The Vogels: On All Fronts (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 2)

by Jana Petken

  “Yes, yes. You were never going back to France, Paul, not after your ordeal.”

  Paul squirmed under his father-in-law’s scrutiny. Living in Poland was not what he’d envisaged for himself. He knew damn well who was in the Łódź Ghetto, and he wanted no part of it.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Paul, but your superiors see you as an embarrassment, a reminder that the Resistance can take German officers off the Paris streets at will. You are a hero, no doubt about it. You might even get a medal…”

  “Why?” Paul blurted out.

  Biermann spread his arms wide and let out a contented grunt. “Why? Because you made it possible for the Gestapo to execute thirty or so rebels in Dieppe. It was a great coup for us. They won’t be abducting anyone else in a hurry, will they?”

  Paul blushed crimson, as he recalled the Wehrmacht’s celebrations in Paris. He didn’t want to be reminded about the people he’d helped to kill…

  “Paul … Paul?”

  “Sorry, sir. I was thinking about Łódź,” Paul lied.

  “Look, I know this must be a shock after all the other shocks you’ve received recently, but I feel Poland is the right place for you … for our family. I had to call in a lot of favours to make these two postings work in tandem. Tell me you’re pleased … say something.”

  “For God’s sake, give me longer than a heartbeat to take this in!” Paul snapped, still thinking of the French men and women who’d died because of him.

  Biermann gasped, his indignation evident. But Paul’s cup of wretched news was overflowing. Hans Rudolph came to mind. The homosexual murderer of children, who had wheedled him into making a hasty decision about Brandenburg, had done precisely what Biermann was doing now; cornering him, badgering him for a decision he didn’t want to make even though he suspected it was already out of his hands. “I apologise, Herr Direktor. I had no right to speak to you like that,” Paul finally repented. “I was thrown when you said Łódź was a ghetto … what did you call it?”

  “Litzmannstadt.”

  “Oh, yes. Who lives there? I assume it’s guarded?”

  Biermann tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk and scowled. “Jews live there. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Paul, don’t make me regret sticking my neck out for you. There are ghettos all over Poland. The biggest one is in Warsaw. It’s becoming overcrowded and sickness among the Jews is rife. Thank your lucky stars you’re not being sent there, or to the Russian Front without Valentina or me at your back.”

  Jews again. Max’s patronising words over a year earlier came back with a vengeance to haunt Paul. The Jewish situation will only get worst. Do you really think the Reich will feed and clothe those people in camps and ghettos? You can run from Brandenburg, Paul, but not from the Jews or the politics and death surrounding them. To please Biermann and give himself a break from the man’s coercive stare, Paul grinned. “Forgive me, sir. I was surprised for a moment, that’s all. I can’t wait to tell Valentina. She’ll be as thrilled as I am.”

  “I’m sure she will be.” Biermann’s eyes widened, as though he’d been struck by a thought. “Ah, Kurt Sommer. Yes, Sommer.”

  “What about Kurt, sir?”

  “It’s something you said earlier about him going to a concentration camp. I might have an idea that could help him avoid that fate. I should have thought about it before now, but until I saw how fond of him you are, I admit I didn’t care where he went. I’m not a monster, Paul, although at times I’m forced to do monstrous things.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking of recommending a gentler sentence for Kurt, one where he can live an almost normal life in the Litzmannstadt ghetto. He’ll work, live in a house with other Jews, and be able to wander around the place – within its walls, of course – what do you think about that?”

  Paul’s eyes brightened. It was certainly a better option than torture in a prison camp. “Failing his release, it would be a vast improvement. Thank you.”

  Biermann brought out a half bottle of brandy from his desk drawer, then two tubular snifters. “Then it’s yes to Łódź for all of us. We’re going to make the Fatherland proud, Paul. Shall we toast to our bright futures?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Klara Gabula

  Klara, along with two crates of weapons, was parachuted into France an hour before dawn. After walking two hundred metres or so, she came to a stream. There, she stowed her chute in a crevice between rocks and took her map and compass out of her rucksack. She was panting with exertion. The chute had not seemed that heavy when she’d first gathered it up in her arms, but after walking with it over her shoulder and dragging at least half of it on the ground behind her, it had become unbearably cumbersome.

