by Jana Petken
“I think I’ll go to bed. I’m exhausted. What time do you want to leave for Spandau in the morning?” Paul asked.
Biermann stood and placed his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Seven, no later. Get some rest, Paul. You’ve been through hell, but I have other news for you.” Paul’s face fell, and Biermann tittered, “Now, don’t think the worst. I think it will please you, or at least give you a fresh start. Ach, it can wait until tomorrow. Goodnight, Paul.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
As Paul approached Spandau Prison in Wilhelmstraße, he was struck by the building’s austere and dated façade. Built with red brick in the 19th century, it was enclosed by high walls of differing heights and topped with electrified wire accompanied by a wall of rolled barbed wire. Its entrance was castle-like, with two towering turrets on either side of the avocado-green entrance doors beneath a row of medieval battlement blocks that gave it an air of foreboding, even if one didn’t know it was a prison.
He looked up and spotted a soldier on duty manning a machinegun in a guard tower. It was raining and the man was covered from head to toe in a rain sheet with a wide hood covering most of his face. Paul was reminded of one of Wilmot’s childhood games of ghostly hauntings, except that the soldier was infinitely more terrifying than Willie had ever been.
As a young boy, Willie had made it his mission to scare his older brothers using their mother’s bed sheets. He was frequently punished for cutting holes in the expensive Egyptian cotton to make peep holes for his eyes, dragging it through the house and garden, fraying the ends and staining them so badly it was impossible to get the dirt out. Wilmot had thought himself unrecognisable and incredibly menacing in his spectral outfit, as he glided into Max’s and Paul’s bedroom at night bellowing, “Wooooo! I’m coming to get you!”
“Impressive, eh, Paul?” said Biermann, staring up at the same machinegun post. “Spandau used to serve as a military detention centre, but it has housed civilian prisoners for over twenty years now. I was surprised when you told me you’d never been here before.”
Paul took his eyes off the ghostlike figure. “It’s not a place I would ever want to visit unless it was to plead for the life of someone I love, and I do love Kurt, sir. I hope you’ll listen to what I have to say about the man before you condemn him to a concentration camp.”
Inside the building, Biermann ushered Paul to an office. He closed the door behind them and invited Paul to sit. “I want to show you something before you tell me all the reasons you think I should release Sommer,” Biermann said, taking a brown leather-bound folder out of the desk drawer. “You think highly of Kurt because you know him as your father’s driver, a loyal friend, whatever. But he’s much more than that.” He pointed to the file. “When you see what’s in there you’ll change your mind about him and understand why I arrested him.”
“I’ll always think highly of him, Kriminaldirektor,” said Paul, using Biermann’s official title as he eyed the folder.
Biermann uncurled the string wrapped around a disk glued to the leather binder. Then he took out a newspaper clipping with a faded photograph on it. “Do you recognise anyone?”
Paul stared at the group of men in the picture and pointed to one of them. “That’s Kurt.”
“No. You think that’s Kurt, but he’s Karl Ellerich, and when this was taken he was a twenty-nine-year old Jewish activist and journalist of a subversive newspaper that was banned in 1935. Ellerich, your Kurt, was a member of a dissident group that lobbied for Jewish rights in Germany. Now, I don’t have a problem with anyone demonstrating for their rights if they do it peacefully...”
“I thought the Gestapo had zero tolerance for demonstrations of any kind,” Paul interrupted, sounding bolder than he felt. “I know it’s a fine line you have to tread.”
Biermann’s eyes narrowed. “Not with these sub-humans. They tried to destabilise the government and the law by circulating anti-Nazi propaganda and inciting violence against the Third Reich and the Führer. As I said, Paul, you’ll see that his arrest is justified when you read what’s in these pages.”
Paul looked again at the faces of the five men in the picture, noting that all of them, including Kurt, were wearing the kippah, a brimless cap made of cloth. It was worn by Jews to fulfil the customary requirement held by Orthodox halachic authorities that the head be covered.
