by Jana Petken
“Are you sure? Did you let it slip? Think!”
“Of course, I didn’t let it slip. Why don’t you believe me?”
“Kurt has been arrested.”
Max slumped into a chair. “Oh, no. How did you…?”
“The point is, he’s been taken by the Gestapo, and if they torture him he might give me away. He won’t want to, but you know what they do to Jews like him … to anyone who opposes the Führer. If he talks, I’m finished, and so are your brothers – remember Leitner?”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Kurt is a Jew? Since when?”
“What do you mean since when? Since always, apparently,” Laura snapped.
Max, as worried but slightly more confused than his father, asked, “Who arrested him? On what charge?”
“The Gestapo. Who do you think arrested him? The transmission from our mutual friend in Berlin was short on details, but it had to be Freddie Biermann.”
Max presumed their mutual friend was Herr Brandt. “Papa, I’m sorry about Kurt, and I understand why you’re worried, but I can only assert that I never said a word to Paul about you being alive. I presumed he got the notification of your death at the same time Willie did, but he and I didn’t talk about family when I was in France. We hardly had time to talk at all. Mother, you said Biermann was writing to them both about father’s death?”
“Yes, and I’m sure he kept his word. I just don’t understand why he would arrest poor Kurt when he had nothing to do with anything.”
Max got up and offered his mother the chair, then threw his father a scathing glance. “Father tell Mother the truth, the whole truth, including why I was in Berlin two summers ago. Tell her about Kurt’s involvement in everything you did. If you don’t I will.”
Laura’s eyes shot to her husband. “If my sons are in danger, I want to know everything,” she demanded.
Max went to the door.
“Get back here, Max!” Laura shouted, now turning her anger on her son. “If Kurt is tortured – oh, what a dreadful thought – but if he is, and he knows your father is alive, Wilmot will be targeted.” Laura glared at Dieter, back to Max and then to Dieter again. “How could you leave Kurt in Berlin to deal with Freddie when you knew he was a Jew?”
“I ordered him to leave as soon as you did,” Dieter mumbled.
Laura’s eyes widened further. “Would Freddie torture Paul for information? Tell me the truth.”
“No, of course not. Paul is his son-in-law.”
“Max, do you think Paul will be all right?” Laura asked.
“Yes,” Max said with less conviction. “To be honest, Mother, I’ve put up with enough drama surrounding Paul in the last couple of years to last a lifetime. I wanted to bring him back here to save the lives of men and women who are fighting Germans in France. But Paul wasn’t having it. Oh, no, not him. He ran back to the Gestapo and pointed them in the direction of French Resistance fighters. Dozens of people were executed because of his betrayal, and God knows how many other innocents were imprisoned. Don’t you worry about him, Mother, he’s probably playing the hero now with his Nazi comrades and sticking his middle finger up at me.”
“That’s enough of that talk, young man!” Dieter shouted.
Max stormed out and bumped into Judith in the hallway. “I’m sorry … I’m sorry you had to hear that, Judith.”
Laura appeared behind him with tears glinting in her eyes. “Let’s not fall out over this. Your father wants to speak to you. I want to speak to you. Please, Son, let’s not spoil Christmas.”
Max looked at the two women and realised he must be scaring them to death. He turned to the half-open study door and nodded. There was more at stake than him keeping secrets from his parents, and his father who, it seemed, was still being dishonest with his wife. Max looked at Dieter who had come to the study door. Kurt, complicit in his father’s escape from Germany and in the death of Captain Leitner of the Abwehr, now posed a serious threat to the Vogel family. Perhaps it was time to have a heart to heart with dear Papa.
“Okay, we’ll talk, Mother, but only if Father promises to tell you the whole story.”
Laura sniffed. “Yes, Dieter, you must. I’m tired of the lies in this family. I’d rather we ate burnt turkey than have any more secrets between us. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of everything. I miss my boys.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Paul Vogel
Berlin, Germany
January 1942
Freddie Biermann handed Paul a brandy then dropped with a sigh into an armchair. “I’m sorry you had to find out about your father and mother the minute you got back to Paris. I imagine you had enough on your plate to deal with after your terrible ordeal. It’s my fault. I should have let Valentina tell you in a telephone call instead of writing to you, as I did with Wilmot. Her voice would have given you more comfort than my cold words on paper.”
