by Jana Petken
Biermann sat behind a desk writing in a ledger. He clearly knew Paul was standing before him but was content to let him wait.
The Kriminaldirektor’s face was scarlet, as though every blood vessel in his head had burst. His chest was heaving, and his forehead was beaded with sweat, but even though his hands were shaking, he maintained his sangfroid.
“Are you all right, sir?” Paul asked, thinking of Valentina for the first time that day.
“I’m fine.”
“It’s been a difficult morning. Shall I come back later?”
“No, you will not come back later. You will stand there and convince me why I shouldn’t throw you in Radegast Prison.”
Biermann finally tossed his pen on the desk and scowled at Paul. “What the hell did you think you were going to achieve with that stunt of yours? Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”
Although Paul was exhausted, adrenalin was still coursing through his body. Did his father-in-law really want the truth? All right, he’d get it. “I was trying to stop the guards from suffocating children on the trucks. Had I managed to get to the vehicle, I would have fought the Gestapo, SS, and anyone else who’d got in my way.”
Paul, spurred on by Biermann’s silence, put his closed fists on the edge of the desk and leant across it. “I am a doctor, not a cold-blooded murderer. You sit there asking me what I was playing at when you knowingly made me complicit in mass executions? It is you, sir, not I, who is a disgrace to the uniform.”
“Ach, for God’s sake, don’t be so damned melodramatic.” Biermann sniggered in Paul’s face. “You sound like your father used to when he disapproved of the Party’s policies. You’re getting more like him every day.”
“Don’t be dramatic?” Paul shouted. “I examined hundreds of people this morning. I put my stethoscope to their chests, looked at their teeth as though they were horses, and ran my fingers through old women’s hair looking for lice and scabs. I did precisely what was set down in the manual your subordinate threw in my face, and I completed my tasks without complaint. And in not one single case, not one, did I see anyone deserving of deportation to the Chelmno extermination camp. Yes, Herr Direktor, I know what that place is, so it begs the question why you had me examining the health and well-being of those condemned people in the first place!”
Biermann’s eyes narrowed, his face reddening further.
“That callous Gestapo assistant of yours was quite happy to tell me about the gas vans waiting for those people outside. So, who’s being dishonest here? Is it you, the Wehrmacht, or me?”
Biermann’s lips pursed. He began to rise but then slumped back into his chair, as though in pain. “For the sake of my Valentina, I’ll give you this final warning … if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop now and keep any further disapproval to yourself. We had a total of five doctors in the ghetto carrying out examinations this morning, and you were the only one to punch one of my men in the face. What does that say about you?”
Paul shrugged. “It says I was angrier about what was happening than they were. And with respect to my fellow physicians, what they do, or don’t do, is not my concern. Every man must judge his actions by his own conscience.” And that, Paul thought, was throwing every one of his father’s pearls of wisdom out the window.
Stuck for an appropriate response, Biermann began rubbing his left arm. His Valentina was in a fragile state, only a couple of months or so to her due date. She meant the world to him, and she was the only reason his cocky son-in-law had not been charged with assaulting a Gestapo officer and having Jewish sympathies.
“You’ve been using my protection to flout the rules. You assume you can be belligerent because you have a father-in-law who’ll safeguard you. You’ve got a pair of balls on you, I’ll give you that, Vogel, but it’s time they were snipped. You’ve misjudged my indulgence.”
Biermann paused to take a sip of water, then he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I’ve been sitting here for an hour wondering what to say to you. Your little flare-up this morning went largely unnoticed, but only because I stopped you from making the biggest mistake of your life. I won’t help you again – that was the last time.”
Paul, his face almost as red as his father-in-law’s, leant further across the desk, forcing the Direktor to push his chair back. “I asked for your daughter’s hand, not your help, sir,” Paul said. “And I demand respect for the uniform I am wearing. I should have been informed of the deportees’ destination. I have earned that professional courtesy.”
