by Jana Petken
Without waiting for Leitner to interject, Heinze continued, “I’ve made my decision, and I believe it would be reckless to leave the ovens where they are when public opinion is clearly against us. The Führer’s Chancellery Department in Tiergartenstraße also agrees with me. They don’t relish this unrest, or any loss of secrecy regarding a programme that is paramount to our future success.”
Max, disgusted by the men’s blasé description of the crematorium’s stink, wanted to know what his father was supplying to Brandenburg. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and it rose as bile into his throat. If Paul knew that their father was somehow involved in the gassings, why hadn’t he mentioned it? He hated the feeling of being unprepared.
“... you’re worrying over nothing,” Leitner was now saying. “Given time, Herr Goebbel’s propaganda machine will bring the public over to our side. It’s clear now that the German people don’t want the Jews in their towns, or country, any more than we do.”
“Goebbels has to do something right now, Hauptsturmführer,” Rudolph said. “We have people running to the local newspapers with stories about Görden. We have to nip them in the bud.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Leitner snapped. “I can guarantee secrecy in Görden. We are already secured behind fencing. I can’t think of anywhere else that has that security – do you even know where to move the crematorium ovens to?”
“Yes. We’ve found an isolated house.” Heinze narrowed his eyes at Leitner, as though tired of his tantrums. “It’s surrounded by a high wooden fence and located about three miles outside the town, on Paterdamm Street. We’ll camouflage the site and call it the Chemical and Technical Research Institute. But, we will continue to use the barn to gas the patients then move the corpses to the new crematorium site in post office vans at night.”
Rudolph leaned across his desk. “Must I remind you, Hauptsturmführer Leitner, that the Chancellery is paying all the personnel associated with our programme. They have the final say on this, not the SS and certainly not the doctors involved.” Rudolph picked up the piece of paper again and waved it in Leitner’s face. “Is this not clear enough for you?”
“It looks like a recommendation from the Chancellery to me, not an order.”
Max was filing the information in his memory for transmitting to London. What had heartened him, despite the vile subject, were the vulnerable cracks evident within the Nazi Party. It seemed they were afraid of a public outcry were they to be caught murdering people in cold blood. Members of the public protesting? That was something he’d rarely seen or heard of in over six years. Hopefully, the small voices of the few would grow, and in one thunderous voice, would publicly question the actions of Hitler and his Regime.
“Well, it appears you’ve already made the arrangements without me, Herr Heinze,” said Leitner in a clipped tone.
“I have, and I want you to make the changes by tonight before our next consignment is due.”
“That’s much too soon.”
Heinze directed an impatient sigh at Leitner whose face had turned purple. “Not if you leave now. It won’t take more than an hour to transport the ovens and the men you need to Paterdamm Street. You’ll be back at the gas chamber before the new patients arrive. There won’t be any more corpses disposed of in Görden tonight or any other night. Is that clear, Hauptsturmführer?”
Heinze rose from his chair, his mission completed. When he took his final leave, he cast a dismissive glare at Leitner, then closed the door gently behind him.
“This was a waste of my time. I want it recorded that I disagree with Herr Heinze’s decision.” Leitner lurched to his feet.
Rudolph dismissed Leitner and Max with a nod and glancing at the door, said, “You can complain to whomsoever you like, but you will obey Herr Heinze. That will be all.”
Max opened the door while Leitner set his cap straight on his blond head. “I’ll have to request more stokers and guards. Let’s see how the ministry likes paying for them.” Leitner scowled with the last word.
Max, as ignored as he had been during the meeting, followed Leitner down the stairs.
After punching their staff cards out at the machine, Leitner headed to the car park, lighting a cigarette as he walked. Tense, Max followed until the Hauptsturmführer reached the fence at the far end of the car park, where he turned towards Max. “I’ll be going to Berlin at midday tomorrow. You will accompany me.”
“Will I be visiting the new site this evening, sir?” Max asked.
