by Jana Petken
“And?”
“And I could lose everything by asking you to help me.”
When the men didn’t respond, Paul spread his arms. “Look, I know how this must look to you, but had I wanted to get you into trouble, I would have reported you to the Gestapo last week. I certainly wouldn’t be standing here offering to help you and asking you to do something for me in return. Will you listen to what I have to say?”
Hubert seemed to relax, but his young colleague still looked far from convinced.
“Is this a loyalty test? Some sick Nazi trick to get us to confess to something illegal?” Anatol asked.
“No, and it’s not a trap either. I swear on my mother’s life, it’s the truth.” Paul sat on the couch, freeing the exit for Anatol and Hubert. Short of getting on his knees, he had done all he could to persuade them.
Hubert sat on a hard chair opposite Paul, as though waiting for another revelation.
Anatol made to leave, gripping the door handle with one hand while making a fist with the other. “I’m warning you, Doctor Vogel, if you tell anyone you saw us helping patients escape from the hospital, we’ll deny it. We’re not defenceless Jews. We have rights. We also have records of every patient we have treated in this hospital since the day you arrived. None have gone missing or left here illegally with or without an escort.” Anatol released the door handle and took a step forward. “You are making a big mistake.”
“Doctor Vogel, why on earth should we believe a word you’re saying?” Hubert asked in a more mollifying tone. “You’re not our friend. We hate Nazis and their Führer. We hate that you’re occupying our country, that you have come in here and taken over our well-ordered hospital and the keys to our pharmacy…”
“Stop … Hubert, please stop.” Paul panicked. He’d done this all wrong, not that he thought there was an ideal way to suggest committing treason. “Please, wait, both of you. I don’t expect you to trust me straight away, but I haven’t jumped blindly into this. I’ve been thinking about approaching you for days, wondering how I was going to talk to you without making you feel threatened. Clearly, I have failed, but I need your help and it’s so damn important to me, I’ll beg if I have to.”
Paul laid his cards on the table. “I understand this must be hard for you to believe, but that is precisely why I’d be an asset to your rescue missions … operations … whatever you call them. Yes, I’m a German, but I also hate the Nazis, and I’m not one of them.”
“Then why are you here?” Anatol droned.
“Orders – I’m in the Wehrmacht – but being in the German army is not my priority. I have more personal concerns, the highest being my friend who is imprisoned in this ghetto.”
Anatol’s eyes widened. “Is your friend a Jew?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you want to help him?” Hubert asked.
“Karl Ellerich, also known as Kurt Sommer, is a man I respect and love. He is family. I’m committed to this course of action…”
“Hypothetically, what is this course of action?”
Paul took a deep breath and then exhaled. “I’d like to offer you a collaborative arrangement. I’ll help you get Jews out of the ghetto, and in return, you will find a safe hiding place for my friend. Between the three of us, I have the best access to the districts inside the walled area. I can bring patients here whenever I want because of my uniform and my relationship with the Gestapo Direktor. The Gestapo and SS trust me, and the Jewish Police are used to seeing me wandering about the place and wouldn’t dare question me. I will also promise you much needed medicine, which has thus far been denied you. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to get my hands on enough for all the Jewish patients in our wards, but I will do my very best…”
“Hypothetically speaking again, “Anatol interrupted, “if you think you have the means to get Jews out, why would you need our help with your friend?”
“It’s simple. You have the hiding places, the routes out of the city, and the contacts in Łódź. It’s not enough for me to get him out … he has to have somewhere to go … be looked after.”
“And your friend, is he a German or a Pole?” Anatol asked.
“He’s a German Jew. He worked for my father for years using a false name and religion. To be honest, after the deportations this morning, I don’t even know if he’s still in the ghetto. But if he is, he’s in grave danger. He doesn’t have much time.”
Paul’s eyes pleaded. “Hubert, Anatol, please? The Gestapo are going to kill him.”
“Go on, we’re listening,” said Hubert.
“Thank you. As I said, I’ll do whatever it takes to free him. I’ll follow your guidance, and I won’t ask you who else is involved or where you hide the people you save. And if you think I am lying to you, or I’m a threat to your operations, take me to the back of the building now and kill me.”
Paul now played his last cards, treading a dangerous path by sharing German secrets. “Do you know where the ghetto deportees are being sent today?” he asked, flicking his eyes from Hubert to Anatol.
“No. We weren’t told,” Anatol answered.
“I take it you do?” Hubert asked.
Paul felt his eyes prickle as the horror of the day struck him again. “The Jews are being transported to a camp in Chelmno. The people who left this morning … the children, the elderly, the young men and women who were on Rumkowski’s blacklist, are probably dead by now or will be within hours. Chelmno is a death camp that operates gas vans to wipe out not only the Jews I mentioned, but eventually, all Jews in the ghetto.” Paul gulped. “You didn’t know just how important your rescues are, did you?”
The men looked stunned, and Paul, well past the point of no return, continued. “There will be more deportations, more people going to their deaths in Chelmno. This is just the beginning.”
The atmosphere in the room changed. Hubert covered his face with his hands, his elbows balancing on his knees, his shoulders heaving.