Biermann smirked and for the first time, Paul saw him as something other than the benevolent father-in-law. His hubris was nauseating; he was enjoying himself.
“I see.” Paul could think of nothing else to say. Biermann, however, was flicking through the papers and just getting started.
“If only he were here for a simple case of fraudulent identity.” Biermann pushed a document across the desk to Paul.
Paul read the damning evidence of violence and sedition, and his gut twisted with dismay. “What will you do to him?”
“Ah, that is the question. Kurt … Karl Ellerich, caused civil unrest on too many occasions to count, but for some reason only a few of his rebellious acts in the name of Judaism were properly documented. On one occasion, an SS squad tracked him to one of his illegal meetings in Munich. At the time, the SS believed the Jews were planning violence against high-ranking members of the Nazi Party, and under orders from Herr Himmler, they bombed the building where the illicit gathering was taking place. After the smoke had cleared, it was reported that Ellerich had died with fourteen of his Jewish activist colleagues. In reality, however, he was already on his way to Switzerland by train.”
Paul poked the documents. “Has Kurt confessed to any of this?”
“Kurt doesn’t know I’ve uncovered this information, or that I found out he’s a Jew. He was arrested on quite a different charge … one he has confessed to … a crime he’ll be severely punished for.”
Biermann placed another Gestapo-headed loose page in front of Paul, then closed the folder and put it back in the drawer. “I’ll have Ellerich taken to an interview room. Read that Paul. We’ll talk again when I return.”
Paul stared unseeingly at the paper. Kurt was a Jew. Kurt, with fierce Germanic looks, blue eyes, perfect blond hair, a member of the Nazi Party, a man who had always spoken his mind to Dieter Vogel and his sons, a loyal man with no family of his own who had claimed to love the Vogels. Paul groaned. He knew exactly what was going to happen to Kurt. He’d never see the light of day again.
The numbered paragraphs on the page held enough accusations to warrant a firing squad. Kurt was a foreign agent. He’d been a Gestapo suspect for months. Suspicious radio frequencies had been detected in the Vogel’s neighbourhood, and on the day that Laura Vogel left for England, Kurt had apparently made the mistake of transmitting a radio message to persons unknown.
Paul read on. After an extensive search, a radio transmitter was found in a hunter’s hut in the Grunewald Forest, which is only a couple of kilometres from the Vogel’s house. A scrap of paper had lain next to the radio with a few indecipherable words. The Gestapo, under the command of Kriminaldirektor Freidrich Biermann, had checked Sommer’s handwriting against the numbers and letters on the piece of paper, and had determined that it was written by the same hand.
As he waited for Biermann to return, Paul’s mind reeled with questions, and a sadness almost as intense as the grief he felt for his father. Biermann was lying about there being a radio transmitter. The Gestapo twisted facts and made up stories to suit themselves the way he had in France with the Gestapo. They wanted Kurt to burn, not because they believed him to be a spy, which was ridiculous, but for being a Jew – it was always about being a bloody Jew!
Paul wondered whether his father might have known that Kurt was Jewish. It was unlikely, he decided. Had Biermann shared his suspicions with anyone about Kurt being a foreign agent? Was he fabricating the story about a radio transmitter? It was possible. Trumped up charges seemed to be the order of the day in Germany. Did Dieter Vogel die at Kurt’s hand because he’d found out about the latter’s espionage ac
tivities? No, it was preposterous to even consider those possibilities.
What was his father-in-law playing at? His evidence, though abundant, was as scrappy as the bit of paper they’d apparently found. He saw no mention in the document about who Kurt had sent the radio messages to, or who he was supposedly working for. Had Kurt confessed, as Biermann suggested, he would have come clean about the country he was loyal to – and where was Kurt’s signature? It wasn’t in the file – it was all a lie. This was about Judaism. The rest was garbage.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Biermann returned, Paul was taken to a room one floor below in a completely different part of the complex. The atmosphere changed as soon as they left the stairwell and entered the main hallway beyond the double iron-barred doors. The rancid stink of urine, shit, and sweat assaulted Paul’s nostrils. He shot a sideways glance at Biermann who’d covered his nose with a handkerchief. If he was aware of the appalling stench, why had he not done something constructive to clear it up? Paul was fuming. He was finding it hard to speak to or even look at his father-in-law; the man had become a stranger.
