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

by Jana Petken

  “Forgive me, Herr Oberarzt … my mistake.”

  Paul shoved Amelia into the vehicle’s back seat with his notepad and pen still in his hand. He closed the door, then made a point of looking at the young man as he put his pad away. “Never question me again, understand?” he demanded, poking the guard’s jacket with the pen.

  The boy raised himself, clicked his heels, and said in a loud squeaky voice, “Jawohl! Heil Hitler, Herr Oberarzt!”

  Two Jewish ghetto policemen opened the gates. Paul, still glaring at the German, knew he was disobeying one of the ghetto’s standing orders; Jews were not permitted to leave without a letter stating extenuating circumstances signed personally by Krüger. He was also aware of the time. Soon, Orpo officers on day watch would arrive, and they would be infinitely more proficient than the raw recruit, who was now shivering like a shitting dog.

  As the car revved its engine, the German guard gave way, then as if once weren’t enough for him, he gave Paul another stiff-armed salute.

  “Drive to the Feilenstrasse district. I don’t know how far it is … its four stops on the tram. It used to be called Popiela,” Paul instructed the driver.

  “Yes, sir. I know it,” the Schütze said.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Paul gave the driver an order to pull off the main road and head down a narrow country lane. They were reaching the suburbs where there were green, open spaces, recently ploughed potato fields, and thickets of trees, parts of which had been gutted by the Germans for wood. “I’ll tell you when to stop,” Paul said when the car entered unfamiliar territory.

  The driver hesitated halfway along the lane, which was more suitable for bicycles or cows. With his foot hard on the brake, he brought the vehicle to a complete stop and said, “I don’t think we will be able to continue. The road is too narrow for this car. I should turn around, Herr Oberarzt.”

  “Very well. I must have made a mistake at the junction.”

  “I might be able to turn here, but I’m very close to the edge and … yes, there’s a ditch and grass slope too…” the driver mused more to himself than Paul.

  As the man popped his head out of the driver’s window to get a better look, Paul removed the glass syringe from the metal box in his pocket. In it was a large, 2 grains dose of morphine from one of the two vials he’d uncovered in the pharmacy on that last day. Unwilling to use them and scared to be without them should a terrible emergency arise, he’d carried them in their container on his person, like ancient artefacts more precious than any amount of money. He hated having to use the medicine for this malign reason.

  The driver turned off the engine, stuck his head out the window again to check how much room he had to manoeuvre on his side before going down a shallow, grassy embankment then sat back in his seat.

  Paul pounced. Like a madman spurred on by a rush of adrenalin, he stabbed the needle deep into the side of the driver’s neck, praying he had hit the jugular instead of the carotid, and emptied the syringe’s contents with one quick depression of his thumb.

  The driver began to thrash his arms about. The back of his hand inadvertently walloped Paul’s cheek, but then he sighed with a resigned groan as the morphine began to work and his body grew limp. Out for the count, the man’s eyes closed, and his head fell forward to thump against the steering wheel.

  Paul panted, “Christ, Paul … get it in.” His fingers were trembling, and he was having a hell of a job trying to get the syringe back into the tight-fitting metal case – he wasn’t made for this sort of carry-on; he wasn’t Max.

  In the back seat, Amelia’s eyes were wide with confusion, but she looked more composed than Paul, who had finally managed to replace the syringe container in his pocket.

  He twisted his body to look at the woman he’d just brought to hell with him, and he was reminded of Judith Weber. Poor Judith; she was probably dead by now. He’d be more careful with Amelia. He would guard her with his life.

  “You’re a strong, level-headed woman, Amelia, and I want to explain what happens now. Whether you want to come with me is up to you.”

  “Why didn’t you kill him?” she demanded, glaring at the back of the driver’s head.

  Again, Judith came to Paul’s mind. Both women had hated the Nazi regime and had stood up to its authority in one way or another. “I’m not a murderer. When he eventually wakes up or is discovered asleep on the ground, he will tell the authorities I did this to him.”

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t kill him? We could hide his body in the woods.”