  She switched on her torch to check her map, noting the markings of water and woods to the right confirmed that she was very close to the rendezvous point south-west of Paris.

  Worried that the parachutes carrying the crates might be tangled in the trees, she headed towards the forest. While she’d been floating down, she’d followed the paths of the crates and their parachutes and believed that their landing sites were just inside the treeline.

  According to the coordinates, Duguay’s men were going to pick her up at a point where the stream widened, and as she walked towards the trees, she spotted the place only a hundred metres ahead of her. It was quite beautiful; not only did the stream widen into a river, but the moon’s light reflected off a two-metre high waterfall that splashed deafeningly into the foaming water below. As she approached, she was reminded of similar cascades in Scotland’s rugged countryside.

  She was in high spirits. She had dreaded the parachute jump almost as much as the thought of being shot down as she hung in the air, yet she’d made it unscathed and felt proud of herself for getting over what had been an enormous hurdle for her. The Frenchmen hadn’t arrived yet, which gave her time to look for the weapons crates.

  After ten minutes’ search, she found the parachutes where she thought they would be, stuck on branches with the crates dangling about three metres off the ground. She left them there, went back to the river, and settled down near the waterfall to wait for Duguay’s men.

  The sky was clear with countless stars and a three-quarter moon, but it was cold. She shivered, pulled up her collar, and huddled closer to a rock that acted as a windbreak. What would Duguay say to her when he saw she had returned to work with him? She knew precisely what she’d say to him; she’d rehearsed her speech many times.

  Her thoughts drifted to her last meeting with Max. She was still undecided whether to mention the state of their relationship, or lack thereof, to Duguay. Max had made it clear he didn’t want to see her again. He hadn’t replied to any of her letters, written feverishly in a last-ditch attempt to mend fences. It was over; she’d accepted his decision. Max had mentioned in Scotland that he wasn’t going back to Paris in the foreseeable future, and because of that, she had left the Polish SOE Section in favour of France, following Duguay’s request that she work with his group. That was proof enough that her relationship with Max was well and truly finished, wasn’t it?

  She was hurting, but in time, the ache in her heart and the sadness she felt would ease then fade away completely. She didn’t live and breathe for anyone but herself now; she was her own person. She hadn’t lost her name upon marriage; she’d been born Klara Gabula, a common surname that had matched Romek’s. During her years in Poland, she had studied, taught others, lived, laughed, cried, and experienced many things before either Max or Romek had come into her world. Neither man had made her or saved her. They had not come to her rescue; she had rescued herself, surviving with stoic determination on her own. She was now free of the guilt of being an adulteress, and of almost killing her lover’s brother. She had turned a page and would never go back again, not for Romek, and certainly not for Max Vogel.

  At 06:15, three of Duguay’s men made
their way towards her along the rocky embankment. She remained hidden, however, until she recognised Claude’s tall, gangly figure and heard him call her French name, Marine. It felt strange hearing it again.

  Duguay was waiting for Klara at the farm. He’d cooked a breakfast of pork sausages and scrambled eggs and had brewed a strong pot of coffee, along with hot fresh bread from the oven. She found him much changed since their previous encounter when he’d insulted her for her stupidity and had ordered her into a van while he shot over Paul Vogel’s head. She was now an SOE agent, and although he didn’t know that section even existed, he was aware she held an officer’s rank in the British Army. He was pleasant, respectful, and grateful for British help, or so it seemed.

  After breakfast, when she was drinking the last of the coffee, she set about outlining the British government’s long-term goals.

  “When and where are the two other agents arriving?” he asked.

