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

by Jana Petken

  “Tragic … despicable,” Olga said shaking her head.

  “They probably won’t find the men who killed him,” Biermann said. “Still, plenty of Poles will have paid with their lives for the murder. Manfred won’t get justice, but at least his family will know we punished the people who supported their son’s assassins.”

  “I don’t understand those Poles, Freddie,” Olga said. “Bad men kill and then they let their countrymen pay the price while they hide like rats. They’re such cowards.”

  Biermann, still furious about Krüger’s assassination in the streets of Łódź, made his feelings known. “It is inconceivable that a man surrounded by Gestapo officers and Orpos could have been gunned down in the open like that. It’s the Kriminalassistents who were with him that should be shot. It wouldn’t have happened to me. I’d have been much more careful.”

  “Oh, Freddie, please, don’t talk like that. I can’t bear to even think of you being shot by those criminals. Thank God, we left that place when we did,” Olga said.

  Valentina went to fetch Erika, who was crying in her cot in the next room. When she returned, she handed the seventeen-month-old to Olga. “I hate night shifts. I can’t remember the last time I picked her up when she woke up in the morning.”

  “Look at her,” Freddie mused with pride. “The perfect blonde, blue-eyed Aryan. At least, Vogel did that right.”

  Long after Olga had retired for the night with Erika and Valentina had left for work in the offices of the SS-Obergruppenführer und General der Waffen-SS, Biermann retrieved the envelope he had received earlier that day from the sideboard drawer. He hadn’t shown it to Olga or his daughter. He saw no need for them to know that Wilmot Vogel was in America in a prisoner-of-war camp.

  He pulled out the one-page letter from inside the outer envelope; another envelope, addressed to Oberarzt Paul Vogel, was also inside, still sealed. He read Wilmot’s letter for the second time:

  Dear Kriminaldirektor Biermann,

  I am in the United States of America as a prisoner of war. I was captured in North Africa and will now spend the remainder of the conflict in captivity, far from my family.

  I have not sent a letter to my mother, as I don’t know where she is. I have, however, enclosed one here for my brother Paul. You have been so very kind to me, but I wonder if you could do me yet another favour and pass on this letter to him in Poland.

  I do hope your health continues to improve. Please give my love to your family and to my niece, Erika.

  Yours faithfully,

  Wilmot Vogel

  Biermann ripped open the other envelope that had already been censored by American and German officials and taped closed numerous times, by the looks of it. What did it matter? Paul Vogel, the traitor, would never see its contents anyway.

  The long letter had been redacted in numerous places, but there was still plenty of reading left. Biermann looked at the slightly ajar living room door and got up, wheezing as he walked to it. After shutting it, he poured himself a small, illicit brandy, then sat in his armchair once again to read Wilmot’s letter.

  My dearest brother,

  Still nothing. No letters, no news, no hope left that you will write to me. Are you even still alive, Paul? Is Max, Mother, Hannah? If not, these words will go nowhere. They will have been written like the many thousands of other words penned to you, my family, but never sent. Maybe I just like writing – maybe I should keep a diary or journal in which I can air my love and thoughts for you all – perhaps I no longer fill your thoughts, Paul, and you are done with me?

  My war is over. I survived Russia and then the bleached desert of North Africa. I fought a good fight in both those lands, Paul, but I am now beaten, finished, and will spend the remainder of this war in a far-off land across the Atlantic Ocean.

  It’s not so bad, you know. The Americans bear no resemblance to my sadistic Russian captors; they are firm but fair. They do not shoot us like dogs nor starve us until we are bones covered in skin pitted by the scars of war. I suppose I must say that I am one of the lucky people who ended his fighting days with both body and mind intact. Always the optimist, eh?

  I was brought to America by ship. I was afraid, Paul, not for my life as a prisoner, but of being on a ship that could be sunk by our own U-Boats. It was a strange notion and one I shared with the other thousand or so POWs on that ship. I swear, I hardly slept during that two-week long voyage.

