by Jana Petken
Patient care was shockingly bad. Ambulance orderlies were sent to retrieve patients in horse-drawn wagons or large wooden handcarts looking more like wheelbarrows. They didn’t seem to care if their patients got to hospital alive or dead, probably because those who ended up in the Centre were so seriously ill they usually died shortly after admission. If Paul could see patients beforehand, he’d tell them to refuse to go to the hospital. They had a better chance of recovery, or a nicer death, at least, in their own squalid rooms being looked after by family. Love was a powerful medicine.
The hospital was fortunate enough to have salvaged a pre-war X-ray machine, but broken bones were splinted with rough wood and torn fabric. There was a dire shortage of medicine and, of course, food. It was a pitiful excuse for a health facility in which many nurses, orderlies, and doctors were afraid to get too close to their patients. Diseases such as typhoid and tuberculosis put the staff’s lives at risk; all they had in the way of protection were pieces of cloth to tie around their noses and mouths.
Paul was unpopular with the hospital staff. Doctors were reluctant to talk to him about anything other than medical matters, and nurses skirted around him as though afraid of coming to his attention. The reasons for their animosity were easily explained: he was a German, a Wehrmacht doctor in a supervisory position, and a member of the enemy’s occupying forces. They loathed him, but not enough to refuse to answer his questions about the hospital’s history since the beginning of the occupation.
The staff had sent a representative to speak to Paul in private about the incident that had changed the make-up of hospital number 4 in a single day. The young Jewish doctor had looked terrified while clumsily explaining that the elderly patients who had once filled the hospital had disappeared in the space of a morning and were never seen again. Paul had asked him what he thought had happened to the people who been removed, but he’d received an ambiguous and muted response. “Perhaps they went somewhere else.”
“You are looking forward to this evening, aren’t you, Paul?” Valentina interrupted Paul’s thoughts.
“Yes. I’m looking forward to seeing your parents,” Paul said, pulling Valentina to him and pushing thoughts of work away. “I’m being selfish. We’ve had so very little time together lately.” He kissed her softly and again ran his hand over her swollen stomach. “Hmm … I adore you like this.”
“No. Stop it,” she said, removing his hand from between her thighs. “We won’t be able to do this for much longer. You were naughty – Paul, please, don’t – think about the baby.”
Paul chuckled as he raised his offending hand in the air. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to make love that won’t harm the baby. Don’t worry, dearest, you can trust me. I’m a doctor.”
She giggled, and he silenced her with another gentle kiss on her lips. She was his refuge, his escape from the ugliness of the world outside. He loved her excited chatter about the baby clothes she and her mother were knitting, the names she’d considered for their unborn child, and the colourful stories she told about the excursions she and Olga had taken around the city in a chauffeur-driven Gestapo car. She was vivacious, in good health, and not missing her job at the Reich Security Office in Berlin at all. If only he were half as happy as she was.
Valentina had a selective view of life in Łódź, which was vastly different to the one held by the Poles and Jews. She didn’t seem to notice the destroyed buildings, German soldiers, and ghetto walls. From her perspective, days in the city thus far had been entertaining and stimulating. She’d taken tea with high-ranking military wives, where they’d apparently discussed everything and anything one could imagine … except for the war and the vast number of people starving in the cut-off northern part of the city. He assumed she and the other women either didn’t know what was going on in the ghetto or didn’t like to discuss it, for neither Valentina nor her mother had asked a single question about it.
******
“I can’t find a good selection of maternity clothes anywhere, Papa. I wish I had bought dresses in Berlin before we left. I’m going to look stupid in mother’s home-made frocks. Her patterns are ancient. Don’t Polish women get pregnant?”
“Darling, a lot of the shops in Litzmannstadt were bombed,” said Biermann using Łódź’s German name with a patience he reserved only for his wife and daughter.
Paul intervened, “There’s a shortage of everything in the city, not just clothes. Keep in mind, dear, that most of the clothing shops and factories were owned or run by Jews. It’s not their fault that they can’t continue to trade.”
