The German Half-Bloods (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 1)

by Jana Petken

  Dieter chuckled, “Photographs proving he’s a pansy, a homosexual, a raving buggerer of boys.”

  Paul giggled until it morphed into full-blown laughter. Finally, he managed to stutter, “Rudolph is a homosexual … a homo … Christ, and I thought this day couldn’t get any more bizarre.”

  Dieter also allowed a smile to lift the corners of his mouth. “You see now why I’m not worried about Rudolph airing his suspicions about Leitner’s death to anyone?”

  Paul let out a whoosh as he exhaled. He had been complicit in murder only that morning, yet were it not for the news about Willie, he’d be feeling better than he had in months. He agreed with his father, they were probably in the clear. Rudolph would know more than anyone how precarious his warped lifestyle was. He’d do everything in his power to help Willie, and he’d keep quiet about Leitner’s death.

  “If Mother were here, she’d make a cup of tea. Do you want one, Papa?” Paul started for the kitchen.

  “To hell with tea, Son, let’s have a Scotch.”

  When Dieter had poured the Whisky into two glass tumblers, he lifted his in a toast. “We couldn’t have managed today without Max. I’m worried sick about him.”

  “Me too, Papa. Here’s to Max, and Willie.” Paul drank it down to the last drop. He refilled the glasses and asked. “How did you find out about Rudolph’s tawdry secret?”

  Dieter pulled the three photographs from his jacket pocket. He threw them on the table in front of Paul who studied them one at a time. His eyes widened with a mixture of disgust and shock at the most revealing one. “I don’t know whether to laugh or be sick.” He turned serious. “Couldn’t your friend, Biermann put a word in for Willie as well?”

  “No. No military person would touch Willie’s case. There’s no greater crime or insult for men in uniform than one of their own being convicted of treason or the attempted, or successful, murder of a brother-in-arms. Rudolph is a civilian. He’s my best and only hope.”

  “He’ll come through for you, Papa, given the seriousness of those photographs. I won’t even ask how you got them.”

  Dieter, evidently not listening, thumped his fists on the table, “I’ve lost my boy, my poor, stupid, hot-headed Wilmot.”

  Dieter’s eyes were once again tearing up. Paul, who’d discovered more about his father’s character that day than he had in his in his entire life, was genuinely sorry for the pain Willie was causing his parents. “Your friend, the Kriminaldirektor, seems like a good man. He’s fond of you, Papa,” said Paul, changing the subject.

  Dieter, still clearly upset, gulped down his whisky and then managed a weak smile. “He should be fond of me. I saved his life in 1916. We were … well, it doesn’t matter where we were. I pulled him to the ground just in time, that’s all you need to know – you know, Son, every time I see Freddie, he tells me, ‘Dieter, you still have that favour in the bank.’ I never intended to use it. Saving him was the best thing I ever did. He told me about your meeting. He’ll try to keep you in Berlin, but I can’t guarantee you’ll be any happier on a battlefield or in a hospital in Germany.”

  As though sensing Paul’s thoughts, Dieter continued, “Yes, I should have spoken to him about your situation before you went to Brandenburg, but I was afraid for my family. I didn’t know, still don’t know how far the Gestapo’s arm reaches, or if Freddie, yes, even my good friend, Freddie, is in the Abwehr’s pocket? War makes monsters of us all. I was overly cautious, and I’m sorry, Son.”

  Paul felt the lump build in his throat. “Nothing is simple anymore, Father. People are guided by manipulation and lies and driven by fear. We’ve all been contaminated by Goebbels’ propaganda and Hitler’s outlandish reasoning for everything he does. He made sense to most Germans when he first took over with his love of country and determination to make us proud again, make Germany the great nation it once was. But all that rhetoric was a cover for what he really wanted.”

  “And what was that?” Dieter asked.

  “Domination of a race of people who are nothing less than perfect in his eyes, expanding Aryanism to the rest of Europe, and a total intolerance of anyone who doesn’t agree with his vision…” Paul’s words trailed off. “Enough of that. I’m going to burn this SS uniform, and I made it clear to Kriminaldirektor Biermann that I don’t ever want to put another one on again.”

