by Glenn Bryant
Catharina thought about crashing to her right and hurling Gerhard out into the night. Maybe he would survive; maybe he would not. He would have had more of a chance than Jozef. She had thought Jozef would return to them after the war. He would run giggling and laughing with his funny gait unbalanced. She had loved it and admired his bravery. Her little soldier. Toddling was doubly difficult for him to master. Still, he loved trying.
He would swing his little legs forward left, right, left, right. His condition made it look like he was cradling an invisible egg between them. Catharina would encourage him and hold out her hands, crouched down so their eyes danced in the same light. He would fall flat on his face and immediately pick himself up again. The smile never left him. She could not recall him crying then. He might have done at the end. The horrific idea poisoned her. She would never forgive herself for not being there for him. Catharina could have killed the doctor or nurse administering the lethal injection which murdered him and they could have all died together. She would have been happy then. She would have told Jozef that they were all going to sleep for a very long time. He would have liked that and nuzzled his head into her chest. She would have cried, but she would have accepted it with him close.
Real tears now trickled down Catharina’s cheeks. She was tired. The nicotine high from her cigarette had worn off and she felt rising rage again. Catharina looked around them. No cars. She was going to do it. She was actually going to do it.
Catharina locked her left hand onto the steering wheel to hold the car steady and flung the rest of her frame violently to her right and reached across and banged Gerhard’s door open. He lurched from his sleep. The wind whistled through the car, allowing the demons to enter and fly around their heads. Catharina was glad of their company.
Gerhard nightmarishly looked down at the tarmac racing by below at suicidal speed. He would be sliced to pieces. He swung himself back into the car and grabbed the door, which continued to flap and smack dangerously open. He banged it shut and the demons flying above them vanished into the night. Gerhard caught his breath and looked at Catharina. He looked scared. She did not care. She did not care anymore.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Catharina and Gerhard were stood at a safe distance, watching. Jozef had asked them to do that. He was meeting Michael at the train station. They were due to catch the 6pm from Berlin to Frankfurt. The station throbbed with people like ants, hurrying about their daily business with little thought for others. Jozef continually found himself repeating ‘excuse me’ and ‘pardon me’ while he weaved his way to a spot beneath a huge clock. It was 5.15pm. Jozef was due to meet Michael at 5.30pm.
Jozef found a tiny oasis among the crowds and was happy to place his heavy case on the floor for a moment. His arms had begun to ache. He could feel his body prickle with perspiration from the effort. A gentleman with too much baggage banged into Jozef and jolted him with the impact. The man mumbled an apology, but he did not mean it. Jozef could not make it out, but instinctively smiled back in forgiveness. The man did not reciprocate. He felt weak for a second and hated himself for it.
He caught sight of Catharina and then Gerhard. They made eye contact, reassuring each other momentarily before turning their gazes away again. Jozef checked his watch. 5.22pm. He had regained his breath. His hole of inactivity was being observed by the multitude racing around him in a whirlwind of worried faces and bags and children and mothers and deadlines. Train stations were like crossroads in life, Jozef thought. Everyone was rushing to get somewhere, but few seemed to be looking forward to the journey.
‘Jozef,’ said Michael, magically appearing before him.
He looked relaxed and in control. Jozef had tried to forget the unsettling ordeal that day in the café. Now he only found himself smiling submissively. Michael was dressed immaculately – white suit, matching white hat and deep brown shoes, which sparkled perfectly with polish. He had only a small suitcase, which Jozef thought strange to contain an entire lifetime, but there were things about Michael Jozef would never understand.
‘Do you have your passport?’
‘Yes,’ said Jozef, unveiling it in his inside jacket pocket.
Michael was satisfied. ‘Come. This is the start of something wonderful, a new life, a new adventure, a new beginning. For both of us. Great things await. Great things. But first, let us arrive there safely.’
Michael looked hurried for once, leading Jozef over to the platform for the 6pm for Frankfurt. Jozef was quietly terrified. He did not know how he was going to say it. Michael ruled him. He always had. Jozef could not go against him, not now, not ever. He fleetingly thought about slipping away, into the jostle of anonymity. He had his own life to live and who knew where that might lead?
‘Here we are Jozef,’ said Michael, as if his son needed regular, personal announcements. ‘Platform 6 for the 6pm to Frankfurt. It is only 5.50pm. We are in good time. Perfect.’
‘I’m not going,’ said Jozef.
The words didn’t feel like his when they dropped from his mouth. He had repeated them so often in restless dreams that now that he was really saying them they felt only more unreal. He sensed his spirit floating gently, safely above the bodies trapped together on the platform like sardines captured in a great net, struggling hopelessly against the inevitable.
‘I’m not going Michael,’ Jozef heard himself say again.
The words paralysed his father, who now stopped. He had heard them, but pretended not to have. This was not wholly unexpected, he thought. It was a big step.
‘Come,’ he said quickly, glazing over the revelation. ‘Have you got your passport?’
