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

by Jana Petken

  Hannah’s squeal came just as Max had nodded off. He smiled, delighted to hear her happy hoorah. Frank’s reaction to the news, although manly and controlled, had been just as joyful. He’d been informed about his posting to Scotland as an instructor with married quarters, just three days earlier. He’d be training men and women to kill with their bare hands, to survive behind enemy lines, derail trains, blow bridges and evade capture. He’d also have to make it clear to his students that coming back alive from certain missions was often the exception to the rule, and that the life expectancy for wireless operators in occupied France was approximately six weeks. Complicated coding and decoding procedures left wireless telegraph operators with no choice but to transmit for long periods of time. This gave German military intelligence, the Abwehr, ample time to find their quarry using radio detection vans.

  It had been drummed into Max and Frank when they had been sent on refresher courses in commando tactics and parachuting, that every minute of being an SOE agent was dangerous. They were going to be involved in a secret war that took no prisoners, and would be expected to die with their information intact, should they be captured and tortured. That expectation was unreasonable, Max had later remarked to Frank, as it came from the clowns at headquarters who, as far as Max was aware, had never been tortured.

  Max looked sufficiently startled when Hannah rushed into the room, “What on earth was the noise upstairs about?” he said with a straight face.

  “Max, guess what. Oh Max, you’ll never believe it. I’m going with Frank. We have a house and garden and a car … Scotland, for six months, Max. Isn’t that wonderful news … isn’t it?”

  Frank entered the room with a cheesy grin on his lips and the baby in his arms, and Max watched his sister and brother-in-law embrace. Stricken with envy, an emotion he’d rarely experienced, he rolled off the couch and went to the window. They had everything he’d wanted with Klara; a house, a child, love and loyalty that had breached the walls of bigotry and the fires of war. He’d been a fool, dismissing the woman he loved in a childish tantrum because he hadn’t got his own way. He was…

  “… Max … Max, come on, we have to leave for the church. What on earth’s the matter with you?”

  Jolted from his gloomy thought, Max collected his jacket from the couch. “Sorry,” he smiled. “Let me carry my beautiful godson.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The Vogels

  Berlin July 1941

  Paul was in no rush to arrive at his destination. He had ample time to observe the busy streets of Berlin’s Zoologischer Garten area. It straddled Tiergarten, the vast park that divided the east and west districts; it was always busy, day and night.

  He helped a woman lift her pram up to the pavement and gave her a charming smile. It was good to be home. It had been a while since he’d strolled aimlessly through Berlin’s streets, for until recently he’d worked as a civilian doctor in a military hospital some distance from the city and hadn’t had the time for excursions during his off-duty periods. The city he loved looked just as it had before the war had begun, but he surmised that most of the people he observed had no notion of what he’d seen at the hospital: the terrible physical and mental damage of those injured in the conflict.

  He leant against some railings, crossing his arms and drinking in the peaceful scene. Bike riders weaved dangerously from lane to lane in a bid to stay ahead of the traffic, with no consideration for other vehicles, as always. When the rush hour began, trams came thick and fast in both directions crisscrossing tracks as they pulled into stops to pick up and let off their passengers. A few people ambled along the pavements, stopping to peer in shop windows, but most strode with their heads down in the pell-mell rush to get home, or finish their shopping before closing time.

  Another solitary male figure leant against the railings in the centre of the dual carriageway. He lit a cigarette, stared at a shop door then checked the time on his wristwatch. Since Max’s last visit, and Leitner’s death the previous year, Paul had paid more attention to individual people. He wondered if the smoking man, leaning nonchalantly against the railings, was a spy? Or was he shadowing someone and later reporting his target’s movements to an equally shady figure, like Herr Brandt? He could be a Jew pretending to be Christian. It was rumoured that some Jews had acquired false papers on the black market. Or was the man a Gestapo agent? Maybe not, he thought, as a woman approached him, kissed him on the lips, and they went off hand in hand into the sunset. Paul chuckled, he was becoming paranoid.

