by Jana Petken
She peered at the menu, a grubby mustard coloured brochure outlining a vast array of dishes. She wondered how much on the menu was available. She didn’t understand much of it, but after many months in Britain she’d become accustomed to being told by waiters that a dish was off the menu that day because the restaurateurs hadn’t enough meat or whatever to make it. She was particularly fond of cottage pie.
She glanced at Max who was also studying the menu. The British people she’d met thus far seemed to understand and accept the difficulties war entailed. She’d noticed that they complained less about food shortages and rationing than Berliners had, and they didn’t blame religious groups for their hardships, or Adolf Hitler. At Bletchley, a German dissident – in the eyes of the Reich – called the Führer the midget corporal. He loved to wallow in his hatred and the freedom he had to express it.
The English seemed calm and optimistic, despite the danger lurking off their shores and the blockades creating endless food shortages. Berliners had kicked up much more of a stink when they couldn’t get sugar and the like, and although she’d not been allowed into grocers’ shops towards the end of her time in Germany, she’d seen plenty of women traipse out of them mumbling under their breaths with faces set to burst. Berliners were like parrots. ‘The Jews are to blame for not having enough to eat, for having no work and no money. It’s the Jews, the dangerous Jews who have destroyed the Fatherland!’ Yet she missed Germany and all the people she’d known in her tenement block, even nasty old Frau Rosenthal.
She peered at the writing inside a box on the top left corner of the menu. It read: Notice is hereby given that margarine of the finest quality will be served with all goods except bread and butter. Pity … she liked margarine on her bread. Another larger box at the bottom in the centre crease read: Save for victory, buy National Savings Certificates.
“What would you like to eat, Judith?”
Her thoughts of Germany and margarine interrupted, she smiled and replied, “I like English pie.”
Max gave her a tender smile and pointed to a dish on the menu. “I enjoy the meat pudding here. Do you want to try that and a farmhouse pie? We can share both. I think you’ll enjoy them?”
“Yes, please.” Judith’s forehead creased; she’d been told pudding was a dessert.
“Are you staying with someone while you’re in London?” Max asked, after he had ordered one meat pudding, a farmhouse pie, and two slices of bread from the waiter.
“I go tonight to the Isle of Man for five days.” Again, she looked around, saw that no one seemed to be within earshot, and rushed out in German. “I am going to take notes for the official translator at the detention centres. He says there are thousands of Jews in a camp on the island, and the British want to make sure there are no spies amongst them. All those poor people are locked up, but they’ve done nothing wrong. It’s not fair. They’ve risked their lives to get out of occupied Europe, yet they’re still being treated like criminals.”
She paused, then as an afterthought said, “Had it not been for your brother and father, I might be in a detention camp somewhere.”
“Nothing will ever happen to you,” Max said slowly in English. “You got security clearance only after vigorous vetting. Mr Heller and my father vouched for you, and they wouldn’t trust you with a job if they didn’t think you were completely reliable. You have nothing to worry about, Judith.”
“I’m very fortunate, Max. I know I’m not qualified to be a translator, and I struggle with English. Look at me, I’m just a Berliner from a tenement block. What do I know about politics and spies?”
“What does any person know about the workings of war until they’re asked to get involved?” he whispered, reverting to German. “Most civilians at Bletchley are new to this, too, but they’ve all been chosen for a reason. They saw something in you, Judith. What you did in Berlin, actively spreading the truth about what was going on in Brandenburg. That took tremendous courage…”
“It got my father arrested.” Judith’s eyes smarted. The postcard ploy had been her crime, but she had let him take the blame whilst watching his arrest from the corner of her street. The guilt was killing her. How she missed her papa – who could be alive or dead – and Hilde, who’d be so very proud of her had she lived. Their loss was as great now as it had been all those months ago when they were taken from her. She still cried, was shrouded in darkness at times, and felt utterly alone in the world. She blinked then wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
Max patted her hand and her heartbeat accelerated.
“Max, may I talk to you in German about the people detained on the Isle of Man?”
“Yes, of course, but stop when the waiter brings our food, all right?”
“I will. I’ve been warned not to talk in our language. I understand, I do. I sometimes wish I didn’t know a word of it. I’m ashamed…”
“Don’t ever be ashamed of being German, Judith, or Jewish,” Max interrupted, taking her hand in his. “Those who want to follow Hitler’s vision have betrayed our country, not you, and not the common soldier or citizen who has been swept along by the madness of the men in power. It has taken Hitler’s sycophants, the Nazi law makers, and fanatical paramilitary groups like the Brownshirts and SS to create the disastrous policies that have ruined Germany for everyone else.”
“And what about the millions of people who voted for the Nazi Party and burnt Jewish businesses, calling for us to be thrown out of our own country? Everyone seems to believe in the Führer and Herr Himmler, and that liar, Goebbels. I believe the ordinary German man and woman would die for Hitler or kill a hundred Jews if he asked them to … and apart from your brother and your parents, I never met a single German willing to help me. I think … I might have been killed were it not for Paul.”
