A Quiet Genocide

by Glenn Bryant

  ‘My undergraduates are researching lost family members from before or during the war. One particular student of mine, who I have high hopes for, has been tasked with this assignment. Might I ask if he has been here in the last few days to research birth or adoption records in Munich from that time? His name is Diederich, Jozef Diederich.’

  ‘I am not supposed to tell you, sir,’ said the lady, who by her submissive tone was clearly about to accede to his request. ‘But I can make an exception this once.’

  ‘You are an angel,’ said the man, raising his hat as the lady patted the back of her hair self-consciously.

  ‘Yes, a Jozef Diederich has been here twice in the last few days. The second time was alone. The first was with a colleague of yours from the university I believe, a Professor Zielinski,’ relayed the lady diligently.

  ‘Professor Zielinski, you say. The swine! What were they looking for, might I ask?’

  ‘They looked at adoption and birth records in Munich from 1935-1945.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, that was it,’ the woman replied.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the man. ‘You have been a great help. Most kind. I hope to see you again soon.’

  He doffed his hat one more time.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Michael’s large associate did not stand easily in the cramped corridors of the history department at Berlin university.

  ‘Do not let anyone enter,’ instructed Michael.

  The large man understood and clasped his hands obediently together so they hung gently in front of his frame.

  Michael knocked.

  ‘Enter,’ called Professor Zielinski cheerily from behind the door to his office.

  Michael entered and took off his hat as he walked confidently through.

  The professor frowned. He did not recognise him.

  ‘Yes, can I help?’ the professor asked.

  ‘Hello Professor Zielinski, my name is Michael. I have an interest in one of your undergraduates.’

  The professor frowned further.

  The smartly dressed man now in front of him knew his name, but had only introduced himself by his first. Michael had not asked to be seated – he had simply sat down. The professor had seen such arrogance before. He was concerned and eased his chair, conveniently on rollers, back a little towards his desk. ‘Which undergraduate in particular?’ enquired the professor, pretending not to be alarmed.

  ‘Diederich, Jozef Diederich,’ said Michael, resting his hands, hidden by expensive leather gloves, on his lap.

  The professor noticed the gloves, and knew it was mild outside. Jozef. His mind shifted into gear. Curiosity excited his mood and energy levels and he suddenly felt better.

  ‘Yes, young Jozef. A charming and very capable student,’ said the professor. ‘We, I, have high hopes for him here at the university. It is still early days, of course, but we see wonderful potential.’

  ‘Perhaps Herr Diederich’s horizons are wider than these four walls in Berlin, professor,’ said Michael.

  The professor could not quickly translate Michael’s last remark in his head. He let it pass and saved it for more detailed dissection later.

  ‘Do you know Jozef?’ said the professor.

  It was a simple but clever question.

  ‘Yes, I know Jozef,’ said Michael, who was straining to contain his vitriol for this man, this species sat across from him.

  One of the worst days of Michael’s life was the day he knew the war was lost and the Third Reich lay ruined.

  ‘What is your particular interest in Herr Diederich?’ said Michael.

  ‘My interest in Jozef is the same interest I have in all my undergraduates, Michael,’ said the professor, including his name deliberately. ‘He is here to study and I see potential, great potential in him.’

  ‘Why are you helping him so much?’

  The professor shifted uneasily in his seat. How did he know that? He must have good reason and the professor knew that good reason potentially led somewhere unpleasant. The detective in him was aroused again.

  ‘Jozef needed my help. I offered it. He accepted. Quite simple. Quite innocent.’

  The professor was pleased with his answer, which gave Michael frustratingly little.

  Michael stood up and turned his back on the professor, placing his hat carefully on his head. The professor saw the sun highlight Michael’s pale skin on the back of his neck. His hair was trimmed short. The professor realised. His heart instantly began to boom like artillery fire on the Western Front. He could only move in slow motion, like in his nightmares. He always died in the end.