  He crossed the street, narrowly escaping a collision with a cyclist, then carried on zigzagging along the pavement to avoid colliding with anyone walking in the opposite direction – yes, at first glance, this was a picture of normality, and that’s what any visitor to the city would see. Shops, cafés, garages, government buildings, all open for business as usual. The sun had risen that morning in a clear blue sky, and now its dying rays were cloaking the buildings in a dusky-red hue, just as it had probably done the previous day and the one before that. But nothing on the ground or in the sky was normal anymore. Any true Berliner would know that the British were ramping up their air campaign on the German capital, and soon they’d see piles of rubble instead of splendour.

  He watched the sky as the deep red welts faded into darkness. The Royal Air Force would come when the sky was starlit and clear, bringing with it the bombs that would change Berlin’s landscape forever. In the previous year, the allies had hit Tempelhof Airport and the Siemensstadt area near the centre of Berlin. Newspapers had reported that many bombs had been dropped that night, yet the damage to the city had been slight. Paul reflected now that the psychological effect on Hitler must have been devastating, for in that same week he had ordered the Luftwaffe to shift targets from British airfields and air defences to the cities.

  Hitler’s reaction following that air raid had seemed misguided. Many knowledgeable people believed that the British air defences had been close to collapse and should have been finished off. And he, half-British, with one foot in the British camp and another with the German army, had wanted Hitler to defeat Britain as soon as possible, to stop the ruined lives he’d witnessed at the hospital. He didn’t care who won so long as it was quick, and the Russians weren’t involved in the victory; he hated communism.

  The allies had been sensitive so far, hitting industrial and weapons targets outside the city’s central hub, and though the raids had become more frequent in the past few months, they seemed to be ineffective in hitting important sites.

  His father’s factory was on the outskirts of Berlin in an area where bombs had already struck. Still, his father went to work every day, convinced that he and his workers would be safe until nightfall. “They won’t hit us while we’re at work.” His father had told Mother months earlier. “Berlin, at 950 kilometres from London, is the farthest range attainable by the Allied forces’ bombers,” he’d asserted as though he’d read that straight from a newspaper. “And if they’re going to bomb, they’ll only do it at night and in the summertime when the days are long and the skies are clear. You must trust me, darling, if I thought you were in danger, I’d have sent you to Dresden for a longer spell.”

  His father had been mostly correct, for not a brick or roof slate had been damaged at his factory, yet he, Paul, prayed for a direct hit on the Zyklon B gas-making hub during the night when only SS guards were patrolling.

  A policeman ordered Paul to move along just because he’d been lingering at a crossing. Jolted from his thoughts, Paul obeyed, striding across the road with an apologetic wave. No, he thought as he walked, so far, the Allies had refrained from doing anywhere near the damage the Luftwaffe had inflicted on London, and elsewhere. The British planes had accomplished nothing more than getting on Berliners’ nerves, for every night many of the four million people living in or around the city were forced from their comfortable beds and into shelters.

  He sat on a park bench inside the Tiergarten and consulted his watch.
He still had plenty of time to take in the scent of the glorious flowerbeds and enjoy the green, leafy trees swaying gently in the breeze, the restaurant was only a five-minute walk from the park, and he didn’t particularly want to be the first to arrive.

  A Jew scurried along a path bordered by grass with a peculiar left and right swing of his head as if he were constantly saying no, no, no to himself. The yellow star was on the back of his jacket instead of on its lapel, something Paul had noticed on other Jews, male and female, perhaps deliberately stitched on the back to forget it was there.

  It was rare nowadays to see a man, woman or child wearing yellow star patches anywhere near the busiest neighbourhoods, Paul reflected. They were usually thrown out of shops and onto the pavements if they tried to buy anything. They weren’t permitted to sit beside non-Jews nor enter cafes and restaurants frequented by Aryans, neither were they allowed into any theatres or cinemas. He supposed they had no reason to venture out of their own districts apart from during the hours they were at work in the armament factories. Those Jews, he’d been told by someone in the know, were the only ones who were considered safe from deportation nowadays.