“Oh, my dear girl. You must know by now that there are many good Germans helping…”
The conversation halted when the waiter approached with their food. Max spoke to the man while Judith recalled the meeting she’d had with the official translator of the Isle of Man Jewish camps, he’d called the situation there, the Jewish problem. He’d also explained British policies for refugees and how they’d come about.
Following Kristallnacht in November 1938, Jewish and Quaker community leaders had met with the British government to explore ways in which children could be saved from the actions of the Nazi regime. Judith wished she’d known about the programme at the time. She’d have got Hilde on the list and had her shipped to England before the war began. The British government had allowed ten thousand Jewish children without visas into Britain through the Children’s Transport program called Kindertransport. It had ended in August 1939, too soon to save her Hilde and tens of thousands of other children with Jewish ancestry.
When the waiter left, Judith aired her thoughts with a bitter, grisly tone that sounded foreign even to her own ears. “Tell me, why are the Jewish refugees being caged?”
Max raised an eyebrow, surprised by the question.
She persisted, “Your government call the Jewish refugees enemy aliens. But we’re not the enemy; we’re Nazi victims. Why lock us up?”
Max cast his eyes around the restaurant and then leant in closer. “I have to stop you. If you must speak in German, Judith, speak softly and stop as soon as anyone comes near us. I know it’s uncomfortable for you, but you’ve got to try. Emotions are running high, and not all English people will see you as a victim. Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry … I do my best, I do.”
He tucked an errant tendril behind her ear as he had the first time he’d met her, and then spoke softly in German. “There is a fear in Britain that anyone with a German accent could be a spy. We know through experience that there are a few Nazi sympathisers pretending to be refugees. We can’t let them wander around Britain unsupervised, can we? Who knows what they might do with information they come across. You’ll find that people in the camp have
been put into groups by tribunals depending upon how dangerous they might be.”
“Yes, I know, and that determines how long that they might be held and where they are located. Still, it’s sad and wrong. It’s like the ghettos in Berlin.”
“War is sad, Judith, and those that suffer the most are usually the people without any say in the matter. I’m afraid it’s the way of the world. The men in power make the decisions and people like us suffer the consequences of their actions, which in most cases are purely self-serving to begin with. But what we’re doing to the Jews in this country is nothing like what’s happening to them in occupied Europe. No country at war is without its atrocities. No one is all bad, and no one is all good.”
“That sounds very noncommittal to me. It’s what everyone says, but the depth of evil I encountered in my country makes me believe that the Nazis are all bad with not a smidgen of good in them.” She tilted her chin. “I’m sorry if you disagree, but that’s how I feel.”
After what had been a serious and sombre conversation, Judith shifted the language to English and began to talk about his parents. She wanted Max to be proud of her accomplishments and the speed with which she had adapted to the language. Laura Vogel was the most patient teacher, she told Max, but his father was often too tired or too irritable to talk to her in English.
After a meal of meat pies and one vegetable – on this day cabbage was in – Max suggested they take a stroll in Green Park before returning to MI6.
Judith was pleased with herself. She’d held her own, had talked about a variety of things, and, like his mother, Max had been a very good listener. All right, she wasn’t fluent, but he had understood her and hadn’t laughed at her mispronunciations, not once.
The park’s verdant landscape was beautiful, like an oasis in a jungle of old buildings and ruins. But lovely as it was, it was now mid-afternoon and growing colder and duller than it had been earlier in the day. She was shivering and hoping Max might put his arm around her as he had the last time they’d taken a walk together.
The cold had kept people away, she surmised. She’d only seen five other people walking near them, and now she saw no one at all.
“I’ve had a lovely time, Max. I’m very happy that we met again today,” Judith said in German. Then she looked over her shoulder before placing her hand on Max’s arm. “Your father asked me to tell you something. I didn’t say anything at lunch because we were in a public place and your father told me not to speak of it unless we were completely alone and couldn’t be overheard.”
“What is it, Judith?”
“It’s about Frank. He’s been posted overseas.”
“What? Frank? I spoke to my mother only last week and she said nothing. What happened to Scotland? How long is his posting?”
“I don’t know the answers to those questions. Your father didn’t tell me where he’d gone or for how long.”
“Good God. I knew nothing about this,” Max repeated, looking deep in thought. “And where is Hannah and the baby?”
“They’re living with your Aunt Cathy in Kent. Your mother has gone to see them. She’s hoping Hannah can come to stay with us in Bletchley, but your father says there are security issues. Really, Max, you should talk to your father in person about this. I know your parents would love to see you.”
Judith’s lush, black curly hair fell across her face with the wind. She pushed it away and boldly slipped her arm through his. “It’s my birthday the week after next. Your mother wants to make a special lunch. Will you come?”
Max replied absently, “Yes … yes, if I can, of course I will.”
Max fell silent. Judith, happy to be close to him, didn’t want to ask what he was thinking. She imagined he was still pondering Frank’s whereabouts.