  The sun darted behind a cloud and the sudden change in light in the room flicked the professor back to life. Michael reacted. He swung back around, towering over the professor’s frame, sunk and vulnerable below. He flicked out a long blade hidden within his right sleeve. It glinted in the glaring light, which crashed back out from behind a cloud. He pounced on the professor and swarmed on his lap like a cat with the blade decisively at his throat. Michael could have killed him right there. He wanted to and felt himself retching.

  ‘Fucking Jude,’ said Michael. ‘Stanislaw Zielinski. How did you survive?’

  The professor smiled. ‘I did,’ he said. ‘I did.’

  Michael kept the blade firmly, painfully at the professor’s throat so the point dug into the old man’s skin, breaking it and drawing delicate beads of blood. Michael knew precisely how much pressure to exert, but it had been a while. He reached down with his free hand and rolled up the professor’s right sleeve. The professor let him. His hand was trapped beneath Michael. There was nothing he could do. Michael nodded. The tattoo from Auschwitz. Inimitable. It was the professor’s mark. He could never take it off.

  ‘You Jews,’ crooned Michael. ‘You Jews. One more less today. One more less. I would tell you to leave Jozef alone; I would tell you it doesn’t matter; he won’t be in Berlin, this pathetic, liberal heart of a nation next year. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. I am going to gut you like a dog.’

  ‘You could,’ said Stanislaw. ‘You could. You Nazis could do a lot of things.’

  Michael did not like the tone in his victim’s voice. Experience told him it was too brave.

  ‘My pistol in your belly will rip you in two,’ revealed the professor, jabbing it hard so Michael could feel it prodding his confidence.

  ‘We can go together,’ he said. ‘I will bleed out quickly. You, my friend, will die slowly. It will take ten, twenty minutes. You won’t make it. I will get two, maybe three shots off. Is ten minutes enough for you to make peace with your God? I made mine a long time ago.’

  Michael sneered. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to snarl. He wanted so many things. ‘Jude,’ he repeated. ‘Fucking Jude.’

  Michael pulled himself off the professor so gently it hardly felt like he was doing it.

  The professor felt the release in their frames, which had been forced together tightly. He could smell Michael’s cleanliness. It stank. Like God would not notice at heaven’s gates, he joked in his head.

  And Michael was gone.

  The professor turned his eyes and head to the heavens thankfully. He let out a breath bigger than the room. His shirt was uncomfortably moist, but his old friend, his pistol, had saved him. He put it back in the bottom drawer of his desk, safely out of sight. It was a good job he had lost the key to that drawer. He smiled, shaking his head.

  ‘Nazis. Everything’s always loaded with them.’

  Professor Zielinski spared Jozef from the potentially deadly nature of his meeting with Michael. ‘A man came to see me yesterday,’ he said. ‘His name was Michael. He was very smart and polite and well-mannered,’ he added.

  It seemed a long time ago now. The professor had had to cancel the rest of his afternoon yesterday, but now he felt better for having done so. Today was a new day. It is amazing how resilient the human spirit is, he thought.

  ‘Yes, I know him,’ said Jozef
.

  The two of them were sitting on the steps to the central records office. It had been the professor’s choice, and felt as good as any place to be. He had not wanted to spend time in his office today. He wanted to feel fresh air and the buzz of people flowing like water around them. Now he enjoyed the sun shining on his skin. He smiled deeply and closed his eyes and let it warm his face.

  ‘How do you know him?’ he then asked.

  ‘I have known him longer than I can remember,’ said Jozef, eating an ice cream the professor had bought him.

  ‘He used to visit us every Thursday evening when I was child. He never missed. He came then because my mother was always out on Thursdays.’ ‘Professor?’ asked Jozef.

  ‘Yes?’ said the professor, opening his eyes to the light.

  ‘Why did Michael come to see you? It seems strange. He hasn’t been to see me in Berlin nor has he asked my parents about me.’

