A Quiet Genocide

by Glenn Bryant

  A young woman perched herself on the edge of the table the professor and Jozef had previously exclusively enjoyed. Jozef felt it was rude to have done so without asking – his look told the professor as much. Professor Zielinski waved away the protest with his eyes and scrutinised the entry in the record books more closely.

  ‘Do you see that? That asterisk next to your name.’

  ‘Yes, I see it,’ said Jozef. ‘I did not notice it before.’

  ‘No reason why you should. Look, there are 30 names on this page and only you, so to speak, and another boy have an asterisk next to their name. Madam?’ said the professor, commandeering a lady busying herself with books. ‘May I borrow you for one moment?’

  She agreed and came over.

  ‘My friend and I here are studying records of births in Munich in 1941 and were wondering what these asterisks next to particular children’s names mean. There are only a few.’

  The lady from the records office nodded. ‘From August 1939,’ she said. ‘The German government decreed that all births of handicapped children had to be reported centrally.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the professor, nibbling at his reading glasses. ‘Thank you, madam. You have been most helpful.’

  The lady nodded and was gone.

  ‘Let us go for a coffee and a slice of cake,’ said the professor. ‘Across the street at the café we enjoy so.’

  Professor Zielinski relaxed into his seat outside the café and savoured his first taste of the caffeine. ‘I was working on one theory concerning the real Jozef Diederich, shall we say. Now is the time to share it with you.’

  ‘Is everything okay with your coffee and cake?’ a waitress hurrying past interrupted.

  Jozef thanked her and the professor smiled. He was glad to be here and glad he had begun this adventure. ‘Hitler and the Nazis did not just murder Jews,’ said the professor, putting his cup down for a second. ‘Hitler wanted to eradicate the mentally and physically handicapped from Germany’s gene pool. How did he achieve that? He murdered them. First, let me say, I don’t believe that. I believe Hitler hated waste and weakness, and he saw mentally and physically handicapped Germans as weak and wasteful, a burden on society. That, I believe, is why Hitler targeted them.

  ‘We have just learnt that from August 1939, with war only days away, all doctors had to report the birth of handicapped children,’ said the professor. ‘From that autumn, parents of handicapped children in Germany were encouraged to give them up and let the state care for them. It was a terrible lie. They were not cared for at all. They were killed. The deception did not end there. The families of the handicapped children were sent fictitious death certificates and an urn of human ashes.’

  ‘I never knew,’ Jozef interrupted.

  ‘It is not something this great nation of ours is particularly proud of,’ said the professor, finally starting on his cake.

  Jozef had been wondering how long he could go without eating it. He then remembered he had once thought old people were a different breed, from another world. He smiled.

  ‘What’s amusing you?’

  ‘Nothing, sorry professor.’

  ‘I think this could explain what may have happened to the stepbrother you never met, the person you became, the person you replaced.’

  Jozef then felt cold. Nobody had ever described his life in so few words before. It was the best answer yet to who he really was. A replacement. He had never truly considered the intricacies of the word before. Now that he did, he did not like it. It was a cruel, unfeeling, clinical word.

  ‘How did people know about the children? How do you know?’

  A waitress enquired if they would like more coffee.

  The professor shook his head.

  ‘Mistakes were made. The Nazis had thousands of opportunities to make errors – and they made them. Death certificates were at odds with children’s medical history. Urns of ashes of boys turned up containing a girl’s hair grip. The whole programme became a horrible open secret.’

  ‘Nobody ever came back,’ he continued. ‘People knew. They’re not stupid really. Yes, Germans were stupid enough to allow Hitler to take power, but they were not blind to what was really happening. They simply looked the other way. That is perhaps the German nation’s greatest responsibility, and it must now bear it. Do you think all the hundreds and thousands of Berliners here in this grand square today, enjoying this beautiful sun, were ardent, fervent Nazis, every last one of them?’

  Jozef shrugged.

