by Jana Petken
“I’m not going to last another month,” Wilmot said to Christoph as they were leaving the camp for the quarry. “My legs and arms are ton weights, I can’t sleep for being too tired, and I’m holding my bloody trousers up with string. I don’t see how we can carry on doing this, Christoph, I really don’t.”
“I haven’t had a food parcel yet,” Christoph said. “I thought my family might have sent me something nice. You’d tell me if you got anything from your parents wouldn’t you, Willie?”
“Ach, Christoph, I don’t think I’ll get anything. My father has probably disowned me by now. He’s a bit of a stickler for discipline, my father. He’d rather see me rot in here than show me sympathy. I bet you he’s too ashamed to mention my name to his friends now. No, Christoph, I’ll get nothing from him.”
“I thought I would have got something nice,” Christoph repeated, as though in a daze. “I really thought I would.”
Wilmot hadn’t told Christoph that he’d already received a scathing letter from Dieter. He recalled ripping the envelope and finding the two pieces of paper inside. His hopes had been dashed, for it hadn’t been what he’d call a letter, it had been more of a note, already read by numerous people by the looks of the grubby pages and redacted lines – only twelve or so had been untouched by the censors, and those were full of his father’s predictable rebukes.
You, my dear Willie, are in an irreversible situation and therefore must bear it for however long the circumstances dictate, his father’s coldness had been in every syllable.
As he marched towards the quarry, he dreamt of escape. He paid attention to his surroundings: turnings, lanes between buildings, the number of paces between his bunker to the gate. And when he arrived at his place of work each day, the thought of making it out of Dachau was what kept him going.
Christoph had become sick, and later that day a Kapo struck him on the back with a baton for slacking off. He fell to the ground; a beaten bundle of bones. Everyone on the work detail hated the guards’ assistants. Kapos took their frustrations out on men who couldn’t or wouldn’t hit them back. Most of them were criminals and some were in the camp for more serious crimes than some SS prisoners like Christoph. They were crueller than the SS guards, who often looked the other way when the Kapos indiscriminately whacked the prisoners. But they only hit them when they were outside the camp’s gates. Unlike the internees in the concentration camp, the SS prisoners were loosely protected under the SS official rules for the treatment of prisoners.
Christoph curled his skinny body into a ball, knees to his chest and head buried in the folds of his arms. Wilmot, unable to watch further, dropped his tools and tried to pick Christoph up before the Kapo beat him again.
“Don’t lie there like a lump of lard. Get up, or they’ll keep hitting you,” Wilmot whispered in Christoph’s ear.
“Fuck off!” Christoph groaned. “No more, Willie … no more.”
Wilmot felt the wooden baton thump him in the centre of his back. He groaned and hastily left his friend on the ground to raise his arms in surrender. “Sorry … sorry … won’t happen again.”
As he thumped a rock with his sledgehammer, he watched Christoph being hit time and again, but his friend refused to stand up. He was crying for his mother, and it struck Wilmot that Christoph was only seventeen or eighteen years old. Furious, he advanced on the Kapo; Christoph was being beaten to death.
Wilmot gripped the Kapo by the collar and dragged him backwards until he fell on his backside. “Fight me, coward. He’s a sick boy. He doesn’t bloody know what day of the week it is.”
Wilmot’s legs gave way when the baton hit him behind his knees.
“I will crack your skull open and piss on your brains, traitor!” The Kapo shouted as he got to his feet.
The baton rained down on Wilmot’s shoulders. He covered his head as best he could with his arms until felt his collarbone crack. His agonising screams pierced the air as the baton continued to strike. His arms, now useless barriers, hung limply by his sides. Dizziness swept over him as he tried to support his inflicted shoulder at the elbow with his free hand. Nausea was making him wretch and he felt as though every drop of blood in his veins had gone to his toes. Defenceless, he swayed and wobbled on his knees, expecting the final blow that would render him unconscious.
