to Paul.

  “Yes, Squad-leader… imaginative,” Paul threw back to the man.

  Richter continued, “I’m not an expert, of course, but I do know the system works every time ... the Sonderkommando have never pulled out a live Jew, which would be awkward, because they’d have to shoot him or her, and that would upset those prisoners still waiting to go into the vans. The exhaust contains large amounts of carbon monoxide. When a van is full, the doors are shut, and the engine is started. The victims are deprived internally of oxygen causing death by asphyxiation within minutes – and that’s that.”

  And that’s that? “This is not the first time I have been to a gas chamber. I know how the gas works,” Paul grunted, “although it’s a first to see them housed in the back of a van. I wonder who came up with that gem of an idea.”

  Richter swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple shooting upwards in his throat then bouncing downwards into place. He frowned as he looked shiftily behind himself before stepping closer to Paul. “I’ll be honest, sir, we didn’t always get it right. At first, the vans left full of live prisoners who were gassed on the way to the graves at the forest camp. But one gas van broke down on the highway while the victims were still alive. Passers-by heard their screams, and there was a bit of explaining to do in the town afterwards. Soon after that, a van exploded while the driver was revving its engine at the loading ramp. The explosion blew off the locked back door and badly burned the living Jews in the gassing compartment. I suppose the commandant thought if there were to be disasters, they should happen inside the compound.”

  The young man’s voice then lowered to a whisper, as more SS soldiers appeared. “The task of unloading the vans after each use is time-consuming and, as you experienced, quite unpleasant. Dying can take a while, and some of the Jews can’t control their bladders or bowels. Commandant Bothmann made changes for the better when he took over from Herr Lange. Herr Bothmann modified the extermination methods by adding poison to the gas. Soon after his arrival, red powder and some sort of fluid were delivered by freight from Germany. The Commandant told me it was to be used to kill the Jews more quickly. I think this is a good thing for them, don’t you?”

  Not killing them would be a good thing, Paul thought, but was reticent to voice his opinion.

  “It can be disturbing the first time you see it, Herr Oberarzt,” Richter continued. “I’ve seen some victims take more than twenty minutes to die … and they’re not quiet. The drivers … they hear the screams in the back. They get distracted when they’re driving to the forest. Some are badly affected, and a few are transferred out, suffering from some sort of psychological breakdown. It’s hard. We must put up a good front, but to be honest, sir, some days, I can’t bear to be here.”

  A Gestapo Kriminalassistent with a conscience? There’s a novelty, Paul thought. How many other men working here were as disgusted as the young man standing next to him?

  Richter pulled himself up and looked sheepishly around himself again, as though he were afraid someone might have heard him airing his humanity.

  Paul’s tour was cut short when a group of men appeared.

  “Who are you?” one of the men dressed in civilian clothes asked Paul.

  Paul stood to attention, clicked his heels, and responded with an outstretched arm, “Heil Hitler. Oberarzt Paul Vogel. I’ve come from the Łódź ghetto.”

  “Ach, of course. It’s nice to meet you, Oberarzt. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Paul, still thinking about the Jews’ suffering in the gas vans, retorted, “And who are you?”

  The man chuckled. “Forthright – I like that. I’m SS-Hauptsturmführer Hans Bothmann, the camp Commandant.” Bothmann paused to address Richter, “You may go back to the office, Richter. I will attend to the Oberarzt.”

  “Jawohl, mein Hauptsturmführer – yes, sir,” Richter said before leaving.

  Looking again at Paul, Bothmann said, “Let’s walk.”

  As they ambled together in the sunshine with Bothmann’s entourage following meekly behind, Paul tried to reconcile the beauty of the countryside with the sinister camp that had been built in the middle of the forest. At Brandenburg, he had witnessed fifty Jewish children being gassed; here, that number would be tenfold, perhaps in one day.

  “… and we have a rather mixed bunch here, made up of Gestapo, Criminal Police, and Order Police personnel,” Bothmann broke into
Paul’s thoughts. “As your tour continues, you’ll see them in action. We’re going to have a very busy time of it this week, what with the Łódź deportations going on. After that, I’m not sure how long we’ll stay open for business. I imagine we will continue to be busy until we run out of Jews and other undesirables.” He grinned.

  Bothmann led Paul to his office and invited him to sit in one of the plush armchairs. He ordered Richter, who’d arrived before them, to bring coffee before sitting in the chair opposite Paul.

  “I knew your father, Paul. I met him on numerous occasions through Kriminaldirektor Biermann. I was sorry to hear of his death.”

  Don’t you know that Biermann thinks my father is alive? “Thank you. I miss him,” Paul answered.

  “Freddie Biermann has been a good friend to me over the years. He was my mentor when I attained the rank of Kriminalkommissar in 1937 and worked in the Gestapo office Stapoleitstelle in Berlin. I learnt a great deal from Freddie. He was a patient teacher, always willing to help and advise me, no matter the time of day or night. I was shocked to hear about his heart attack, but he assures me he feels well. He still goes to the Reich Security Office every day, so that’s a good sign.”

  “It is, and may his health continue to improve.” Paul forced out the words.

  Bothmann grew quiet when Richter reappeared with a trolley carrying a coffee pot, two cups and saucers, milk, sugar, and a plate of biscuits. There don’t appear to be food shortages in this camp, Paul thought, watching the man pour the welcome coffee into the cups.

  “I had dinner with the Biermanns’ on the evening before my departure,” Bothmann continued when Richter had left.

  Paul’s eyes lit. “Did you meet my daughter?”

  “Yes … Erika?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s a pretty little thing. Your wife told me you haven’t met the baby yet. It must be hard for you. Parenthood is the most marvellous thing a man could hope for.”

  “It is. I was hoping for leave, but I found out this morning that I’m being transferred to the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp next week.” Paul took a sip of coffee then bit into the biscuit that tasted nothing like as good as it looked. “Is my wife well…?”