by Jana Petken
“You knew about this?” Barrett demanded.
“A deaf, one-eyed squirrel would know about this, George. It’s been almost a year. What do you think happens when two young people feel attraction for each other? Or are you too old to remember what it’s like to fall in love? Hmm? Has it been that long since Central Park?”
Barrett’s face reddened with embarrassment, but he still shook his head. “Nope. Sorry, I ain’t havin’ it,” he reiterated. “I can’t stop my Dottie from seeing you in the camp, though I wish you’d respect my wishes on that, but I won’t have no flirtin’ going on at my table or anywhere else on my land. When you finish work today, you won’t be coming back no more, Willie.”
******
Wilmot was in a foul mood on the drive back to the camp. He looked at the three Germans in the back of the truck with him, his eyes boring into their guilty faces. “Which one of you three numbskulls ratted me out for kissing Dottie?” he demanded.
No response.
“One of you told on me. I will get it out of you, eventually, so tell me now before I make every minute of your waking lives hell.”
Peter, sharing glances with the other two prisoners, coughed it up. “I told Mr Barrett you were canoodling with Dottie when you should have been working. It’s not fair. Why should we take the extra workload when you’re enjoying yourself?”
Wilmot, who had to try every day to curb his frustrations and his infamous temper, bit his lip and focused on the passing scenery. Smashing his fist into Peter’s face would only bring him more trouble, and he was already being stalked by a group of Nazi-lovers in the camp. He didn’t have much to do with Jürgen nowadays, but the man still held a grudge for losing his power base in Hut 64. Twice on his way back to the barracks, Wilmot had been confronted by a group of men. They hadn’t threatened him, but their offhanded, snarky remarks and veiled threats were clear indications he was being targeted. Satisfying as it would be to smash in a face or two, he couldn’t afford that degree of trouble.
The truck slowed down as it took a tight corner at the end of Concordia’s Main Street. The guard and driver inside the truck’s cabin were probably yapping and would be blind to what was going on behind them as the vehicle went around the bend in the road. Wilmot, glared at the three men in turn and spat, “Say one word now, and I’ll come down hard on you for the rest of your damn lives,” and then with one impulsive jump, he was over the side of the truck and walking towards a bar twenty metres back.
He sat on a bar stool with a pint of cold beer in his hand, no money in his pocket, and no reasonable excuse in his mind for what was going to be called by the military police his escape attempt. He didn’t give a shit about being arrested and marched back to camp. Living there was going to be hell without the hope of progressing with Dottie. He’d have all privileges revoked. He’d be confined to barracks, and he’d lose the daily allowance he counted on for his material comforts. So what? What was the worst thing that could happen now when the worst had already occurred?
The barman stared, his dislike of Wilmot etched in his face, but not enough to deny him service. Fuck him, too. I’m not the first German to walk into this bar. Men on the camp commander’s honour’s system were permitted to go into town without a guard. Wilmot raised his pint glass and said, “Cheers,” as the barman began wiping down the counter with a wet cloth.
Fifteen minutes later, two American military policemen entered the bar. “Staff Sergeant Vogel, I presume,” one of the men said, his voice laced with dry sarcasm.
Wilmot grinned cheekily, stood, clasped his hands together on his crown, and said, “Could you pay the barman for me, boys? I don’t seem to have any money on me.”
Upon his arrival at the camp, Wilmot was taken straight to a holding cell. As he waited for something to happen, he pondered on a variety of possible punishments. I was an idiot, he finally admitted. He didn’t want to be confined to barracks or have his daily allowance taken from him.
The two military policemen sat at a desk drinking coffee in the hallway outside the row of cells. Wilmot looked through the bars and asked, “Can I have a cigarette, please?”
“No. Shut up,” came the terse response from the giant of a man who had roughly thrown him into the back of the truck outside the bar in town.