Paul, sitting on the couch with Valentina facing his in-laws, said, “It’s all right, sir. It was good of you to let Wilmot and I know.”
“I do wish you had telephoned me the minute you escaped from those terrible people who abducted you. I was frantic with worry,” said Valentina, clinging to Paul’s arm.
“I couldn’t, darling. My privileges were revoked. I wasn’t allowed to write to anyone or telephone Germany, although the Gestapo assured me at the time that they’d contact you on my behalf.”
“Valentina, dear. Paul is a hero,” Biermann said. “Because of him, some very bad people in France were punished. Don’t tell him off for something he had no control over.”
Paul, appreciating the warmth and affection from his wife and her parents, welled up. Never had he valued the love of family more than he did now. He wondered what his father-in-law would say if he knew about Max’s part in his release? He trusted his wife’s father and hated having to keep secrets from him.
After kissing Valentina on the cheek, Paul addressed Biermann. “To be honest, I don’t see myself as a hero. Your people, the Gestapo in Avenue Foch, certainly didn’t think I was one. They were sceptical of how I successfully got away from my captors. My interview with the Kriminalinspektor in Paris felt more like an interrogation.”
“How dreadful for you,” Olga Biermann grumbled. “How could they possibly have thought you wanted to be held prisoner by those murderers? Of course, you ran away from them. It was your duty to escape.”
“The Gestapo were doing their job, Olga. They had to be thorough,” Biermann reminded her.
“That’s true, Frau Biermann. Apparently, I was the first abductee to make it back alive, and they had a hard time believing me,” Paul continued. “I can understand their vigorous questioning now, but at the time I was reeling about the news of my father’s death. I wasn’t reacting well or thinking straight, and I hadn’t slept in two days.”
“Oh, poor darling. I can’t imagine what you must have gone through. They should have let you come straight home,” said Valentina, patting his arm. “It was unfair of them to treat you like a criminal, and not allowing you to speak to me in person was … well … quite barbaric. They should be ashamed of themselves, if you ask me.” She sniffed as she flicked her eyes to her father. “Papa, you should complain about those Gestapo officers in Paris. Have them reprimanded.”
“They followed protocol, dear,” Biermann responded indulgently. “They had to be sure that Paul hadn’t been coerced, or God forbid, brainwashed. Keeping him incommunicado for security reasons was the correct procedure under the circumstances.”
Paul let out a tired sigh and stretched his legs. “I suppose that’s what happens when one’s mother is English, a twin is fighting for the enemy, and a younger brother has been locked up in Dachau for attempted murder.” He squeezed Valentina’s hand. “Forgive me, darling. I would have done just about anything to hear your voice on the other end of the telephone line.”
Paul looked at Biermann who was staring at his brandy glass as if it had all the answers. He suspected his father-in-law als
o wanted to know what had happened during his captivity and escape, but he was desperate for a few minutes alone to gather his thoughts before being grilled again, as he probably would be after the ladies went to their beds. The ambiguities in Paul’s story had stood up to Gestapo scrutiny in Paris, but Freddie Biermann was extraordinarily diligent in his job, hence his rank.
“Why don’t you let me run a hot bath for you, darling? Your hands are freezing cold,” Valentina said to Paul.
Paul took a large slug of brandy and grimaced as it burnt the back of his throat – his father was dead, his mother had fled to England, and his wife was pregnant – how sweet that last piece of news had sounded to his ears amidst the shock and sorrow that had hit him like a cast-iron mallet.
“I’d like that.” Paul nodded, leaning his head towards her. The bathroom would give him the privacy he desperately needed. It was hard trying to hold himself together when all he wanted to do was curl up in a corner and weep.
