by Jana Petken
The delusional narcissist had depicted the walled area not as a dilapidated ghetto, but as a leafy, productive commune. Kurt had claimed that the man’s overbearing autocracy, including his periodic crackdowns, had resulted in the failure of Jewish attempts to smuggle food and arms into the ghetto. The Nazi clown, as Kurt often called him, had also been misleading his fellow Jews into believing that productivity would ensure survival, and his motto, work is life, rang hollow to everyone but himself. Paul suspected that one of the reasons Kurt had remained mentally strong was because he constantly dreamt of killing the Nazi-loving Rumkowski and his bootlickers.
The Gestapo monitoring the residents’ progress pressed the Jews to keep going with friendly words and expressions. They wore strange grins on their faces, as though they’d been expressly planted there for the occasion to trick the Jews. “Come along, old mother, not far to go now,” a Gestapo officer told a stooped, white-haired Jewish woman. “We’ll get you to a nicer place than this before you know it.” Paul quickened his pace, his clenched fists itching to punch the man’s lying mouth.
At the corner of Alexanderhofstrasse, a woman with a child in her arms barged into Paul as she ran in the opposite direction to the crowd. Almost at his destination, he stopped walking and turned to watch the young woman weave left, right, left, and finally cross the road towards the entrance to a three-storey building. She tried the handle of a shop door, but found it locked and moved on to the next, but that too wouldn’t open.
An SS Untersturmführer brushed Paul’s arm as he rushed by. He seemed determined to get to the young woman who had run past Paul, as though she were the most important person in the crowded streets. The SS officer shouted when the woman and child reached another doorway, “Halt! Halt!” But then he surprised Paul by backing off to stand some metres away from her, as though he were waiting for something else to happen.
Paul gasped in recognition. The Untersturmführer was Gert Wolff, the young officer he’d shared cake with on the train, the man he’d promised to meet for a beer and a good night out. Hell would grow a conscience before he socialised with the Nazi scum, who was now looking up at a window.
Paul turned his attention back to the woman, who was trying desperately to open the door of an abandoned clothing store. Every fibre of his being wanted to help her and her child to hide, but powerless, or perhaps too cowardly to act, he silently urged her on.
The crowd started at the deafening noise of machinegun fire. Across the street, blood and grey matter spurted from the back of the woman’s head and small of her back. She arched her back, dropped her child, then crushed it when she fell directly on top of it.
Near Paul, terrified screams erupted from the people crouched on the ground. Those who had still been walking, bunched closer together as the machinegun continued to spray bullets at the shop door.
Paul gawped in horror at the woman, her blood, and the window glass covering her. Dazed, he shifted his gaze to a third-floor window of a building opposite the clothing shop where the dead woman lay and saw the machinegun barrel poking through the open window. Show your face, you cold-blooded murderer!
Gert, joined now by two SS Stormtroopers, went to the corpses. He rolled the mother onto her back and then bent to examine the toddler who’d lain dead beneath her.
One of the Stormtroopers began dragging the young woman’s body along the pavement by her hair. The other man lifted the dead toddler by one leg and followed his colleague to the corner of the street where they both disappeared. Gert holstered his weapon and trailed behind his soldiers. Outraged and disgusted, Paul quickened his steps to Alexanderhofstrasse, his rage in full display.
******
Paul sat at a desk next to a Gestapo Kriminalassistent, wondering what he was supposed to be doing; he’d been given no instructions at all. He clasped his recently-redeemed stethoscope in both hands and observed the man next to him, checking off the names of elderly people being sent to his desk. Paul had not yet seen Kurt or his neighbours, nor had he examined a single patient. And the children, he’d noted, were being shepherded to a specific staging point regardless of possible health concerns.
“Go to that truck over there, old father. You’re going somewhere nice,” the Kriminalassistent was telling an old man without even looking at him.
