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

by Jana Petken

  Wilmot’s heart ached for one more conversation with his father, just one more beer with his brothers, one more kiss from his sister and mother – but he had come to believe that if the Russian army didn’t take his life, the unforgiving Russian climate would.

  He folded the letter, put it inside his rucksack, stood up and peered into the distance at the plumes of smoke rising to the heavens from the heart of the city. They were pounding Leningrad again and within minutes, the Russian batteries would fire up and hit the German lines in retaliation. How many men would die today? he wondered, shaking the rain off his helmet.

  “Claus, we’re staying here,” Wilmot eventually said when he’d calmed down. “We won’t have the satisfaction of going into the city. This is a blockade, and if we even try to breach it, our officers will shoot us down like dogs. We might even die here.”

  “You’re talking rubbish, Vogel,” Claus retorted. “You’ll see, we’ll be marching into Leningrad by this time tomorrow.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Klara Gabula

  Paris, France, October 1941

  Duguay strolled into the farmhouse’s parlour with his usual swagger and severe expression. He shook hands with the four men but ignored Klara whose presence he had demanded for this impromptu meeting. Klara had been training with Duguay’s Resistance group for six days, and during that time, she had learnt how to clean, load, and fire pistols, how to accurately collect and hand off intelligence information, and about the importance of security. She’d also been given reading material: a brochure published by the communist group that summer entitled, Manuel du Légionnaire. It contained detailed notes on how to fire guns, manufacture bombs, sabotage factories, carry out assassinations and perform other skills useful to the Resistance. The brochure had been cleverly disguised as informational material for fascistic Frenchmen who had volunteered for the Legion of French Volunteers Against Bolshevism on the Eastern Front, and Klara had found that detail amusing. The Germans were conquering Europe and blasting their way through Russia, but they had not come to realise yet that the manual was a Communist publication meant to train the French Resistance to fight the occupying forces.

  In the days following Romek’s departure, Duguay had repeatedly referred to Romek’s group as a failure, a careless, badly secured network, destroyed by one German collaborator. The Gestapo and Abwehr had been successful in taking down The French-Polish group in one fell swoop by capturing and then turning Oscar into a German agent, he reminded his fighters daily, and that traitor had been effective because Romek had not seen the signs. Klara was not fond of the conceited Duguay. He complained continually about Romek’s ineptitude. But, she had reminded him that it was only a matter of time before members of his group were arrested or shot, or proved to be German agents, and when that time came, he’d realise that there was no such thing as infallible secrecy or security.

  Duguay sat down at the table, gesturing to the others to join him.

  “I have the names of three Frenchmen in my hand,” said Duguay, waving a piece of paper in the air. “Two of them have joined the pro-Nazi Milice française, and the third, the Waffen SS, and were I to spend more time investigating French citizens I would find hundreds of traitors in Paris, and perhaps thousands across France.”

  With a look of disgust, Duguay threw the paper across the table. “We need to make an example of collaborators, men and women who have taken the alien presence in our country as an acceptable continuance of French life. And let’s not forget the silent witnesses who know but don’t protest when people disappear, buildings are renamed, books are banned, art is stolen, and people are deported back to the Reich territories from whence they’d fled at the rise of fascism.”

  Duguay paused to pick up another piece of paper. “Three days ago, on September 30th, the German Military Governor, General Otto von Stülpnagel issued a decree. In it he explained what he called a code of hostages. He has ordered all district chiefs to draw up lists of people to be executed in the event of any German being assassinated, and at the top of the lists will be Jews, German dissidents and Communists. I believe he did this as a reprisal for our assassination of the German Naval Officer in the Paris Metro at the end of August.”

  One of the men at the table said, “We knew they were going to take their revenge, but we shouldn’t stop killing the Boche because a few people will be executed.”

  “Would you say that if the Germans shot one of your innocent family members?” Klara blurted out and then raised her hand in apology to Duguay. She had discovered in her first two days at the hideout that her job would involve not only passing along information to the Communists but also photographs of prospective targets for assassination. She had become embroiled in a dangerous and lethal business, and had no idea how to get out of it.

  Voices rose around the table; everyone had a different point of view. Duguay, raising his hand, silenced the men and said, “We have to acknowledge that killing one German will not change the outcome of the war and that a lot of innocent people might be shot in reprisals. But, we must also contend that to cease our assassinations will prove that the Germans can push us around in our own country.” Then he spat, “The French government may have surrendered to the Nazis, but they didn’t surrender the spirit of the French people, and I say we should continue our battles in the biblical sense: an eye for an eye, they kill us, we kill them, and what’s more, we choose who should die.”

  Finally, the meeting ended with everyone agreeing that their assassination strategy should continue. The men left, but Klara had been instructed to remain. She was exhausted from putting her body through the rigorous physical training regime with Duguay’s men during the day, and at night, taking photographs of Germans attending functions where an official German photographer was either not required, or was needed to take only sanctioned pictures.

  Klara had come to realise that Germans, like any other race, enjoyed getting drunk, canoodling with pretty women, singing, dancing until dawn, and having individual and group photographs taken for their families at home, and for their own gratification. If her camera held bullets, she’d have killed hundreds of vain Nazis by now.

