A Quiet Genocide

by Glenn Bryant

  The professor’s Polish thickened his German with feeling. He slowed and Jozef felt the cold. He tried to turn up the collar on his jacket further, but it did not reach higher around his neck.

  ‘Mengele was flicking his finger,’ described the professor. ‘If he flicked it to the left, you were going straight to the crematorium. If he flicked it to the right you were going to the camp. Of course, we did not know in that moment.’

  ‘There were SS troops with dogs and sticks and rifles. All these people going left were cripples, old people, children, babies and mothers holding babies. Troops told mothers to go right and drop the babies. But what mother would do that? They tried to rip the babies from the mothers’ arms. If they couldn’t, they shot the mother or shot the baby.’

  The professor paused, thinking. ‘I will never understand how a person can kill babies and then sit down at night and have dinner with a wife and children and listen to music.’

  ‘We are back,’ said Jozef.

  ‘So we are,’ noted the professor, gazing up to his right and the university lecture block towering across the street.

  The professor started to feel the night in his bones. ‘It has been quite a day. We will get there,’ he said.

  Jozef stood and watched him walk inside, up to his office for maybe something stronger than coffee.

  ‘Jozef,’ called the professor from the door. He waited until he had established eye contact from across the street. ‘Danke.’

  Jozef smiled as warmly as he could.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Gerhard was drinking whisky with Michael in his front room. Catharina was with him. The idea made Gerhard more intoxicated than the liquor. Relations between Michael and Gerhard had dipped lately and they both felt it in the space they now uneasily shared.

  ‘I followed Catharina last Saturday,’ said Gerhard. ‘She is seeing a younger man. He lives above the butcher’s on Georg-Elser-Platz.’

  Michael said nothing and simply listened to his companion’s confession. The clock on the mantelpiece sounded 9pm. Its cheap chimes were as uncomfortable as they both felt. Gerhard began to sob, but Michael could not deal with that. He thought it pathetic, particularly in a man.

  ‘I could ask this Janus to move on,’ said Michael. ‘I am sure he would listen.’

  ‘I never said his name,’ said Gerhard, looking up from his pity. ‘How do you know his name?’

  Michael tried to paper over his error. ‘It is my job to know these things,’ he said. ‘You should know that.’

  Gerhard was tearful and too drunk to argue. He was also preoccupied with Michael’s offer. His emotion turned to thoughts of revenge, which appealed to him. He wanted to hurt Catharina, hurt her like she had hurt him. It was tempting to ask Michael to make her leave Munich, but perhaps the best revenge would be to deprive her of this man.

  ‘How can you be sure you can do it?’ Gerhard asked Michael, who was enjoying his whisky and glad his verbal slip had not been analysed more deeply.

  ‘I think you know what I am capable of. If you really do not, then know I am capable of this.’

  ‘I don’t want him hurt. Just away from here, away from Munich and out of our lives. For good.’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ said Michael. ‘There is something I now want from you. I want a new life for Jozef after he graduates. And I don’t want you or Catharina to fight me on this when the time comes. I want you to support me when I put it to him.’

  ‘A new life? What do you mean? I am sure Jozef will begin building a new life for himself after he leaves Berlin, but where that may be I do not know. I do not see it being here in Munich. Catharina maybe hopes it will be, but I am realistic enough to realise it won’t.’

  ‘I am talking about something a little more dramatic than another city. I am talking about another country, another continent – South America.’

  ‘South America! We would never see him. Why South America?’

  ‘His father has allies, powerful allies there. It could be the start of something, something important, something big for Jozef and for us. You know South America is the last haven we have?’

  ‘I had heard of former Party members escaping there,’ said Gerhard, pouring two more glasses of whisky.

  Michael reached his right hand forward to lift his drink off the table. He opened his hand to signal his glass was full enough. ‘Hitler had the vision for a thousand-year Reich, but not the mentality, the patience, the selflessness and the true outlook to realise it,’ said Michael with alarming candour. ‘Hitler tried to take over Europe in ten years. Suicide. But he was right when he said one thing, “We can be happy that the future belongs entirely to us”.’

  ‘You’re insane,’ said Gerhard.

  ‘Quite sane,’ said Michael before his tone cooled and darkened. ‘Look,’ he continued. ‘Do you want that whore of a wife of yours to suffer or not? You danced with the devil quite happily before.’

  * * *

  ‘Catharina,’ said Gerhard after supper the following evening. He hardly ever used her name. ‘I know you are having an affair. I forgive you, but I am asking you to stop. I am asking you to end it.’

  The words dropped like atomic bombs in the silence, mushrooming nightmarishly in Catharina’s alarmed mind. She had been in the middle of scraping leftovers from their plates before carrying them through to the kitchen. She was desperately clinging on to them, head bowed. It was Saturday tomorrow.

  Catharina had no idea what to say. She foolishly had not fully considered Gerhard unearthing her affair with Janus. She had not given him enough credit and she had stupidly discarded Michael’s warning at dinner that evening in the city. Michael, she thought. Catharina picked up the plates and carefully made her way through to the kitchen. She was grateful to have a reason.