Two snaps from a pistol echoed around the surrounding hollowed-out stone ground. When Wilmot opened his eyes, the two Kapos were lying dead on the ground next to him. An SS officer put his pistol back in its holster and strode towards the unconscious Christoph.
Wilmot froze, but even if he wanted to run, he couldn’t get off his knees and the slightest movement would cause excruciating pain. He looked at the killer’s insignia, and confusion joined his panic. What was a Standartenführer, a full colonel in the SS, doing in Dachau when the highest-ranking officer he’d seen at the bunker thus far had been a Captain?
The Standartenführer bent over Christoph and felt for a pulse. Then, he called for two SS guards and instructed them to carry Christoph to the jeep. “Take him to the hospital.”
After Christoph had left, the officer addressed the prisoners. “Wilmot Vogel? Which one of you is Wilmot Vogel?”
Wilmot said, “Here, Sir,” staggering to his feet.
The Standartenführer took one look at Wilmot’s ashen face and said, “Come with me.”
In the camp’s hospital, Wilmot was given a smidgen of morphine and a painful jolt to his collarbone when the doctor realigned the shattered bones. Then his arm was strapped up and he was told to wait in an empty office.
He asked the guard who’d accompanied him from the quarry if he was to be punished, and when he didn’t receive an answer, his mind went skittering off into terrifying territory. The morphine was taking effect, dulling his pain but also his ability to think straight. It seemed reasonable to presume that he would be given some form of reprimand for interfering with the Kapos – the Kapos – why had they been shot in the head when doing such a thing was against SS rules and regulations. He was too dizzy to worry about that detail.
During his time at Dachau he’d witnessed a variety of punishments. What else could they do to him? He was already in the Strafkompanie, the penal company where the hardest work in the camp was done. He supposed they could put him in detention in a pitch-black cell, chain him and strap him, or force him to stand for days and nights at the camp’s main gate until he collapsed and died. He’d seen it happen to a man … seen it with his own eyes.
He almost nodded off in his morphine haze until a loud voice startled him awake. He was light-headed, but he loved the couldn’t-care-less sensation and hoped he’d get another injection of morphine to love it for a while longer.
“Wilmot Vogel, you have powerful friends,” said the Standartenführer who’d killed the Kapos.
“I do?” Wilmot giggled.
“You’re being released. But you’ll never be welcomed back to the SS. When you recover, you’ll report to one of the Wehrmacht’s basic training camps and start from scratch. If it were up to me, I’d leave you here indefinitely…”
“Sorry about that,” Wilmot muttered.
“As I said, some influential people have decided you should be given another chance. Wait here. Someone will come for you.”
Wilmot wasn’t sure if it was the drug or the relief that made him cry. Whatever it was, he couldn’t seem to stop sobbing. If the Standartenführer hit him over the head with a hammer, he’d die crying in a pool of grateful sobs. Eventually, he looked up. The Standartenführer had departed, leaving him to wonder what was to happen next. “Thank you … thank you Papa, I love you … Jesus, thank you … love you, too.”
Part Three
Victory is a bitch built on a mattress of blood
where the vanquished forever sleep
Chapter Forty-Eight
Max Vogel
London, May 11th, 1941
On May 11th, Hannah and Frank dressed their one-month-old baby boy in a fine,
white cotton gown with frills at the edges and a white lace cap tied with a bow under his tiny chin, an outfit which had been worn by both his Grandmother Laura and his Great-Aunt Cathy, as well as every cousin and second cousin in the family. The gown had been preserved in mounds of tissue paper, and undoubtedly would continue its symbolic journey when it was handed over to Aunt Cathy’s son, George, for his second child, due in October. Frank and Hannah were also dressed in their finest garb, for the christening of John Francis Middleton – already being called Jack – in Bromley’s Parish Church, was a significant event. Hannah, had been adamant that it should take place now because for the first time in almost a year both Frank and Max were in England at the same time – even though Frank had wanted to put it off until the end of the year.