  Klara pushed her plate aside and pulled a map from her rucksack. “Two days from now – here.” She pointed to the map, marked by a series of numbers. “A British vessel – I don’t know the exact type of boat – will put the men in an inflatable dinghy off the coast, here.”

  “Yes, I know the place.”

  “Good. They’ll row into this cove – you see? From what we can gather, the Germans have a series of concrete bunkers along the entire coastline as well as sentry points on roads into harbours and jetties, so you’ll have to make your approach to the cove on foot.”

  “I also know that. The German military are monitoring everything from fishing boats to enemy planes and shipping. They’re also checking the boats as they unload and are grabbing the best of the catches for themselves before allowing the rest of the fish to be sent to local markets. I’m surprised the British are even attempting this. Why didn’t they parachute in with you?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps they’re carrying sensitive materials. They must have their reasons. Don’t worry about it, Duguay. The curfew means there is no fishing at night, so there shouldn’t be any German military trucks on the road. All we need to be concerned about is that the dinghy isn’t spotted before the agents sink it out of tidal sight and come ashore.”

  For an hour, Klara and Duguay discussed the way ahead. She had brought four radio transmitter crystals and explained how they were used to construct two radios. She also handed over money to Duguay and a list of British objectives and targets including railway lines and canals.

  Klara was gaining confidence as Duguay kept eye contact, listening and agreeing to all she said; until she brought up the Vogels. “Do we need to talk about the Vogel twins?” she asked.

  “No. That episode is closed, but what happened will haunt us forever.” Duguay rose and carried the cups to the kitchen sink.

  Klara spoke to his back. “I know what happened to the Resistance in Dieppe. But as much as I’m sorry for the loss of those French lives, you and your operation are still afloat and now you have vast resources at your disposal. I learnt through your communications that for whatever reason, Paul Vogel didn’t give you up, never mentioned his brother, you, or me by name, or where he’d been held. Why do you think that was?”

  “Do you still see the brother, Max?”

  Thrown by his question, Klara scratched her cheek. “I thought you said that episode was closed.”

  “I’d like to know where I stand with you. Have you spoken to him?”

  “Yes, but he and I won’t be speaking to each other again – that relationship is over.”

  “I see. Do you understand the damage you caused? Have you any idea what we had to do when Paul Vogel escaped?”

  Klara’s face reddened. “No. But I imagine you took precautions...”

  “We did more than that. We moved out of here, lock, stock, and barrel. We ceased operations and scattered like leaves. We lost targets and twenty men who never came back – even now, I’m not sure if we should remain here…”

  “Florent, I apologised to the British for my bad judgement with Paul Vogel, and I will apologise to you, but only once more,” she interrupted. “What’s important now is that this is a new operation. I have my orders from England, the equipment we need to destroy bigger targets, and the means to keep in contact with the British. Again, I’m sorry your operations were disrupted, but you must move on with me now. We have a job to do.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued while Duguay returned with fresh coffee. “Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ve set up a place for you in the barn. It’s discrete and will give you some privacy.”

  “You want me to sleep in a barn?”

  “I’ve made it habitable. Would you rather share a room with Claude?”

  Klara picked up her rucksack and followed Duguay across the courtyard behind the house until they came to the barn where she had last seen Romek. She followed Duguay’s lead then nearly bumped into him when he paused mid-step and turned to face her with an inscrutable smile on his lips.

  “You wanted to know why Paul Vogel didn’t mention this place?” he asked her.

  “Yes … yes, I suppose I do.”

  “It’s quite simple. He didn’t want to get his British spy of a brother involved. But apparently, he had no qualms about sentencing men and women in the Dieppe area to death, who, by the way, had nothing to do with Vogel’s abduction at your amateurish hands.”

  Klara flinched. “As I said, we must move on…”

  He sniggered, “You want me to move on with you? No. You’re mistaken. You’re not equipped for this job, or for any other job in France. You didn’t cause the temporary ruin of my operations or the death of dozens of innocent people – that was Paul Vogel’s doing. But you are ruled by your female heart, not your head or your training, and I could never … never trust you again or allow anyone else to rely on you.”

