by Jana Petken
“What about the bodies?” Amelia asked, as she and Paul hurried towards the lorry.
Paul shrugged. He was out of his league in this situation and would leave the decision to Kurt. He was the only one amongst them who knew what he was doing.
“We don’t have time to move bodies. They can stay where they are.” Kurt groaned as he handed four rifles down to Paul, who staggered at the unexpected weight, adjusted the load in his arms, and hurried them to the staff car.
“The Germans have half-cleared a forest about ten kilometres from here. Once we get in there, we’ll hide the car and walk the rest of the way on foot. The patrol that comes across this will be stumped.” Kurt grunted again as he bent over the side to hand more weapons to Paul who, this time, was better prepared. “There are three different country roads coming up at the next junction. They all lead to Warsaw, eventually, but we’re not taking any of them.”
“We’re not?” Paul asked upon his return.
“No.”
Kurt handed down more weapons, then he jumped off the back of the lorry. The case of beer and spirits waited just at the edge of the truck’s bed. He lifted it, grimaced, and was forced to set it down again.
Paul returned and spotted the blood on Kurt’s jacket. “Kurt, are you hurt?”
“It’s just a graze,” Kurt answered.
“Let me look…”
“I’m all right. We need to go.”
“Look, I might not be the warrior and saviour you are, but you’re no doctor. Let me look.”
Kurt opened his jacket, gasping as his hand brushed the wound.
Paul studied it. A bullet had chipped the side of Kurt’s torso just under his ribs, like a stone making an indent on the corner of a wall. It needed a couple of sutures but was not life-threatening. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against Kurt’s tender flesh. “Press that hard. I have a bandage in my rucksack…”
“Thank you, but there’s no time, Paul. We’ll do it when we get to our destination,” Kurt answered with a terse shake of his head.
Paul ignored him, going to the back seat, digging into his bag, and returning to Kurt with the cotton bandaging. “Lift your shirt. You’ll lose too much blood if it’s a long walk.”
Kurt glared but did as he was told, biting his lip as the bandage was pulled tight around him.
“I’ll need to put a couple of stitches in there, but that will have to do for now.”
Amelia let out a ragged sob several minutes after Kurt pulled the car around the lorry and drove through the adjacent grassy field. In a surprising move, she rested her head on Paul’s shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut. “Thank God. I couldn’t bear the thought of you being hurt.”
Paul couldn’t settle his uneven breathing, even though they’d now put kilometres between themselves and the German roadblock. He kept his eyes peeled on the road, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Kurt had enjoyed killing the four men and how well he’d reacted under fire. The persecution of Jews, war, the ghetto, Biermann … these things combined had changed his friend’s character. Kurt, the self-controlled and mild-mannered driver, had become a crazed killer revelling in his victory. Even now, he was unwilling to engage in conversation and focused instead on the difficult narrow lanes that sometimes ended at the edge of roadless grasslands.
How many shots had the Germans managed to get off before being mown down by Kurt’s bullets? His proficiency with the lethal weapon and his cold-as-steel-nerves had been shocking. He and his gun had looked to be the best of friends, as if they’d worked many times together. Maybe Biermann isn’t a pathological liar after all? Kurt had behaved like a seasoned killer; like Max, August Leitner, and other shady creatures in the Abwehr and British Intelligence Services. His eyes narrowed with anger as conversations with Biermann came flooding back, and despite the dangers posed by their current situation, he leant into the back of Kurt’s neck.
“Were you a British spy, Kurt? Tell me the truth … was Biermann right about you and my father being partners?” Paul demanded.
Kurt stared at Paul through his rear-view mirror. Amelia’s body stiffened in the back seat, and she moved away from Paul’s growing rage.
“Answer me, damn you!” Paul demanded, forgetting about the woman he’d sworn to protect.
Kurt took a sharp turn in the road and then drove towards a wooded area, thick with a mix of ancient and young leafy Caucasian oak trees. Just past the treeline, he manoeuvred the vehicle between two oak trees which looked like a giant arch conjoined at the top.