“No. Go to the gas chamber and instruct Scharführer Dunkel to load the ovens onto our truck. Tell him I need four stokers and four guards to accompany the equipment. I’ll meet the truck at the hospital’s main gates.”
“And me?”
“You’ll wait for the patients to arrive at Görden. I should be back by then, but if I’m not, start ticking names off – you remember the procedure, don’t you – between vomitings?”
“Yes, sir.”
Leitner drew on his cigarette while inspecting Max from head to toe. “Tell me, Vogel, where were you when I visited your father’s house last week?”
Max raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Where was I?”
“Yes, where were you? You left here at eleven o’clock on the morning of your suspension, yet you still hadn’t arrived at your parents’ house by eight o’clock that evening. So, where did you go for the entire day?”
“With respect, I was suspended from the hospital, so what I did and where I went that day is nobody’s business but my own.” Max held Leitner’s probing eyes in calculated defiance. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes – go.”
Max turned on his heel and began to walk back towards the hospital buildings. Anxious to get away from Leitner, he silently applauded Paul for not kicking two barrels of shit out of the obnoxious git.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” Leitner shouted behind him.
Max halted mid-step, pivoted, drew himself to attention and then gave the Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler,” Leitner repeated.
When Leitner was out of sight, Max lit a cigarette. He expelled the smoke along with a sigh of relief. He’d come to a disturbing conclusion about the Hauptsturmführer that Paul, a relatively trusting and naïve man, had evidently missed. His twin had remarked that Leitner was not in the least bit interested in treating patients as a normal doctor would, and that he was always watching him in rather unnatural way. But, Leitner was doing much more than that; he was investigating him.
He followed Paul’s directions to the Görden Prison complex, pondering Leitner’s motives along the way. The only answer that made sense was that he was spying on the staff involved in the euthanasia program, including Rudolph and Herr Heinze.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dieter Vogel
The two SS guards posted at either side of the hospital’s main doors eyed Dieter suspiciously. “Halt,” one of them said.
Dieter met their stern expressions with one of his own. “I’m here for a meeting with Herr Rudolph. I am Dieter Vogel. He’s expecting me.”
“Sign in at the desk.”
The SS had wormed their way into just about every government establishment in Berlin, he thought when he saw the heavy SS security inside – they were everywhere – they’d even moved into his factory, making his workforce nervous and the building a dismal place to work in.
Factory life wasn’t glamourous, or easy, and the men often wanted to let off steam in a variety of ways. They got drunk, brawled and got their backsides kicked by the foremen when they slacked off with hangovers. A few unskilled workers on the payroll were bone idle or consistently complaining about the hours they worked, and the downright rebellious skulked together at the back of the buildings and in toilets griping about fellow workers who took home bigger pay packets. Civilians, registered as Nazi Party and Arbeitsfront members got higher wages than those who’d refused to join, and now the men who wouldn’t sign
up were being weeded out and fired, not by him, but by SS Inspectors.
His workers were subdued for numerous reasons: they’d been made to sign an Official Secrets Act document, rumours of a takeover by the military were rife, they were worried about forced labour programmes, and they also suspected the presence of Gestapo agents; men who had suddenly appeared in the factory at the same time as the chemists and soldiers.
“The Ministry of the Interior is doing you a favour,” one of its ministers had remarked to Dieter regarding the spies. “You don’t want your workers to blab about what’s being manufactured under your roof, do you? That would be bad for you, and for them.”
After that visit, Dieter had called his foremen into his office, and without mentioning spies, had warned them to keep their thoughts to themselves. “If you or those in your section complain or insult the Party they’ll be transported to a concentration camp before the end of their shifts. It’s that simple,” he’d said.
Rudolph poured tea into fine bone china cups and talked about a strange man he’d met at a recent cocktail party. His host was a stickler for his bloody tea ceremonies, Dieter thought, glancing at the elaborate Ormolu clock on the wall. The morning was speeding by, and he had a lot of ground to cover.