The corridors were dimly lit by an occasional gas light hanging from thin wire on the bare brick walls. Every door they passed was reinforced with steel and had peep holes and hatches big enough for food trays to slide through. Paul halted mid-step to look out of a window onto a garden area beyond. It was barren through lack of care but was nonetheless a strange sight in the middle of a city prison.
Biermann also stopped walking and pointed to the door closest to them. It was guarded by two soldiers leaning against the wall with rifles slung over their shoulders. They came to attention, their boredom eliminated by their respect for the Gestapo Kriminaldirektor.
“He’s in there, Paul,” Biermann said, gripping Paul’s arm. “Remember what I said on the way here. I’m doing you a favour by allowing you to see him, so I expect you to respect my instructions. Say goodbye to him, but do not mention his Jewish heritage, or anything else you’ve read about or heard in my office. Do I have your word?”
Twice, Biermann had reiterated those orders. Was he worried that Kurt might contradict the carefully laid-out accusations and embarrass the Gestapo? Paul wondered, giving a curt nod. “Yes. You have my word.”
Biermann gestured to the guard, who opened the door to let Paul enter. Disappointed, Paul felt his father-in-law follow him in. Damn Biermann for not giving them the courtesy of saying their goodbyes in private.
Kurt was handcuffed against a wall. He wore a dirty grey shirt and striped trousers that looked like pyjama bottoms, like those Paul had seen men wearing at the Brandenburg Prison.
The man Paul had always admired was an emaciated shadow of his former self, a pitiful, beaten man with blackened eyelids and cheekbones, his lips white and crusty with scabs. His puffy eyes brightened as he gave Paul a weak smile and raised himself to his full height.
Paul turned sharply to Biermann, dismissing forever the respect and appreciation he’d once had for the grim sadistic torturer leaning nonchalantly against the closed door with his arms folded. A bigger and more courageous man would beat the life out of the piece of Gestapo shit! “I’d like five minutes alone with him?” Paul spat.
“No. Say your goodbyes. That was the deal,” Biermann replied.
Paul swallowed his fury as he walked to Kurt. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say with Biermann breathing down his neck in this abhorrent place of suffering.
“It’s good to see you, Paul. Thank you for coming,” Kurt muttered.
“I came as soon as I could. I have my father-in-law to thank for this visit.”
Paul, noticing the vicious curl of Kurt’s lip as he looked past him to Biermann, tried to ease the tension. “I won’t lie to you, Kurt. I was shocked to hear about you being in here. I’m not allowed to know what you did or ask you any questions about your alleged crimes, but I can ask you about the night my father died. You were with him just before the explosion. Will you tell me what happened? It will help me to understand.”
Again, Kurt looked past Paul to glare at Biermann who gave a brisk nod of approval.
“Your father was desperate to see the gas plant shut down. He planned to use the basement as an extra factory floor, to meet the high demand for medical equipment.” Kurt began, his eyes now fixed on Paul. “He went inside to check the gauges with the view to having the gas holders removed the following day if they were empty. He was taking your mother for a break to Dresden and wanted to leave his instructions with his brother-in-law.”
“What caused the explosion?” Paul asked.
Kurt sighed and shrugged, “I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times, Paul. Berlin suffered an air raid just after your father went into the gas plant and locked the reinforced door from the inside. I watched him and two of the guards check the gauges as planned … and … then I felt a violent tremor beneath my feet, like an earthquake. Inside the plant, sparks were flying, and your father rushed back towards the door and gestured to me through the glass panel to leave. At that point, I ran up the stairs and back to the entrance, thinking that your father would be safer inside the contained space than I’d be in the main building should we be bombed by the British. But I was wrong. When the explosion occurred, it took down the entire gas plant, the basement area outside it and the floors above it. And I … well … as you can see, I’m still in one piece.”