A few hours later, the two guards flanked Wilmot and marched him to the administration offices. His earlier bravado had left him. His head had been heavy with the beer and he’d fallen asleep. Now, with a clearer mind, he felt the full weight of his actions and wondered if or when he would ever learn to curb his impulsive tendencies. “You know I wasn’t trying to escape, right?” he said to the guards.
“We don’t care what you were trying to do. You’re not our problem anymore,” one of the guards snapped.
Still mulling over that statement, Wilmot entered the commander’s office and was met by not only Commander Jacobs and Captain Grafton but also two men dressed in civilian suits.
“You’ve given us a merry dance, Staff Sergeant Vogel. You picked a fine day to pull your stunt, that’s for sure,” Commander Jacobs told Wilmot.
Wilmot, feeling like a small child in a room full of adults, glanced surreptitiously at the two civilian-dressed men who were silently studying him. Something about their well-dressed, humourless presence worried him. “I apologise, sir. Call it reckless, disrespectful, a momentary blunder … something that will never happen again. I am genuinely ashamed,” Wilmot responded, his plea for leniency heartfelt.
Jacobs gestured to his two guests and said in a somewhat-bored voice, “You’re no longer our concern, Vogel. You’ll be taken to your hut to pick up your gear, and then these two fine English gentlemen are going to escort you to Washington.”
Wilmot’s jaw tightened. Shocked, he flicked his eyes to each of the Englishmen.
Ignoring Wilmot, Captain Grafton pulled a document from his typewriter and stood with it in his hand. “I just need your signature, sir, and you’re all set,” he said to one of the visitors. Then he addressed Wilmot’s guards, “Take him to 64.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Washington DC, United States of America
26 September 1944
After they had finished their hurried lunch, Jonathan Heller and his American intelligence counterpart, Colonel Tony Cancio, wrapped up their final meeting. Heller had arrived in Washington DC two days after President Roosevelt’s return to the American capital from the Second Quebec Conference in Quebec, Canada. Prime Minister Churchill had gone back to London, and Heller had been ordered to travel to Washington to attend a series of Intelligence Services meetings, which usually took place after bilateral war conferences between Britain and America. Heller was ready to go home. It had been a long, arduous trip, but unlike previous conferences, it had also been upbeat and full of optimism.
“Well, Tony, that’s the eleventh wartime meeting of President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill over. All in all, I think it went rather well.”
The American intelligence section chief gave Heller a sardonic smile. “The meetings between our two leaders always go well until questions are raised by our respective governments. I wonder how often the agreements made between Churchill and Roosevelt over brandy and cigars are altered in the cold halls of power in London and Washington.”
“Hmm, you have a point, but unlike previous conferences, this one began with good news. Call me overly optimistic, but I see the end of this war.”
Tony sipped the last of his coffee and set the cup on the saucer. “If only Adolf would give up now, instead of fighting on because of his damn pride. His immediate surrender could save thousands of lives.”
“I think we both know he won’t capitulate, which means you and I will probably meet again.” Heller grinned crookedly. “Lucky us, eh? We might even be able to get in a game of cricket.”
“Baseball,” Tony corrected automatically.
Heller chuckled, then checked the time on his wristwatch. “I should make a move
. I’ll be in the air in four hours. Thanks again for all you’ve done for me, Tony. I know it was a big favour.”
“I’ll never let you forget it, Jonathan.” Tony grinned. “Your boy’s waiting downstairs. The paperwork’s done, and he’s all yours. I know you said it was a special favour for an important asset of yours, but there must be more to it. Before you leave, tell me again why you’ve gone to all this trouble for a German staff sergeant?”
Heller was reluctant to go into too much detail about Wilmot Vogel, even with Tony. He’d come up with the idea of getting the boy back across the Atlantic when his orders to attend the Quebec conference with the Prime Minister had been confirmed. It had been a difficult procedure, but Heller had counted on the goodwill he had generated with the American military intelligence agencies to see it through … as well as the personal goodwill between himself and Tony Cancio.
“I did it because of the sacrifices Wilmot’s father and brother have made in their service to His Majesty’s government. I saw this as payback for the hardships they’ve both endured. You see, Tony, when Wilmot eventually gets sent back to Germany, he’ll have no one to welcome him because his family is exiled in Britain.”