  Dieter refilled Paul’s glass, saying, “You know, Paul, when I fought in the First World War, I remember thinking that I might bump into our neighbours from Kent, or people who came to my wedding, or members of your mother’s family. Every morning, I’d peek my head above the trench’s parapet and pray I didn’t see a familiar face I’d drunk a pint with or played cards with in our one-room-and-kitchen flat, or went hop-picking with in the summer – I was torn and heartbroken about the difficult choice I’d been forced to make, but I kept telling myself that I was German, a Berliner with a family and neighbours who needed me to fight for them – I saw you choose Germany this morning, knowing that you might have to kill enemy soldiers, including those in the British army. Have you thought about Max and Frank enlisting, fighting alongside each other against you? How do you feel about that?”

  Paul cupped his glass and swivelled it around and around in his hands as he thought of an appropriate answer. “I don’t know how I would feel, to be honest, but I do know that I’m a German who loves the Fatherland as you do. I will never abandon it.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Papa,” Paul corrected him. “I like Britain and the people who live there, but I don’t know the British as Max does. I don’t have his affinity with the English way of life.”

  “Is that why you stayed?”

  “Yes.” Paul took a sip of Scotch, then shrugged. “I’d never say this in front of Mother, but if push comes to shove, I would rather kill a British soldier than a German one. I despise Adolf Hitler, but I won’t abandon the ordinary man and woman in the street, like the kind old lady who owned the bakery across the road from the university, or the janitor who used to tell me about his experiences in The Great War, or the professors who taught me and nurtured my dreams. If I must, I’ll fight for them and for millions of other Germans. All any of us can hope for is a quick end to the conflict.”

  “Thank you for being honest,” Dieter said. “You deserve the same from me.”

  “Yes, I do. For a start, you can tell me why you treated Judith with such contempt. Do you really share the Nazi doctrine, or are you towing the party line because you have to?”

  Dieter didn’t answer. Instead he refilled his own glass.

  “I hope to God Judith made it out of Berlin,” Paul mumbled.

  “She was a resourceful woman, Paul. She’ll be all right. You did all you could for her.”

  “Did I do everything I could to help her?”

  “Yes. Yes, Son, and now you must think about your own future.”

  His father was right, Paul thought, he had to move on. He would never see Judith again, never know if she was alive or dead, or in a detention camp. He’d made mistakes, but he couldn’t beat himself up forever over Judith Weber’s disappearance, or for the crimes against her race.

  “It seems such a small victory; me saving her from the gas chamber when there were so many others who weren’t so lucky. I just hope she never has to face that horror,” said Paul, downing his whisky in one.

  A somewhat comfortable silence ensued. Paul, now thinking about Max, wondered what his father really thought about Max’s performance that day. Ignorant about Max’s rank and occupation with Britain’s MI6, their father had not mentioned his eldest son’s evident self-confidence that morning, nor had he asked how Max had managed to swan into Germany undetected or how he was planning to get out of the country. Max was a cold bloodied murderer. He had squeezed the life out of another man in an almost effortless and trivial manner and had then got on with his plan of escape without breaking a sweat. Papa couldn’t possibly believe that Max made maps for a livi
ng, could he?

  “I’m going to bed, Father. I could sleep for a week,” Paul said kissing his father’s cheek.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Long after Dieter and Paul had retired to their rooms for the night, Dieter crept back down the stairs, crossed the hall to the telephone and dialled the number for the phone in the garage flat. “Kurt, be in position within the hour.” He hung up, went into his dressing gown pocket and pulled out the key to his office. The door was always locked. Inside were his private correspondence, business documents and factory plans. It was a room he’d refurbished six years earlier, the only place in the house that was his and his alone; not even the cleaner was given access.

  Behind the desk, a tall book cabinet stretched from one end of the wall to the other. He sat in his chair, swivelled it to face the books and then removed one of them to reveal his radio transmitter, a coding machine, headphones and the notebooks he regularly used to send transmissions to Jonathan Heller at MI6.