  ‘Having an affair?’ she then offered weakly. ‘Gerhard, don’t be ridiculous. Who told you I was having an affair?’

  She reached the kitchen sink and stood absolutely still, awaiting her husband’s response. Please God, she prayed, looking up for the first time since Gerhard had spoken.

  ‘Catharina,’ said Gerhard, using her name again. ‘I saw you. I saw you outside the butcher’s on Georg-Elser-Platz.’

  Oh no. Oh no, she thought. She rushed back to their dining room, trying to half laugh off the accusation. The truth was she had never really experienced remorse for her actions.

  ‘Darling,’ she said. ‘I should have told you, I know. I never should have done it. I have struggled since Jozef left.’

  Gerhard knew that, but the pair of them had never sat down and properly discussed how displaced she felt. He could hardly take the moral high ground now. He would have only told her not to be so stupid had she tried to talk about it.

  ‘How many times?’ he asked.

  Catharina sensed an edge in his voice. ‘It’s only been a few,’ she said. ‘We didn’t do anything – just meet.’

  ‘I saw you kiss. You have kissed,’ said Gerhard.

  ‘Yes, we have kissed,’ Catharina immediately conceded. ‘But nothing more, I promise you, darling.’

  She was lying. They had had sex every time they had met since the second date. How many had there been since? Catharina had lost count.

  ‘It has to stop,’ said Gerhard, rising from his seat and reaching first for whisky and then a glass.

  It can’t stop, Catharina thought.

  * * *

  Early Saturday afternoon came.

  ‘Gerhard knows,’ Catharina said, lying naked with her head resting on Janus’ midriff.

  She had not gone to see Janus that Thursday for fear of exposing her affair further. She was desperate to protect her lover, but she was equally desperate to see him. The two emotions were irreconcilable.

  ‘Someone told him,’ she continued. ‘They must have followed me one day.’

  ‘It was inevitable,’ Janus replied. ‘Nothing good lasts forever.’

  That was not what she wanted to hear. Catharina want
ed comforting; she wanted more – not acceptance or philosophy. She thought she was special. Catharina reached for the sheets and pulled them over her exposed frame. She did not want Janus seeing her suddenly.

  ‘What should we do?’ she asked.

  ‘I want you to do what you want to do.’

  ‘I want you to tell me what to do,’ said Catharina, turning around and looking up at his face.

  ‘I want to see you,’ Janus finally replied. ‘I want us to see each other.’

  Catharina bowed her head to hide her smile. This was what she had wanted to hear. She would have to go soon, but at least she would leave with hope in her heart.

  ‘I like you, Catharina, I like you a lot,’ said Janus, stroking her hair, which tickled and caused her to flinch.

  ‘I like you too,’ she said, rising up out of bed and exposing the back of her body.

  Janus loved her round bottom and ached at its beauty.

  Catharina quickly tried to cover herself, feeling far too vulnerable.

  Janus saw her discomfort and reached for her, so she could not easily dress.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘You are beautiful.’

  Catharina was still uneasy accepting such compliments, even from someone she was now so intimate with. She felt the devil was trying to trick her.

  ‘Janus, you are beautiful,’ she said in her way of saying thank you. She turned around and rewarded him with the full sight of her and leaned in for a deep kiss, holding her frame up with her arms, so he could do what he wanted with the rest of her. She found that position most arousing when they made love.

  ‘We cannot see each other on Thursdays anymore,’ she said.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Can you get time off in the day during the week?’

  ‘I can see if I can have a different afternoon off, but I would have to swap it for Saturday and make up the time. I will try.’

  ‘Okay, good. Try,’ said Catharina, pulling tights up her legs and preparing herself for her husband again.

  ‘We have been happy, Catharina,’ said Janus, still undressed and with only a sheet loosely covering him.

  Catharina did not like the finality, the fatalism of his last statement. ‘We are happy,’ she said defiantly.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jozef wanted to visit the central records office in Berlin alone. It was late but he knew it did not close until 10pm. He had had an idea.

  ‘Guten Abend,’ he said to the smart lady policing the front desk.

  ‘Guten Abend. How may I help?’

  ‘Do you keep records of children born in other parts of Germany, in Munich particularly?’

  ‘We do. You would normally need to go to the family records centre,’ said the lady. ‘But it is closed from 6pm. I can bring the files up for you to look at. You will have to sign for them. Do you have identification?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jozef, digging in his pockets for his university papers. ‘My name is Jozef Diederich. I am an undergraduate at the university.’

  The lady scanned Jozef’s papers and handed them back to him. ‘What years would you like to look at, Herr Diederich?’

  ‘1935 to 1945,’ he answered and waited while the lady left the front desk and made her way down to where the relevant records were kept.

  She sighed as she went. She was clearly not thrilled to be working this evening.

  Jozef looked about himself. He was in a cavernous corridor with double doors to large rooms in front of him. Behind his back, the building seemed closed off to the public. It was dark and quiet and alien from the daytime bustle of his last visit with Professor Zielinski. He could have done with some company, he thought as he sat down and waited. The lady reappeared pushing a cart carrying huge tomes of information. Jozef felt hopeless when he witnessed the magnitude of the task.