  He’d also noted on his tram journeys through Berlin that the synagogues had disappeared. It had been reported recently that all one hundred and fifteen Jewish houses of prayer had been closed, burnt down or demolished. The annihilation of the freedom to pray en masse was difficult to reconcile, he thought, for recent government figures had stated that almost seventy-five thousand Jews still lived in Berlin.

  Whenever Paul thought about Jews, Judith Weber came to mind. It had been ten months since she’d run away from him, probably still believing he’d killed her sister. Days after her disappearance, he’d disobeyed his father by going to her tenement building in the slim hope that she’d returned. The fence had been completed with signs saying No Entry to Non-Jews plastered every few feet, so he’d sat in his car for over four hours wondering if he’d see her walking in or coming out. Perhaps he’d be lucky enough to spot the family doctor who had once treated Hilde Weber; Jews still needed doctors, didn’t they? Afterwards, he’d driven miles south of Berlin, stupidly thinking he might see her walking to freedom along the open road, and on that day he’d recognised the futility of his search and had abandoned the idea altogether.

  The spiral stone staircase seemed to go on forever, as Paul went deeper and deeper underground inside Berlin’s Einstein Bunker Restaurant. The walls, also made of rough stone, housed electric candles in holders giving the place a medieval castle effect that appealed to Berliners’ romantic side. Hauntingly soft music echoing up the stairs greeted the diners, and although it became louder as one descended, it also mingled with laughter and conversation.

  When describing the place to his mother, his father had remarked that the entire concept for the intimate dance hall-cum-restaurant, was to allow the highest echelons of Berlin’s civil and military elites to shed their austerity and enjoy themselves. After all, he’d added, that’s what Berliners did best.

  Chapter Fifty

  Laura, Dieter and Paul were joined for the evening by Freddie Biermann, his wife, Olga, and their daughter, Valentina. Their round table was well positioned: not too close to the musicians who sometimes drowned out the diners’ conversations, and not too far from the dancefloor and larger tables usually reserved for the most important military patrons and their guests.

  Paul had once joked to his father that The Einstein Club was like a market, a menagerie of deal-making, back-scratching connoisseurs, a place where civilian wealth mixed with powerful military men who saw the usefulness of a person long before they recognised his character. Dieter had replied that being in the company of narcissistic men kept him relatively safe from scrutiny into his own political leanings. Most people were bound to think that he felt the same way as they did, for if he didn’t agree with their politics, why would he socialise with them?

  “Here’s to Paul. At last, he’s decided to get his hands dirty,” Dieter grinned, making the first toast of the evening.

  “That’s not fair, darling,” Laura admonished Dieter. “Paul’s treated plenty of soldiers from the front in the hospital. He was a hero before joining the Wehrmacht.”

  Paul laughed. “Thank you, Mother, but what I think Father means, is that the uniform will make me a better doctor.”

  “Not at all … not at all, Son,” Dieter blustered. “I meant to say that you’ll be joining the fight somewhere…”

  “It’s all right, Papa, I know what you meant, and I agree, it’s time I put on a uniform and learnt what it is to treat men on the battlefield. The way I see it, it’s a gift of experience.” Paul acknowledged, however, that he was terrified of being anywhere near a fight where men were dying in horrific ways.

  “You’re very brave. Do you know where they’re going to send you?” Valentina asked.

  Paul shook his head. His cheeks burned crimson, and he couldn’t think of what to say except, you’re beautiful. Valentina Biermann’s huge green eyes, luscious, perfectly formed lips, chocolate brown hair and sweet lyrical voice had ensnared his heart.

  While Paul listened to his mother talking about where she’d like him to serve and under what circumstances, he continued to gaze at Valentina, fixated now on her throat and neck, and downwards to the narrow line of her cleavage.