  ‘Maybe Michael takes a greater interest in you than you realise,’ said the professor.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Jozef seemed further away than ever from the truth of who he really was.

  ‘It means you are important,’ encouraged the professor and sensing Jozef was losing faith in the journey they had embarked upon together. ‘You are extremely important to Michael,’ said the professor. ‘We know that now. We know he is prepared to do many things in your name. Travel to Berlin, for one, simply to find out how you are faring.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Jozef downcast.

  An attractive young lady glided by them. She had a skirt and high heels. Her legs looked fantastic in the light. Jozef could not help looking; the professor could not help noticing. The two of them shared a sheepish grin.

  ‘Young men rise in the spring,’ said the professor. ‘Do not be ashamed Jozef. You are a young man.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Catharina had to get out. She had to get out. Her mind was running away from her. She could not keep up. No time. No time. Gerhard would be home any minute.

  She was packing a suitcase of essentials – she was leaving him. She was going to live with Janus. She did not care what people might think, the subsequent scandal. She had to get out. Gerhard would be home any minute and she could not leave if he realised – not then, not ever. It had to be today. Janus was waiting. I love him, she thought.

  Catharina had written Gerhard a short letter explaining her reasons. It was pitifully little to show for more than twenty years of marriage, but it was all she had left to give. It was easier to be cruel when Gerhard was not there. Where is that blasted letter? she thought. She wanted to scream. Her bag was virtually packed. In the final rush she wanted to check that there was nothing vital she had forgotten. She could not come back here. She already had some of her nicest clothes on, she thought, catching herself in the mirror. That was a start.

  The mirror pulled her back momentarily and she looked at herself. She looked old. What was she doing? Really? Leaving her husband for a younger man, a man she hardly knew if she was being truthful. Yet, she felt so close to Janus. She could say anything to him; she wanted to say everything to him. Time would help them catch up on the news of each other’s lives. Gerhard would be home soon.

  She dashed back to the immaculately made bed and her shabby suitcase, still lying open on top of it. She could not fit much more in. Her comb, her hairbrush. Yes, she would need those, spying them on her bedroom dresser. Catharina threw them on top and ran her hands down her skirt one last time. There was nothing else. The letter! Catharina remembered it was tucked carefully behind her dresser mirror. Gerhard would never chance upon it there, she had thought when the world seemed infinitely calmer and clearer.

  It had started to rain outside. The change of weather and thick, grey sky dulled her excitement. It would have been easier to leave if the sun was shining. How ridiculous is that? she thought. Was that all this was? A summer romance, a fling that would seem childish come autumn? He would never let her live it down if she crawled back, tail curled uncomfortably between ashamed legs. The score would be even then. No, it would never be even, she determined. It could not be. How could it, after what he did, what he took from her?

  Catharina had new resolve.

  The rain beat down harder on the glass. It was time. Gerhard would be home any minute. She froze. She heard a car, his car, pull slowly into their driveway. He was home. She was too late. It was too late. She had failed. She could not even leave her husband properly. The sound of a car door clunking closed and heels clicking up the drive to their front door. He was here. Catharina matched them racing down the stairs - she had been quick in her youth – but strangely, the only thing she could think of now was how her best clothes would be ruined, being thrown around so violently in her suitcase. She dashed into their small kitchen and slammed the door behind her. The glass was frosted so only blurs of figures were visible. Catharina breathed again. She had her suitcase. She had herself.

  ‘I’m home,’ Gerhard announced loudly.

  She felt a breeze blow through to where she stood. She was not moving.

  ‘Darling?’ Gerhard said.

  He took off his coat, placed his briefcase inside the door to the living room and began to walk through to the kitchen.

  ‘Darling?’ he asked out loud again.

  He began to worry. He had heard the kitchen door slam. He could see Catharina through the glass. Gerhard opened the door. Nothing. No one.

  ‘Darling?’ he said softly.

