by Jana Petken
“You look radiant, Hannah – Frank, you look good as well.” Hannah’s cousin, George, smiled before kissing her on the cheek. “Take care of my little cousin,” he added, showing Frank a playful fist.
“Go straight through to the back garden. We’ll be with you shortly,” Frank responded, giving George a playful punch as he passed him. Frank and George had known each other for years. It delighted Hannah that her new husband was just as familiar to her English family as she was. Frank knew all the boys in the family, and some of her girl cousins as well. They’d all gone to school together and had played sports in the streets when classes were finished. Both she and Frank had received a warm welcome on their return to England. Frank, trusted to behave himself with Hannah after promising no hanky-panky, had even stayed over at Aunt Cathy’s a few times. England had declared war on Germany, and everyone in the family was beside themselves with worry for the Vogels in Berlin.
Hannah watched a car pull up in the street. She squealed, and, leaving Frank standing, ran down the path to the front gate shouting, “Max! Max!”
Hannah threw herself into her brother’s arms almost before he’d got out of the car. “Oh, Max, I’ve missed you so terribly.”
Max grinned and gently pushed his sister away to take a good look at her. “You’re beautiful,” he said kissing her forehead. “And I missed you as well.”
Hannah then slapped his arm. “I’m cross at you for making me think you couldn’t come today.”
Max smiled. “I wanted to give you a nice surprise. So, are you going to introduce me to your husband?”
“Don’t be silly. He’s still the same old Frank,” Hannah laughed, linking her arm in Max’s to escort him up the path to the porch.
******
After lunch, Frank made his speech. For days, he had wrangled with its contents. Should it be uplifting with no mention of war, he’d pondered, or should he use the conflict to highlight his love for his half-German bride and the reason they had rushed the wedding? He’d thought at one point that perhaps he shouldn’t mention the Vogels at all but had then reneged on that idea. This new war was all too real for Hannah and Max who had both left their family in enemy territory. They could no more forget the Vogels than they could forget how to breathe.
Eventually, after much deliberation over a tumbler of whisky, Frank reached the conclusion that it would be wrong to ignore the violence raging in Europe and England. The British Navy had already received a massive blow after the audacious Germans sent a U-boat into Scapa Flow. The battleship HMS Royal Oak was obliterated in the attack and 833 men had been killed, including Rear-Admiral Henry Blagrove. The country was reeling, its citizens horrified at the intensity of violence that had taken place during the first six weeks of what could be a protracted conflict. War had come to Britain whether he wanted to speak of it or not. His speech, therefore, would be full of love with a reminder of Hannah and Max’s separation from those they cherished. It would be a poignant moment for everyone, he thought, for his and Hannah’s family members didn’t see the Vogels as enemies, but as loved ones trapped behind enemy lines.
After the luncheon plates had been cleared away, and the other speeches had been made, the atmosphere lightened. The weather remained dry and mild, and while some of the elderly guests headed inside to Aunt Cathy’s living room, the youngsters stayed in the garden marquee to dance.
More guests arrived, neighbours mostly, who’d been invited to join the party after the formalities were over. A few of Frank’s closest friends had also come, and some, having already taken the plunge, were wearing their military uniforms.
A trio of musicians provided the music on piano, violin and drums, and a wonderful young lady sang Cole Porter’s songs. Hannah and Frank started the festivities off by dancing to What is This Thing Called Love, and afterwards, when Frank spied male family members queuing up to dance with Hannah, he slipped away to find Max, who had signalled earlier that he wanted to talk in private.
Frank found Max in the front garden smoking a cigarette, staring at a bush, but probably not seeing it. He studied his friend from his hiding place. He had a lot to tell Max, but this was not the time or place to take unnecessary risks. If anyone were to overhear them, Hannah’s day would be ruined, and their marriage put in peril on its first day out of the box.
