by Jana Petken
“Fifteen minutes,” the driver answered.
“So, I hear the hospital used to be a prison?”
“Ya, the Brandenburg-Görden Prison. It’s in the suburbs of Görden. It’s a nice area.”
Upon his arrival at the complex, an orderly escorted Paul to his bedroom, which consisted of a narrow bed, wardrobe, desk and chair. It was a sparse but adequate accommodation for his lowly position, he thought, depositing his suitcase.
“There’s a communal bathroom at the end of the corridor,” Paul’s escort informed him. “I’d get there first in the morning if I were you, Doctor, otherwise, you’ll have a long wait for the showers.”
After physically showing Paul the bathroom, the same man took him to Herr Rudolph’s office. Paul stood awkwardly in front of the dour-faced female secretary who asked him to fill in a form stating that he would be living at the hospital and receiving meals. Paul could hear Rudolph’s chirping voice talking to someone inside his office.
“Will this be a long wait … Fraulein ... sorry, did you mention your name?” Paul asked the secretary.
“Nein. My name is Göring. You may call me Fraulein Göring. And as for the length of your wait; it will take as long as it takes for that door to open and your name to be called.”
Chapter Eight
“Ah, come in, Doctor Vogel. This is good timing, I was just talking about you to Herr Stein from the ministry,” said Rudolph, waving Paul into the room. “He’s been looking forward to meeting you.”
Paul shook Herr Stein’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said before taking his seat beside the hawkish-looking visitor.
“Herr Stein has to leave within the hour for Berlin, and we have a lot to get through. You might as well listen and learn, Vogel. Did you get the introductory letter from your driver, and have you met my Miss Göring?”
“Yes, thank you, I did, to both questions.”
“Good. Good. Herr Stein and I have just been discussing how important it will be to have our programme viewed as compassionate. We are doctors first and foremost, after all.”
“But, you mustn’t lose sight of what we’re hoping to achieve here scientifically,” Stein reminded Rudolph.
Rudolph poured Paul a cup of coffee from the coffee pot sitting on the sideboard behind his desk, asking him if he took milk and sugar as he went along. “Now, Paul, when I mentioned eugenics to you at your father’s house I couldn’t help but notice your scepticism.”
Paul’s face reddened. Rudolph continued without waiting for a response. “No, don’t look at me like that, Vogel, you’re not in any trouble. In fact, I understood your reaction. The subject often evokes dark visions of forced sterilization in the minds of ignorant people, but only because they can’t see or don’t know its benefits to mankind – don’t you think?”
“With respect, Herr Rudolph, the very belief in the possibility of improving the qualities of the human species or a human population by discouraging reproduction by persons that have genetic defects or inheritable undesirable traits must evoke a certain darkness to any man who values all life.”
Stein gasped, and Rudolph shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Paul hoped that his disapproval would be enough to send him packing back to Berlin on the first train.
“Herr Stein, will you step outside for just a moment?”
“Of course,” said Stein, glaring sideways at Paul.
When they were alone, Rudolph went into his desk drawer and brought out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Paul, and when the offer was declined, he jerked the carton until one cigarette popped up. He put it in his mouth, lit it with a silver lighter and then sat back in his chair, staring at Paul behind a veil of smoke. “I am under no illusion about your reluctance to join me here,” Rudolph began, “but do not underestimate my importance to the Reich and the Nazi Party. I want you to understand that I offered you this job because of my deep affection for your father and respect for your dear mother, who is from England, a country we are now at war with.”
Paul swallowed hard, feeling the rope tightening around his neck, and hearing his father’s bark as he ordered him to do his duty for family and the Fatherland. He’d never forgive his father for forcing this on him, or his mother for enabling his father through her silence. “My brother is in the SS. Is that not enough to prove my family’s loyalty to Adolf Hitler?” Paul asked.
“It probably would be, were circumstances not as complex as they are. I admire your brother’s tenacity. It couldn’t have been easy for him to get accepted by the para-military group. We all know how picky they are. Their stringent rules regarding prospective members are well known, and they are right to live by them. For instance, I learnt through your brother’s application form and subsequent entry that none of your ancestors were Jewish and that Wilmot has agreed to marry only with the consent of his superior officer. There’s no doubt in my mind that your family is of good Aryan stock, but your siblings’ bloodline is tarnished, nonetheless, as is your own?”
Paul raised an eyebrow. “I see ... tarnished. You seem to know a lot about my family, Herr Rudolph. I wonder, did you learn about me before you came to my father’s house?”
“My dear boy, you were the reason I went to Dresden.”
After blowing smoke in Paul’s face, Rudolph continued. “Now, now, I know what you’re thinking. I said I’d never heard of you, but that was to make your father feel comfortable.”
“You lied,” Paul corrected Rudolph.
“Did you know I stopped the Gestapo from putting your family on their watch list?”
At last Paul saw only too clearly why his father had thrown him to the wolves. “Are you saying that my mother’s British nationality is cause for concern to the Gestapo and that my father’s position is in jeopardy because of her?”