  ‘Herr Diederich, here are the birth records for Munich, 1935-1945,’ the lady announced. ‘Would you like to come through to a table in the main library where you can view them?’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you,’ said Jozef, dutifully following the lady.

  He saw a security guard return to his post near the main entrance and immediately felt better for seeing another person. The guard was reading a newspaper, Süddeutsche Zeitung. Jozef recognised it because it was the one his father read.

  He felt overwhelmed when the lady left him alone with the intimidating slabs of records. He at least had a large table to himself inviting him to begin his search. Half an hour went by. Nothing. The fact that nobody else was reading records this evening was hardly helping his motivation. Jozef’s will was waning.

  The lighting was poor in the library. Jozef had a spotlight on his table, but it was weak in all this space. He had to move the heavy volumes close to it to scrutinise their secrets. A figure, or so he envisioned, moved outside his line of vision. He exercised his shoulders to try and shake off the concern. The moonlight, slanting in from imperious glass windows, must have been playing tricks.

  Jozef reached the volume containing the records of births in Munich in 1941. He drank from a glass of water he had received from the lady at the front desk to revive his senses and started wading through the pages to March 3, his birthdate. More pages. He scanned down the Ds: Daecher. Decher. Diederich - here they were - running his finger down the names. Johan, Johan, Johan, another Johan. Jozef. Jozef. His heart froze.

  ‘Diederich, Jozef. Born 5.30pm, March 3, 1941. Central Munich Hospital. Parents Gerhard and Catharina…’

  More movement, definitely, at two o’clock. Someone was there. Was someone there? Jozef flushed with heat and started to panic. He slammed shut the books and heaved them into an uneasy topple back on the cart. He pushed the heavy contraption in front of him as quickly as he could without careering out of control. The safety of the double doors lay ahead, like a sanctuary begging to be reached, opening out into the main lobby and people, life. Jozef span his head around. He almost did not want to risk it, but his instincts forced him. He saw it again, he thought.

  He startled like a horse and abandoned the cart of books, dashing the last few yards to the double doors and barrelling through them, and stinging his shoulder painfully in the process. He saw the lady at the front desk peer curiously down her glasses at him. He was panting. Jozef immediately felt better, safe in the presence of the clerk. His heart was still pounding.

  ‘The books are on the cart by the door,’ said Jozef, gasping slightly. ‘I am very sorry. I have to go.’

  * * *

  ‘What does it mean?’ Jozef said eagerly to the professor the following day.

  It was late morning. He had not had time to properly process the information he had unearthed in the records office the previous evening.

  ‘First of all, well done,’ said the professor, trying to defuse the situation as best he could.

  Jozef was pacing impatiently up and down, up and down in the professor’s office. ‘I feel rather embarrassed that was not my first thought,’ he continued, politely reprimanding himself out loud.

  ‘I am not adopted then. My parents are wrong. They are my real parents,’ said Jozef, still pacing.

  ‘Jozef, please, sit down,’ begged the professor. ‘You are making me dizzy.’

  He adjusted his bow tie, like a nervous tic and Jozef sat down.

  ‘Let me think,’ said the professor and Jozef turned to him, waiting. ‘The Jozef Diederich you found can’t be you, it can’t be. Why would your parents tell you you are adopted? Why would they risk that – they love you very much – if it was not the truth?’ he questioned, allowing thoughts to voice themselves in no real order.

  Jozef remained silent and the professor steadied himself and began to nod gently. Jozef’s eyes tightened in anticipation.

  ‘I think it is you, but then of course it isn’t you. It cannot be.’

  Jozef only looked puzzled.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ said the professor, holding his gaze. ‘This is of course assuming yo
u are adopted and that your parents were telling the truth. Do you agree they were?’

  ‘I agree they were.’

  ‘Good. So do I. You were adopted and I believe you are very nearly nineteen, give or take perhaps six months either way. It would be virtually impossible for you to share a birthdate with your other self. No, that cannot be,’ said the professor.

  Jozef was struggling to interpret his thinking.

  ‘I do not believe your name is Jozef, nor is it Diederich. That is your adopted parents’ name. Jozef must have been someone else’s name. But I do believe you have a brother, not by blood. Do you understand?’

  Jozef nodded, slowly at first but then more definitely with dawning clarity.

  ‘You became Jozef Diederich the day they took you in and you stopped being who you were previously. Your adopted parents had a child and called him Jozef. He was born on March 3, 1941. You have become him, Jozef,’ said the professor.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jozef, still digesting this life-changing information. ‘What happened to him? And who are my real parents?’

  ‘They are two very good questions,’ said the professor. ‘We must now set our minds to answering them.’

  * * *

  That afternoon, an immaculately attired man walked confidently into the central records office in Berlin. He expertly caught the eye of the flattered girl working the front desk.

  ‘Good afternoon, young lady.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the woman, smiling back at him.

  ‘My name is Professor Waechter. I am from the university and doing a bit of detective work on my students – discovering what they are getting up to,’ said the professor with a wink.

  The lady laughed.