He arrived in the living room to find Martin standing belligerently by the crackling fireplace, a glass of brandy in his hand. He had witnessed Martin angry before: his face ruddy, eyes squinting, his lips snarling over his teeth as if he was getting ready to bite. He had expected to find him in this state. But instead Martin bore an expression of fury held in check by terror. The glass in his hand was so firmly grasped that Helmut feared it might shatter at any moment.
At first Helmut thought that he might start off by describing the circumstances of how Ruth had come to be in the house, but seeing Martin in this state he was more inclined to wait and let him calm down, otherwise there was the very real danger that his brother-in-law would experience a cardiac arrest. No doubt his reaction was due to having been placed in an untenable situation.
Sensing perhaps that his grip on the glass was too firm, Martin set it on the mantelpiece and turned to look at Helmut. “I presume that Magda knows about this?” His tone was even, not accusing or reprimanding, but clearly demanding.
Helmut simply nodded.
“You realise what will happen if the Gestapo find out?”
Helmut nodded again.
Martin nodded with him. “I thought that you were foolhardy at times to say the things you did in public. But then, you felt protected.”
Helmut was about to protest.
“No, please, let me finish. But this, this, this is not mere words. You have effectively harboured an enemy of the Reich.”
Again Helmut was about to protest; Martin raised his hand firmly to stop him.
“This is treason. And the Gestapo are going to rightly assume that Magda and Anna are part of it. Which means that all of you will be shot. So I think maybe you don’t care for yourself, or for Magda. But you must love and care for your daughter?”
Helmut remained silent.
“And now you have dragged me into this. So, Helmut, what is it you want? Papers?”
“We have papers.”
“Then what?”
“Magda and I thought that maybe you can suggest a way to smuggle her to Zurich. I have a relative who has agreed to look after her.”
“Smuggle?” Martin veritably hissed. “Smuggle?! Can you explain to me why I would want to smuggle a Jewish girl to Zurich?”
“All right, maybe ‘smuggle’ is not the right word. Escort. Escort the girl under your auspices to Zurich.”
“Can I at least have a look at the papers?”
Helmut swiftly went over to the escritoire and retrieved a leather binder. Inside he located a neatly folded sheet of paper and a card with a photo, and took both over to Martin.
Examining the paper and the card for some moments, Martin appeared satisfied with their legitimacy. “So, Helmut. Why the sudden need to smuggle her to Zurich?” His tone was on edge now.
“Things being what they are now, Magda and I have become worried,” Helmut replied quietly.
“Really. May I ask, how long has she been here?”
“Three years.”
“Three years?!” Martin came forward, almost shouting.
“That’s correct.”
Martin sneered loudly. “And you expect me to believe that all of a sudden, out of the blue, you have become worried?” He paused to take another sip, enjoying ridiculing his brother-inlaw. “Come, Helmut. What is it you are not telling me?”
Helmut swallowed hard, taking the ribbing that he normally dished out to Martin and his parents-in-law. “I missed something,” he uttered under his breath.
Martin came up close to where Helmut was standing, his chest puffed up. “The great Professor Helmut Jodl, the huge genius, missed something.” His mouth stretched into a contented jeer.
“Are you going to help me or not?” Helmut rebuffed him sullenly.
“Not until you tell me what you missed.”
“Let’s just say, if she is ever discovered her presence will raise more questions than the paperwork can support.”
“What questions?”
“Like, why isn’t she in school?”
“And, why isn’t she?”
“Well, because she will be recognised.”
“I see. Tell me something, Herr Professor; whose idea was it to involve me?” Martin stared apprehensively at his brother-in-law.
“Mine.” Magda was standing in the doorway, clutching Anna’s hand. They had come in quietly through the back entrance. “I asked him to ask you. It was my idea. Can you help or not?”