  The dining table was empty bar a small envelope sat alone in its centre. Strange. The small table looked vast with only the white note anchoring its heart. One word was written on the outside. Gerhard’s eyes would not let him decipher what it was until he was close.

  ‘Gerhard.’ Catharina’s handwriting.

  She stood at the end of their driveway, suitcase in hand. She had left at the last second by the back door and was crying. A neighbour walked by with his dog and saw her. Catharina started her walk to Janus’ flat.

  Gerhard slumped down at their table and began opening the letter painstakingly like a bomb disposal expert. He had no idea what lay inside. After he had read it, he reached inside their dining room cabinet for his best bottle of whisky, still unopened. He opened it and, in the following hours and nights, began to pour. And pour. And pour.

  She had left him. How could he have been so careless with his happiness, his wife? Catharina. He saw now he hardly deserved her.

  Gerhard had drunk three evenings on the spin since Catharina had left him for Janus.

  At his flat she luxuriated naked beneath his wool rug, close to him and his warm frame. She could not remember the last time she had been so happy.

  Gerhard meanwhile hardly ate. His appetite had deserted him like she had. He could no longer stomach food. He could not swallow. He felt he would choke if he tried.

  Michael came to see him and noticed Gerhard was barely touching his whisky, which was most unlike him.

  ‘Gerhard, it is terrible to see you like this,’ he said. ‘And over a whore. She does not deserve your pain, your pity. It does not become you.’

  Gerhard hated the words and the cruel, empty tone, but he desperately needed someone on his side. Who else was there?

  ‘Have you told Jozef?’ asked Michael, helping himself to more whisky, which he was enjoying, although he knew he would have to go soon. He could not keep misery company for long. It was too close.

  Gerhard started shaking his head disturbingly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I have not told Jozef. What would I say?’

  ‘You could start by telling him that his mother is a whore and that she has left you for a Jewish dog.’

  ‘Jozef and Catharina are so close. He would side with her,’ replied Gerhard.

  ‘You have to focus,’ said Michael. ‘Your job is safe, I think. The house is yours. You will not lose it if she divorces you. We still have influence in the courts. They would look kindly on your case.’

  G
erhard’s gaze faded in and out of the conversation. His eyes were red from a three-day hangover. He looked across and caught Michael’s eyes, but he wanted to hide. He felt a failure. Abandoned. Impotent. The Diederich’s front room had become claustrophobic since Catharina had left. The walls crowded in and Gerhard felt afraid. It was like Catharina had died and all she had bequeathed him was silence. Memories, possessions maybe. But nothing real. Of course, she had not died at all, but Gerhard could have accepted that. The truth that she was reborn in the world – without him, her husband – ached the most.

  ‘I can get Catharina back,’ said Michael. He had Gerhard’s attention now.

  ‘How?’ he said. ‘She won’t listen.’

  ‘She will have no choice.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I can eradicate the reason she left,’ said Michael. ‘Take that away and it is only logical that she will return. We learnt during the war that you don’t have to persuade people, not really. You just give them no choice. All you have to do is say yes.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerhard.

  Chapter Thirty

  Jozef and Professor Zielinski were back at the central records office in Berlin. It was quite different in daytime. Jozef had not told the professor about his scare the other night.

  ‘Well done,’ said the professor again, wrapping his arm around Jozef.

  They were looking contentedly at the records of births in Munich on March 3, 1941. There he was - in plain daylight: ‘Diederich, Jozef, son of Gerhard and Catharina Diederich. Born 5.30pm.’

  ‘You really have a very clear mind,’ said the professor. ‘You see through problems. You certainly think differently to me. I still feel foolish I did not think of this first.’

  ‘It’s okay, professor,’ said Jozef, shrugging off the praise. ‘But what does it mean? I’m not really adopted after all? My parents are my real parents? But then why would they tell me I am adopted, especially the night before coming here to Berlin?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the professor, removing his reading glasses. ‘Why would they do that? We will assume that they believed that what they were telling you was true.’