  It was crucial that Heller receive the intelligence tonight, Dieter thought, for he’d discovered information on the Wehrmacht’s Sea Lion operation to invade Britain. He had gone to Freddie Biermann’s house for dinner three nights earlier, and after a few whiskies Biermann had talked about Hitler’s plans to invade the British Isles – that Hitler now wanted Britain was no secret, for he’d already occupied the Channel Islands: Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney, Sark and Herm. Dieter, knowing that Biermann attended top brass meetings on the Gestapo’s third floor Headquarters, had dug deeper for more information that the British could use to defend themselves.

  “I don’t see how they’re going to do it, Freddie,” Dieter had toyed with Biermann, who had responded with classified Luftwaffe’s plans, number of aircraft, their locations and how they were to be used to crush Britain. “We’ll take that island within weeks,” Freddie had slurred.

  Dieter opened the book, Green Hills of Africa by Ernest Hemmingway, and began the tedious work of writing down the codes he would need to make a coherent message. When he’d completed that task, he walked to the window. The torchlight outside flashed once. Kurt had arrived in the street and was keeping his eyes peeled for direction-finding trucks used to detect illicit signals.

  Kurt had proved his worth time and time again, going with him on missions and relaying messages between himself and Ernst Brandt, who also reported to Dieter, code named Big Bear. Without his driver, he’d have no prior warnings of danger and wouldn’t be able to go on air without worrying if his signal was being discovered.

  As an industrialist with contacts all over Germany, Dieter had an excuse to travel extensively on MI6 business, which he frequently did. Kurt also accompanied Dieter to functions, both social and business. There, he made the most of his time, chatting with other drivers who often let overheard conversations between their Reich passengers slip.

  Once he’d put on his headphones, Dieter switched on the radio. He fingered the dial and changed the radio frequency to 7. He’d gone through this routine a hundred times, but on every single occasion his fingers trembled, his conscience plagued him, and fear gripped him to the point where he often imagined that the enemy was just outside the door waiting for the right moment to break in and arrest him. Was he a traitor? No, his inner voice always answered back. He was a patriot, doing what was best for Germany and its people, and what was best was trying to shorten the conflict, or bring down Hitler.

  On occasion, Heller in London replied immediately with new orders. Sometimes, when he’d sent a particularly short, simple message, Heller would send confirmation of receipt containing only one or two coded words, and then end the transmission. And at times, he wouldn’t reply to Dieter at all, preferring to communicate with Brandt a day or two later. It was a fickle, hit and miss job that required not only stealth but great patience.

  After six weeks of radio training to achieve at least a nodding acquaintance with the subject, Dieter had paired up with Heller, and together they had developed a good rapport, and more importantly, a way of communicating using a code within a code, which only the two of them could break; they had ostensibly invented a whole new language, according to Heller.

  Since the start of the war, Dieter had become more cautious. He went on air only when he had material he considered vital, and he always kept his transmissions short. He’d changed his transmitting procedures from those he’d been taught, to one which enabled him to reduce his time on the air. Being light and relatively small, he also took the transmitter to other operating locations after Kurt had scouted them out.

  Dieter was Heller’s man and so deeply embedded in Berlin and Dresden that not even the Foreign Office or highest echelons of the MI6 committees and sections knew of his existence. He’d wanted to tell Max that the reason he was in MI6 was because his father had ordered Brandt to Oxford to recruit him. He, Dieter, had suggested to Heller that his son would make a good agent and army man, for Max had made no secret of his hatred for the Nazi ideology and his desire to fight it. There were times, however, that Dieter regretted Max’s recruitment, for it was a lonely, scary, unpredictable job that involved keeping secrets and lying to everybody one cared about.

  His heart thumped as he began to transmit the coded language and numerals to Heller. The static on the line was as loud as an orchestra. When on air, he felt that he was in the middle of a crowded railway station, such was the interference and static that came through his headphones. But, regardless of the uncomfortable environment, he continued, pausing when necessary to indicate that a sentence was finished, emphasising certain words, telling Heller that it was an urgent issue, and finally saying ‘over’ when he was done.

