For those crimes, this young man who cries out for his love will die.
A cold, sick feeling drenches me to the core.
I remember the girl named Annalise, whom I was called to treat at the Wittelsbacher Palace. She too was one of the students. When I saw her in prison, she didn’t look like a revolutionary, a dangerous threat to the Reich. Just a painfully young woman, a schoolgirl, really. As always, I could do little for her.
What kind of country punishes its youth who have committed no crime?
Kirk’s eyes crack open. He blinks, looking at me with an unfocused gaze. “Thirsty,” he croaks.
I hasten to the table and return with the tin cup and a packet of aspirin powder. I pour some of the powder into the water, then lift his head and hold the cup to his lips. He drinks, then lays back down. “Danke,” he whispers. He stares at me a moment longer. “Are you … here to … interrogate me?” His body tenses.
I shake my head. “I’m a doctor. You’re ill. I’m here to take care of you.”
“They won’t let up … keep trying to get … more information. I wish they’d … get it over with.”
I look down at him, saying nothing. Doubtless that is the reason any attention is being given this man at all. They won’t do away with him until they’re through pumping him, and they’re not through yet.
I rise. This man should be in a hospital, where he can be deloused, given a hot bath, put in a clean room, and served nutritious food. Of course, in solitary confinement and on death row, little of that will happen, but I’ll speak to the guards anyway and leave them some packets of aspirin powder to administer. “I’m leaving now, Kirk. But I’ll come back soon and check on you.”
I’m not scheduled to work at Stadelheim for the next two days. I have private patients to attend to.
Good Aryans, not convicted political prisoners.
But when gratitude flickers across Kirk’s pale face, I know instinctively I will keep my promise. Not that it will make a difference.
It is a greater kindness to the wretches within these walls to aid them in a speedy death.
And here I am, trying to save lives.
I jolt awake, drenched in sweat. Katrin leans over me, shaking my shoulder, long blond hair flowing around her face. Darkness etches the room.
“Friedrich.” Her tone is soft, soothing.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Concern mars her features. “You were having a nightmare. You were shouting Eli’s name.”
My body sags into the mattress. “Was I?” I sigh, rubbing a hand across my eyes.
She rests her head on the pillow beside me, her palm on my chest. “You haven’t had a nightmare in years. Why now? Why Eli?”
“I don’t want to talk about Eli.” My tone is rougher than I intended. “Go back to sleep, Katrin.”
“I can’t.” She sits up in bed, sheets tangled around her. Her jaw is set in a stubborn line. I know better than to refuse my wife when she wears that look. In our five years of marriage, I’ve learned this the hard way.
I sigh again.
“Eli was your best friend. Our best friend. He died in a horrific way. Something like that can’t just be pushed aside.”
“Eli was Jewish.” Killed the night of Kristallnacht by a group of overzealous thugs two months before Katrin and I married. Eli, Katrin, and me. We’d been inseparable. A steadfast and true friendship, Eli my little brother at heart if not in blood, Katrin at our center. We were supposed to be indestructible.
Until the Nazis, we were.
I sit up, leaning against the headboard. Scrub my hands across my face. “They’re murdering Jews, Katrin. Hundreds of thousands of them. I’ve read Mein Kampf. It was his plan all along.” I look at her. “And I work for them, the criminals.”
“You work at Stadelheim but only a couple of days a week.”
“I witness executions.”
Her face turns ashen. “You … you never told me that.”
“I never told you because it’s too horrible to talk about. I still can’t talk about it.” Not without being sick. Not without seeing every one of their faces, starting with the first.
“Then why tell me now?” To her credit, she doesn’t linger on the fact that I’ve been keeping something from her. Katrin is a much better wife than I deserve.
“I met a young man today. A patient. He has typhus. Remember those students who were tried by the People’s Court?”
Katrin nods.
“He was one of them. He’s in a death cell, and he says he’s still being interrogated. He looked … how can I describe it? He looked haunted. The worst part about it was … he was nice. Ordinary. About Eli’s age when he …” I draw in a long breath, throat tightening. “When I told him I’d come back soon, he gave me this grateful smile. Like I’d offered him the moon.”