  We arrived in New York on a Sunday evening, and I will never forget the moment when the American guards pulled the porthole shades up as the ship passed the Statue of Liberty. It was an unbelievable sight. The shore was full of people. They were almost dancing and looking bright and fresh, as though the war had not touched them at all.

  Most of the prisoners on the ship were seriously wounded, and they received excellent medical treatment as far as I could tell. I was uninjured, but I’ve had my fair share of wounds. Maybe one day, I can show you my scars.

  It took several days to get from New York to the town of … I am sorry, I cannot tell you where I am, only that it rises high on the plains of the Midwest and has a spartan environment – large swathes of land, the likes of which I have never seen – fields that go on forever without a house in sight to blemish the tranquillity it brings to one’s often chaotic thoughts and memories of burning buildings and cities wallowing in dust.

  When we arrived at the town near to the camp, its inhabitants waved and cheered on the American guards marching us in file down their main street. It was an almost friendly atmosphere. Unlike the last time I was taken captive, I did not get pelted with projectiles, spat upon, nor insulted for being German. Despite all that had happened, I was proud to be a Feldwebel Wachtmeister – staff sergeant, in the Afrika Korps.

  The food is good, Paul. The barracks are not too uncomfortable – fifty beds in a long hut of which there are three hundred in total. We have a canteen hall where we can even buy American beer at 15cents a bottle and other things like cigarettes, razors for shaving, soap, combs, and sometimes American candy, although chocolate is not on offer often. We get 80 cents a day and this covers our purchases in the canteen.

  I work on a wheat and corn farm. It is over 200 acres in size. A man could get lost easily it is so big. The farmer has three daughters. I like the youngest one, Dorothy – she likes to be called Dottie – she is a nurse in the camp hospital. Of course, I like her only in my dreams, for I can never forget that I am a prisoner; the enemy of the American people.

  I have much more to tell you, brother, but I fear it would be censored both here and in Germany, so those thoughts and observations will have to wait until we are reunited.

  Herr Kriminaldirektor Biermann will, hopefully, pass this letter to you. I’m certain he is as kind to you as he has been to me.

  Take care, Paul.

  Your loving brother,

  Wilmot

  Biermann ripped the three-page letter into tiny pieces, furious as he thought about Paul Vogel’s betrayal and resenting Wilmot Vogel’s apparent contentment, or as near as damn it. He laboured to his feet. His breathlessness always worsened when he was angry or upset – Christ, what life did he have when he couldn’t even vent his emotions for fear of his heart stopping or exploding in his chest – what sort of life was this for any man?

  He tossed the fragments of Wilmot’s personal writings into the dying coal fire, watching the pieces fall like snowdrops onto the red embers. Mindful of Olga finding the brandy-smelling glass, he took it to the kitchen and rinsed it out before replacing it in the cabinet. He was too exhausted to go up the stairs to bed. He’d sleep on the couch wrapped in the blanket Olga had knitted for him. He slept there quite often these days.

  Tucked in, he sighed with tiredness but also with anticipation. It was his birthday the following day; one he thought he’d never see. The ladies of the house had something nice up their sleeves for him. Valentina had the day and night off, and although they hadn’t mentioned his big day, he knew his wife
and daughter well; they were planning something.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Biermann held onto the railing and had to stop every so often to catch his breath. It had been a while since he’d walked down these stairs to the newly named Victory Club, and he was determined to make a dignified entrance. People were going to see the old Freddie; the Kriminaldirektor, not the sick, elderly man he had become. He wasn’t going to allow anyone to pity him or catch him labouring for breath, not whilst blood still flowed in his veins. His friends and ex-colleagues were on the other side of the double doors, and when they opened, he’d hear shouts of, “Surprise!” and he was going to stride in, head held high.

  As the doors opened, a veritable sea of uniformed and civilian-clothed men and women clapped their hands. The drummer on the bandstand gave Biermann a dramatic drumroll as lights flicked on and off, heralding his arrival. He halted, genuinely surprised to see the number of people who’d made the effort to attend his fifty-fourth birthday party. He hadn’t been forgotten after all; he was still a force to be reckoned with in Berlin – the indomitable Fredrich Biermann. His tight smile cracked, and people applauded more raucously as an embarrassed, authentically happy grin replaced it.