“Ah, thank you, Hans. There’s nothing nicer than a cup of tea, is there?” Dieter smiled.
“My thoughts exactly, especially in the morning, eh?” He took a sip. “Ah, now that is good. Well, Dieter, what can I do for you?”
Dieter set his cup and saucer on the desk, annoyed to see his fingers trembling. Damn it, he cursed inwardly, he had to get this right. He’d rehearsed it for long enough. “I’m here on a personal matter, Hans. You see ... no… wait, on second thoughts, it might be best if you read it for yourself.” Dieter pulled a letter from his jacket’s inside pocket. He’d carried it around for two days, dreading people’s reactions should its contents become public knowledge. Berlin was a big city, but news travelled fast within military and business circles, and some would have a feast day over his misery. “Read it aloud, please.”
Dieter’s heartbeat quickened as he watched Rudolph pull the letter from the envelope. It was from the German High Command; the worst sort of notification a father could receive, short of the death of a son in battle.
Leibstandarte SS Schütze Wilmot Vogel, of 2nd SS Panzer Division, has been legally tried in accordance with military rules and regulations, for the crime of attempted murder of SS Franz Bachmeier. Schütze Vogel, was subsequently found guilty of the unprovoked shooting incident.
“Oh, my God, Dieter,” Rudolph gasped.
“Read on please.”
Schütze Vogel has received an indeterminate prison sentence in Dachau Concentration Camp. The SS, acting in the name of the German High Command, does not and will not tolerate such acts of violence towards a fellow soldier of the Reich.
All correspondence to SS Rifleman Vogel must be sent directly to the following postal address ...
Alte Römerstraße 75, 85221 Dachau, Deutchland
Do not reply to sender.
Heil Hitler.
S-Oberst-Gruppenführer, Franz Achter
Rudolph put the letter into the envelope and handed it back to Dieter. “I don’t know what to say. Could it be a mistake?”
“No. There’s no mistake. I went yesterday afternoon to the SS headquarters in Prinz-Albrecht-Straße. They confirmed Wilmot’s incarceration. He got into an argument with another rifleman and pulled his gun on the man. As you can imagine, I’m a wreck. I could do with your help.”
Rudolph shook his head in disapproval. “Silly boy. Thank God he didn’t kill the man.” Then, more serious, he said, “I’m sorry, Dieter. I really don’t know how I can help you.”
“You can ask someone high up in the Chancellery to consider releasing Wilmot. I know you’ve had personal dealings with the Minister for the Interior … Frick, isn’t it? And the Führer’s personal physician might be willing to put a word in; you mentioned once that you played poker with him.” Dieter paused, hoping for a sign of encouragement, but all he got was a gleeful smirk from Rudolph as he refilled his tea cup.
“You’re respected, Hans. I’m sure if you vouch for my son it’ll go a long way in getting him out of there,” Dieter tried again. “Hans, Hitler himself gave you this job. You’ve met him.”
Rudolph sipped his tea, his little finger waving in the air. His eyes gave nothing away as he pondered the request. It was as though he was enjoying amplifying Dieter’s anxiety for his own pleasure. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t get involved in the judiciary system, especially when it’s military. Your son has committed a crime, and like all criminals, he’ll have to serve his sentence.”
“Will you at least think about it? Dieter asked.
“I will, if you want me to, but I’ll repeat what I’ve already told you, no matter how many times you ask me to intervene.”
Dieter sat back in his chair, went into his pocket again and brought out another envelope. Inside were three photographs. He took them out, laid them face down on his lap and then took a casual sip of his tea, lifting his pinkie finger in the air in the same way Rudolph had. Then he smiled. “My wife has gone to Dresden for the summer. Did I tell you?”
“No, but I’m sure it will do her a world of good,” Rudolph said, eyeing the photographs.
“You’re not married, are you, Hans?”