  “Now, wait a minute. Why did you request me if you don’t trust me? You told the British you wanted me to work with you…”

  “The only reason I asked them to send you back was to do this.” Duguay put his hand into his waist belt and pulled out a gun.

  “What are you doing?” She took a step backwards and bumped into Claude, who gave her a sharp push forward. Her hand shot to her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Then her fingers began to tremble as she stretched out her hand to Duguay, her eyes pleading with him to stop what he was doing.

  Duguay released the safety catch. “I won’t let you put any more Frenchmen or women in jeopardy. You’re a liability, Marine. You can’t be allowed to leave this farm to meddle in our affairs … ever again.”

  Klara’s throat was pulsating as though her heart had shot up to her mouth. Her eyes, wide with terror as they tried to make sense of what was happening, filled with tears and overflowed onto her cheeks. She tried to imagine death; the pain beforehand, oblivion, darkness, but she couldn’t even begin to comprehend what it would feel like.

  “Claude, move away from her,” Duguay ordered. “Marine, get your knees.”

  “No, Florent, don’t do this … I’m begging you … don’t kill me because of one mistake…”

  “One mistake? You mean one unforgivable mistake that can never be repeated? All the lives that were lost because of your actions?”

  Claude pushed her to her knees, then walked to Duguay’s side.

  Klara, caught off balance, looked up at the two men, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You won’t get away with this … you won’t … the British will punish you. They’ll never help you again,” she croaked. “Duguay, they will smash you and your communists to pieces for killing one of their own – think – think!”

  The tip of the gun barrel touched Klara’s head then moved back a couple of centimetres. Blinded by terror, she screamed, losing all control. “No. Stop it! I’m more use to you alive than dead – Florent, don’t – please don’t…”

  Duguay pulled the trigger, the deafening ping of the bullet echoing against the wall of the barn.

  Klara’s body crumpled s
ideways onto the ground, her legs bent at the knees, one arm tucked beneath her and the other with its hand clenched in a tight fist.

  “Bury her in the woods but leave a grave marker. I want to show it to the British agents when they get here,” Duguay said.

  Claude nodded, his face ashen in the moonlight. “What will you tell the agents when they arrive?”

  “She had an unfortunate accident when she landed – broke her neck. We found the details of their arrival in her rucksack along with a map with their landing point – we put two and two together. Don’t worry about it.”

  “What if they want to see the body?”

  Duguay sighed with impatience. “Why are you asking stupid questions? The British have no reason to doubt my word.”

  “What will you say to our men about this?”

  “My men are loyal to me. They’ll understand why I did it. Do you understand, Claude?”

  “I suppose … yes…”

  “Say it. Do you understand why she had to die?”

  “Yes. She was a liability.”

  “Good. Now get this done. We’ve got work to do and crates to unpack.”

  Duguay took one last look at Klara, the tidy hole in her temple seeping black blood, her eyes clouded over in death. He sighed with neither regret nor relief, but instead set off at a brisk pace towards the house.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Wilmot Vogel

  Russia, January 1942

  Wilmot and his fellow German prisoners of war stood in silence on the cramped boat that had taken them across a narrow river. Talking was not a good idea, nor was complaining about feeling sick, a lack of food or warm clothing. Wilmot had learnt that keeping quiet, head bowed, and staying on one’s feet was a Russian prisoner’s best chance of surviving the Soviet guards who liked to take pot shots at uncooperative Germans.

  After the boat docked, a painstakingly slow debarkation process began. For days at a time, the prisoners had been marched through snow and ice-bound wastelands, travelling further north away from the German Forces and any chance of rescue. Physically and mentally, they were no longer the same men who had been captured at Leningrad. Wilmot, although trying desperately to hide his feelings, was irritable, hyperactive, and impetuous. Twice, he’d gone back to his old ways of lashing out with his fists, provoking fights with other prisoners just to get the prickliness out of his system.