  ‘Of course not. But by their very silence they were complicit in Hitler’s crimes against humanity. That is what I find hardest to forgive. I used to detest people for that.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I can help you of course, but there is something you must do alone. You must confront your adopted parents or you must confront your father’s friend, Michael. Only they know the answers we seek.’

  It was late, nearly midnight, at Berlin university. Professor Zielinski was in his office and wired on caffeine. He was about to make the last telephone call on a long list. He was contacting every survivor he knew and telling them to call every survivor they knew. The professor hoped the web of knowledge would spread until an answer, an identity, was unearthed. Then he would know.

  ‘Hello,’ said the voice on the end of the line blearily. It had just climbed out of bed.

  ‘Hey, it’s Stan, Stan Zielinski.’

  ‘Stan! Hey Stan, how are you? You do realise what time it is? Are you drunk?’

  ‘No, I’m not drunk. I’m fine,’ said the professor, trying to temper his intoxication. ‘I need a favour. I’m looking for someone, a former Nazi.’

  The voice on the end of the line sighed. ‘Stan, it’s late. I don’t want to talk about this now; I’m not sure I ever want to talk about it. We’re not all like you. We never were.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said the professor unperturbed. He would not be dissuaded. ‘His name is Michael.’.

  ‘His name is Michael,’ said his friend. ‘That’s it. His name is Michael.’

  ‘No, no,’ said the professor, taking another deep gulp of coffee. ‘This is a man who would have worked in the camps. He is not a military man. He is well spoken, educated, anti-Semitic like only those who worked in the camps were. He has grey hair. Blonde when he was younger. He is not a big man, slim, and he likes wearing hats and smart suits.’

  ‘Stan,’ said the voice. ‘All Nazis liked wearing hats and smart suits.’

  ‘This one is different. Someone will remember him. They must.’

  ‘Why is it so important?’

  ‘This man is still here, right here in Germany. He must live in or very near Munich. I’m helping someone. They need my help. They may be in danger.’

  ‘From this man?’

  ‘Yes, from this man,’ said the professor, finishing his coffee.

  ‘Have you asked Wojciech? He’s worse than you. Hates those bastards. We all do. But not like Wojciech.’

  ‘He was the first person I called.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll ask around. Give me a few days. Don’t be surprised if nothing turns up. This man is Michael. Come on, Stan.’

  ‘Thank you. Sleep well.’

  ‘You too,’ said the voice. ‘You too.’

  * * *

  In Munich, Michael was surrounded by three associates acquired during the war. Everyone else had failed him, either disappointingly through death or pathetically in weakness. The three men before him, all loyal beyond question, had overcome the hurdles Michael had carefully placed before them. There was nothing else after 1945, only this.

  ‘What do we know about him?’ Michael said rhetorically to the room.

  The men were well versed to the opening question and knew not to answer.

  ‘We know his name is Janus and we know he is a Pole. Poles are dangerous. We have to be careful. This is not like that man before. This is a man who might have fought. If he did, he survived and that makes him dangerous, reso
urceful. Those are qualities we take heart from ourselves, but qualities we respect in others.’

  The three men nodded. All were still to speak. It was the way it was, the way Michael liked it. They were more intelligent than he gave them credit for. But they let him think little of them in that respect. What they did not appreciate was that Michael secretly worshipped them. They were lions in his dreams.

  ‘She cannot be harmed,’ said Michael. ‘At all costs, which makes this difficult. We have to subdue them both quickly, the Pole particularly, but she could also be dangerous. I doubt it though. She will recognise me. It is time she did. We will have to keep her quiet.’

  The men nodded again.

  ‘I’ll meet you here tomorrow evening, 22.00,’ said Michael. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the three men said finally.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘Dad, it’s Jozef,’ he said in a cramped telephone box close to the university.

  ‘Hello Jozef,’ said his father, happy to hear his voice. ‘I’ll just go get your...’ Gerhard hesitated. ‘Your mother’s gone out,’ he added quickly. ‘She is very busy with her choir these days.’ He tried a cheap laugh, but could not manage it.