“That’s enough, Paul,” Biermann said from the doorway.
Kurt and Paul locked eyes, the former’s silently pleading with Paul to stay a bit longer.
“Paul, that’s enough,” Biermann snapped.
“I’m sorry, Kurt, I won’t be able to visit again. Stay strong,” Paul said, tears prickling his eyes.
“I don’t think I’ll be here much longer.” Kurt tried to smile. “You take care of yourself, and always remember that your father loved you. He was a very proud man at your wedding, and right up to the moment he died. Goodbye, Paul.”
Back in Biermann’s office, Paul accepted a cup of tea. Biermann, once again his charming, caring self, seemed pleased with the visit.
“That went rather well. You got a better picture of what happened to your father, and you found out what a lying traitor Sommer really is,” Biermann said, after slurping his tea.
“I didn’t expect to see him in such a dreadful state,” Paul dared to say.
Biermann waved the comment away. “Ach, don’t worry about that. Scuffles happen when prisoners refuse to cooperate, that’s all.”
Biermann returned his cup to its saucer then rubbed his hands together like an eager storyteller. “I’m glad we got that nasty business out of the way first. Now we can both go home with the news I’m about to tell you. I wanted to speak to you about it before I told Olga and Valentina, so you could have time to take it all in.”
Paul, feigning interest but still horrified at Kurt’s inhumane treatment, smiled. “I’m all ears.”
Biermann took a satisfied pull on his cigarette, making Paul cough as the smoke drifted towards him.
“The thing is, Paul, I’m not a young man, and being of a certain age I always thought I would spend the war in Berlin.” Biermann began with a chuckle. “It appears that the powers-that-be have other ideas for me. Can you imagine how taken aback I was when my superior told me I was to be posted outside Germany?” He took another puff of his cigarette, exhaling slowly, then stubbing it out in the ashtray. “What do you know about Łódź, in Poland?”
“Not much. Why?”
“I’m being sent there for an extended period to help run the Litzmannstadt Ghetto with the Schupo – Schutzpolizei. I started my police career in that force. It’ll be like going back to the good old days of policing and keeping the peace – a completely different pace to what I’ve become used to in Berlin.”
Paul digested the news. He shouldn’t be surprised. Germany was at war, so why should his father-in-law be immune to the upheaval it brought? He was no different than t
he million other servicemen who’d been sent beyond Germany’s borders.
Biermann continued to talk about his new job with boyish enthusiasm. “Of course, I was adamant that my Olga should accompany me. Other officers have been allowed to take their wives to permanent postings that are not close to our front lines. I couldn’t even imagine leaving her behind.”
Paul, unsure if Biermann was genuinely happy about the move or playacting, said, “I don’t know what to say.” He lifted his cup to give his still-shaky hands something to do. The man was like a tap that ran hot one minute and cold the next, and Paul was quickly learning to measure his words before speaking. “I’m pleased for you, sir, but you … have I displeased you in some way … the way you’re looking at me…?”
“No. No, you have the wrong end of the stick, Paul. I was studying your reaction. You see, I’ve used what little power I’ve got to secure you a posting to one of the Reich hospitals in Łódź. You’re coming with us.”
Paul gaped like a fool. “I’m going to Poland?”
“Yes. But that’s not the best part. You also have permission to take Valentina with you. Although, had the worst come to the worst and you hadn’t been allowed to take her, I would have arranged for her to accompany her mother and me, what with her being pregnant and having no other family in Berlin. She’ll be sorry to leave her job at the main security office, I suppose. You know how much she loves it. But when she finds out that you and she can set up home together in married quarters in Poland and have her mother and me just around the corner, she’ll be delighted.” He stared hard at Paul. “Aren’t you happy?”
Paul was astonished. He was still open-mouthed and uncertain of his father-in-law’s motives. “I really don’t know what to say apart from what about Paris? Will they agree to my new posting?”