Biermann hesitated. He needed to calm down. Vogel was giving him a severe attack of indigestion. “Did it ever occur to you that we are doing this – all this – for the good of the Fatherland?”
“No, it didn’t, not once.” Paul strode to the window overlooking the platform. “How can this possibly benefit Germany? Don’t use the German people to excuse Nazi crimes. They’d be horrified, utterly disgusted to learn that the Reich was exterminating their fellow citizens…”
“We’re not exterminating real Germans,” Biermann slammed his fist on the desk. “They’re Jews! No better than a plague of locusts who’ve been feeding off us for years.” He wanted the meeting to be over but hadn’t yet decided how to punish his son-in-law without upsetting Valentina. This was a futile debate, one that neither would win. Paul, like his father, Dieter, could not be swayed or manipulated.
As he swallowed the rest of his water, Biermann noticed, really noticed for the first time how much Paul resembled his father in looks and character. It hurt. Dieter’s stab in the back was a permanent source of pain.
“If a Wehrmacht soldier is not a good Nazi, he is also not a patriotic soldier. Therefore, he is a traitor,” he muttered, as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him.
Paul retorted, “You’re calling me a traitor?”
“Not exactly. Perhaps that was too strong a word, but as we’re being honest, you should know I regret introducing you to my daughter. She deserves better than you.”
Paul stayed at the window, his eyes drawn to the appalling scene outside. He turned, his face full of hurt. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I love your daughter very much, and I will protect her with my life.”
Biermann rubbed his chest. He felt as if a stone were stuck in his lungs. He could hardly breathe. He needed to lie down. “Do you know who is dishonest?” He asked the rhetorical question, and then continued before giving Paul time to respond. “Kurt Sommer is – Karl Ellerich, the Jew, the liar, the British spy. He is guilty of every fault possible in a person’s character. Oh, for the love of God, wipe that innocent look off your face. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve been taking contraband to the Jew on a regular basis. I’ve been having you followed for weeks. Your own wife knows you’ve been stealing food and medicines to give to Sommer. She’s disgusted with you – appalled.”
Paul’s face fell.
“And before you say another word, I also know you were at his building this morning.”
Paul shrugged. “To be fair, sir, we both knew I was never going to obey your order not to see Kurt. My only question is why did you forbid me in the first place?”
Biermann lit a cigarette, then found that he was too breathless to smoke it. He stubbed it in the ashtray and felt another pain shoot up his arm. Paul, his quiet, unassuming son-in-law, was oozing confidence when he should be shitting like a terrified dog. “As I said, Sommer lied to you. Not only is your father alive, he’s also a traitor to Germany.”
Paul blanched. “What … what did you say? You’re implying that my father is alive ... he didn’t die?”
“That’s precisely what I’m implying, and if Kurt Sommer would only cooperate, I’d be able to prove it.”
Paul eyes filled with tears, and he stammered, “Why would Kurt not tell me? Why did you not tell me? This is wonderful news … just wonderful.”
“I think you missed the part about your father being a traitor.” Biermann clutched his chest as a sharp pain
hit him.
“Never! My father was many things, but that? No, I don’t believe it.”
Biermann was annoyed with himself. He’d planned to keep this revelation from Paul a while longer, wanting to hit the boy with Dieter’s treachery, and the news that Wilmot Vogel was missing in action at the same time. Not that he wanted anything more to do with the youngest Vogel. If he was dead, he was dead. Tough luck.
“Paul, I know it’s hard to believe, but I have the evidence to back up my accusations. There’s a lot you don’t know about your father, but Kurt Sommer does. I showed you the files we had on him, but what I didn’t say was that he collaborated with your father against the Third Reich.”
Paul frowned, “No … no. You’re wrong.”