Hannah left Frank to finish dressing and joined her brother in the living room downstairs. He’d only just arrived but already he was tackling the bottle of whisky from the sideboard with hands that shook as he poured the amber liquid into a tumbler.
“Here, give me that, Max, you must be worn out.” Hannah took the bottle and poured him a couple of fingers of Johnnie Walker Black Label.
Max slumped into an armchair and groaned with exhaustion. “I’ve seen bad ones, Hannah, but last night was like being in the depths of hell. The fires are still raging south of the Thames. I wouldn’t bet on your London guests getting here today.”
“I understand. In fact, after all our arguing about dates, I suggested to Frank earlier that we call it off. It doesn’t seem right to have a celebration knowing that hundreds of people might have lost family and loved ones.”
Max grinned, his eyes sparkling after his first gulp of whisky. “That’s why you should go ahead with the christening, sweetheart. You know, stiff upper lip and all that.”
“Where were you when it started?” Hannah sat on the couch, adjusting her dress so it wouldn’t crease at the back.
“I’d been to dinner in the Fulham Road with a couple of people from the office. I was well on my way back to the bedsit when the air raid sirens went off, and then a couple of minutes later I saw the first German bombers. There were at least fifty, fifty of the damn things lit up by the full moon and whistling their way along the Thames. I ran to the office and got into the bunker just as the building was being secured. Five minutes later and I’d have been stuck out in the street nowhere near an underground station.”
“Did you stay in the bunker all night?”
“I went up top about five o’clock with a few others to lend a hand. We knew Westminster had been hit, but Jesus, Hannah, the destruction was spread all the way across the city. The bombers had targeted all the bridges west of Tower Bridge. They got the factories on the south side of the Thames, the warehouses at Stepney, and the railway line that runs north from Elephant and Castle. And they hit the Houses of Parliament.”
“Oh, no, not there, not when it’s withstood so very much already!”
“I went inside with some firemen. There’s nothing left of the House of Commons Chamber but a smouldering ruin. It’s a bloody sin. The Bar that kept intruders out is no longer standing. The Speaker’s Chair is lost, the green-padded leather lines of seats are charred and drenched, and all the gothic architecture has gone … forever, Hannah … all that history. The Chamber is a mess, and the Press Gallery and the Strangers’ and Ladies’ Galleries have been completely destroyed.” Max took another slug of whisky and grimaced as it hit home. “The whole of Westminster smells as though there’s a layer of plaster-dust hanging in the air. I can still taste it in the back of my throat.”
Hannah’s eyes filled up. “God help those poor people who’ve lost family members and homes. Do they have a casualty list yet?”
“No, nothing official. The Times managed to get a skinny edition out late this morning. It was only a couple of pages long, but they published a loose figure of fifteen hundred dead and thousands injured. It’s still too early to count the fatalities. We’ll know more when they go through the rubble.”
“It never gets any easier, does it?” Hannah paused and then whispered, “I can’t stop thinking about Mother and Father, and Paul and Willie. Every time our boys hit Berlin I get a knot in my tummy. Do you think about them, Max? Is it wrong to hope that the bombs don’t hit our houses or Papa’s factories?”
Max took his tumbler to the couch and held his sister’s hand. “No, darling, it’s not wrong. They’re our family. It’s only natural for us to be worried about them, just like they’re worried about us, too, praying we’re surviving all the bombs Hitler’s lobbing at us.”
“If only we could speak to them or at least find out if they’re all right. I still get angry at Mother for not coming here, and then I think about how I would feel if I were forced to leave my Frank. I understand her rather better now that I have my own family.”
“Hannah, Frank might have to fight one of these days,” Max reminded her. “You’re very lucky he’s been at home this long, but you can’t expect him to get away with it for much longer.” Max scratched his head and a cloud of dust puffed out.
Hannah gasped. “Max, your hair?”
“Oops, I know. I did wash out what I could under a cold tap, but as I said, the streets are clogged with dust. Sorry.” Max gulped down the remaining whisky.