Martin nodded acquiescently. Tucking the paper and card inside his breast pocket, he rose, drained the last of his brandy and walked over to where Magda was standing. “Just so we are clear, I am doing this for you and Anna, not for him.” He pointed dismissively at Helmut.
Helmut nodded silently.
“Tell her to pack a small suitcase. Never forget her new identity, no matter what happens. Give me the address in Zurich.” He was back to his officious self, issuing orders.
Helmut was flooded with relief. He was almost tempted to hug his brother-in-law, except Martin’s stern expression told him that that would not be appropriate at this moment. Instead he bounded up the steps and walked into Anna’s room. A few moments later he re-emerged in the living room with Ruth in tow, holding a small suitcase and bundled up warmly in a thick overcoat and scarf.
“Ruth, this is Martin, as I explained before. Anna’s uncle. He will escort you to my aunt in Zurich where you will be safe.”
Ruth stared up at the SS officer looking down at her disapprovingly, yet his expression was no longer hostile, nor his demeanour threatening. She let go of Helmut’s hand and walked over to Martin. “The professor told me to do everything you say and never forget my new name.”
Despite his officious persona and the peril inherent in this undertaking, Martin couldn’t help but let a fleeting smile cross his face. Gingerly he took Ruth’s hand in his and together they headed into the vestibule.
Magda stood aside to let them through, while Anna and Ruth hugged each other, not saying anything.
As he was putting on his overcoat, Martin turned to face Helmut with a curious look on his face. “How do you know that halfway to Zurich I won’t turn her over to the Gestapo? I could always say I discovered her hiding in an empty farmhouse. It happens all the time.”
Helmut smirked. “It had occurred to me, except I never considered you an evil man, Martin. Just misguided.” With that he leaned down to Ruth and gave her a warm embrace. “You will be safe with Martin. Once this is all over we will get together again: you, Anna, me.”
Ruth held him tightly and then, prodded by Martin, shed his embrace.
Adjusting his collar against the icy wind, Martin took Ruth Lipschutz’s, alias Helga Dreschler’s, hand in his and together they walked out of the warm house into the freezing winter night. In the distance the sound of bombs could be heard clearly as they pounded the earth, wrecking the buildings and houses and killing their occupants indiscriminately. Ironically the person most in danger was the safest now as she followed her escort out of the fires and chaos of Berlin towards Zurich.
UTRECHT
WINTER 1944
Friedrich froze in place. The command was in German, albeit accented, but if it had been in any language, reinforced with the pistol, he would have understood and obeyed.
With his visibility denied he kept a keen ear to the sounds around him so that he could gauge the size of the basement and who was in it. The moaning sound, coming from perhaps five to six feet to his left, was that of a female suffering from a serious injury or illness. He couldn’t tell. The little waif that led him here had all but disappeared.
The person with the pistol to his right slowly reached over and felt for his holster. Friedrich moved his right hand in that direction to unbuckle it. A sudden blow to that hand made him recoil and yell out in pain.
“I told you not to move.” The voice was harsh and cold.
Regaining his composure, Friedrich turned slightly to his right. “I was go
ing to give it to you.”
“What are you doing here?” It felt as though the voice was inches from his ear; he could almost sense the movement of the lips.
“The little girl. I thought she asked for a doctor.”
“A doctor?” his interlocutor spat out in disgust.
Friedrich remained silent.
The moaning rose to an anguished plea, accompanied by some words mumbled in Dutch. Words that Friedrich thought he understood, but he remained quiet, refusing to divulge his past grasp of the language. His captors’ ignorance could only serve to his advantage.
“I can help,” he offered.
“Shut up.” The person to his right then switched to Dutch and spoke rapidly to the inside of the basement. The only words Friedrich understood were ‘Lotte’ and ‘kom hier’.
A short silhouette materialised from out of the darkness and stood a couple of feet away. It was the waif that brought him here. Lotte.