“As I mentioned, I wrote to Wilmot. I told him about your father’s death and that your mother had emigrated,” said Biermann, delaying Paul’s escape. “He’s a prolific writer, your Wilmot. He’s sent several long letters to me since November – you’re welcome to read them.”
“Thank you. I’d like that. And thank you again for informing Willie about our father. It was very kind of you.” Paul took one long swallow, finishing the brandy and feeling the familiar heat running through him. Valentina returned, having run his bath, her eyes reflecting his sadness. Olga was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief while sniffing loudly for more effect. Biermann was looking on with sympathetic eyes, but he was clearly uncomfortable with Paul’s visible emotion.
Paul cleared his throat. “Kriminaldirektor … ladies … I’ll have that bath now if that’s all right with you.”
“Take your time, darling,” Valentina kissed him. “I’ll come up in a minute…”
“No. I can manage.” Much as he adored Valentina, he wanted to be alone.
“We’ll eat whenever you’re ready,” Olga said, as Paul left the room.
In the bathroom, Paul eased into the bathtub, flinching as he immersed his cold body into the steaming water. After ducking under, he re-surfaced and let out a ragged breath. His father, the indomitable Dieter Vogel, was dead – dead – it had hardly seemed possible when he was in France, but now that he was back in Berlin it seemed all too real.
While he soaked in the tub, Paul mulled over the reasons why Max hadn’t said a word about their father being blown up and killed. He’d just left Kent and would have already spoken with their mother about how Papa had died. God help her, she was probably lost without father. He’d been her world. How would she cope without him?
Paul scrubbed his skin until it was red and tingling, then he angrily pushed the loofah under the water. Trying to make Max the villain of the piece was covering up the truth. He had betrayed Max, the person least deserving of disloyalty. He’d spat in Max’s face after he’d risked his life at the communist base, and that, Paul knew, made him an ungrateful swine.
As he got out of the bath, Paul recognised that he didn’t regret scuttling Max’s plans. He hadn’t seen himself as a German prisoner of war in England. No. He was a German soldier, sworn to protect the German people and the Third Reich, and although Max would be spitting mad, he should also understand the part loyalty had played in the deception at the airfield.
As he shaved, it struck Paul that the Vogels, the upstanding Aryan family headed by an important Nazi industrialist father, were no longer united geographically or ideologically. According to Valentina, his mother, Laura, was being called a traitor by her circle of friends, unlike his papa who was being heralded as a hero of the Fatherland. Wilmot, apparently, was also persona non grata in Berlin after his incarceration in Dachau for attempted murder, and as for Max, Hannah, and Frank? It had been a long time since anyone had even mentioned their names.
Kurt remained the bastion of the Vogel estates, Paul thought, clinging to something positive. In the morning, he’d pay his respects at his father’s grave and afterwards he’d go to the Vogel’s house to speak to Kurt about the night of the factory explosion. He’d know more about what happened than anyone. He was the man to help him through this. He was dependable, loyal and trustworthy. He was family.
Paul dressed, combed his hair, and stared at his reflection. The last time he’d studied himself like this had been in his Dresden bedroom just before his graduation party. He hardly recognised himself. The outer edges of his eyes had deep crow’s feet spreading toward his hairline, and the lines between his outer nostrils to the sides of his mouth had deepened. His face was gaunt with prominent cheekbones, and his eyes had a bewildered look; a reflection of how he was feeling.
Olga and Valentina refused coffee and went straight to bed after they’d cleared the dining table. Dinner had been served much later than usual, and the clock had struck midnight while they were eating dessert. Biermann and Paul took their brandies into the living room where Biermann became sentimental with florid admiration for Dieter.
Paul privately disagreed with his father-in-law’s view of the man who had loved the Nazis as much if not more than his wife and children, but he stifled his feelings and tried to move the conversation along. “Berlin will feel strange with my parents gone. I thought I might take Valentina to their house in Dresden for a few days? I’m hoping she can take some time off work.”
“She can leave now. She’s pregnant, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t like to see her working in that delicate condition. It’s not right.”