“Can nothing be done for him?”
“If he has family, they’ll petition for clemency. Will they succeed? I doubt it. Not in a case like that. The court is determined to make examples out of all of them.”
“So he dies.” Her voice trembles a little.
“They all die.”
We sit in silence, our bedroom cloaked in blackout curtains and unspoken thoughts. If there were only some way …
The sentence hangs unfinished in my mind.
If there was, would I take the risk? Would I gamble with my life, the life of my wife, to save a stranger?
“What an indifferent world this is,” Katrin says softly.
“Which is worse, I wonder. Indifference or hate?”
“It takes effort to feel hate. Indifference is easy.” Katrin rubs a strand of hair between her fingers. The war has exacted its toll from us both. Stalingrad stole her brother. An air raid, my cousin from Cologne.
“And yet we’re all guilty of indifference.” I sigh again. “Except for a few, those students among them.” I meet her eyes, searching them. “If an opportunity presented itself, would you risk your own life to save another? On the unlikely chance you’d actually succeed.” An incredulous smile tugs at my lips. What I’m thinking … it’s madness.
Katrin hesitates, then nods. “If we hope for a different world, then must we not begin now to do our part to make it so? If we don’t, then who will?”
I lift my gaze to the ceiling, sending a prayer heavenward. “Who, indeed?”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Kirk
May 20, 1943
FLAMES LAP AT MY body with reddish-orange tongues. I’m on fire. I have to be.
Water. What I wouldn’t give to have someone pour it over me and douse the flames. I open my eyes. The gray walls around me dance and weave. My stomach heaves, only there’s nothing left to retch out. Every joint in my body aches.
“Kirk.” The voice sounds far away. I’ve heard it before. Where? I can’t remember. It takes too much effort to remember.
“Go ’way,” I try to mumble. My lips feel thick and unwieldy. “Leavemebe. No … more … questions …”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Kirk. I’m here to help. But you have to trust me. Do you trust me?” Something shadowy hovers above me. The source of the voice?
“Yeah,” I manage. But I don’t. I don’t trust anybody. All they do is lie.
I want Annalise. She’ll keep me safe. She’ll make them go away.
She’s not here. The voice belongs to someone else. A man.
And I’m supposed to be keeping her safe. I’ve failed.
“Failure.” The little boy holding the teddy bear looks at me with glassy eyes. His frame is skeletal. Ghostly.
“Failure!” Hans shouts, his face anguished. I try to reach out to him, but he’s too far away.
“Failure.” Tears trickle down Annalise’s cheeks. “You failed, Kirk.”
“I’m sorry,” I moan. “I’m so sorry.”
“Shh. There now. It’s all right.” Slow soothing words. I let myself be lulled by them, swept away. A heavy sleepiness purls through
my veins, silencing the voices.
The world goes dark.
Friedrich
May 20, 1943
Kirk lies motionless and stiff on his cot.
There’s no time for deliberation. I’ve done it, and I must act quickly. I stow the supplies I’ve gambled everything on in the inner pocket of my bag. Syringe, needle, the vial of drugs. I draw in a breath of acrid air—it’s only gotten worse since I was last here—and marshal my features into an appropriate expression of mild shock (it would never do to show too much emotion over a death row patient).
I cast a glance at Kirk. The drugs have lowered his breathing and heart rate to the point that a casual observer, like the guard, will think him actually dead. It would take a trained medical eye to detect otherwise.
This will work. It has to.
I rap hard on the cell door. At first, nothing. Then footsteps and a key in the lock.
“Finished?” The guard reeks of fresh cigarette smoke.
Smoking on duty, were you, my man?
“Not exactly.” I pause for effect. My heartbeat fills my ears. Everything depends on my convincing performance during the next few minutes. “The man is dead. When I entered the cell, he was gasping out his last breaths. I did all in my power to save him.” Ja, that’s right. A little regretful, but then, medicine can’t work miracles.