‘Michael, I am not going with you. I don’t want to.’
Michael turned and looked at Jozef. He had to find the right response. He did not have much time. ‘We have talked about this,’ he began. He should have rehearsed this more thoroughly, he thought. ‘I need you in Argentina. We need you. There is nothing for you here. Greatness awaits us both. Greatness.’
‘Michael Drescher, Dr Michael Drescher,’ said a voice.
Three policemen had turned up.
Jozef did not know what was happening.
‘Yes, this is him,’ said Michael. ‘But I am afraid this will have to wait. I have an important meeting in Frankfurt. This is my train. I must be on it. Government business, you understand. Please telephone forward. They will verify who I am.’
‘Dr Michael Drescher, we would like to question you about the murder of Januariusz Sobczak,’ said the lead policeman, who was wearing a plain suit and was flanked by two subordinates in uniform. ‘Do you understand sir?’
‘Yes, yes, I understand perfectly,’ said Michael, placing his case by his side and preparing to give himself up.
Jozef did not understand. He glanced up at Michael and felt like a small child. The years fell off his father. Michael’s thinning, silver hair grew thicker and darker, echoing a youth not too short lived. His hands lost their aging grains and looked stronger again, ready to get to work.
The two officers in uniform struggled to get behind him. Michael had discreetly stepped back. No bystanders realised what they were witness to.
‘You son of a whore,’ muttered Michael bitterly under his breath.
Jozef struggled to comprehend Michael’s last statement. He was too young to know what a whore was.
‘I beg your pardon sir,’ said the commanding officer.
‘You son of a whore Jozef!’ he cried and people nearby startled.
Michael flicked out a blade from the sleeve of his jacket and slashed the commanding officer across the throat. Blood flashed across Jozef’s eyes, blinding him. Those around thought someone had spilt red paint.
Michael was gone, flying, bulldozing a trail through the crowd and onto the train. Blood was on his jacket and on his hands. His blade was still drawn.
One policeman stayed with his commanding officer while the other raced after Michael and saw him board the train. There was no time to
tell staff at the station to delay it. The remaining officer tried to hold in the other man’s throat, but it was hopeless. He was already choking. Blood was everywhere. A woman cried in horror.
Jozef was too stunned to move. What had just happened? He did not understand.
Catharina saw the commotion and immediately abandoned her post on the station bridge and raced through the throng. Jozef, she thought.
Michael saw a free seat in a carriage opposite a woman with two small children. He instinctively grabbed it. The woman was consumed by an infant, who she was impatiently trying to cradle to sleep. The other child watched Michael transfixed. Michael hastily tore off his bloody white jacket, shirt and hat, and bundled them into a pile beneath his seat. He pulled on a scruffy hat, one a poor factory worker might wear, and a thick jumper. He tilted the cap over his eyes before removing his shoes and his socks, adding them to the growing pile beneath his seat. The child continued staring, mesmerised. Michael noticed.
The policeman in pursuit arrived at the cabin.
‘Have either of you seen a man in a white suit?’ he asked hurriedly.
The woman with the crying toddler looked up. Her child had.
Michael looked at him, holding his eyes in his own with expert patience.
The child remained silent.
‘Nein,’ answered the lady, preoccupied with her children.
‘Sir?’ said the policeman.
Michael answered convolutedly in thick Polish. The policeman did not fully understand. He looked his appearance up and down, and stopped at his bare feet. Probably homeless and without a ticket, he safely assumed before quickly moving on. The older child was still staring. The woman did not understand Polish either, but she could pick it out in a crowd of millions. She had instinctively learnt to do that during the war. She was still afraid of Jews.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
‘I still wonder if that man on the train the police saw that day was my father,’ said Jozef.
He had felt old this morning. Maybe that was a good thing, he thought, sat in front of a group of teenagers. He never envisioned grey hairs on his temples, creeping inexorably inwards like winter. They still did not look like his when he spied them in his reflection.
He was talking to a class of 30 students. He guessed they were fourteen or fifteen years old. He was not quite sure. The attractive female teacher had told Jozef what year they were in upon his arrival at the school, but the language did not mean anything to him. He mentally only dealt in old money.
‘My name is Jozef Drescher. I was born on April 3, 1941,’ he said, introducing himself.
He had grown into his new role, his new life, but he was still not entirely comfortable speaking publicly – it did not come naturally to him.
‘I grew up in Munich believing my name was Jozef Diederich, born one month earlier on March 3, 1941. My parents, Gerhard and Catharina Diederich, adopted me in 1945, in the final days of the Second World War. My biological father was Dr Michael Drescher, who gave me to my parents to protect me from what was happening to so many children of leading Nazis at that time. My father did not want that for me. He wanted me to survive. He wanted us to survive and help start a Fourth Reich.’
The teenagers’ faces looked repulsed at the thought of a Fourth Reich. It was 1999. Jozef smiled to himself. He realised he must learn to hide his feelings better. This was a very serious subject after all.