The man resumed speaking quickly in Dutch. Friedrich grasped enough. They proposed to keep the wounded woman here until the dead of night and then transport her out. The speaker was instructing Lotte to deliver the message to someone on the outside.
“If you don’t take her to a hospital or have a doctor look at her soon, she will die.”
“I thought I told you to shut up.”
Lotte spoke up. Friedrich listened keenly, trying to make out the exchange, simultaneously thinking that the uniform he clung to would either cost or spare his life.
“The girl says that you told her you are a doctor.”
“Yes. That’s right. I told you already, I am a doctor and I can help.”
“I want you to listen really well to what I am going to say. Any mistakes and I will put a bullet in your filthy Nazi brain. Understood?”
“I am not a Nazi.”
A snigger. “OK. I am going to move the gun from your head. You are going to put down the bag and walk away from it.”
The woman on the floor nearby cried out in agony.
“I must help her.”
“Don’t worry about her. Listen to what I am saying to you.” The barrel tightened against his temple. “I will turn on a lamp and you can then examine the woman. If you are not a doctor, we will know soon enough, in which case you will be shot. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“OK.” The gun’s barrel moved away from Friedrich’s temple and he felt a sharp jab in his lower back. “Go! Walk in a straight line.”
To his left a kerosene lamp flickered on, lighting up the edges of the dingy basement. His guess had been right: five feet away to his left was a mattress on the floor. He could just make out the woman’s head facing the wall, her hair matted to the side of her face. A greyish, frayed woollen blanket covered her body, which was curled over in agony. There were some implements next to the mattress and a jug of water.
“Go!” He was prodded again.
“What is wrong with her?”
“Never mind that. Just go over and help her.”
“But I need to know what happened so that I can treat it.” He instinctively turned to face the speaker, but his movement was halted by a fierce blow to his face. Friedrich stumbled sideways.
“Don’t look at me again.” The arm came forward with the pistol pointing at the mattress. “She was shot.”
“When?”
Another voice from inside the basement spoke out in Dutch. Friedrich understood but waited for the translation. As long as they didn’t know he spoke Dutch he could stay one step ahead of them in case they decided to harm him.
The man holding the gun replied, “We think an hour ago.”
“You think?”
“Well, we don’t know. She was brought here in this condition.
We don’t actually know when it happened.”
“You need to get her to a hospital.”
“No hospital.”
Friedrich started to unbutton his tunic as he came closer to the body on the mattress.
“Don’t look at her face.”
Kneeling by the edge of the mattress, he peeled back the filthy blanket, peering at the body to determine the source of the wound. An oozing gauze covered the right side of her abdomen next to her kidney. Next to the wound were several wadded-up rags that they had used to stem the bleeding. She had lost a lot of blood and was still losing more.
Turning his head away from her face, he felt her forehead and then touched her wrist to feel her pulse: she had a high fever and her pulse was very faint. He doubted that he could save her; but he needed to save himself regardless.
“She is in a very poor condition. I will do everything I can. But if I treat her, I can’t go back. You understand that?”
The person holding the gun spoke to the interlocutor deep inside the basement. Rapid Dutch. Friedrich’s command of the language wasn’t that fluent.
“So?”
Friedrich instinctively tried to look up, but immediately turned back. “I need to change out of the uniform. I have civilian clothes in my duffel. I will need a clean gauze, or cloth. Hot water. A knife and something to heat it up with.”
Another exchange in Dutch between the two men, the speaker outside his view saying, “Koert?” - so presumably that was the name of the person holding the gun to Friedrich.
“OK,” Koert agreed.
Friedrich rose up, facing the wall, unbuckled his belt, peeled off his trousers, removed his tunic and holster and tossed them in a bundle to the side. He then knelt down to reach for his duffel.
“Wait!” Koert prodded him in the side before he could reach for the bag. He picked up the duffel, loosening the drawstring and, holding it upside down, examined the contents as they tumbled to the floor. “OK, you can get dressed.”