Biermann scowled at Paul. He wasn’t happy with his son-in-law’s sharp tone or his attitude towards his Valentina who was in a delicate state. “Valentina, why don’t you tell Paul about your visit to Frau Schmidt’s house the other day?”
“Oh, yes. She’s wonderful, darling,” Valentina gushed. “She’s the wife of Generalleutnant Braun, a lovely man by all accounts. It’s such a pity she went back to Munich.”
“Where did you meet her?” Paul asked.
“She and her husband were staying at the Hotel Bristol. Generalleutnant Braun was touring some place or other, and she invited five of us permanent Litzmannstadt wives to tea. After eating delicious cakes that she’d brought with her especially from Germany, she entertained us all at the piano – Bach, I think, wasn’t it, Mama?”
“Yes. She played very well, but you haven’t told Paul the best part, dear,” Olga said.
“And what was that?” Paul smiled.
“Well, she said if any of us would like to have a holiday, we could join her at her second home in Bavaria. And you’ll never guess – it’s very near to the Berghof where the Führer sometimes goes. She told us that she’d once seen him in a café eating cakes, and the people with him said hello to her. Isn’t that marvellous?”
Biermann smiled indulgently at his daughter. Unbeknownst to her and Olga, he had already spoken about a holiday in Bavaria with Frau Schmidt’s husband. Fritz Braun was a friend of his from the Einstein Club and had been delighted with the suggestion that the ladies get together while the menfolk were away. Biermann suspected that Fritz was equally pleased that he’d have more time to spend with his Berlin mistress.
“… Papa, did Mama tell you about our walk along the embankment yesterday? The River Jasień is full of ducks.”
“Is that so?” Biermann replied.
“We sat on a bench for almost an hour making the most of the milder weather, and I remarked to Mother that I don’t know how those poor ducks are surviving. Not once did I see anyone throw bread to them.”
“If there’s not enough bread to feed the people, they’re hardly likely to give what they have to the ducks,” Paul said, irritated. “I hate to tell you this, but I’m betting those ducks will live only until they’re big enough or fat enough to net and cook. Hopefully, they’ll feed a lot of hungry families.”
“Oh, don’t upset us, Paul. I won’t sleep now for thinking about those poor creatures,” Valentina moaned.
For a while, the men listened to the ladies describing in detail how they passed their days when left to their own devices. Then, when he’d had enough, Biermann lit a fat cigar, giving Olga her cue to leave the room with Valentina. He’d hardly seen his son-in-law, and there was much he wanted to discuss with him in private.
“I thought we’d see a lot more of each other, Paul, but it seems our paths rarely cross,” Biermann said pleasantly enough, after the ladies had left.
“I kept meaning to visit you at the prison, but my shifts at the hospital keep running over. To be honest, I’m pleased Valentina has her mother for company. It was a splendid idea of yours to have them living near one another.”
“You won’t catch me at the prison,” Freddie mumbled, puffing on his cigar. “We’ve left the local police to run it. We’re still in charge, of course, but I’ve been travelling a bit more than I thought I would. Our new offices are in Alexanderhoffstrasse. Stop by and say hello.”
Paul looked surprised, but Biermann didn’t want to give his nosey son-in-law any more information, for now.
“How is your job at the hospital?” Biermann asked after another couple of long, drawn-out puffs.
“It’s hard, sir. We have far too many patients and not nearly enough medicines, food, or equipment. It’s not easy to cure a person of malnutrition when we can’t give them the nutrients they need. I haven’t said anything to Valentina, but we’re also seeing typhus cases.”
Freddie was appalled. “In the hospital? Did you treat them?”
“No, they were in a quarantine room on the top floor. They died soon after being admitted.” Paul sipped his coffee. “Don’t worry, the illness is not transmitted from person to person, like influenza…”
“But it can spread?”
“Yes, it can.”