  “Well, Klara. You listened to the arguments for and against assassinations. What do you think?” Duguay asked when he returned to the room.

  “I don’t know what to think, to be honest. The Germans are going to kill French men and women no matter what we do to their soldiers. They’re going to come after our Jews as they did in Poland and Czechoslovakia, and they will try to get rid of Communists as well. I’ve just lost my husband and thirty of his men, and I’ve also killed a Frenchman for cooperating with the enemy. How can I answer your question when I don’t even know who I am anymore?”

  Duguay cocked his head. “Freedom means not trying to hide who we are, Marine.”

  Klara averted her eyes.

  “I’m not asking you to give me your real name,” Duguay said. “Are you afraid of me?”

  She let out a tired sigh. “Yes, you’re stripping me of my cover. It’s unnerving.”

  “Your days of anonymity are over. You work for me now, and that means operating alongside my Resistance fighters, and trusting them with your life. That’s the only way you’ll stay alive.”

  He gazed at her, his eyes penetrating her being, her very soul. “What are my orders?” she mumbled.

  “Return to Paris today with Claude. Call him a new assistant photographer if you like.”

  Klara met his stare, this time with anger. “You mean a spy to keep you informed of what I’m doing?”

  Duguay smiled, softening his appearance. “Or you could just call him what he is…”

  “And what is he?”

  “A go-between, nothing more sinister than that. He will take the risks of going backwards and forwards with intelligence from you to me and vice versa. You’re much too valuable to be captured and shot.”

  “Should he be caught, the Germans will get to me,” she retorted.
“The only reason I’ve survived this long is because Romek took precautions by not telling anyone about my job at the shop. Your suggestion doesn’t instil confidence.”

  Duguay rose from the table, signalling an end to the meeting. “It’s not a suggestion.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Klara handed a cup of coffee to Jean, the elderly man who ran the photographer’s shop when she was on errands, as she called her clandestine outings. He had no idea about her involvement in the Resistance movement or that she was married. He had suspected that her accent was not that of a Frenchwoman’s, and after hearing her mumble in Polish one day, his suspicions were confirmed. But, what did it matter if she wasn’t who she said she was, he’d announced casually to her one day. He was more interested in keeping a job that paid well and afforded him a decent relationship with the Germans, than to blab to the authorities about her false identity documents.

  “Don’t forget tonight’s appointment, Marine,” he said just before leaving work for the day. “The German officer who booked us is from the Hotel Lutetia, and you know how many important Germans live there. The birthday boy’s name is on the invoice. The function will be held in the restaurant and there’s to be a dance afterwards. It’ll be a late one for you, so I’ll open up in the morning as usual.”

  “What would I do without you, Jean?” said Klara, giving him a peck on the cheek.

  That night, Klara donned her white and pink flowery dress with a stand-up mandarin collar and pink buttons that travelled down to her waist. Her hair had been left loose but pulled back at one side by an ornamental rose, and to complete the outfit she wore a pink belt, white shoes, and white cardigan.

  She left the shop at 8pm, accompanied by Duguay’s man, Claude. Before leaving Duguay’s base, she had been firm with him. Claude might be your man, but I run the operations, and if he doesn’t do as I say I will close the business. Wretched man had laughed at her for the second time that day.

  But, to her surprise, Claude was an avid photographer who’d spent years working for an underground Communist newspaper. He was also familiar with the cameras Klara used and easily accepted her guidance on how to approach and charge the Germans for each type of photograph taken. She had also told him what to look out for, as far as intelligence gathering was concerned, and again he had bowed to her experience.

  Claude couldn’t speak German, but that wasn’t an issue, for the German officers felt more comfortable when they thought they were surrounded by people who couldn’t understand them. “Listen to the Frenchwomen, who are invariably invited to these functions at the Lutetia,” she had instructed Claude. “They add colour and glamour to the occasion and are a good source of information.” Claude had looked confused by that statement until Klara had added that the women were eager to learn all they could about the German soldiers they wanted to hook up with. They asked questions and usually got answers. Men liked to boast, and after a few drinks they became careless with classified information.

  Many of the girls, originally from the countryside, had moved to Paris where they discovered that powerful benefactors could make their lives a little easier, and the higher their lover’s rank, the better off these women became. She hated to admit it, but German officers were known to be exceptionally generous to their mistresses.

  The Hotel Lutetia, situated on Boulevard Raspail, in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district, had been requisitioned by the Abwehr and its counter-espionage officers. It was also used to house, feed and entertain those in command of the occupation, such as the men who were celebrating the birthday of a visiting Oberstleutnant Field Commander by the name of Horst Jürgen Bach.

  As she approached the hotel, she was thrown back in time to the days just before the Germans’ arrival in the city. Then, the hotel had housed displaced artists, writers, poets and musicians fleeing the occupying forces as they’d swept through France. It was also in one of Lutetia’s bedrooms that she and Max had made love for the last time and had been bombed in the process. He had pleaded with her on that day to leave Paris with him and saying no to him was the biggest regret of her life.