Rudolph nodded. “And what’s more, the Nazi Party might also see you and your brother Wilmot as threats. Germany is in for a fight and needs the unquestionable loyalty of its people to defeat the allies. You have British blood in your veins, therefore, you can only be half trusted. And of course, there’s the question of your other brother, your twin, I believe.”
For the first time, Paul was not only angry at being in this intolerable situation, he was also scared, not only for himself but for his family. “Yes, Max. What of him?”
Rudolph responded with half a smile, more like a sneering jibe. “He lives in England, so my question is why did he not come home to fight for his country? Do you see now why your loyalty is important to me?”
“Yes, I understand completely. What I don’t understand is why you see me as being important enough to go through all this rigmarole?”
Rudolph’s smile was like a slap in the face. “Well, let’s just say I have my reasons and leave it at that, shall we.” After he’d taken a sip of coffee, he continued, “I’d like you to reflect on your reluctance to join the Nazi Party and to working here, Paul. Until you can put your heart and soul into this programme it will be impossible for you to give your one hundred percent commitment. I also want you to think carefully about what you say in front of my important visitors. I don’t mind you giving your opinions to me from time to time, but I won’t tolerate your smart-arsed comments to persons who have come directly from the Chancellery. Is that understood?”
Paul nodded in response to the rebuke, but the question uppermost in his mind about why he’d been chosen remained unanswered. Perhaps there was a bigger reason for employing a Vogel, one that didn’t have much to do with him at all? “I meant no disrespect to you, or to your visitor. I’ll be a good student and will serve the Fatherland. You have my loyalty, sir.”
“I sincerely hope so. The Gestapo are like dogs. They can sniff dissent a kilometre away. I’d hate to see you in trouble, Paul, because if you are packed off to a camp for traitors, your mother and father will probably join you there.”
Paul was largely ignored after Stein’s return. The two men discussed how the programme could prove co
st-effective to the welfare budget. Deep in thought, Paul let the talk of money and facts and figures go over his head until Stein broke from that topic, saying, “Racial hygiene cannot be underestimated. Dealing with the Jews will be useful as far as biological degeneration is concerned, but medical and psychiatric specialists must also play their part and allow the courts to present evidence supporting the state’s case for sterilization. I should hate to see doctors at odds with the law.”
“How can my staff and I help?” Rudolph asked.
“To begin with you can continue using family genealogies to track purported inherited taints. We also suggest you try the new innovative intelligence tests containing education-based questions. They’ve proven to be a great source of information.”
“Interesting,” Rudolph said.
“It is also our opinion that diagnoses of feeblemindedness and schizophrenia will in most cases provide solid legal grounds for castration.” Stein turned to Paul. “Do you know, Doctor Vogel, that a genetically-ill person costs 50,000 Reichsmarks on average up to the age of sixty? It is a terrible burden for the healthy population to bear, especially now that we’re at war, don’t you agree?”
“I didn’t know that, sir.” Paul preferred to answer without committing himself.
“We need fit, healthy people who can and should be well paid and well fed regardless of whether they are soldiers or civilians doing their civic duties.”
“I can see why the government is concerned, and I entirely agree that everything that can be done to save money should be,” said Paul, glancing at Rudolph who nodded with approval.
Satisfied with Paul’s answer, Herr Stein went on to say, “Racial hygiene has been useful in the past, but the Führer feels we should now take more radical steps against the sick who pose biological threats to our country. So, Herr Rudolph, the main reason for my visit here today is to inform you that the Reich appreciates the efforts you and your team will make when passing judgement on those you deem incurably ill. Our leader thanks you in advance for doing a splendid job in getting this euthanasia centre up and running and trusts you will all carry out your duties with enthusiasm and vigour.”
Rudolph was talking, but Paul could hardly breathe and didn’t hear a word. Sterilisation would soon be replaced with the killings of innocent people deemed unworthy of life. He couldn’t help but repeat those three words in his head over and over; they were surreal and barbaric. And, unworthy of life wouldn’t be a term confined within two red lines. It would become the Nazis’ ipso facto right to choose who to kill in the future.
Paul felt sick as he listened to Rudolph discussing the new Jewish section in the basement. The men sitting next to him would pick out the gravely ill cases at first, he predicted, but then they’d very subtly move those red lines and go on to ethnicity, religious states, sexual preferences, and children belonging to political opponents. And that would only be the beginning of the madness to come.
“You can go now, Vogel ... Vogel, you can go!”
Paul, jerked out of his thoughts, stood up on shaky legs and somehow managed to conjure up a broad smile. “It’s been a pleasure, Herr Stein. I’m looking forward to working for the ministry.
Paul stretched his hand out to shake Herr Stein’s. Stein ignored it and instead, gave the Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler!”
Chapter Nine
The Webers
Berlin, October 1939
Adel Weber and his two daughters lived in a third-floor apartment in Berlin’s Riesaer Strasse. They were Jews, as were most of the people living in that neighbourhood. Adel’s wife and mother to the two girls had died three years earlier, leaving Adel with the difficult task of bringing up his daughters by himself; harsh circumstances for any father but doubly so for Adel because of one daughter’s mental and physical disabilities.