Biermann frowned. “I worry about my Valentina being exposed to that and other diseases going around.”
“As do I. The ghetto is the perfect breeding ground for arthropods which can jump from person to person. If there are six people sharing the same room and only one bed, or a head of hair is infested with fleas, mites, lice, or ticks, you can bet your life that the disease will spread like wildfire within days. And if those infected continue to come to the hospital, we’re all in trouble. I suggested we keep the sick inside the ghetto and take preventative measures. It can be curtailed by controlling the rodent population and disinfecting the contaminated areas. Unfortunately, no one seems to agree with me that doing something is better than doing nothing.” Paul dropped his coffee spoon onto the table. “To be honest, sir, had I known the conditions in the ghetto were this abysmal and inhumane…”
“Now, now, I’ll have none of that nonsense,” Biermann snapped. “What did you expect? Do you think we should have given the Jews rooms in fancy hotels, eh? You don’t understand the mechanics of it all. They had to go into an environment they’re used to, like the tenement blocks. The only difference now is that they’re forced to share their rooms with other families. That’s not so very bad, is it? A lot of those Jews were living in houses far too big for them, anyway. And what more can they need? They’re pigs. They don’t require more gravy in their troughs, do they? No, no. In my opinion, they’re being treated better than some of our soldiers on the Russian Front.” Biermann started counting with his fingers. “We have allowed for outpatient clinics, first aid stations, dental clinics, a disinfection facility, and several pharmacies.”
Biermann grimaced. He’d seen a truckload of Roma leaving the train station. Their stink had been on him the entire day. “Those filthy Roma are no better than animals. They’re more used to sleeping under bridges and such-like. I hope you’re not treating them for typhus? Any doctor who does will be severely punished. You know that, don’t you, Paul?”
“Yes, sir. Weren’t they deported in January?”
“Yes, but like the bugs you mentioned, they keep coming back.”
Biermann was disappointed in Paul. He’d genuinely liked his daughter’s new husband, but all too often now he was seeing a side of the man he didn’t approve of. A few months earlier, he’d spoken with Hans Rudolph, who’d worked at Brandenburg. He was now at another hospital in Berlin, but he continued to criticise Paul’s abilities as a doctor and his troublesome attitude towards his superiors. He’d also had a lot to say about Captain August Leitner, the dead Abwehr agent; it had been an enlightening conversation and one Biermann hoped to raise with his son-in-law in the future.
Biermann accepted that Paul wasn’t a Nazi at heart. He’d said as much to Hans Rudolph, but Vogel’s openly sympathetic views of the Jewish situation were disturbing, and frankly, with him now as a son-in-law, an embarrassment.
Days earlier, Valentina had let slip to her father that she suspected Paul of smuggling contraband into the ghetto. She didn’t know who he was delivering the food and medicine to, but she worried he might get into trouble for pilfering rations from the hospital and then giving them to Jews. She knew for a fact he was doing it, she’d emphasised. She’d searched his rucksack whilst he was taking a shower and had discovered all manner of goodies.
As Biermann was recalling the conversation, Paul excused himself to go to the bathroom. Biermann puffed on his cigar, giving the room a smoky haze that took its time to waft out of the slightly open window. He’d already known about Paul’s trips to the ghetto’s German section; he’d had a man following his son-in-law since the day he arrived in Poland. Nonetheless, he had questioned Valentina further, squeezing answers out of her like a dripping sponge without her even recognising his motives. She didn’t know much about Paul’s job or what went on inside the ghetto, she’d said. Paul didn’t talk about those things to her and she never brought up the subject; such things upset her.
When Paul returned, he poured more coffee from the pot into his cup. “That was a lovely dinner. Thank you, sir,” he said.
“Have you been to the ghetto?” asked Freddie, holding Paul’s eyes.
“No, the Polish doctors do the inspections. I’ve never been inside the place.”
“So, you don’t go into the ghetto at all?”
“No. Never.”