The car’s left front tyre bumped over the roots of a tree and then kept bumping into loose branches and thick bushes until he was forced to stop and turn off the engine.
“We’ll camouflage the vehicle, then walk the rest of the way. It’s not far,” Kurt said, struggling to get out of the car because of the branches.
Outside the car, Paul raised his eyes skywards. It was as if they had gone from day to dusk within minutes. The ceiling of oak leaves gave way to those of silver birch and aspen, shimmering translucently as a slanting beam of sunlight broke on their highest branches. He looked back the way they’d come and wondered how Kurt had managed to find his way in here until it dawned on him. “You haven’t been at Anatol’s house all these months, have you?”
“No. I’ve been with the Polish Underground Network for the last six weeks,” Kurt answered truthfully.
“Well, at least something makes sense.” Paul began to help Kurt cover the car with branches and leaves. For hours, Kurt had followed his map, and not once had he deviated from the narrow country roads winding through the rural landscapes or been fazed when he’d found himself in unknown territory. To Paul, it had been like travelling through a labyrinth of never-ending dirt tracks, all looking the same and bordered by identical landscapes, but it was now evident that Kurt knew the route well by the way he’d deftly taken every junction and turn with confidence. Perhaps, then, Kurt was less of a crazed killer and more a … trained one?
Paul threw Kurt a look of disgust. Whether trained or crazed, the man he had respected was now a liar in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you answer my questions.” Paul’s voice was calmer but still cold as he laid another branch on the car’s roof. “Is my father alive?”
Kurt stopped what he was doing. His clammy skin shone as tiny shafts of light above broke on his face. “I give you my word, Paul, I will tell you everything you need to know after I get you to my people.”
“You will tell me now,” Paul insisted. He had considered his father-in-law incapable of telling the truth. On the other hand, he had trusted Kurt’s word with every cell in his body. “Kurt! I will not move.”
“Yes, your father is alive.” Kurt sighed with defeat. “He’s in England with your mother.”
Paul’s rage reignited like a blazing flashover, and he pulled his arm back and swung a punch at Kurt’s face. Lost to the unnecessary grief he had suffered since learning his father was dead and still not satisfied that he’d punished Kurt enough, he swung another right hook that hit Kurt squarely on the nose.
Kurt, who had not retaliated, moaned as he pinched his nostrils. Then he lowered his head and blew the blood out of them one by one.
Paul, still furious, went for Kurt again, but this time he was met by the latter’s forearm smashing into his throat, just below his Adam’s apple. Paul’s legs collapsed beneath him. Breathless, he lay on his back, gasping for air and seeing thousands of sparks lighting the sky above him.
“I gave you the two, but that’s all you get, Paul. Thank God, you’re not Max. You hit like a girl,” Kurt finally mumbled, as he pulled Paul to his feet.
Paul leant against the side of the car, panting with an almost hysterical hangover. Appalled that he had come to blows, he croaked, “I would have kept the secret…”
“I couldn’t take the risk,” Kurt cut Paul off. “You were too close to Biermann, and he would have wormed it out of you. I was following
your father’s orders, Paul, and I won’t apologise.”
“No!” Paul blazed, regaining his normal voice. “I cannot believe my father ordered you to keep Wilmot and me in the dark, knowing that we’d be grieving for him. Wilmot was in Russia. He must have been devastated.”
“Your father kept your mother in the dark until she was safely out of Germany. You know Biermann. He would have stopped at nothing to get your papa back…”
“He knew! He told me my father was alive and I called him a liar. I trusted your word against his.”
Kurt, ignoring his injured nose, pressed his hand on his recently bandaged wound. He looked genuinely regretful despite being the victim of Paul’s fist. “I’m sorry for the pain I caused you, but I was right not to tell you, and I won’t apologise for that. When we get to our camp, I’ll take you through the whole story from start to finish, but first, we need to move.”