Tony tittered. “You feel sorry for him?”
“No. I have no sympathies for Wilmot, but I do for his father and mother who gave up everything they had to serve Britain. It’s a long story, and I will tell you about it one day. Can we leave it at that?”
“We can. I’m glad you came to me with this. Despite what some quarters think, we Intel’ buffs should help each other out. You have a safe trip home, Jon.”
Heller entered Wilmot’s holding room and then closed the door softly behind him. The first thing he noticed about the young man standing in front of the window was his black hair, Mediterranean looks, and dark, almost-black, unafraid eyes staring back at him. He had nothing of Max or Paul in him. He didn’t look anything like Dieter, either, but Laura – ah, yes – Heller was in no doubt that this was Laura Vogel’s youngest son.
“Hello, Wilmot. I see you got here none the worse for wear. Let’s sit and have a chat, shall we?”
Without taking his eyes off Heller, Wilmot sat in one of the two chairs at a desk devoid of office materials or any other adornments. He remained silent, suspicious, and with an excess of pride in his defiant chin thrust.
“Let me take these off for you,” Heller said, gesturing with a key to Wilmot’s handcuffs.
When they had been removed, Heller sat in the chair behind the desk. His eyes had been drawn to Wilmot’s black puckered scar travelling across his cheek from his nostril to his ear, and now he noticed other scars on the boy’s forehead, above his right eyebrow, and another slicing into his top lip. “That’s a nasty gash you’ve got there. How did you get it?” he asked, gesturing to the most prominent scar.
“It’s a battle scar. The Western Desert was a dangerous place.”
“Quite.”
“Who are you? What do you want from me?” Wilmot asked, in a clipped tone.
“My name is Jonathan Heller, and I don’t want anything from you.”
Wilmot raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Then why did I sit on a train for four days with two Englishmen who said no more than a handful of words to me the whole journey? Am I in trouble … that is, in even more in trouble than being a prisoner of war?”
Again, Heller compared Wilmot to Max. He had his older brother’s self-assuredness that came to the fore when he was in the presence of high-ranking government officials. But this Vogel also had a hardness in his face for one so young; as if he were desensitised to the horrors he had witnessed. According to Laura, Wilmot was smarter than the twins, but he’d been a bad student at school since his only ambition had been to serve in the military. She had also admitted that he was the rebel of the family.
“Wilmot, I work for the British Civil Service with your brother Max,” Heller began.
Wilmot flinched, but his suspicious eyes pooled at the mention of Max’s name.
The boy is sensitive after all, Heller noted. “Max and I are friends.”
“I see.”
Heller, having completed his initial observations of Wilmot, decided to get to the crux of the matter; not softly, softly, as he had intended, but go in hard and get it over with. This conversation was going to be difficult for the young man to comprehend, Heller surmised, and equally as challenging for him to explain. “I know your family very well, Wilmot, apart from Paul, whom I have not yet met in person. The Vogels mean a great deal to me, and to this end, I have arranged for you to be transferred to a prisoner of war camp in North London, England.”
A flash of disappointment crossed Wilmot’s eyes, leaving Heller perplexed.
“Is this not good news?”
“Why would you do that for me?”
Heller sat forward in his chair. “I am doing it for your family … for your mother and father.”
“My father is dead.”
“No, Wilmot. Your father is alive. He is in England with your mother and sister.”
“No!” Wilmot thumped his fist on the desk and began to rise.
“Sit down,” Heller warned him.
Wilmot’s wild eyes held Heller’s gaze as he slumped into the chair. “My father died in an air raid in Berlin in 1940. What sick game are you playing?”
“It’s no game. Your father is alive and well and working for the British government.” Heller pulled a photograph from his pocket. It showed Max, Judith, Dieter, Laura, and himself. He pushed it across the desk to Wilmot. “This was taken at Max’s wedding a few months ago. See here ... that’s his bride, Judith. She’s a German Jew. Your father saved her by getting her out of Germany, and afterwards, he staged his own death and went to London where he has been ever since.”