The Webers supplied a veritable feast of conversation to the tenement’s bored housewives, who had neither the spare cash nor the interest to do anything with their dull lives other than cook, clean and gossip with other wives and daughters.
The subject of the ‘screaming Weber girl at number 34’ as she was called, came up at most afternoon tea parties when such luxuries were possible. In alternating flats, wives displayed their baking skills and discussed matters from Hitler to the competent or incompetent performances of their husbands in bed, and everything in between.
To keep the suspense at number 34 alive, the women took turns in taking cakes and homemade biscuits to the Weber’s door, hoping to get past it and catch a glimpse of the demented crippled adolescent who’d been a stain on the building for years.
Until recently, the consensus had been that apart from her obvious leg deformity, Hilde Weber suffered from a traumatic fright brought on by the sudden death of her mother three years earlier. But another theory of demonic possession was gaining ground, a subject far too horrible to speak of in front of children and rabbis who used to pray for Hilde in the temple before it was knocked down.
The women were even more intrigued now, as they’d heard from reliable sources that Hilde suffered from a mental illness called schizophrenia. They didn’t know what that fancy title meant, but they all agreed to call her from now on ‘the mad girl’.
Life was hard for the husbands who worked in the factory at the end of the street, and the women trying to make ends meet had enough on their plates to deal with without having to put up with a screeching teenager threatening to kill people. It had taken various meetings, but they’d all finally agreed to report Hilde Weber to the Orpo, a reasonable neighbourhood police force, albeit now under the control of the SS high command.
On this morning, the policemen had gone up to the Webers before the men in the block had left for work at the furniture factory. The wives, determined to find out if or when steps would be taken to remove Hilde Weber from the building, had told their husbands to get their own breakfasts. They were off to congregate on the building’s front steps before the policemen came downstairs.
Frau Rosenthal, who lived directly underneath the Webers had been elected as spokeswoman. She and her husband were the most affected by the mad girl’s noisy antics therefore she should be the one to give the policemen an earful, the women had unanimously agreed.
“Why won’t you tell us anything?” Frau Rosenthal had shouted when the officers came out of the building just after nine. “Our men work hard, and they need their sleep. How would you like to live with a mad girl stomping on the floor above you day and night and shouting that this person or that person wants to kill her? My heart will stop if she screams my name. It’s enough to make me lose my own sanity, and at my age!”
“You’re exaggerating old mother,” one of the policemen had snapped at her. “A girl with only one decent leg can no more stomp than a snake that slithers on its belly.”
But Frau Rosenthal had not finished. “And what could be worse than her crawling or slithering and bashing into furniture and throwing things around the room, eh? Tell me that?” she’d shouted as they’d got on their bikes.
******
In one of the bedrooms, sixteen-year-old Hilde Weber lay flat on the floor staring up at the ceiling. Her malformed leg, two missing fingers on her left hand, and undeveloped ears were the result of a condition called phocomelia, which had been diagnosed at birth. She wasn’t the first person in the Weber family to have this disease, for her paternal grandmother, now deceased had suffered with stumpy arms and only three toes on her left and right feet.
Hilde had been in a wheelchair all her life. For years, she’d coped, and the family dealt well with her condition, taking her on outings to the nearby park, to the shops, and sometimes to the factory gates to wait for her father to finish work. But all normal, everyday pleasantries halted when her mother died of influenza in the winter of 1936, and a new, terrifying disease struck Hilde.
Her round face was like a perfectly designed doll with huge brown eyes surrounded by thick lashes, bow lips and mousy fair hair that was as straig
ht as a poker. Outwardly, she was pretty, but with a bloated appearance due to overeating when she was going through psychotic episodes, and not eating when she was lucid. There had been a promise of beauty in her younger years, but that was before a dark, unfathomable expression had crept into her eyes and scorn had laced her lips.
Hilde’s bedroom contained a bed, a dressing table with her mother’s old wooden hair brush, comb and mirror sitting in a perfect line on its oak top, a wardrobe filled with hand-me-down clothes she never wore, and paintings on the walls of elegant ballerinas in wondrous poses that she had painted before the onset of her second illness.
The room had a clinical appearance, but the rancid smell of urine trickling unhindered down Hilde’s legs, wetting her nightdress and the carpet she lay on, remained even after the room had been thoroughly cleaned and Hilde’s clothes had been washed. The stench was made even more repugnant because of the lack of air circulation. On their last visit, the police had ordered the Webers to lock the bedroom windows to muffle noise to the street outside. The curtains were drawn during the day and most nights, for Hilde was averse to bright light and interaction with people; any existence beyond the room’s four walls.
A neighbour, Frau Bloomberg, used to deliver breakfast, midday snack and evening meal on a tray to the bedroom. She and Hilde’s father had come to an arrangement whereby he gave the old woman money to buy food. She’d cook the meals, but then keep a portion for herself every day. The mutual luxury for the Webers and Frau Bloomberg next door had ended abruptly a few weeks earlier, however, when their neighbour was taken away by the Gestapo on the same day the German army invaded Poland. She’d never been seen or heard of since.