“I agree. I’ll suggest she leave the job straight away.” Paul stretched out his legs and sighed. “I’m going to be a father. I still can’t believe it; it makes me never want to leave her again.”
“At last, some good news, eh?” Biermann agreed. “That’s a good idea about going to Dresden, Paul. It will give you some well-deserved time together. When you left for Paris straight after your wedding, my Valentina couldn’t quite believe she was a married woman. She seemed bereft without you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her that sad.”
“I can imagine. I know I hated every minute I was away from her.” Paul sipped his brandy, calmer and more content than he’d been an hour earlier. “It’ll do us good to have some time away from everything … not that I’m ungrateful for your hospitality. It’s been … you’ve been marvellous to me.”
“Will you go to the cemetery? I can come with you if you like.”
“I was thinking I might speak to Kurt. I’ll let him know he can stay in the Berlin house for as long as he wants…”
Silence.
“There’s something you should know about Kurt Sommer.” Biermann rose to refill his glass. “He’s not the good man you think he is. He might even have had a hand in your father’s death.”
Paul flinched then gulped as the pulse in his neck jumped. What the hell was the man talking about? “Is this a joke, sir?”
“No, and it’s not something I take lightly. I didn’t want to talk to you about this tonight. It’s bad enough you having to deal with your father’s death and your mother’s abandonment, but you would have found out tomorrow that Kurt is not at your parents’ house. He’s in custody at Spandau Prison and has all but admitted being a British spy. Paul, as hard as this is for you to hear, I believe he killed your father because he got found out.”
Outrage and denial stuck in Paul’s throat. He was haunted by the image of Captain Leitner’s car on fire with his dead body at the steering wheel staring sightlessly through the windscreen. Kurt had been there that day. He’d seen everything. He’d helped carry Leitner’s dead body. He’d been loyal, especially to Dieter, and hadn’t uttered a word to anyone about the murder, or Max’s profession. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t believe Biermann, and that in itself was shocking.
Paul took a deep breath, then let it out with a tepid response. “I would never question an esteemed Kriminaldirektor such as yourself,
but are you certain? Kurt loved my father. He joined the Nazi Party because of him. He’s almost one of the family, like an older brother…”
“My dear boy. Oh, Paul. Spies are very often the people closest to you,” Biermann asserted. “Were that not so they wouldn’t be able to winkle out their victims’ secrets. It was because he was an enemy agent that he feigned loyalty and affection for your father, and to you and Wilmot, and that other brother of yours. I will break him, and when I do he will be severely punished for taking your father away from you – from us.”
Paul still didn’t believe Biermann, but he held his tongue. He was not talking to his wife’s father now, he reminded himself, but a Gestapo Kriminaldirektor who seemed to have damning evidence. “May I see Kurt? I know him, and spy or no spy, he won’t lie to my face.”
“No. No, I’m sorry, Paul, it’s against our policy.”
Paul, undeterred, tried again. “Please, can’t you make an exception for me, for the sake of my father’s memory? Kurt will tell me the truth.”
“Ach, this is a terrible state of affairs,” said Freddie, slumping back in his chair with an overdramatic shake of his head. “You’re putting me in an awkward position, Son, but for your father’s sake, I’ll give you five minutes with Sommer. That’s all.”
“I appreciate it. How long will you hold him?”
“He’s been at Spandau for months. I’m supposed to hand him over in the next three days to one of our prison camps where the Gestapo use more advanced interrogation techniques. If only he would stop lying to me. I won’t be able to help him once he leaves Berlin.”
Paul was dizzy with tiredness, shock, and too many brandies. This was not what he’d expected to find on his leave after the terrible ordeal he’d been through in Duguay’s custody. He had steeled himself to visit his father’s grave, but not to see Kurt in an infamous Berlin prison. He was drained. His head hurt, and he could no longer think straight about anything, let alone this latest blow. His beautiful wife was in bed upstairs waiting for him. He desired her more than ever, but he’d be capable of no more than a kiss, a cuddle, and words of love. He hoped that would be enough for her tonight.