Wilmot seemed reluctant to look at the photograph.
“I understand this must be hard for you to take in, but it is the truth. Dieter Vogel is alive, and you are going to see both of your parents very soon. Look at it, Wilmot,” Heller urged.
Wilmot began to cry. His stooped shoulders heaved with heart-wrenching sobs, and his fingers shook as he finally handled the picture. For a moment, he looked engrossed in the family images staring back at him, but then he raised his eyes to Heller and uttered, “I can’t believe this … yes, I believe you, but it’s … it is a shock to learn that my father is a traitor to our country.”
“Your father is a hero.” Heller cleared his throat, surprised at his own heightened emotions. “I understand how difficult this must be for you. I practised the different ways I would inform you about Dieter, but I realise now there is no way to tell you other than coming straight out with it. Your father hates the Nazi Party and despises your Führer. He is a loyal and trusted asset of the British Intelligence Service, and he has been for quite some years.”
Wilmot sniffed, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then spat, “He is an abomination; that’s what my father is! I liked him better when I thought he was dead. Send me back to Camp Concordia.”
Heller rose. Taken aback by Wilmot’s animosity and the arrogance of his demand, he now questioned his doltish idea to surprise the Vogels with the gift of their long-lost son. “I’m afraid that is no longer an option, Wilmot. I have already signed the papers. You are now in the custody of the British authorities. In three hours, we will get on a seaplane and start our long journey to England. I suggest you get used to the idea, and whilst you are at it, drop your foul attitude. You might not agree with what he did, but Dieter Vogel is your father, and you’re fortunate to have him.”
Heller paused, as Wilmot fished out a packet of cigarettes from the top pocket of his poorly fitting tweed jacket. Someone at Camp Concordia had done a poor job dressing the boy for his journey to Washington. He felt his sympathy for Wilmot return. The boy was in shock, not only with the news about Dieter, but probably because he had spent four days on trains with two British intelligence officers who had been ordered not to tell him squat.
>
“Do you mind?” Wilmot asked, waving the cigarette. “Your men took my matches off me.”
Heller lit Wilmot’s cigarette and said, “I’ll get someone to bring you coffee and a sandwich…”
“Before you go … how is the war going? Are we winning in Europe?”
Angered once again by Wilmot’s hostile tone and the question, Heller snapped, “No, the Allies are winning. We, Great Britain, America, Canada, and our other allies are sweeping across France and into Belgium and Holland. The American Third Army is driving east along with units of the Seventh Army pushing north, and General Eisenhower, now in charge of this theatre, has an unbroken front from Holland to the Mediterranean. We have most of Italy, and Paris has been liberated. The Russians are pushing your forces out of the Soviet Union and the Baltic states and are now in Poland. American troops have entered Germany in force at three points – yes, that’s right, we are in Germany. We’re hoping to get your Führer’s agreement for a total and unconditional surrender by Christmas.” Heller sneered. “This is not classified information, Wilmot. You can tell your fellow Nazi lovers all about it when you get to your new camp in England.”
Wilmot’s gaze was unflinching. “That will please Max.”
“It should please everyone. It should please you. You don’t want to spend years in a prison camp, do you?”
Unable to hide his resentment, Wilmot grunted. “I want victory for Germany, Mr Heller. We have lost too many good men to lay down our weapons and surrender to the Allies. I think you are being over-ambitious in your estimate of what Germany and the Führer will do.”
He’s a straight talker, I’ll give him that, Heller thought, and he decided to drop the subject before he admitted he didn’t like the youngest Vogel. “Max was wounded in France. He should be in a hospital in Britain by now.”
At last, concern replaced Wilmot’s surly expression. “Will he be all right?”
“Yes – eventually – it was a serious injury.” Heller went to the door and opened it. “Getting you to Britain is a good thing, Wilmot. You’ll see,”