  “… I work in the secretary pool in the Reich Chancellery,” the subject of his desire was saying. “You’ve no idea how I look forward to going to work every day. It’s all hustle and bustle, and I’ve seen just about all the members of the Reich Cabinet. I even saw the Führer once. That’s right, he walked into the hall where we secretaries were working and came up my aisle. I swear, for a moment I thought he was going to stop at my desk and speak to me. I would have died a happy death if he’d even glanced at me…”

  “Did he?” Paul blurted out.

  “No, he walked past, but he did thank us all before he left the place.”

  It was a marvellous feeling to be mesmerised by a woman, Paul thought, letting Valentina’s voice envelope him. In the past year his stomach had churned with fear and disgust at sights and speeches, at Leitner and Rudolph, at his father and Hitler – the nucleus of all that was wrong with the world – and this magical sensation of butterflies tickling his insides was somewhat alien to him. He hadn’t been with a woman for over a year, and that had only been a fleeting roll in the hay after a rowdy night in a bar with fellow doctors and nurses from the hospital. He acknowledged that the alcohol in his system might have something to do with his mind-boggling visions of he and Valentina lying by an open fire cuddling, kissing, getting married and having children, but it had only enhanced the coup de foudre, the lightning bolt, he’d felt the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.

  “… Paul… Paul?”

  Paul tore his eyes away. “Sorry, Herr Biermann, you were saying?”

  “I was just telling your mother that your instructor at the academy will tell you where you’ll be going on the last day of training.”

  Dieter added, “But don’t be surprised to learn you might be staying in Berlin, Son. They can’t send all our doctors to the far-flung regions of Europe and the East.”

  “Would you like to stay in Germany?” Valentina asked, her green eyes round.

  If he could see more of her, the answer would be a resounding yes. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Freddie, I’d be delighted to have him nearby,” Laura said, covering Paul’s hand with her own. “I must admit I’ve been tearful since our Willie left for the Eastern Front. He looked dreadful when he arrived home from … well, you know where, but after I’d fed him up and he’d had a good rest, he looked as good as new. I didn’t expect him to go to Russia, though. Who would have thought we’d declare war on that country? I don’t understand why at all. Russia is so very vast, and I would have thought, unconquerable…”

  “Why is not a question you need to ask, my dear,” Dieter scolded her gently. “But
if anyone can defeat the Russians, it’s the armies of the Fatherland. Isn’t that right, Freddie?”

  Freddie raised his champagne flute. “Well put, Dieter. They should clear it up in a matter of months. I hear there are almost three million men on that route march to Moscow and elsewhere.”

  Paul shivered. As a student of history, he was aware of the catastrophes that had befallen foreign armies who’d tried to occupy the East in the past. Hitler’s plans for Russia were no longer a secret, and in Paul’s first week at basic army training, he’d heard lecture after lecture, devoid of specifics, on why the Führer was going to be the man to crush the Russians. But Paul was sceptical, for Stalin didn’t seem the kind of man to give up easily, nor did his countrymen.

  “Our army is impressive, and it’s hard to imagine the Russians stopping one hundred and fifty-three German army divisions, but the way I see it, overcoming the enemy might be easier than defeating nature. She’s a powerful foe in that region,” Paul said, munching on a piece of bread.

  “What are you trying to say?” said Dieter.

  Paul shrugged. “I’m just concerned that our army will be like many others before it who didn’t plan properly for the extreme weather. Russia’s vast plains could potentially bog down man, beast and machine should it rain or snow. According to military history books I’ve read, the Russian army fell back when they fought Napoleon’s forces, but they burnt villages, towns and crops as they fled, and, if they do that again, our army might face supply problems. I’m only pointing out that Russia is going to be a much more difficult terrain to manage than anywhere else we’ve encountered so far.”

  Paul waited for his father to tell him that he was being pessimistic, but instead, Dieter said, “I agree with you, Son, and furthermore, we mustn’t overlook the Russians’ ferocity. They’ll fight to the death under Stalin, and there will be enough of them to keep on coming and coming and coming for more.”