  “No. I’m not going to conceal this crime. They already know I left the ghetto in this car with this driver,” Paul explained. “Anyway, I’m not clever enough to come up with eloquent machinations. My brother … well, he would have figured something out.”

  Paul got out of the car. He was beginning to feel vulnerable on this stretch of road and wanted to get away before being discovered. He opened the back door and took Amelia’s hand. “They’ll hunt me down as a deserter and you as a runaway, but by painting a guilty sticker on myself, the Gestapo and SS will leave the people of Łódź alone … at least, that’s my hope. We can’t go back. We can never go back. We are fugitives now.”

  She nodded. Acceptance crossed her eyes as though she now understood Paul’s madness and was glad of it. “Thank you, Doctor, for giving me this chance to live.”

  Paul struggled to pull the driver out of the car and laid him on the ground. “Help me strip him.”

  Amelia unclipped the driver’s braces and trouser buttons, but then she stopped what she was doing to ask, “Why have you brought me with you? Why are you running away?”

  “I brought you because I didn’t want you to die.” Paul was breathless with fear as he undid the man’s shirt buttons, but he continued to explain his actions. “I found out through a friend that the Gestapo and SS suspect me of helping the Jewish staff escape the hospital. My friend managed to get my letter to another mutual friend. In it, I asked for his help in getting you and me to the Polish Underground Network – you know Doctor Anatol Nowak, don’t you? He used to work at Hospital Number 4.”

  “We’re going to Doctor Nowak’s house?” she snapped, anger sparking in her eyes. “He was never nice to the Jewish hospital staff. Once, he shouted at me for dropping a tray – he told me to go back to the stinking ghetto where I belonged. He might report us. He looks like the type who collaborates with the Germans; I can spot them a hundred metres off. We had a few of them in our apartment block in the city...”

  “Wait … stop. Anatol and his wife, Vanda, are good people,” Paul interrupted her. “He’s nothing like the man you thought you knew. Trust me, he won’t throw us out. He knows we’re coming, and he will help us.”

  “How do you know he’ll help us?”

  Paul looked down the road. “No more questions for now. Hurry, before someone passes by here.”

  Paul bit his lip as they worked on. He had answered Amelia truthfully, but he’d omitted the most important details, such as the many times Anatol had rescued Jews.

  After the driver was stripped to his vest and underpants, Paul and Amelia dragged him down the grassy embankment and into the recently ploughed field. He laid the man in the hollow between two lines of furrowed ridges, careful to position him on his side with his top leg drawn up to prevent him from choking should he vomit before regaining consciousness.

  “Let’s go. He’ll sleep for hours, but people will be waking up and travelling through here soon,” he said, holding the man’s uniform in his arms.

  At the car, Paul instructed Amelia to get into the boot. “It’s not far. Please, don’t worry. It will be all right. I promise you.”

  “I know. It already is,” she replied, with a certainty he found humbling.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Paul was shivering as he drove in the direction of Anatol’s house. His foot was jittering under the steering wheel, unnecessarily jumping from brake to accelerator and back again, as every nerve in his
body fired up. He was feeling it now; the guilt, shame, and gravity of his situation.

  To calm down, he pictured his twin’s attitude after killing August Leitner; that event had happened a lifetime ago, yet he thought about it often. Max had not flinched or debated the rights and wrongs of his actions. He’d been unruffled and without a tinge of remorse – more – he’d had satisfaction written in his sparkling eyes and smirking mouth.

  Paul recalled the advice Max had given him at that inn in Brandenburg. He’d overstated it, and it had stuck. ‘To play a good game of subterfuge, a man must be paranoid every second of every day. He must see the very worst in people, focus on their most base characteristics before considering any positive qualities they might have. He must have an overactive imagination in which danger lurks on every corner and in every expression on every face in the street. No one is reliable until they have earnt your trust, tenfold.’ Max had then chuckled, ‘Calm down, Paul. What I’m saying is, it’s always better to be safe than sorry.’