Paul hesitated. “You had plenty of time of talk to me about it on the journey. At the very least, you should have warned me you already knew the people we’re going to meet. I wouldn’t have worried as much.”
Kurt’s stance stiffened, and his stony face was unreadable. “You should be worried. You should be very worried. It wasn’t easy for me to gain the Poles’ trust. They interrogated me and kept me under guard for days. It was after they’d verified my past association with London that they gave me any kind of chance to prove myself.”
He pushed his bloodied fingers through his hair, then grunted, “You’re a spoilt brat at times … know that? Anatol and Hubert risked their lives to get you this far. I vouched for you, but this meeting is still going to be hard, Paul. I’m surprised as hell they even agreed to it. You’re not a German Jew; you’re an enemy officer, and that means you will have to earn the Resistance leader’s respect and trust on a minute-by-minute basis until he and his people no longer follow you every time you go behind a tree to shit. This is fucking serious, so can we forget your father for now and concentrate on us getting to where we need to be?”
“All right. I’m ready.” Paul slung his rucksack over his shoulder. Kurt’s remarks had stung; he had taken his driver and friend at face value, never realising how much attention Kurt had paid to a younger Paul. There had been times in Paul’s past when he had behaved badly … but it had never occurred to him that Kurt might have taken notice of the childish tantrums, rare though they had been.
Beside him, Amelia looked just as frightened as she had at the roadblock. She probably hadn’t understood much of the angry exchange conducted in rapid German, but she’d have fathomed the physical violence.
Kurt led the way, Amelia followed, and Paul brought up the rear. He stared at her hair, breaking loose from its pins and lying in tangled waves down her back. What must she think about my aggression? He felt vulnerable, bared to his bones with the woman. They were not friends; at least, not yet. She’d always seen him as a German first, doctor second, person third, but in the space of a day, she was learning about his rare temper, possibly that he had a father in England, and that he’d lain on the ground squealing like a girl while Kurt was saving them. What is she going to witness when we meet the Poles? Being a Jew, they’d take her in with open arms, but if Kurt were correct, his introduction was going to be a much less friendly experience altogether.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The six men appeared from behind the trees as though their bodies had been fused with the trunks. Armed with Mauser rifles, they surrounded Paul, Kurt, and Amelia, but their eyes and weapons were trained solely on Paul.
“Raise your hands above your head,” Kurt instructed Paul, keeping his own by his side.
One of the men approached, a blink of recognition in his eyes. For a full thirty seconds, he studied Paul, his expressions changing as if he were an actor on stage using his entire repertoire: shifting his feet, cocking his head to one side, narrowing his eyes in anger, and then widening them in surprise. Eventually, he scowled then grunted a slew of Polish so quickly that Paul couldn’t understand.
Paul panicked. The Pole was familiar. He’d seen him somewhere before. He couldn’t recall where, but recognition had also flashed in the man’s eyes when they’d stared each other down…
“He wants to search you, Paul,” Kurt said, looking tense.
After the man patted Paul down for concealed weapons, he spoke to Kurt in Polish. The Pole showed concern over Kurt’s wound, and when they finished talking, he gave Kurt a well done pat on the back. The two men were evidently friends.
“What happened?” the Pole then asked Kurt.
“A roadblock, about ten kilometres back. I don’t think it was a checkpoint; not that far from residential areas and with the lorry they drove. They were thieving … deserting … who knows? They probably stopped to have a breather, and we happened upon them.”
“And they shot you?”
“They didn’t believe our story. I could see it was about to get ugly, so I fired on them before they shot the three of us in the car.” Kurt grinned. “On the upside, I took a dozen rifles and alcohol off them.”
“Hmm, bad news and good news, then. Tell them where the car is, Kurt,” the Pole said, gesturing to three of his men. “They’ll bring the contraband. You take the woman with you and settle her in at the camp. And get your wound seen to.”
The man looked closely at Amelia for the first time. “You’re the nurse?” he asked, as if he already knew the answer.