Max was the spitting image of Paul. Neither brother had any features that differentiated them one from the other. It was extremely difficult for one to know which brother one was talking to, even for those who’d known the Vogel twins for years. Their hair, builds, faces, gaits, and tones of voice were identical in every way, even down to their gestures. It was and always had been off-putting, fun, and intriguing to be in the company of both brothers at the same time. Frank chuckled. Oh, the games they used to play on neighbours and strangers alike; the trouble they’d got themselves into when one pretended to be the other.
“When will you tell my sister about your real job?” Max asked Frank once they were standing together under an ancient oak tree.
“I don’t know, Max. I’m not sure I should say anything to her until she’s settled. Her life would be simpler if she didn’t know what we do. I have the office angle arranged. I’m supposed to be working at an engineering firm in Kensington, and all calls to that number will go through to our secretary at MI6.
“What about when you’re called in the middle of the night or have to go on missions?”
Frank shrugged. “I’m not too worried about travelling. I’ll tell Hannah I’m going on training courses, and when the time comes to put on my uniform, I’ll tell her I’m going to be based at the Foreign Office. She’ll be delighted I don’t have to go overseas to fight. I don’t see the point in making her even more anxious than she already is, and besides, telling her would break protocol. MI6 are still finalising her security clearance.”
Max put his hands into his pockets and jiggled the coins in them. “She’s been cleared,” he grinned.
“That’s excellent. Thank you, Max, that’s a lovely wedding present.”
Max laughed, “There wouldn’t have been a wedding if our office had thought something was off with her application.”
Frank sighed with relief. “Hannah was worried about being deported. She’ll be thrilled with the news – I suppose operations will be much more intense now that we’re not just building a network for a war that might happen.”
Max nodded. “Our objectives will definitely change, and our missions will be more frequent. There’s going to be a lot more fieldwork from now on, Frank, including on the continent.”
“It seems I’ve missed a lot of meetings and conversations,” Frank said.
“You have. The boss wants you back tomorrow for your debriefing. He’s eager to learn what you saw in Germany.”
“Impossible. I’ve just got married for God’s sake! I’ve booked a hotel in Brighton. Can’t they give me two more days? What the hell am I going to tell your sister?”
“That’s up to you,” Max chuckled. “You knew the risks of your job interfering with your life if you brought Hannah back with you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you convinced her, but you’ll have to find an excuse to get to the debriefing.” He paused. “At least we succeeded in that part of our plan – tell me about Paul.”
Frank rested his hand on Max’s shoulder. “I’m worried about him, Max. I was gutted when your dad refused to allow him to study here. I don’t have all the facts, but I’m pretty sure he’s got himself into a rotten situation.”
“What the hell’s he mixed-up in? Christ, don’t tell me he’s joined the Nazi Party? Not my Paul?”
“I’m afraid he has, but not through choice.” Frank glanced at Hannah out the corner of his eye and let out a hearty laugh, “... oh yes, I remember that day...”
“What are you two talking about?” Hannah said walking up the path towards them. “I’m supposed to be in that tent dancing with my two favourite people, and here you both are gossiping like old wom
en by a clothes line. You’d better not be talking about the war, Frank Middleton. You promised me you’d not mention it today.”
Hannah gave Max an impulsive hug. “And what’s wrong with my big brother? You look as serious as Paul did when I left him in Berlin. Please, darling, write to him if you can, and say you’ll come for dinner on Saturday with Frank and me. I’m bursting with things to tell you, and I want to hear all your news. Promise me you’ll come.”
“Of course, I’ll come for your free food any day of the week. How could I say no to my darling sister and her big lump of a husband?”
Chapter Twelve
Wilmot Vogel
Poland, October 1939
Wilmot was delighted with his posting to the Leibstandarte SS, under Obergruppenführer Josef Dietrich. Before hearing the news, he’d worried himself sick that they might send him to one of the concentration camps mentioned in his final week of training. He wouldn’t have been happy babysitting communists, gypsies, homosexuals, Catholic priests and all the other big-mouthed dissidents who’d been thrown into the detention camps. Had they given him guard duties in Dachau, Buchenwald or Sachsenhausen where the bulk of the troublemakers were being sent, he’d have gone off his head and tried to resign, even though that was against his terms of service. He was in the SS to fight in the thick of the action, on the streets, cleaning them up, making them safe for Germans, not being stuck in a gatehouse or taking food to prisoners.