Paul shoved Kurt’s and his neighbours’ hospital admission orders in his pocket and got to his feet. To hell with sitting here doing nothing, he thought. Kurt was somewhere in the crowded street. The priority was to get him away from the area before it was too late to stop his deportation.
“Where do you think you’re going, Doctor?” the fresh-faced Kriminalassistent demanded. “You need to stay at your post. Once Herr Kriminaldirektor Biermann gives us the order to process this last batch, you’ll be examining naked Kikes as they run around and around in circles to the sound of Bach. It’s amusing, but it’s done for a very good reason, so you must pay attention.”
“You don’t give orders to me. Look at my epaulettes. I’m an Oberarzt, not a Schütze. Remember that,” Paul retorted. “I’m going to stretch my legs. Don’t worry, I’ll be back before your circus begins.”
With a forced smile, the Kriminalassistent said, “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear, sir. You see, those who are already being loaded onto the trucks were chosen for deportation regardless of their health. That’s why you didn’t need to examine them. Please, sit down, Doctor. Let me show you what we’re doing here.”
“I’ll stand.”
The Gestapo man slid a foolscap piece of paper to Paul. “Look at this list. Those I’ve already processed are at the top – see? They’re either very old, disabled, very young, or women whose partners have already been deported for criminal or uncooperative behaviour, or are in the ghetto’s prison. In the next batch, we’ve got to find out if the people who are left are sick or too weak to work. They’re clever, Oberarzt, got devious little minds, these Jews. They pretend to be strong and useful when they’re really at death’s door. That’s why we get them to run around a bit with their parts out.”
When the Kriminalassistent called for an elderly couple to approach, Paul reluctantly sat down again.
A man shouting through a voice-horn in German was asking people for their cooperation. Paul stared at the white-haired, stocky Rumkowski, and as always wondered yet again how some Jews could work for the Gestapo with such treacherous dedication.
Children were being lifted onto trucks. “It won’t be long now,” the Kriminalassistent said, nudging Paul’s arm as if it were a great game.
Paul continued to watch the deportation procedure on the truck nearest to him. Children, the old, disabled, and women already in the back were being ordered to lie down flat in tight rows. Once in their positions, more people were lifted on and ordered to lie on top of those already there. And eventually, when the truck was loaded with seven layers of people, it set off.
In disbelief at the horror he was witnessing, Paul muttered, “My God … my God … what is this? What the fuck is happening here?”
“Keep your thoughts to yourself, sir,” the Kriminalassistent snapped, his eyes following the truck down the crowded street. “We’ve got twenty thousand people to get through in the next couple of days, and we need as much space as we can get on our trucks, that should be obvious. This is not the only street we’re using to stage evacuations. There’s two more, on Goldschmiedegasse and Tizianstrasse. And in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re processing mostly German Jews here.”
“I’ve already worked that out for myself,” Paul retorted. “What I don’t understand is why the people on that truck are being suffocated before they even leave this place. If they’re going to work on farms or be taken to another facility, shouldn’t your priority be to look after them, especially the children?”
The Kriminalassistent’s lip curled. “You’ve no idea where they’re going, have you?”
“No. Tell me,” Paul demanded
“Not now, Doctor, we need
to get on. I want this batch finished before Kriminaldirektor Biermann gets here. He’s finicky about timing and getting things done right. You don’t want to ask him too many questions, know what I mean?”
Paul felt physically sick as Gestapo guards on another truck pushed children onto their backs. A girl was screaming for her mother as she was hauled up by the arms. It was young Gertrude, the little girl who lived with Kurt. Inconsolable, she screamed again for her mama as she was pushed down by the soldier’s baton.
“This is outrageous.” Paul’s chair toppled over as he leapt to his feet, and blinded by rage, he rushed from the desk.
The Kriminalassistent had also risen, “Get back here, Doctor,” he growled as he tried to catch Paul’s sleeve.
Lost in the image of children being murdered, Paul spun around and punched the Kriminalassistent on the nose. Then he barged through the crowd towards the truck.