“Well, that’ll cheat the executioner one.”
“He had typhus. A serious case.” A moderate one, actually. “He needs to be removed from the premises as quickly as possible. Only those who’ve been inoculated are allowed to move him.” I ramble about typhus and its grim fatalities, watching the guard’s eyes grow wider. He slowly backs away from the cell. “Is there a coffin about?”
The guard nods.
“See that it’s fetched. One of you can help me clear the cell of the body.” I shoot a look of disgust toward the door.
Another nod.
“The kommandant should be informed, and there’s paperwork to be completed. I’ll make a recommendation the corpse be released immediately to the Anatomical Institute. They’ll find some use for it in their dissection laboratory.”
“We’ll begin preparations straightaway.” The guard turns smartly, leaving me standing in the solitary corridor. Placards reading Death Sentence stare back at me.
I steady myself for a moment, drawing in calm. I must go to the prison office and complete my portion of the paperwork. Often the corpses of those executed are sent directly to one of the anatomical institutes, leaving the families no time to request the body for private burial. A practice begun after the families, quite naturally, tried to do so, robbing the institutes of dissection material.
I blow out a breath. I’m a doctor, not a man of quick words and cunning intellect.
But I must use my title as the first and conjure the qualities of the second if I’m to talk my way into the Anatomical Institute.
Two hours later, I’m en route to the Anatomical Institute. With the assistance of the guard, I lifted Kirk into the wooden crate they’re using for coffins these days. Cheaply made, there are plenty of cracks to let in air. Yet unease filled me nonetheless as the lid slammed shut.
Once the institute gets word of a shipment, they’re quick to send a truck over for pickup. During my own studies, I often participated in dissections. Of course then corpses were fewer and farther between. If any came from prisons, they were of convicted murderers, not random individuals who distributed leaflets or were caught tuning in to the BBC.
These days, the institutes have more bodies than they have time.
Soon I’m climbing broad stone steps and making my way through white-tiled hallways that smell of antiseptic and lime. None of the men striding purposefully through the corridors pay me any heed. I stop before a frosted-glass door, raised black lettering declaring this the office of Dr. Hermann Wagner. There’s no guarantee the eminent anatomist will be in or that he’ll even see me.
God didn’t save Eli. Only silence answered my pleas then.
Is it too much to ask for a miracle on behalf of Kirk Hoffmann?
I send up a silent prayer anyway, as I raise my fist to knock.
A moment later, the door opens. White-coated and balding, Dr. Wagner takes my measure. His narrow eyes are cushioned in a face grown doughier since I sat under his tutelage.
“Dr. Wagner.” I hold out my hand. He doesn’t take it.
“Do I know you?”
“Once. My name is Dr. Friedrich Voigt. I studied under you years ago.” I try for an “old times’ sake” smile.
“I don’t recall. Is there some reason you wish to see me?”
I nod. “Might I come in? It’ll only take a moment.”
The little eyes flicker with annoyance. Wagner opens his mouth. He’s going to refuse.
“Only a moment, Dr. Wagner.”
“Very well.” Wagner steps aside and walks toward his desk. He motions for me to take a seat across from him.
“Speak fast, Voigt. I’m a busy man.” Wagner leans back in the leather chair.
“Along with my private practice, I’m also on staff at Stadelheim Prison. As you know, our two facilities have been doing a good deal of business together as of late.”
“That’s an understatement.” Wagner issues a gruff laugh. “Seditious rebels.”
I lean forward, folding my hands atop the desk. “As you say, sir. However, there’s a particular cadaver that should be arriving here any time now that I have a special interest in.”
“Special interest in a cadaver?”
“It’s rather an unhappy circumstance. You see, I happen to know the family of the young man. Kirk Hoffmann is his name. He died quite suddenly of an infectious disease. I know it’s not standard practice, but I would like the body to be released to the family and given a proper burial.”
“You’re saying you wish me to bend the rules to retrieve the corpse of an old friend?” Wagner’s bushy eyebrows twitch.