  Tired after shaking hands with SS officers, Gestapo, and Orpo ex-colleagues, Biermann finally sat at a table for eight whilst other guests took their seats at adjoining tables. His eyes swept the room again, and this time he took more notice of who was there. He waved to his ex-subordinates from the Gestapo office, his secretary, who’d brought her husband along, his fellow officers from the SS floor and their wives; even Martin Bormann’s two aides, his old drinking partners, had come despite their heavy workload. The womanising Major Hess, who had drafted Wilmot to North Africa, unsurprisingly, was nowhere in sight.

  Two Gestapo officers from Department E – security and counterintelligence – shared the Biermanns’ table. The men had brought their wives. They were acquainted with Valentina, for they worked with her on the charitable donations committee. Alfred Hoffmann, the Kriminaldirektor who’d stolen Biermann’s job, as the latter viewed it, was in full uniform; he’s ramming his position down my throat, Biermann thought as the man took his seat opposite. The pup had risen in the ranks quickly by succeeding others who’d been posted to occupied countries and concentration camps, not because he was good at his job. He was sloppy – everyone knew it – but no one cared about skill and ethics nowadays. It was all about quantity and speed, not quality.

  Biermann threw his daughter a surreptitiously disapproving glare, which she failed to see. She should have asked him beforehand to choose his dining companions. The trouble with surprise parties was that people often got the most important details wrong through thoughtlessness.

  “Papa, this is the Frau Hoffmann I’ve been telling you about. We work together at the donations depot.”

  “Nice to meet you, Frau Hoffmann. My daughter speaks highly of you,” Biermann said, his charming face back on.

  “And my wife speaks highly of your Valentina, Freddie. You don’t mind if I call you Freddie?” Alfred Hoffmann butted in.

  “No, I don’t mind at all,” Biermann lied.

  Hoffmann gave Valentina a sickly-sweet smile and a compliment to boot. “It’s kind of you to give what little spare time you have to the Volunteers for Russia. You’re looking beautiful tonight, my dear.” Then he asked Biermann, “And how are you enjoying your retirement, Freddie?”

  Biermann, still inwardly fuming at his daughter’s tactless choice of table companions, managed to maintain the smile on his face long enough to reply to his successor’s question, “I don’t like it at all. I had a few more good years left in me as far as I’m concerned. How are you enjoying my office?”

  Hoffmann sat across from Biermann at the round table. He raised his full water glass and took a sip as if he wanted to ponder the question before giving his answer. “It has its ups and downs like all jobs, I suppose. To be honest, I’d rather be playing a more active role. My place is in the streets or keeping order in our prison camps. I’ve never been happy sitting behind a desk. They should have kept you on, Freddie. You were the master organiser.”

  Biermann chuckled at the praise, mollified more than he would ever admit. He warmed marginally towards Alfred Hoffmann. Perhaps he wasn’t such a bad fellow after all. “I agree, but I was sacrificed for a younger, fitter man. Ach, I suppose I should be thankful for what I’ve got.”

  Waiters went to every table, setting bottles of champagne, wine, and jugs of beer and water on the crisp white tablecloths which would be stained with spilt drinks by the end of the night. Then the hostesses began collecting ration stamps from the diners. Biermann panicked. How much was this going to cost him? Did he have enough stamps? Did anyone?

  He’d not set foot in the Einstein Club, as it had previously been called, since his return from Poland. ‘Going to a nightclub will be too much for you, Freddie,’ Olga had suggested. Yes, such an outing would tax his weak heart, leave his lungs gasping for breath when he exerted himself, and make his legs as fragile as a new-born foal’s; yet, here he was, out and about, witnessing the humiliating war-wrought changes to his city, and what taxed him most was whether he had enough to pay for the three of them. It was ... unbearable.