“Vogel – Vogel – halt, Doctor Vogel!”
Paul’s stomach clenched, his memory snapping back to the Brandenburg gas chamber and the children being led by the hand into it. Panting with fury, he turned with glassy eyes to see his father-in-law standing behind him with a four-man entourage. He stopped breathing, alarmed to note that he, and not the children, was the centre of attention.
“Good morning, sir … Herr Kriminaldirektor … I was…” Paul struggled to regain his composure. “I was going to the truck over there to...”
“You left your post and punched my assistant, that’s what you were doing,” Biermann cut him off.
Lost for words, Paul looked at the truck still filling up with more children. Their parents were howling, pushing against the Jewish policemen to get to their offspring and being beaten back with batons.
Paul closed in on Biermann, and hissed in his ear, “You have to stop this. For the love of God, this is monstrous. You’re killing children.”
Biermann glared at Paul, grabbed his elbow and frogmarched him back to the desk.
“If you were not married to my daughter, I’d be putting you on a charge. You’re insolent … undisciplined … a disgrace to your uniform. I’m warning you, Vogel, if you don’t respect the important work we’re doing here, I will keep my daughter away from you and have you sent to Russia with your brother. He’ll show you how to serve the Reich.” He then addressed the Kriminalassistent. “Tell me what happened.”
Paul perceived Biermann’s threats as tawdry bluster, and he was relieved to note that only a few SS were still gawking while his father-in-law questioned the Gestapo assistant.
In hindsight, Paul’s intentions had been instinctive. He’d not given any thought to the ramifications that might follow his actions. Only now, calming down, did he realise how close he’d come to ending his future in the Wehrmacht. The truth was, had Biermann not appeared when he did, he, the idiot Vogel, would have fought every guard to get to the children, and might now be facing arrest and possible internment in a prison camp. His lack of self-control scared him.
Paul saw that the truck was loaded and ready to leave. It also struck him that the children’s fates had never been in his hands, despite his determination to impede the truck’s departure. Every Jew being put on the transports was being taken to his or her death. Paul didn’t know where or how the Gestapo or SS would kill them, but after witnessing mass suffocation on the trucks, it was apparent that the Jews’ destination was to a grave or an oven, and there was not a damn thing he could do about it.
Biermann was issuing orders to the bloodied Kriminalassistent. Paul, observing them from behind his chair at the desk, concluded that when men reached their limits of tolerance they also marked a turning point in their lives. He’d exhausted his forbearance and excuses for taking part in mass exterminations, but ramming his opinions down the Gestapo’s throat was not the way to save people. No, to achieve that he’d have to be much more discrete, and shrewder, than his father-in-law and his subordinates.
“I apologise for my outburst, sir.” Paul bowed his head when Biermann returned. “It was uncalled for. I was wrong.”
“Your apology is unacceptable, Vogel. You and I need to have a talk. It’s long overdue. When you’ve finished here, meet me at Radegast Train Station.” Then Biermann flicked his eyes to his assistant. “Start the last phase. I want this over by this afternoon. And explain to Oberarzt Vogel, in detail, what’s required of him.”
Chapter Forty-Four
“Direktor Biermann looks after his own. You haven’t heard the last of this, Oberarzt Vogel, not by a long shot.” The Kriminalassistent glared at Paul.
Paul continued to throw his medical instruments into his leather bag.
“You hear me, Doctor Vogel? You’re finished. I’m Gestapo, and you punched me. Doesn’t matter if you’re the Kriminaldirektor’s son-in-law or Herr Himmler’s fucking brother, you’re going to get dragged over the coals.”
“Punching you in the face was the only decent thing I did all morning. Christ, do you never shut up?” Paul mumbled. “I hope our paths never cross again.”
“They probably won’t. You’ll end up in the Chelmno camp with the Jews. Your kind always get their comeuppance.”