I nod, swallowing through the dryness in my throat. “I’m willing to take all responsibility upon myself if there are any issues. And …” I pause. “Make it well-worth your while.”
Wagner may be a deft hand with a scalpel, but he’d never make it in a game of cards. I can read the greedy light in his eyes far too readily.
“So will there be any … difficulties?”
Wagner tilts his head, considering. “Not for, shall we say, five hundred marks. Then I’m sure any difficulties could be done away with without issue.”
“Good. Once the body is in my possession, I’ll see to it you receive compensation in full.” I rise. “I’ll come around with a van and take delivery in an hour, if that’s convenient.”
“Fine.”
I turn and make my way toward the door.
“Say, what was his crime?” Wagner’s words give me pause.
“Oh, one of those pathetic resistance situations. You know how they are.” I keep my tone light. “I pity the family though. He was their only son.”
Wagner chuckles. “At least he cheated the guillotine.”
I place my hand on the doorknob, letting myself out.
Indeed, he may have.
Kirk
May 21, 1943
Cracking my eyes open feels like lifting cement bricks. When I do, everything is blurry and unfocused. My limbs are strangely heavy, but that doesn’t stop them from aching. The back of my throat is dry and swollen.
My eyes ache with the effort of looking down. I’m covered in something white. Whatever I’m lying on is cushioned like a mattress. Around me are various crates and objects draped in cloth.
Where am I?
A rhythmic thumping. Footsteps? A figure emerges from the shadows. He’s tall, dark-haired. Panic tears through me. It all comes back in a rush. Interrogators. A prison cell. A courtroom and judge in red robes spewing vile names. A girl with tears in her eyes … Annalise.
I arch forward, trying to sit, but the man presses me down.
“Steady now.” His tone is quiet. “It’s all right. Lie back.”
Another figure appears behind the man. A blond woman. “He’s awake,” she says in an awed voice.
“Water, Katrin. Quickly.”
The woman hastens forward, kneeling. She holds a glass in her hands. The man lifts my head, and the woman pours a trickle of coolness down my throat. I want to gulp every drop of the soothing water, but the woman takes the glass away after I’ve finished half.
“That’s enough for now.” She has a gentle voice. Like Annalise’s, only softer.
“Where am I?” My words are old-man gravelly.
“You must rest.” The man has my wrist in his grip. A familiar recollection from what seems like another life crosses my mind. Is he taking my pulse?
I shake my head, grimacing. “Nein. I need to know.” Something isn’t right. I’m not in a prison cell anymore. Again a rush of panic cramps my empty stomach. My head pounds.
The man lowers my hand onto the blanket and surveys me a moment more. “I’m Dr. Friedrich Voigt. This is my wife, Katrin.” He gestures to the woman. She smiles. “You’re in our home. Our attic, to be precise.”
I rub a hand across gritty eyes. “I don’t understand. Why … why am I in your attic?” This isn’t real. I’m hallucinating. Didn’t I once tend a patient who experienced similar symptoms? Did I ever even have patients?
“You had typhus. Still have, I’m afraid.”
Typhus. Fever. Headache. Cough. Rash. In Russia, I treated men with the disease. That much I believe. “I was … wasn’t I in Stadelheim?”
Katrin nods. “Your being here at all is a miracle.” She pulls her sweater tighter around herself. “My husband helped you escape from the prison.”
“Escape?” My voice is a weak echo.
Dr. Voigt smiles faintly. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I’m one of the doctors at Stadelheim. I visited you while you were ill. Two days later, I gave you an injection which had the effect of making you appear stiff and unresponsive. In short, as if you’d died of the disease. I assisted in preparing you for transport and signed off on the necessary paperwork. I then went to the Anatomical Institute where I purchased your corpse under the guise of returning it to your family for burial. You were transported here yesterday in a delivery van belonging to Katrin’s uncle. You woke briefly when we gave you a disinfecting bath, but you probably don’t remember. Since then, you’ve been sleeping off the drugs—and the typhus, I expect.”
The White Rose Resists Page 34