Biermann, although enjoying this small victory, was still disappointed with his lack of progress with Sommer. He’d underestimated the Jew’s resolve. He wasn’t going to break his silence or take Paul into his confidence despite the Gestapo stalking him daily and encouraging him to talk about Dieter with a few kicks and punches to his body. That morning, like many other mornings, Sommer had been detained outside his tenement building and taken to the Gestapo headquarters. There, in front of Biermann, he’d been beaten to within an inch of his life, but he hadn’t uttered a word about Dieter or the artworks. The man was made of steel, and Biermann was fed up of tormenting the pig and getting nowhere. Maybe telling Paul was the right move to bring it all out into the open?
He flinched as a piercing stab shot up his arm. “I’m telling you the truth, Paul. Your father is alive, and your friend Kurt knows where he went after he left Germany. You should be angry with him for not telling you, not me.”
Paul wiped his eyes, then seemed to straighten in the chair as though embarrassed by his show of emotion. “Why should Kurt say a damn thing to me? You’ve just accused him and my father of being traitors to their country – you, who’s known my father for over two decades – I want proof of your allegations, and your evidence that he’s still alive.”
Biermann clenched his fists as he was hit by another wave of pain pressing down on his chest. “You’re an impudent louse, Vogel. I have … I have compelling evidence, but you … you, not me, will get the corroboration from Kurt Sommer. You have three days…”
“And then?”
“Then I’ll execute him as a spy and have you sent to Dachau as the son of a traitor. You can follow in your brother Wilmot’s footsteps.”
“You wouldn’t do that to Valentina.”
“Yes, I would. She understands that I do what I do for Germany. But whether she understands, or even loves you anymore, I really can’t say.”
Biermann struggled to his feet, intending to walk around the desk to face Paul. His hand flew to his chest, and as he staggered forwards more stabbing pains shot up his arm and squeezed his throat shut. “Paul … help me … can’t breathe,” he uttered as his legs gave way.
Chapter Forty-Five
Paul felt the full weight of shame on his shoulders while sitting in the back of a sequestered truck with his father-in-law. He’d noticed that Biermann was struggling to hold the conversation together in the station master’s office, but he’d done nothing about it.
“Are you, all right?” he’d asked a couple of times, suspecting that he wasn’t well at all. He’d seen the symptoms: the rubbing of the left arm, a hand at the throat, the kneading of the chest as though it were tight. But his affection for his father-in-law had disintegrated, and in the truth, part of him wished the man dead.
At Hospital Number 4, Paul shoved aside his bias and reported Biermann’s condition to the Jewish doctor in charge of emergency admissions that day. “He’s got severe chest pain, well past the angina pectoris stage. This is a full-blown MI – myocardial infarction. He hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“Did he stop breathing,” the doctor asked.
“No,” Paul answered, and added, “I’ll see that his wife and daughter are informed. If you have any news, I’ll be in the doctor’s staff room on the third floor.” Paul took one more look at Biermann, then gratefully left the hospital staff to their jobs. He’d get involved, but only if he were asked. He wanted nothing to do with Biermann’s treatment.
When Biermann’s car arrived at the hospital, Paul had instructed its driver to collect Olga and then to go to his own flat to collect Valentina. Then he’d telephoned Olga, saying that her husband had been taken ill, was in the hospital, and that his driver was coming to collect her. Between her sobs, she’d asked, “What’s the matter with my Freddie?” but Paul had been non-committal telling her that he and the duty doctor would speak to her when she got there.
In the doctor’s staff room, Paul lay down on the couch and was instantly reminded of the last part of his conversation with Biermann. I have evidence that your father is alive.
Alive – he didn’t die in the explosion? He was a traitor? His father was a Nazi. How could he also be a traitor to Germany?
Paul was overjoyed at the possibility but also frustrated that Biermann hadn’t given any more details. How did his father manage to survive a massive explosion? If he was alive, was he in England with the family? What proof did Biermann have? This was incredibly hard to take in. The only thing Paul understood was Kurt’s silence. He didn’t like it, but he appreciated the man’s loyalty and reticence. It was apparent that Biermann didn’t have enough evidence to prove his theory of treachery, spying, or anything else without Kurt’s confession.