“Get rid of that.” Friedrich pointed to his uniform bundled next to the bed.
By the time he was dressed in civilian clothes, a pan with hot water had been placed next to the mattress by Lotte; a lit candle was placed alongside it, and several more rags added to the bundle.
“I need a knife, or some sharp object.”
This prompted another exchange between Koert and the speaker in the recess of the basement.
Koert leaned forward and handed Friedrich a pocket knife. “Don’t get any ideas. We will not hesitate to shoot you.”
Friedrich slowly peeled back the gauze that was now drenched in blood, at the same time turning up the flame on the lamp. The bullet had penetrated deeply, most likely buried either in heavy muscle in the back or near the kidney. Either way he would have to stem the bleeding fast if she were to have even a remote chance of surviving.
Taking one of the rags, he soaked it in the pan of hot water, rinsed it and began cleaning the wound. It was still oozing, but the bleeding had slowed. Either the pulse had weakened further, or she had lost so much blood that it was draining slowly.
Heating the blade on the candle, he brought the knife close to the wound and started scraping at the edge.
The woman screamed.
“You will need to put something in her mouth and hold her still.”
Koert spoke to Lotte. The little girl came up, wadded one of the cloths and forced it into the woman’s mouth. The woman shuddered. The man from the dark recess of the basement appeared in the gloom and held her down from behind by both shoulders.
Friedrich resumed scraping along the edge of the wound. At each movement of the knife the woman bucked and screamed into the rag stuffed in her mouth. The man holding her down had to lean forward and place his knees astride her head to gain purchase. Friedrich marvelled at her strength: her injury was grave; she had lost a great deal of blood; she was feverish, yet she was able to overcome the person holding her down. And he was no weakling; Friedrich sized him up in the glow cast by the lamp: broad shoulders, burly arms and thick hands. He could only see him from the neck down. He had a straggly beard and was wearing an army fatigue, like a jacket, either brown or green.
The cloth that Friedrich
was using was soaked with blood. He set it aside, dipped a fresh one in the pan, cleared the skin and blood and gently pulled at the edges of the wound. He needed to reach inside with some implement and attempt to dislodge the bullet.
He looked at the bearded man assisting him. “I need a pair of tweezers, something to reach inside the wound.”
“Tweezers?” The voice sounded confused.
Koert translated. No movement.
“Also, I will need something to anaesthetise the wound and calm her down. If she passes out, we may lose her.”
He could hear footsteps moving behind him, a door opening, and then footsteps approaching the mattress. A bottle clinked to the floor and a thick, twisted steel wire was placed on the mattress. The bottle’s contents were clear.
He dipped another cloth in the pan, rinsed it, then poured some of the liquid onto the cloth. It smelled of Vodka. Picking up the makeshift tweezers, he cleaned them with the cloth.
“Pour some alcohol down her throat and then hold her down firmly.”
Koert started to translate, and the bearded hulk nodded, picking up the bottle. He removed the wadded cloth stuffed in the woman’s mouth, forced her lips open and poured two sips from the bottle into her mouth.
She convulsed, sputtering, and started coughing violently. Her head and torso came forward off the mattress. Her hair fell to the side of her face. Friedrich caught a quick glance. But that’s all he needed.
He whispers under his breath to no one in particular, "I know this woman."
BERLIN
WINTER 1944
The pounding had become incessant. Previously the bombings came mostly under the cover of darkness. Now they came like hornets in the twilight hours of the evening; other times, early in the morning. It was turning into a dull carnage exacted to inflict the greatest loss of human life and destruction of property. And it was indiscriminate. Those who had valiantly opposed the barbaric and inhumane dictatorship faced the same barrage from above as their tormentors.
Helmut would sometimes wait until mid morning before heading out to the university. The air bombardments would taper off till the early evening, giving him a window in which to venture out. It was safer, but not entirely so.
THE MADNESS LOCKER Page 18