“No. I never found the right woman.”
“It must be difficult for you.”
“What do you mean, difficult?”
“Well, trying to hide your ... err … problem...”
Rudolph put his cup down, very slowly. “What are you getting at?”
Dieter felt good. He had lost his power on the night he’d first met Rudolph. He had very few cards left in his deck to play with against the Nazis, for they held most of the aces: his wife was English, his children were perceived as half-bloods, half-pure German Aryans, only half trusted. But, now, he had an ace for Hans and he would use it if necessary.
“What are those?” Rudolph asked, waving his finger at the photographs.
“In a moment,” Dieter smiled, taking another sip of tea. He’d collected this information months earlier, waiting for the right time to use it. He had spent a lot of money on three investigators who’d followed Rudolph for weeks around the clock until they found his weakness. It had been one of the best investments he’d ever made.
“You should be more careful, Hans,” Dieter nodded sagely. “When you came to my house to threaten my family and target my son, I recognised who ... what you are. I’m surprised...”
A loud knock shattered the atmosphere leaving Dieter’s unfinished sentence hanging in the air. Without waiting for an answer, Leitner marched in.
“Ah, Herr Vogel, what a pleasant surprise to see you here,” Leitner said with a smile that went nowhere near his eyes.
Dieter gave him a cold nod. “Hauptsturmführer.”
“What is it, Hauptsturmführer?” Rudolph snapped. “I’m in an important meeting.”
Dieter covered the photographs with his hands. His heart beat a tattoo in his chest while he casually took another sip of tea.
“Come back in half an hour?” Rudolph told Leitner.
Leitner put his hand on the door handle as he shot a penetrating look at Rudolph. “I will. I also have an important issue to discuss with you, and it can’t wait. Please excuse the interruption, Herr Vogel.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
After Leitner had left Rudolph’s office, Dieter took a couple of minutes to finish his tea and replace the china cup in its exquisitely patterned saucer. For a moment, he’d thought that Rudolph might mention Willie to Leitner, to disrupt the conversation and to shift focus from himself. Rudolph was visibly affected. He reached for the crystal water jug, his hands fidgety as he wiped a droplet of sweat from his forehead.
“You really should get your secretary to put a Do Not Disturb sign on your door,” said Dieter, placing
two of the photographs face up on top of the desk. “As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted, I knew what you were the first time I laid eyes on you – look at them, Hans, take your time.”
In the first picture, a man was going into Rudolph’s Berlin house. The other was of the same man leaving the house sometime later with Rudolph just visible in the doorway with his shirt tails out of his trousers and his braces hanging down one visible leg.
“And? What’s your point?” Rudolph asked.
Dieter placed the third picture beside the others. “The first two might look innocent enough to some people, but I think you’ll agree that this one, taken two weeks later, leaves nothing to the imagination.”
Rudolph gasped, this time slumping in his chair like a man who’d just been hit over the head with a sledgehammer. “Someone broke into my house, was in my bedroom at night? In my bedroom! How is that possible ... how ... who...?”
“It doesn’t matter how, who, or when. I got what I needed, and now you’re going to pay me to keep quiet about your … sexual appetites.”
Rudolph flinched but kept his head down, eyes flitting from one photo to the other. Dieter was unsure how far he could take the blackmail. The Nazis were hunting homosexuals and those caught were being sent to concentration camps. He didn’t know; how could he, but he imagined death would come swiftly to many of them in those places, and Rudolph’s terror-stricken face suggested he thought so too.
“Do you remember the speech Heinrich Himmler made to the SS Group Leaders about the ‘Question of Homosexuality’?” Dieter asked after a generous pause. “You might have been there being a psychiatrist and having a special interest in the subject. I was also invited. Of course, I don’t remember all the speeches made two years ago, but that one stuck with me because of Himmler’s emphasis on extermination. It was a brutal attack on your sort of … well … your community … dreadful, I thought.”