  On his way to the club, he’d been dismayed to see that living conditions for the ordinary Berliner had deteriorated. Display shelves in shop windows were mostly bare. There were fewer trams on the road, more underground shelters were being opened, and now this, having to hand over colour-coded stamps to get food and sundries in a restaurant that charged a fortune for menu items and boasted mediocre service to add insult to injury. Even the wealthy were suffering, he presumed, although he was confident the powerful and well-connected would continue to get whatever their hearts desired, one way or another.

  He glanced around the room. His guests were looking happy enough, but he was a good Gestapo officer; one of the best – maybe the best Germany had ever had. Since walking into the club, he’d seen through the jolly, relaxed atmosphere to the tension beneath. The war was not panning out as the Reich had predicted, and every Hitler supporter in this room agreed with that assessment. How do I know this? Biermann mused. Simple; everyone else is thinking the same treacherous thoughts as I am.

  German occupation across Europe was at its height, and apart from a few skirmishes in Poland against its criminal element, the Fatherland was succeeding in its plans to get rid of European Jews, some ethnic factions, and other indigenous peoples to make way for hard-working Germans. But they had lost North Africa and their Italian Allies, and behind Goebbels’ optimistic tone was a whispering wave of uneasiness over the news from the Eastern Front and Stalingrad in particular. We’re not winning. We are holding on, Biermann truly believed.

  “Do we have enough ration stamps for all this?” Biermann quietly asked Valentina when an attractive young woman came to collect the stamps from his table.

  “We’ve all had to get used to the hardships,” Hoffmann said, apparently lip-reading Biermann’s concerns from across the table, “but you mustn’t worry about money or stamps tonight. We’ve banded together for your birthday…” He leant towards Biermann and whispered, “Ernst Kaltenbrunner himself contributed,” before resuming his normal tone. “We all think very highly of you, Freddie. In fact, I wanted to talk to you about work. Maybe tomorrow…”

  “Now … now will be fine, Alfred,” Biermann stuttered with excitement.

  Hoffmann gave the girl his and his wife’s stamps, then told Biermann, “I will have to get your security clearance back, but if I can, and I believe I can, I’d like you to handle some administration jobs for me from home. Every day, I’m losing personnel to the SS authority dealing with the growing number of concentration camps, and I don’t have time to go through the paperwork that piles up on my desk. I don’t want to give it to my grunts. They don’t understand what it is to be meticulous, even when they’re given a somewhat tedious job. You understand, don’
t you, Freddie? Have a think about it and let me know by the end of the evening.”

  Biermann’s heart skipped a beat, but it was a pleasant murmur for a change. Hoffmann couldn’t handle the job. Ha, I knew it, he thought. “I don’t need to think about it, Alfred. If you can get me cleared, I’d be honoured to help you out, whatever the task at hand is.”

  Olga allowed Freddie a small glass of something that was far too sweet and dark to be called Champagne but pleasant enough, regardless of being a poor imitation. The band was now playing smooth background music that would ramp up later and get people on the dance floor, and Biermann was happier than he’d been in a long time. Good things come to good people, he decided, grinning at everyone who raised their glass to him. This was the best birthday present a man could hope for; his pride and dignity back after he had thought them lost.

  Biermann began to relax after he’d eaten a decent meal starting with eggs with a creamy Mornay sauce and followed by chicken and potatoes. During the evening, toasts had been made, and kind things had been said about him and to him. The accolades reminded him of how much he missed his career and the social aspects that went with it. He was going to enjoy himself tonight, for Olga and Valentina’s sake, and after tonight, he was going to turn the page and become the man he’d been before this sad, self-pitying shell of a person had taken over.

  When the band played one of the most popular songs around, Berlin bleibt doch Berlin – Berlin is still Berlin, Valentina danced with a rather handsome SS Hauptmann. Biermann looked on with pride. His daughter was radiant. She was the most beautiful woman in the room, leaving even the attractive female singer in the shadows. He was indeed a proud father.