“Thank you for telling me about Frank,” Max said eventually.
“Your mother and father will be pleased when I tell them I spoke to you about him, especially your mother. She cries a lot, Max. She’s very worried about you and your brothers. She and your father had a blazing row the other day because she asked him to use his job to find out if Willie was still in Russia. She often bursts into tears and calls herself a bad mother for leaving him.”
“What does she say about Paul?”
“She doesn’t understand why he didn’t come back with you, and she also appreciates why you were angry with him. To be honest, Willie concerns her the most. She fears he might be dead. She has nightmares about him lying in an unmarked grave. Can anything be done for her? I can’t bear to see her weeping?”
Max pressed his lips together. He was suffering too, Judith knew, and she thought it a shame that, unlike women, men tried so very hard to hide their feelings. “Could you ask someone you know for news of Willie?” she urged.
“I don’t know what any of us can do,” he finally said. “I think about my brothers every day. I’m desperate to give my mother news of them, but both she and my father must know how difficult it is to get information out of Germany.”
“Maybe your father can’t do anything because he’s supposed to be dead.”
“Hmm … true.” The sky had darkened, and it was starting to spit icy rain. Max stopped walking, pulled Judith’s coat collar up and then hugged her. “Don’t say anything to my mother, sweetheart, but I might be able to find a way to track my brothers down. We might get lucky.”
Judith clung to him for a short while. Then strolling again in the light drizzle, she talked about how much she missed the Berlin she’d known as a child. For the first time, she spoke about the day her father was taken away by the Gestapo and the day she’d met Paul when he had removed Hilde from her home. Her voice, broken with the memory of that day, finally quietened, and they walked in companionable silence, each in their own thoughts in the peaceful, but wet London afternoon.
Their time together was nearing an end. It had sped by, and Judith didn’t want to say goodbye. The feeling of being cherished and protected by a man was still alien to her. She had never experienced this wonderful sense of belonging before; it filled her even when Max wasn’t there. Just knowing that he shared her affections gave her dark, grief-filled world a dash of colour. Every day seemed less daunting; every night, less lonely.
“Max, I think about you every day,” she blurted.
Max wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to him. “Thank you, Judith. I think about you, too. I’d like to take you on a real date, show you parts of London you don’t know dance with you, or watch a movie whilst holding hands in the dark. I enjoy your company very much. You’ve brightened my life.”
Her tummy did another somersault, as they continued to lock eyes. “I’m glad. I hope we can do all those wonderful things together.”
“May I kiss you?” he asked.
She coiled her arms around his neck and gazed into his turquoise eyes. She gasped softly as his lips met hers and pulled her even closer. Joy, sweet joy; she was in love with Max Vogel.
Chapter Forty-Two
Paul Vogel
The Łódź-Litzmannstadt Ghetto, Poland
March 1942
Paul walked along the corridor after doing his last ward round of the night. The hospital had been relatively quiet since midnight with only three deaths and five new admissions, four of which had been people with typhus-like symptoms. He usually worked the day shifts during what people called office hours, but as supervising officer, he’d decided to stocktake while the hospital was at its quietest. He had only two hours left until the end of his eight-hour shift and was looking forward to spending the following day with Valentina whose tummy was expanding rapidly. She hated being alone in the apartment at night.
He reached the door to the doctor’s staff room and put his hand on the doorknob. “Damn it,” he mumbled. He’d left his stethoscope on the ward he’d just inspected on the first floor. Not wanting to go back down there but suspecting that someone else might pick it up, he made his way to the staff’s private stairwell. The medical instrument was a
gift from his parents, a constant reminder of his family, and the only thing he had left of them.
As he reached the second-floor landing, he halted mid-step to listen to the soft footsteps and heavy breathing on the stairs below him.
“We must hurry,” a voice said.
“I can’t go any faster,” another man snapped.
“Are you certain we’ll get past the guards this way?” a third man asked.
“Yes. It’ll be all right, Abraham, we have a way out. We’ve done this before,” the first man asserted.
Paul stuck his head over the railing and looked down. Anatol and Hubert, the two Polish Christian doctors he worked with, were giving piggy-backs to two fully-dressed men. Paul couldn’t see their faces in the semi-darkness, but one had been called Abraham, and both were struggling to breathe even though they were being carried.
Intrigued, Paul took off his shoes and tiptoed down the stairs after them. The men below were going at a snail’s pace and talking in whispers, but eventually they reached the stairwell door on the basement leading to the mortuary where bodies were wrapped in sheets and then hauled to the Jewish cemetery in hand-carts.
Paul sat on a step, slipped his shoes back on and tied the laces. His heart galloped in his chest, an excitement permeating his being. He was not fluent in Polish, but he now had an ear for the language. What he’d witnessed was not a normal patient’s discharge procedure, and what he’d heard led him to believe that his Polish colleagues were attempting to smuggle the two men, most probably Jews, out of the hospital illegally.