  Jozef thought they might have had a row. He could sense unease.

  ‘How are you?’ asked Gerhard.

  ‘Good,’ said Jozef, huddled in the telephone box, which always made him feel slightly trapped.

  ‘And university. How is university?’

  ‘Fine. Busy, but fine. Looking forward to next year really, and getting stuck into my course more.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  Strange. Jozef had never heard his father say ‘good for you’ before and he thought he knew every nuance of his father’s vernacular. It was peculiar to hear him suddenly talk differently. Maybe they were all growing up.

  ‘Dad, I wanted to speak to mum. Is she around tomorrow night?’

  Gerhard hesitated. ‘No, more choir practice I am afraid. She really is very busy these days.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jozef unsure himself now. He did not know what to suggest for a moment. ‘The night after?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerhard quickly, happier now. ‘I’m sure she’ll be around then. I’ll bloody make sure she is,’ he joked. Another weak laugh.

  Jozef did not reciprocate. ‘Okay. I’ll call back then. Auf Wiedersehen.’

  Ten minutes later Gerhard had finished a modest, for him, glass of whisky. He nodded gently to himself. He had good reason to go and see her now.

  * * *

  He banged loudly on the dark, dead front door of the butcher’s. He was sober enough, he thought.

  No answer.

  ‘Catharina!’ he shouted.

  A light clicked on and a face appeared. A man’s. Him. Then her. Catharina. She came down and she spoke calmly to Gerhard. She was braced for drunken pleas for her to go back to him – for her to go home. She was prepared for that drama, but she was rather thrown when all he wanted was for her to be home tomorrow night to speak to Jozef. Jozef would telephone. He wanted to talk. It must be important, he said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Catharina flatly. The new thrill-seeker in her was almost disappointed. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gerhard conceded a little guiltily.

  At least he was being honest, Catharina thought. He had not always been. Catharina then quietly laughed inside and allowed a small smile to break on her lips. What right did she now have to reprimand him about his drinking? None, she thought. You left for someone else.

  It was cold. Her breath became visible, foggy white, when it left the warmth of her mouth. She wrapped her shawl around herself more tightly. It did not do much good. She was topless underneath. Gerhard would have gone mad. She tried to hold herself. Gerhard did not feel the chill. He was transfixed. He yearned desperately, hopelessly to rush forward that final step and embrace her, hold her, his wife, Catharina. But something stopped him.

  A couple walked happily by across the street, laughing. It distracted them both briefly. Catharina was glad to look, but people in love pained Gerhard now. He could not handle it. It reminded him of what he had lost and thrown away, discarded. Another job done, ticked off from his list. For what, he thought suddenly. What did it matter now? What did anything matter? He had casually contemplated suicide.

  ‘Gerhard,’ said Catharina.

  Nothing.

  He was staring at the couple up the road.

  She knew he could not see them clearly. His eyes were nowhere near good enough.

  ‘Gerhard,’ she said again. ‘Gerhard!’

  He stopped staring – like she had slapped him.

  She made eyes at him and he did not fight them. ‘Did Jozef say what time he would ring?’ she asked.

  ‘No. No, he didn’t,’ said Gerhard, who suddenly noticed the shawl Catharina was wearing was new. She must have bought it to impress him, he thought. ‘Sorry. I did not think to ask. I was surprised he called to be honest. He doesn’t often these days.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Catharina, feeling pity for her husband now. ‘If I’m not there and he rings, tell him to call back. I want to talk to him too.’

  * * *

  The next evening, Catharina felt strange being back in the home she and Gerhard had made in a former life. Everything felt old and tired and infinitely less exciting than the flat she was fast transforming into a new home with Janus. There, everything made her heart jump when she saw them again first thing in the morning. Here, the drab, brown surroundings were rapidly draining her new-found happiness and patience.