  Paul, taking Max’s advice to heart, looked in the rear-view mirror every few metres. As he turned into Anatol’s long street bordered by woods, he was reminded of the forest in Dieppe where he’d been trying to get back to the Germans and away from the French. Now, he was running away from his own army towards the Polish Resistance.

  Anatol’s gates were ajar. Paul put the handbrake on when he got out of the car. His heart jumped erratically, and his face was creased with new worries as he opened the gates fully. Gert had confirmed that Anatol received the letter, but the former hadn’t brought Paul an answer. Had Anatol managed to make the arrangements? More importantly, had the Polish Free Army approved the request to take Amelia and himself in? These questions would be answered within minutes, Paul knew, and when they were, he’d either be optimistic about his new future with the Resistance or looking at a short life alone and on the run.

  He drove inside, got out and closed the solid gates behind him, then he steered the car to the back of the house where he parked on the grass lawn.

  As soon as he’d opened the boot to help Amelia out, Paul caught the sound of footsteps behind him. He spun around and saw Anatol.

  “We had no problems. I dealt with the driver, and I made sure I wasn’t followed,” he said while trying to read the stern-looking Pole.

  Anatol gave a curt nod to Amelia, then gestured to the kitchen door. “Go in the house, both of you.”

  In the kitchen, Vanda stared at Amelia’s ashen face. “You must be the woman Paul spoke of?” she asked, in a friendlier tone than the one her husband had used outside.

  “Yes … I’m Amelia Bartek.”

  “I’m Vanda. Sit, Amelia. I’ve made herbal tea. It’s a bit weak but it’s hot.”

  “Thank you.” Amelia removed her headscarf, which had a red cross sewn into the fabric. Her hair was dishevelled, and her shoes were dirty with baked soil that stuck to the leather. She looked confused and frightened as she took a seat at the table.

  “Paul, a private word, please,” Anatol said, already heading to the kitchen door that led to the hallway.

  Paul smiled at Amelia before following Anatol. “I won’t be long.”

  In the living room, Anatol said, “I’ve done as you asked, but with a couple of changes.”

  “Will they have me?” Paul asked, desperate to know.

  “I don’t know,” Anatol said, closing the living room door. “The section of the Polish Free Army I spoke to scoffed at the idea. Their leader’s exact words to me were, ‘Are you off your fucking head?’ Then I told him about your English connections, and he was intrigued. They will listen to what you have to say, but don’t get your hopes up or think they’ll trust those honest blue eyes of yours. You could as easily get shot.”

  Paul sighed with relief and then his legs buckled, forcing him to sit in an armchair. “Thank you, Anatol, that’s all I needed to hear. To be honest, I didn’t know what to expect when I got here. I imagined having to go on the run alone. Within hours, Krüger will have men hunting me. This has got to work … I’ll make it work.”

  Paul undid his jacket’s buttons and expelled a long breath. He had no idea how Anatol had contacted the Resistance or where the group was based, but they were within his grasp, and he was hopeful, despite Anatol’s bleak picture of him possibly getting shot by the people he was running to. “I won’t hide like a rat down a drain until this war ends,” Paul said, finding his voice. “If the Poles shoot me, so be it. I will not be a German who looks back and says I was following orders and had no choice but to comply. This war has wrung my soul like a wet towel. I won’t take it anymore.”

  Anatol sat on the couch and said, “I understand why you’re doing it. I just hope you know what’s ahead of you. You can’t go back to your wife or child, or to the German army with an apology for making a rash decision. You’re out. You’re now a wanted man with a price on your head, and the Gestapo will tear this city apart looking for you. Tell me, why did you bring Nurse Bartek?”

  “I saw an opportunity to get her out of the ghetto, and I took it.” Paul bit his tongue. This wasn’t the time to talk about how fond of Amelia he’d become, or how much he wanted to keep her by his side. He was also disinclined to talk about the end of his marriage. “I went to Chelmno, Anatol, and the rumours are true … it’s an extermination camp, using mobile gas chambers. The Jews are killed within an hour of arriving there. I watched the whole process from start to finish.”