“My kind?”
“Yes, traitors to the Third Reich.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Say that again and I’ll have you up on a charge.” Paul was desperate to get away from the obnoxious Nazi, but he had not heard the name Chelmno before, or if he had he couldn’t remember it. “What goes on at Chelmno?”
The street was almost deserted. The trucks and carts with luggage had been loaded and sent on their way, and the remaining ghetto residents had scarpered as soon as they’d been ordered to clear the street. Nonetheless, the young Gestapo Kriminalassistent glanced around him before putting his index finger to his throat and drawing it from ear to ear. “Gas vans. That’s all I’ll say.”
Paul threw his bag over his shoulder and headed to his meeting with Biermann, mumbled phrases looping through his mind like a mantra. “Let me not wander in the shadow of evil that consumes my soul and leaves me blind … give me strength to fight the evildoers so that I may not tumble into their pit of sin … let me not wander in the shadow of death…” He didn’t know where the words came from, but he couldn’t stop repeating them.
He had already tumbled into a pit of sin. He was mired in human cruelty on an unimaginable scale, and now he was praying for absolution? After Brandenburg, he’d felt forgiven, but not this time. God didn’t absolve atrocities like these, not even for those who prayed all day and flagellated their backs. If He did, He wasn’t a good God.
A large crowd of deportees was gathered at the station. The station’s name, Radegast, was painted in black against a white background on the roof. Its letters could be read from the road, a foreboding portent to those who saw it. In one hundred years, people would connect this inconsequential little station with the annihilation of human beings who had been born Jewish in a Nazi world. Paul wondered if Europe would be ruled by the Nazi Party in a hundred years. What a horrifying thought.
Instead of going straight to the building, Paul searched for Kurt on the crowded platform. He hadn’t appeared in Alexandehofstrasse with the neighbours whose children had been taken, nor had he been on any of the loaded trucks. It now seemed likely that he’d found a hiding place and had left his companions to deal with their own fates, although that didn’t sound like the loyal Kurt Paul knew.
As he pushed through the throng of people, countless unanswerable questions were thrown at him, making him regret he’d taken this route. Armed SS with their German Shepherd dogs, Gestapo, and ghetto police lined the narrow platform from one end to the other, but he was like a magnet because he had no rifle, was carrying a briefcase, and wore medical epaulettes.
To confirm what the Kriminalassistent had told him, Paul stopped to ask a Gestapo officer where the people were going.
“They’re eventually going to Chelmno, Herr Oberarzt, but not all the way on this train. They will transfer t
o a narrow-gauge railroad at Kolo.”
Minutes later, a small boy tugged at Paul’s trousers and asked, “Where are we going?” An indignant woman demanded, “Where is this train taking us?” An old man blocking his path, enquired, “Herr Doctor, will we be coming back? I’ve left my daughter and son-in-law behind.” A crying woman, begged, “Please, may I wait for my husband?” Now that he had answers to their questions, he shut his mouth, shrugged people off and barged through the frightened mass to the building.
Before he could reach the door, the loaded train left the station with a loud whistle and steam shooting from its smokestack. As wagon after wagon trundled past, Paul caught glimpses of terrified faces at the barred windows, and as he turned from them, he saw hundreds more people cramming the platform. He was witnessing the end of the civilised world as he knew it.
“I’m here to see Kriminaldirektor Biermann,” Paul informed the two rifle-wielding Gestapo guards outside the stationmaster’s building.
“Is he expecting you?”
“Yes. I’m Oberarzt Vogel.”
“One moment, Doctor.”
Almost immediately Paul was escorted inside and told to knock on the second door on the left. As he waited for an answer, a piece of his father’s wisdom came back to him. ‘Never show your feelings, or frown, or narrow your eyes when dealing with an adversary. Leave emotions to women.’ It was a tall order given his feelings today, but a necessary one if he were to be forgiven for his public outburst in Alexanderhofstrasse.