  Upon meeting with the hotel’s German liaison officer, Klara received instructions to remain in the foyer until the official photographer had taken his group photographs of Oberstleutnant Bach surrounded by his guests. Dinner was over, and as soon as the birthday cake was cut, she and Claude could enter and begin their work.

  When they were finally allowed inside the restaurant, Klara and Claude split up, each taking a different side of the room. Both carried a shoulder bag with a money purse attached, a notebook to take orders, and a camera.

  The restaurant grew silent as the medal-laden Oberstleutnant stood up, thanked the guests for their hospitality, and then surprised them all by leaving with his entourage. He was not a good target, Klara had already decided. The man had heavy security and was leaving early the next morning for Nantes.

  A few moments after the host left, the guests applauded the arrival of the French women who headed straight to the tables. The real party was about to start, the musicians tuned up for the first piece of music in their repertoire, and Klara was asked to take her first photograph of the evening.

  Her eyes were drawn to a rowdy table near her. She was on the point of inviting the men to pose for the camera when she heard a familiar voice amongst the good-humoured banter. Her eyes flicked to the man speaking and she gasped, almost dropping her camera with the shock of seeing him. Unable to peel her eyes away, she lingered at the table; the man’s face, his laughter, and his perfect German accent was good enough to fool even Adolf Hitler.

  She was giddy with confusion. Max wore a Wehrmacht doctor’s uniform and a gold wedding band on his left hand – Max, her Max, deep undercover in the German Army, speaking like a German, looking like one, and completely ignoring her presence with not a glance or gesture in her direction, even though he must see her!

  “… Mademoiselle … Mademoiselle, take a picture.” She turned her attention to the man who’d addressed her and smiled. “Yes, sir, certainly. Group and individual?”

  “Shall we all get in this one?” the man asked the seven other men and three women at the table.

  Klara directed the men as they huddled together. They had decided not to have the women in the photograph after Max and a couple of others protested. Max’s words rang in Klara’s head like an untuned bell. “Not me, I’ve just got married.”

  After she’d finished with the group, she took individual photos, including one of Max, whom the Germans called Paul. The Major, the man who had tugged her arm, was paying for the photographs. His staff sergeant would pick them up from the shop in one week’s time. She gave him the invoice with the shop’s address on it, and then rushed out of the restaurant.

  For a few minutes, she sat in a stall in the ladies’ powder room shaking like a leaf, crying with happiness, but also bewilderment. He had looked right at her as she’d taken his photograph. She’d seen no recognition in his eyes, which had looked different; dispassionate – he was different, with stubble on his face, and a laugh she didn’t identify with him – he had the ease of a man perfectly comfortable in the company he was keeping, gushing about his wife and parents in Berlin. What was he? A British agent undercover, or a German spy who had infiltrated Romek’s group, passing on secrets to the Germans for more than three years? If that were so, why had Romek and she not been captured long before Oscar’s betrayal? Had Oscar worked for Max? Was Max married in his ‘real life’ or was he an expert in the field of espionage; fooling her, fooling the Germans? Did he love her, or was that a sham, a cover to get information from her?

  She went to the sink, splashed water on her face and then gazed at her reflection. Her face was the colour of ash and her lips had lost the rouge she’d painted on earlier. She reapplied the red powder, staring at her wide-eyes instead of her lips, admitting that her joy at seeing Max had gone and in its place, was anger and fear.

  She wrote in her noteboo
k, ripped out the page and folded it up until it lay hidden in her fist. Max had no excuse for not contacting her. She had listened to him tell the other men at the table that his first two weeks in Paris had been enjoyable, but that he missed his new wife and wished she could join him. “That’ll wear off, Paul,” the man next to him had said. “When you’ve been here for a while and seen the beautiful women Paris has to offer, you’ll be glad the wife’s not here with you.” Then the man had pointed to Klara. “You can’t get more beautiful than her with the camera.” And she had pretended not to understand a word, as she always did.

  Max could have come to the shop, let her know he was back, helped her in the days after Romek’s arrest, told her about his mission, or got her out of France and across the channel to England. But he’d done nothing of the sort, proving Romek’s speculation to be true; Max had abandoned and deceived them both.

  Towards the end of the evening, Klara followed Max to the men’s room. She waited close to it, using the time to change the film in her camera. When Max walked towards her, she blocked his passage. It was almost midnight, and the foyer was empty, apart from the SS soldiers guarding the entrance doors.

  The folded paper was in her grip. She hesitated but reminded herself that he was her Max and thrust the note into his hand. “Take it – when I leave, follow me,” she said in French before walking back to the restaurant.

  Chapter Seventy

  Paul Vogel

  Paul read the note. Urgent. We must speak tonight. He read it again and shrugged. Frenchwomen were strange creatures, self-assured and with dubious morals. The photographer, whose name he didn’t know was a beautiful woman probably wanting crude sex with him at the back of the building, and he was flattered, but follow her? It was a ridiculous notion, yet he was tempted to ask her what she wanted from him if only to appease his curiosity.