“What do you think of it all so far?” asked Lutz, one of Wilmot’s new best friends.
“There was a lot more shooting than I thought there would be. I imagined the Poles giving up as soon as they saw how many of us there were. Ach, I like this life, Lutz. It’s even better than I expected.”
Lutz agreed. “We must seem like Gods to these Poles. Mind you, Wilmot, I’m not keen on the food we’re getting. Nothing will beat my mutti’s cooking. You’ve never tasted lamb stew until you’ve had hers.”
“I’ll bet she won’t be cooking that very often now,” Wilmot remarked.
“No, you’re right there. She’s had to pull in her apron strings since they started all that rationing carry-on. I don’t know about yours, but my household can only buy a quarter of the amount of meat we used to have before. She wrote to me, you know, asked me if I’d take a joint of lamb back to her on my leave. How the bloody hell does she think I’m going to get hold of something like that? And even if I did, it’d stink the train out on the journey home.”
Wilmot laughed. “That’s not the funny part, Lutz – no – what’s funny about that is she thinks you’re going to get leave!”
The men chuckled. They sat on the steps of Danzig’s church having a light-hearted conversation with other members of their unit. Wilmot’s division’s advance into Poland had been swift and deadly, like a tsunami flooding the Polish territories in West Prussia, Poznan, Upper Silesia and Danzig, leaving nothing undamaged.
Some one and a half million German troops had invaded Poland along its almost two-thousand-mile border with German-controlled territory. Wilmot had fought, captured and killed Poles, Slavs, ethnics and undesirables that got in his unit’s way, and he’d done so with barely a hint of regret.
It had all been easier than he’d pictured. They’d moved across the country at a dizzying pace using armoured divisions to smash through enemy lines and isolate segments of the enemy, surrounded almost from the outset. Motorized German infantry had captured thousands of defeated Poles while the panzer tanks rushed forwards to repeat the pattern. And he and his SS division left every village burning. He’d not seen much sense in gutting houses, he’d admitted to himself but no one else. They’d need to build them again later for German citizens. After all, the reason for invading Poland was to give more living space to German people; destroying whole towns was a daft move.
Wilmot’s gun, never fired in anger before Poland, had felt right at home in his hands. He’d pulled the trigger without hesitation, had seen men, women and the odd child fall as his bullets struck them. His months of training, still fresh in his mind had guided his actions, some unilateral, others under the commands of superior officers, but almost always with perfect precision. His loyalty and commitment had kept him focused, his nerves in check, on those first days when the SS units were encouraged to shoot and kill rebellious Poles breaking curfews or trying to run. He’d been transformed from a soldier-in-waiting to a battle-hardened instrument of death overnight, or so it seemed to him.
Having been seconded to the transport pool, Wilmot declined the bottle of beer being passed around. Apart from him, the other men were off duty. Reinforcements had arrived that afternoon after his unit had slogged for weeks without a proper recreational rest. The SS looked after their men, demanding that they fight hard, and play just as hard when they got the chance.
He walked away, his friends’ shouts following him. “We’ll have a few drinks for you, Willie!”
Wilmot raised his arm and good-humouredly waved to the men. He’d been pleased to get into the driver’s pool. He didn’t want to be stuck in the prison camps or towns for days or weeks. He felt useless, as though he were wasting his time and missing all the excitement of war.
When he’d been given the task of transporting prisoners, he’d learned that an important part of his duties entailed a measure of secrecy. That had left him feeling uneasy, especially after he was threatened. “It is punishable by death to tell anyone about who you have in your trucks or where you are taking them,” his sergeant had told him and three other drivers on Wilmot’s first day on the job.