  Two minutes passed, during which time the Abwehr or Gestapo could find him if they were in the area. Using this location, he’d told Kurt, was like being a criminal hiding in plain sight of the police. He lived in an affluent district full of Reich members and high-ranking military officers. “Kurt, it’s well known that I entertain influential Nazi Party members. Who’s going to suspect me of espionage against the Fatherland?” he’d said with exaggerated confidence.

  Finally, Heller’s reply came through, jolting Dieter from his thoughts. ‘GHTYNJ 1200 Roger. ES GC.’ He let out a long sigh of relief and switched off. Heller had understood and would transmit new orders in three days, and his ending, ‘Mirror in clearing’ was Jonathan’s way of saying that Max had made it to Switzerland.

  Dieter put his office back the way he’d found it, then switched off the lights as he left the room. It was three o’clock in the morning, but Dieter had one more telephone call to make before he went to sleep. Paul had convinced him that Hans Rudolph was bluffing and that his threat to accuse the Vogels of Leitner’s murder was a last-ditch attempt to avert Dieter’s blackmail.

  “He’s probably terrified of being found out. He’d not last ten minutes in Dachau, and he knows it,” Paul had said before going to bed.

  Paul was right. Leitner’s death had already been deemed an accident, and no one was going to investigate it apart from his bosses at the Abwehr. And what could they do? They’d illegally placed a spy in a hospital posing as a doctor putting patients’ lives at risk, not to mention pissing off the Gestapo and SS.

  Dieter placed the call to Rudolph and when he was put through, said, “You have twenty-four hours to start the ball rolling for Wilmot’s release. If you don’t do as I say, you will spend the remainder of your life running from prison guards and German criminals who will show you how they feel about homosexuals.” Then he hung up and went to bed.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Wilmot Vogel

  September 1940

  Dachau Concentration Camp

  After his second breakfast, Wilmot marched towards the Arbeit Macht Frei gate on the west side of the camp’s administration building, to the music of Bach played by the camp’s orchestra. Beside him, Christoph limped, his bandaged foot trailing behind him. He no longer told everyone about how his unsanctioned piss behind a bush h
ad landed him in Dachau. Christoph had had the stuffing knocked out of him, and no longer talked much about anything to anyone, apart from the odd, short conversation with Wilmot, who had taken him under his wing.

  Weeks earlier, Wilmot had been optimistic. The guards’ beatings he’d endured in the days following his arrival had stopped, and he’d been selected to work on the Kiesgrube detail, shovelling gravel. The recompense for that honour was the allocation of subsidised food, including two breakfasts each morning. The second, the Brotzeit, consisted of an eighth or tenth part of a loaf and two ounces of sausage. It wasn’t much, but it staved off the hunger and gave him added strength to endure his gruelling job.

  Now, two months into his indeterminate sentence, he was seeing his chances of survival fade. He’d witnessed three internees collapse and die on the job, which entailed loading wagons with crushed rocks at an unsustainable pace from morning ‘til night. He suspected it was only a matter of time before that same weakness of body struck him down. He recalled that the prisoners’ dead bodies had been kicked aside until the end of the shift and then carted off in a wheelbarrow for burial. No one had warned Wilmot that the Kiesgrube detail was considered the worst work detail internees could be given.

  Both he and Christoph wore their uniform trousers, but they’d been forced to wear the striped penal shirt after their own had been destroyed by rocks ripping the material until the shirts were in tatters. White, rectangular patches with their prison numbers were stitched onto their trousers, next to those were green triangles that identified their classification. Wilmot didn’t see himself as a German criminal, but apparently that was who he was according to the colour green.

  The line of workers halted and bowed their heads until Piorkowski, the camp’s sadist commandant had passed. Since seeing the man shoot a prisoner in the head for no apparent reason, Wilmot had been too afraid to look Piorkowski in the eye, or wander around alone.