Paul’s thoughts wound back to his visit to Spandau Prison. When he’d spoken to Kurt, his father-in-law had been in the room directing the very short conversation. Had Biermann known that Dieter might be alive even then, and if that were true, was the confession he wanted from Kurt more about Dieter Vogel than Kurt Sommer’s past?
Paul’s heart was racing. He was dead on his feet, but his turbulent mind was filled with too many disorderly notions to rest. The image of Biermann dying downstairs crossed his mind every so often, but he wasn’t the least bit upset about that possibility.
Fifteen minutes later, it was not the telephone telling him his wife and mother-in-law had arrived that woke Paul from a light sleep, but Anatol and Hubert, the two Polish Christian doctors who had smuggled Jews out of the hospital some nights earlier.
Respectful to their sleeping colleague, the men padded softly to the small mobile electric cooker where the coffee and teapots sat. Paul observed them through half-closed eyes and wondered if they’d managed to smuggle any Jews out of the ghetto before deportations had begun that morning. Did they have Jewish children hiding in the basements of their houses, or had the executions of another two Polish Christians who’d helped Jews a week earlier halted their covert operations? The idea of saving just one Jew excited him, especially if that Jew was Kurt.
“Do you want some tea, Doctor Vogel?” Anatol, the younger of the two doctors asked in German as Paul stirred.
“Yes, please.” Paul sat up and yawned.
“We thought you’d gone home,” Hubert remarked.
Paul got up from the couch, went to the door, locked it, and then turned to face his colleagues. He was groggy, but fully committed to what he was about to say. This was not a spur-of-the-moment decision, but one that had been swirling in his subconscious for days. “I know you’re smuggling Jews out of the hospital and hiding them somewhere in Łódź,” he said, leaning against the door.
Anatol and Hubert stared at Paul with stony silence, which lasted until Paul snapped, “Come on, you two. I know you speak and understand German fluently, otherwise you wouldn’t be working in Hospital Number 4. You’re rescuing Jews, and I want to know how you’re doing it.”
Hubert shoved his hands into his coat pockets and responded in German, “You should get some sleep. You’re talking nonsense. We’re not involved in smuggling or rescuing anyone. We read the newspapers. People are being hanged for helping Jews. Do we look stupid to you?”
Paul’s forthright approach to the subject was
beginning to wane. The men standing passively before him were clearly not going to come clean with a Wehrmacht officer unless he incriminated himself. “I saw you with two Jewish patients on the stairs. One was called Abraham, the other, I don’t know. But I do know you were taking them out of the hospital through the mortuary illegally.”
“That’s a lie. You didn’t see anything of the kind,” said Anatol, turning back to the tea cups.
Hubert, the elder of the two, gripped the kitchen counter. His face was grey, and his panicked eyes were flicking backwards and forwards from Paul to Anatol. “Why are you doing this to us?” he whispered.
Paul walked to the sideboard next to the cooker and lowered his voice. “Let me start again, Hubert. I saw you and Anatol with the Jews, and I heard your plans. Granted my Polish isn’t fluent, but it’s good enough to determine that you were taking them to somebody’s house. Anatol, you told Abraham it was not the first time you’d done it.”
Anatol made for the door, but Paul blocked his path. “I’m not going to report either of you. I want your help.”
Hubert was taken aback, but Anatol remained sceptic.
“We told you, we’re not involved in any rescues. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to work,” Anatol hissed.
The three men paused to listen to the heavy footsteps in the hallway outside. Paul put his finger to his lips, Hubert cocked his head, now more curious than scared.
Paul continued to block the door. He had crossed a line and was in too deep to take back what he’d just said. Plunged into a conspiracy that could see him blackmailed or arrested, he surged ahead regardless of the danger. “Hear me out,” he said, moving away from the door. “My father-in-law is Gestapo Kriminaldirektor Freidrich Biermann. He’s in charge of ghetto operations…”
“We know who he is,” Anatol butted in.
“Then you’ll also know that my wife is expecting our first child.”