Still in a good mood, Wilmot walked to the end of the street where a temporary prison camp had been set up. He said hello to the guards posted at the checkpoint, and they opened the gates for him. His truck, Number 42, was already being loaded with men, women, and children, all Jews he’d noted earlier from the manifest he’d been given. Two SS friends of his were standing at the back of the transport getting ready to lower and tie off the canvas flap. Wilmot asked them to wait. He wanted to see the state of the prisoners before moving off.
Fortunately for them, packed in like cigarettes in an unopened pack, the long summer had ended abruptly with thunderstorms. It was now cool during the day and becoming cold at night. Still, the way in which they were jammed in meant that not one of them would be able to sit down for any part of the journey, and he wasn’t happy about that.
This was his fourth trip with prisoners. The first he’d undertaken had been from the camp he was in now to another camp fifteen miles south of Danzig. The second trip had been to the train station. That one had been a hell of a journey with people moaning with discomfort as they were battered and bruised by other prisoners grabbing onto them for support. Two old Jews had died on the way, suffocated by others when their legs had buckled. They’d been trampled underfoot, and his co-driver, Franz, refusing to take them back to the camp, had dragged their dead bodies into a field and left them there to rot.
A young woman caught his eye. She was the closest prisoner to him, clinging on to the side rail used to secure the back canvas. Her face was grey, moist with sweat, and creased with pain. She gripped her fat stomach and moaned while the man standing next to her rubbed her back.
“Are you having the baby now?” Wilmot asked.
She pleaded with Wilmot as tears ran down her face and then groaned as another painful contraction hit her.
“Right, that’s it. She can’t go on this run,” Wilmot said to the squad-leader who was waiting for Wilmot to sign for the prisoners before leaving the camp. “She’ll have to go on the next one or stay in the camp until she’s delivered. I can’t deal with this. I’m a driver, not a doctor, and I’m not stopping to let prisoners off so that she can have room to open her bloody legs to let the baby drop.”
The sergeant stared at the young woman in question and then nodded to the two SS Sturmmann troopers. “All right, get her off.”
“She’s my wife. Take me with her, please … please!” th
e man rubbing the woman’s back shouted.
“Shut up!” snapped Wilmot, as the troopers dragged the woman off the back of the truck.
“What’s your name?” the sergeant asked her in a kindly voice.
She bent over, clutching her stomach and moaned, “Ruta Kowalski.”
“Ruta Kowalski ... Kowalski ... ah, here you are.”
The sergeant drew a line through her name then handed the manifest and pen to Wilmot. He watched in horror as his superior casually went for his pistol, took it out of its holster, and shot the woman in the head.
Wilmot gasped. “Why? You rotten bastard…”
The prisoners on the truck squealed like children, drowning Wilmot’s torrent of expletives. The woman’s husband jumped off the back of the truck screaming and was shot almost before his feet touched the ground.
Still shocked, Wilmot thrust the clipboard and pen into the sergeant’s stomach. “You’ll have to mark him off too.”
“Are you giving the orders now, Vogel?” the sergeant grunted and then pointed to the dead husband. “What was his name?” When he didn’t receive an answer, he barked in Wilmot’s face. “What was it?”
“How the hell should I know? Just jot down minus one and I’ll sign it.” Wilmot was desperate to leave.
“Vogel, if you ever speak to me like that again, I’ll put you on a charge,” the sergeant said thrusting the clipboard back at him.
The passengers grew silent as the truck’s flap was lowered to block out their terror-filled faces. Wilmot scribbled his name on the manifest and was horrified to feel a tear slip from his eye and land on the paper. He inhaled deeply, his eyes shut for just a moment before giving the clipboard back to the sergeant. Then, he stretched his arm out in the Nazi salute as he watched the corpses of the pregnant woman and her husband being carried away. “Was that necessary?” he asked, ignoring his superior’s earlier warning about respect. “You didn’t need to make a show of yourself for the Jews. They know how strong we are.”