Freddie stared at Paul through the cigar smoke and forced a smile. “Thank God. At least you won’t get infected by this typhus disease you mentioned.”
“Yes, true. And if the hospital administrator does as I ask, we won’t be inundated with cases at the hospital.”
Paul continued to talk about his job, but Biermann was becoming bored with the subject of hospitals and diseases. Paul was in Litzmannstadt for only one reason: to get to the truth about Dieter from Kurt Sommer and find the location of the art collection.
Biermann sighed, also frustrated with his own work. Dieter’s deception was eating away at him, and he didn’t know if his fixation on the matter stemmed from diligent police work or from the gut-punching hurt he felt every damn morning when he woke up. He drew heavily on his cigar again until his face was flushed and obscured by smoke. The Gestapo, SS, and Abwehr; they’d all laughed when he’d shared his suspicions and the autopsy results he’d fought so very hard to get. They’d thought him mad, and, outraged by his accusations, had banished him to Poland.
Heydrich’s aide had spoken to Biermann on the sly, giving him some insight into why his superiors had reacted so violently to the accusations. The Reich didn’t want a scandal, especially one which involved any suggestion of disunity within the Nazi Party. They had balked at the very idea of an important industrialist and Party financial contributor colluding with the British and faking his own death. Even if it were true, which was ridiculous, such news could never reach public ears. The Fatherland was at war, and the people needed to see harmony in the leadership and its ranks.
Thus, the Vogels’ good name was intact. Dieter’s factories were still open for business and being run by men who had worked in them for years. That situation was going to change, however, and change soon, Biermann consoled himself. The Reich would requisition the factories as soon as Hitler’s demand for more armaments grew, and those demands were ramping up now.
Biermann’s wandering mind came back to Paul, sitting in silence as though afraid to speak. He was weak, a trait Biermann had recently noticed in his son-in-law. “Did you hear about Fritz Todt’s death?” he asked.
“No?” Paul eyebrows shot up. “Wasn’t he the Minister of Armaments and War Production?”
“Yes. He died a few days ago in a plane crash shortly after taking off from the Führer’s eastern headquarters at Rastenburg. You know, the speed with which Herr Hitler makes tough decisions is quite remarkable, and they’re usually correct. I’ve just heard today that he’s already appointed Albert Speer as Todt’s successor to all his posts.” Biermann puffed hard. “It’s well known that Speer is Hitler’s favourite pet. He’s a wonderful architect – even Stalin wanted his services – did you know that?”
“No, I’m afraid I’m a bit slow to catch up on news.”
“Speer will probably revolutionise the weapons production sectors,” Biermann continued. “Those idiots, the five supreme authorities, as they like to call themselves, claim they don’t have the money for major armament production, but I’m betting Speer will sort them out.”
Biermann, tiring of Paul’s blank expression when it came to politics, stubbed his cigar butt in the ashtray and got up. He’d get his revenge on Dieter once he had cracked Sommer with Paul’s help. Then he’d have the art collection and a more than decent retirement payoff. It would take time, but he had that in spades.
“I miss your father, Paul. You do, too. I can see you’re still grieving,” Biermann muttered with a sigh.
Paul also rose. “I am grieving. I just wish I had been able to say a proper goodbye to him. There’s a lot of things I would have liked to have said, but you know, the hardest thing of all is not being able to speak to my mother. I understand why she decided to leave Germany, but it’s hard.”
Unsure if he’d heard correctly, Biermann asked, “You do understand her, or you don’t?”
“I understand why she left Germany. Her family is in England, along with Hannah and Max. I would have urged her to go had I been in Berlin when my father died. Willie probably won’t get leave from Russia, and I was bound to be off somewhere or other. I feel we, her children, let her down when she needed us most. Thank you for looking after her. My father would have been grateful to you.”
“You’re welcome. Your papa would have done the same for my wife.” Biermann patted his son-in-law’s broad shoulder. “It’s time you got your wife home. Goodnight, Paul.”