‘Did you ever find out who the real Jozef Diederich was?’ one girl asked. She raised her hand almost after speaking.
Manners had changed, thought Jozef.
‘Yes. He was born with cerebral palsy to my adopted parents. He was killed, the last child to be murdered by the Nazis as part of Hitler’s policy of euthanasia of physically and mentally impaired children. Jozef Diederich died in Kaufbeuren-Irsee state hospital in Bavaria on May 29, 1945, three weeks after American soldiers had liberated the town. He was killed by lethal injection.’
The pretty teacher interrupted. ‘We learn, Herr Drescher, how your father oversaw the murder of more than 10,000 physically and mentally disabled people at Hadamar, one of five killing centres the Nazis created to carry out Hitler’s policy of euthanasia. How do you live with what your father did?’
‘You can’t live with it. What he did. Is the past always present? Can the future ever be free of guilt?’ Jozef was only coming up with more questions. ‘Why didn’t others try and stop him? Why didn’t my real mother try and stop him? I believe she covered her eyes to what was happening at Hadamar in 1941-42. She wanted to believe nothing was going on. That is my impression of her. I still see the hatred in my father’s eyes. He was a monster, not all the time, but the monster was always there. He enjoyed what he did to those people. He took pleasure in it.’
‘Where did his hatred come from?’ asked the teacher, continuing to lead the debate from the other side of the classroom.
‘Who knows?’ said Jozef in his first unrehearsed answer of the morning. The questions were normally the same. ‘My father hated weakness. He hated people showing emotion. He hated even himself when he did so. He had a cold nature. He showed warmth when he had to, but it was only a show. He had no real warmth. He never abandoned the ideology of the Nazis, even after the war. He continued to be a zealot. He believed in what Hitler did.’
‘Do you look like him?’ questioned one girl suddenly.
‘No,’ smiled Jozef, ‘I don’t look like him.’
The End
Dear Reader
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I very much hope that you have enjoyed reading A Quiet Genocide.
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You can make a big difference.
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Reviews are the most powerful when it comes to getting attention for a book. Honest reviews of my book help me get more attention for what I write.
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If you’ve enjoyed this WW2 novel I would be very grateful if you could spend a few minutes leaving a review (it can be as short as you like) on this novel’s Amazon page.
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Thanks a lot in advance, Glenn Bryant
About the Author
Glenn Bryant grew up in Grimsby, the north of England and has a Masters degree from the University of Dundee, Scotland in modern history.
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He trained in newspaper journalism and is a qualified and experienced senior journalist. A Quiet Genocide is his first novel.
Further Reading
In case you enjoyed reading A Quiet Genocide, you might be interested in reading some of our other titles.
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Amsterdam Publishers specializes in WW2 historical fiction and in memoirs written by Holocaust survivors.
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Please note: We always welcome new WW2 fiction manuscripts and manuscripts by Holocaust survivors.
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You are invited to send them to [email protected] and we will assess the quality.
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The Time Between: Love, loyalty and betrayal in Nazi-occupied Amsterdam by Bryna Hellmann-Gillson. Please note that this is a historical fiction novel.
This historical novel depicts three young Jewish women, Pam, Jo and Hannah, and their family and friends during the physically, psychologically and morally difficult years of the German occupation, 1940-1945. They print illegal newspapers and false documents, hide Jewish children, commit sabotage and murder.
Their lives come together through Adrian, a young man risking his life in the resistance. He is Pam’s brother, Jo’s first infatuation and Hannah’s lover. “Isn’t this the between time?” he asks. “One day real life stopped, when the Germans came, and some day real life will start again.” For some of them, it did.
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Deep in the Veluwe woods lies a secret that frustrates the Germans. Convinced that Jews are hiding close by they can
find no proof. The secret is Berkenhout, a purpose-built village of huts sheltering dozens of persecuted people. Young tearaway Jan roams the woods looking for adventure and fallen pilots. His dream comes true when he stumbles across an American airman, Donald C. McDonald. But keeping him hidden sets off a disastrous chain of events. All it takes is one small fatal slip to change the course of all their lives for ever.
Outcry - Holocaust Memoirs by Manny Steinberg is available as paperback (ISBN 13: 9789082103137 ) and Kindle eBook. This memoir has been published in English, French, German, Chinese, Italian and Czech.
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Manny Steinberg (1925-2015) spent his teens in Nazi concentration camps in Germany, miraculously surviving while millions perished. This is his story. Born in the Jewish ghetto in Radom (Poland), Steinberg noticed that people of Jewish faith were increasingly being regarded as outsiders. In September 1939 the Nazis invaded, and the nightmare started. The city’s Jewish population had no chance of escaping and was faced with starvation, torture, sexual abuse and ultimately deportation.
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Outcry - Holocaust Memoirs is the candid account of a teenager who survived four Nazi camps: Dachau, Auschwitz, Vaihingen an der Enz, and Neckagerach.