  Anatol’s face drained of colour. “All those people who were deported … all of them are dead?”

  “Yes, and I now have first-hand knowledge of every moment the prisoners spent there before their executions. I took notes of the train stations that service the camp, what’s inside the manor house, an approximate number of SS and policemen who work there, the methods they use to kill, the location of the crematorium grids … and names, too, as many names and their ranks as I could remember...” Paul tapped the side of his head. “It’s all in here, Anatol, and I will pass every bit of information I have to people who can do something about it…”

  “Do what?”

  “I don’t know … blow the damn place up! And maybe, maybe one day hold these people accountable.”

  Anatol leant forward in his chair. His stoic mask dropped, and in its place was the face of a broken man. “Vanda and I are also leaving the city this morning, and we’re not coming back.”

  “Why in God’s name would you do that?” Paul asked, aghast at the news.

  “We don’t feel safe anymore. The Gestapo detained my neighbours yesterday. They started at the corner of the street and took away the families from the first three houses. No one has come back home since. We’re afraid they’ll come for us too. As soon as Hubert arrives, we’ll take his horse and cart and make our own way to the Home Army in Warsaw. It will take us at least four days to reach a safe house, but we can’t risk travelling by car when the Germans are confiscating all vehicles registered to Poles.”

  Paul was upset for his friend. Poor Anatol and Vanda. They were losing everything. Were they being overly cautious? No. Paul knew exactly what the Germans were planning for the Polish people, and it would devastate them. He was struck by a more selfish thought, though; he’d been counting on Anatol to wear the Wehrmacht driver’s uniform and drive the car: “What about the plan?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve compensated for not being able to take you. You will be all right.”

  “No, I wasn’t thinking … sod it, yes, I was. I’m sorry. I’m a selfish bastard, worrying about myself when you’ve got bigger problems to face.” Paul’s face reddened with guilt. He’d hoped to avoid this subject, at least today. Anatol was a proud man, and the Generalgouvernement’s new cleansing policies and mass deportation of Poles were meant to strip the Polish people of their dignity and self-worth. He was ashamed to even talk about what he now knew to be true, but he’d be even more regretful if he didn’t mention it.

  “Anatol, I was going to speak to
you about this on the journey, but I can see your problem is more urgent than I first thought,” Paul said.

  “What have you heard?”

  “When I was at Chelmno, the camp’s Commandant told me that the Generalgouvernement’s new scheme is to deport twenty million Poles to Western Siberia.”

  “Ah. That I didn’t know,” Anatol said in a shaky voice.

  “Bothmann, the Commandant, was blasé about it. He said the policy was for much further down the road, but I think it might have started.”

  Anatol’s fidgety fingers ran through his hair and down the back of his neck. “Siberia, eh?” he muttered, looking shocked to his core.

  “They’re also planning the Germanisation of four to five million selected Polish people if they’re deemed racially worthy.” Paul then added, “The Commandant specifically spoke of an unspecified number of young Poles endowed with what the Germans call desirable Aryan qualities being taken to Germany to be raised by good stock. His words, not mine. If all this is true, Anatol, no one is safe; not the rich, the poor, the young, or the elderly … not even Christians.”

  While Anatol was trying to absorb the information, Paul measured his next words with great care. He intended to share every piece of information he’d managed to wring out of Bothmann on his visit to Chelmno. By doing that, he hoped to buy his way into the Polish Home Army or one of the affiliates Anatol had told him about some weeks earlier. He now realised, however, how much easier it was to gain unsavoury information than to impart it to those he cared for. He was about to inform Anatol about something that was going to crush him.

  “I can see you know more…” Anatol said, almost in a whisper.

  “I do. Trust me, I’m going to tell you and your Polish friends about every rumour, piece of mess-hall gossip, and written order I’ve heard about or seen with my own eyes. I’ll blow the lid off Chelmno and what I know about the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp and the others being built, but now … right now, I’m finding it hard to give you news that makes me … I’m ashamed of being German.”