“Yes sir. I was a nurse in the Łódź ghetto hospital.”
He looked at her cardigan with the yellow star sewn onto it, then talked to her in rapid Polish. “Kurt will take you to the camp. One of the women there will give you clothes. I don’t ever want to see that star on you again or hear you say ‘yes, sir, no sir’ to any man. You hear me? You’re free, and an equal to everyone else you meet until the day the war ends, or the Germans kill you. Go … and be welcome.”
Then he turned his attention back to Paul and shocked everyone when he spoke in English. “You will come with me.”
Paul whipped his head around to Kurt.
“Go. I’ll look after Amelia,” said Kurt, a flash of guilt on his face and just as quickly gone.
The two Poles pushed Paul about a hundred metres farther into the forest. He wasn’t getting out of this alive. His chances had been ruined the moment he’d seen the man who’d done all the talking. The young Pole’s voice had been familiar, as was his densely freckled face and lanky frame, and he now recalled where they’d met. An image of the man dashing towards the aircraft at the airstrip in Dieppe hit him as soon as he’d started walking. There was no mistaking it. It was Max’s friend. Paul stumbled over a loose branch. He didn’t stand a chance. The Resistance wouldn’t trust a man who’d betrayed his own brother.
When they stopped walking, they found two armed men standing in front of a half-finished bunker. Three concrete pillars at the front, and concrete side walls held up a wooden slatted roof, four feet off the ground and partially concealed by unruly foliage resting on it. In front, steps led down to a narrow trench that stretched the length of the building’s entrance.
“Get down the stairs,” the English-speaking Pole snapped.
At the bottom, Paul was pushed inside the bunker. He straightened and began walking along a five-metre long passageway, lit by the Pole’s battery torch. At the steel door at the end, the Pole pushed Paul aside, saying, “Wait here.” Then he opened the door and closed it behind himself.
******
“It’s true. He is Major Vogel’s brother,” said Darek Lukaszewicz, leaning across the table to the man sitting there. Behind the table, two narrow bunks were barracked military style, with blankets neatly folded at the foot of the beds and a pillow lying on top of them. A wooden crate with a storm lamp and book on it sat next to one of the beds, and above, more hurricane lanterns hung from thin wire that stretched at intervals for almost the length of the room.
“At first, I thought I was looking at Max dressed as a Germa
n, but then I noticed how scared he was,” Darek continued. “I think he recognised me from France … not that it matters.”
Darek sat, leaning in further towards the man he was talking to. “It’s not too late to say no. We can kill him and be done with the problem. What do you want to do?”
Ever since Kurt and Anatol had informed him about the German doctor who was helping Jews in the Łódź ghetto, Romek Gabula had been anxious to meet him. He’d already learnt about Paul’s existence through Darek, who months earlier, had told him the story of Max’s brother escaping his custody at the airfield in Dieppe. By all accounts, this brother, every bit the Wehrmacht officer on the surface, was privately conflicted. His clash of conscience, according to Anatol, who’d approached him three days earlier, had turned to hatred for Hitler and his regime. He wanted out. He wanted to fight back.
Romek tapped his fingers on the desk. “I know you’re against the idea, Darek, but Vogel’s been passing on information and medicine to Anatol and Hubert for months. That, and his association with Kurt and Max is the reason I agreed to give him a chance. I won’t go back on my word to Hubert and Anatol. I’m going to listen to what this Vogel has to say.”
“You’re the boss, but I won’t trust a man who betrays his own twin brother,” Darek retorted. “Romek, the minute you let him into our camp, he becomes a liability. Are you willing to risk the lives of our people because he’s the brother of a man you were once fond of? I think you’re making a mistake.”
Romek’s eyes blazed at Darek. “Were he any other German, I wouldn’t even consider it, but it’s Max’s brother. It’s not your job to question me, Darek. I am the one who will have to convince the other unit leaders to accept him, and, if I believe him, I will.”