  ‘How have you been?’ asked Gerhard, in the early stages of drinking for the evening.

  Catharina thought it a strange question and did not know how to answer. She instead found herself inspecting their house like she was a prospective buyer, who had never seen it before. ‘Fine, Gerhard,’ she eventually answered.

  Gerhard’s heart broke a little more when she called him by his name. She hardly ever called him Gerhard – only in company or when she was very angry. Now, it was worse. She took his name coldly, like any other word. In comparison, the name Catharina meant so much to Gerhard he could not utter it now if he wanted to avoid hurting himself all over again.

  Catharina wished Jozef would call. She sat down and took off her coat, wrapping it around the back of a dining room chair. It had once been a happy, busy, chaotic space. Now, it seemed small and sadly insignificant, like someone had died there once but no one cared anymore. Flowers placed to mark the spot had become carcasses.

  Catharina looked stunning, thought Gerhard, draining more whisky from his glass. She had a colour to her complexion and a confidence he could not recall. He knew where she had got it from. He winced. He was straining not to grab her and hold her, kiss her, touch her, feel her. He wanted to. He wanted to.

  The telephone rang and interrupted his desire.

  Gerhard jumped, but Catharina did not move, waiting for her husband to answer. This was his home now, not hers. Gerhard got the hint and rose from his seat, but kept his whisky close.

  ‘Hi dad, it’s Jozef.’

  ‘Hello Jozef,’ said Gerhard warmly, trying to pretend his connection with their son had deepened since Catharina had left.

  ‘Is mum there?’ asked Jozef, cutting straight to business.

  ‘Yes, she is. She is right here.’

  Catharina could see what he was doing and tried not to rile. ‘Hello Jozef,’ she said, excited to speak to her son.

  ‘Hi mum,’ said Jozef from his bleak, untidy telephone box in Berlin.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m fine. Mum, I wanted to ask you something. Is that okay?’

  ‘Of course it is, darling,’ she said, lowering the telephone handle and covering it with her hand. ‘Gerhard, can we have some privacy, please?’

  Gerhard was uncomfortably close. He did not like to concede territory, but did not feel like pursuing the point and got up and walked out of the r
oom. He thought he had hidden his quiet fury.

  Catharina struggled to not let her temper rise, waiting impatiently for Gerhard’s exit before rolling her eyes to the dining room ceiling, which had become her friend over the years. ‘Sorry. What do you want to ask me?’

  ‘I’m thinking of tracing my real parents,’ said Jozef, without realising his mistake. Birth parents would have been infinitely kinder.

  Catharina felt like she had been punched in the stomach and she clasped it quickly to try and nurse the discomfort. ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she managed. ‘What do you want to know?’

  What do I want to know? thought Jozef maddeningly. I want to know who I am; I want to know everything. ‘I want to know what you know about them, mum,’ he said.

  Mum was a good choice of words and soothed the queasiness in her belly. She knew so little, she thought, suddenly embarrassed at the lack of knowledge, the lack of anything she had had before taking on this life, this whole person.

  ‘I, we,’ she began, bringing Gerhard into the conversation. This was not her fault. ‘We really know very little.’

  ‘What is my real name?’ said Jozef, horrified to ask so brutally, but feeling like his only option was to plunge straight into the dark waters waiting below.

  ‘Jozef,’ said Catharina, startled. How much did he know? ‘Your name is Jozef Diederich. You were born on March 3, 1941. And that is all we know really,’ said Catharina, desperately defending the lie.

  ‘Mum, I went to the central records office in Berlin and found a Jozef Diederich born on that day to you and dad.’

  Jozef was glad of the distance between himself and Catharina at this moment. If he had been in the same space as her and experienced the hurt and horror in her eyes it would have proved impossible. He would have thrown himself apologetically into her embrace and she would have immediately forgiven him. She would forgive him for everything in the end.

  ‘Oh,’ said Catharina, dulled.