Hannah patted Max’s knee then rose and crossed to the window. When she turned around she had tears rolling down her cheeks. “Has Frank spoken to you about his posting?”
“No?” Max lied.
“I didn’t want to talk about it today of all days. I wanted to have just one pleasant time with our family, but I can’t keep it to myself, and I know you’ll understand why I’m upset.”
“What? What is it darling, what’s happened?” Max set his tumbler on the coffee table and joined her at the window. “Tell me?”
“Frank’s leaving, he’s going, and he won’t tell me where. I hate the intelligence services. Why can’t you both serve in the regular army? All this secrecy, and not knowing what danger you might both be in when you go on missions for days and weeks at a time. It drives me potty. I know you’ve got to go, but it’s hard … it’s horrible, especially now we have a son. I want Jack to know his father. I can’t bear to think he might go through the same as you and Paul did for the first four years of your lives. I’m being selfish, I know … but … oh, Max, I can’t stand the thought of losing him.”
Max put his arm around her, chucking her chin with his other hand. “You have to be brave, Hannah. You’ll have to put up with it, the same as thousands of other families are. This war isn’t going to be over anytime soon. We’ll fight to the bitter end, you know that. C’mon now, cheer up. Your son’s being christened, and I’m going to be the best godfather a little boy could have.”
Hannah gave him a weak smile and kissed his cheek. “Don’t mind me. I know you’re right. I’ll go see what’s keeping my husband. He’s probably watching Jack sleep in his crib. He does that for hours, just stands there gawking at our baby’s adorable little face.”
When Max was alone, he pondered what Frank had, or hadn’t, told Hannah about his new assignment. For three months, he and Frank had eased their way out of MI6’s Section D and into a new intelligence section called the Special Operations Executive. Max believed that C.D Nelson, the director of SOE operations, had personally requested him. They were already acquainted, having cooperated with each other when Nelson’s undercover job had been that of British Consul in Basel, Switzerland.
Heller had fought tooth and nail to keep Max who’d added insult to injury by requesting that Frank go with him to the new agency. MI6’s primary role was to gather intelligence, break communications’ codes, and send agents into enemy territory as discretely as possible, whereas the SOE were sending men behind enemy lines to work with the development of Resistance movements in Europe, carry out sabotage missions, make lots of loud bangs and create a thorough nuisance of themselves. They had no desire to hide their exploits, only themselves.
/> Max had informed Nelson that he and Frank worked exceptionally well together, and that Frank would make an excellent instructor for new recruits to the SOE. But he’d also been truthful, telling Nelson that Frank was not proficient in any foreign languages and wouldn’t be a viable asset to send behind enemy lines. Nonetheless, despite that missing component, Max’s ruse to keep Frank in Britain had apparently worked for his new posting was to Skye in Scotland for a period of at least six months, and possibly for the duration of the war – Hannah’s squeals of joy would reverberate down the stairs any minute, for she was about to find out that it was a married posting and she and the baby could accompany her husband.
Max lay down on the couch thinking about Heller. He was a verbal critic of the SOE, concocted by Winston Churchill after he’d demanded that Europe be set ablaze by sabotage. Heller, a man who didn’t pull punches, disagreed with the new executive’s strategies in occupied territories. He believed that they put the continent’s civilian population at greater risk because of the Germans’ brutal reprisals. He had a point, Max thought. The staggering and needless loss of civilian lives in France was heart-breaking. Three months earlier, a high-ranking Nazi officer was assassinated by an SOE agent in Paris. It was a great kill, but days later two hundred civilians were rounded up and machined-gunned in the street – yes, Heller had a valid point, but Max saw the SOE as a natural progression for existing intelligence gathering methods. Sabotage, propaganda and other irregular means to weaken the enemy would always be an invaluable part of operations, but in his opinion it was now necessary to hurt the Germans through more physical, mechanical means, such as derailing trains, blowing bridges, damaging canals, and yes, assassinating German officers to lower their soldiers’ morale, and throw a bit of chaos into the occupying armies’ comfortable lives.