Anatol cursed. “They can’t do this…”
“I didn’t get these details from an official source, but I have it on good authority that up to a hundred Jews are being gassed at a time. And soon it won’t matter to the Nazis if a person is old or useless, or too young to work in their factories. They won’t even care if they’re non-Jews. They’ll go after dissident clergy, Roma, and even Christian traitors. The Gestapo and SS are getting their orders directly from Himmler’s office in Berlin, and I believe he eventually means to annihilate the Jewish race in Europe, and any other ethnic or nonconforming groups he sees as a threat to the Nazi Party.”
The two Poles were silent, but their expressions revealed their thoughts. Paul, impatient for their decision, snapped, “For God’s sake! If I wanted to trap you, I wouldn’t be telling you these filthy secrets, or about my friend, Karl, which you can now hold over my head. I can help you – can you help me?”
He rested his head on the back of the couch. He’d said enough. If he were reading Anatol and Hubert the wrong way and they were not involved with a cell of Poles hiding Jews, they’d report him, and he’d be arrested and executed. That was how high the stakes were. He’d lied to them, but only once; he hadn’t planned this meeting, as he’d claimed, but, enraged after the day he’d had, he’d jumped into it damning the consequences. He wondered what Max might say right now? He, who saw himself as the brother with gumption and a thirst for adventure and who perceived his twin to be a tame replica … what would he say?
Anatol finally reacted, dropping into the only free chair and shaking his head. “If you’re lying to us, Hubert and I are both dead…”
“And if you report me, so am I.” Paul heard footsteps outside in the corridor and someone knocked on the door. Anatol leapt to his feet to open it.
“Yes, nurse?”
“I have a message for Doctor Vogel.”
“What is it?” Paul got up.
“Your wife is downstairs. She’s asking for you.”
“Thank you, I’ll
be down shortly.” Paul closed the door and addressed the two men. “Consider what I’ve said, but don’t take too long.” As he turned the door knob, he added, “With or without you, I am going to get my friend out of this hellhole.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Paul found Valentina and Olga in a waiting room talking to Doctor Abersztejn, the doctor treating Biermann.
“Ah, Doctor Vogel, I was just telling your wife and Frau Biermann that we might not have been able to save the Kriminaldirektor had it not been for your quick actions at the train station.”
“Where have you been? You left Papa alone,” Valentina cried.
“I’m sorry darling. I had to see a patient upstairs,” Paul apologised.
“But who could be more important than my father? Really, Paul, I do wonder about your priorities sometimes.”
In a rare show of defiance, Paul ignored his wife’s last comment and asked the doctor, “Will he make a full recovery?”
“We hope so. No guarantees, of course, but we try to remain optimistic. He’s reasonably stable at present, and as I told Frau Biermann and your wife, the next forty-eight hours will be crucial.”
“When can he come home?” asked Olga, apparently not understanding the severity of her husband’s condition.
“As I said, Frau Biermann, we’re hopeful, but even if he shows signs of improvement, he’ll be hospitalised for a further two or three weeks,” the doctor replied.
There it was, the standard spiel to family members, meant to give comfort. Paul planted a smile on his face and took Valentina’s hand. “Can we see him, Doctor?”
“Not yet. He needs rest.”
“Can you explain the Kriminaldirektor’s treatment plan to Frau Biermann and my wife? Understanding what you’re doing might put their minds at rest.”
The doctor nodded but continued to address Paul. “We’re extremely fortunate to have an electrocardiograph here and we’re going to do another ECG in a day or so to check whether the earlier disturbances of his heart’s rhythm are still occurring. He’s on oxygen to ensure he’s getting an adequate flow to his heart, and based on our initial ECG, he is already starting to regain a better heart rhythm. The sphygmomanometer readings show his blood pressure has improved, we are commencing a medication regime of nitroglycerin for his angina pain, and we’re also administering digitalis to slow his heart rate. And as you know, Doctor Vogel, he’ll be on it for the rest of his life.”
Finally, the doctor addressed Olga, who was still crying. “We can’t give any promises at this early stage, Frau Biermann. You must be patient.”
Paul tried to console Olga, who had slumped in a chair weeping into her white lace handkerchief. “Did you hear that, Frau Biermann? It can be fixed.”
“No. I don’t want to know … I can’t take this. I need … I want to go home.”
“I’ll take you home.”
“No. I want to go home to Berlin with Freddie. I don’t like this place. We should never have come to Poland.”
“Mother and I have had a terrible time of it,” Valentina explained, wrapping her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “We spent all day listening to gunfire and people shouting and screaming in that ghetto. Were the inmates rioting?”
“I don’t know…” Paul shook his head, noting her use of the word, inmates.
“Well, if they were, it’s not fair to my papa. He works hard to keep those Jews safe, and their nonsense today is probably the reason he took ill. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“Well … erm … I think it could have been a number of things,” the middle-aged doctor stuttered. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go and check on the patient.”
Olga, still sniffling, seemed to be calming down. “We must all give our utmost for Germany, even your father, dear. Don’t you agree, Paul?”
“Yes.” Paul kissed Valentina’s forehead and squeezed her hand. “Darling, let me take you and your mother home. There’s nothing we can do for your father now except wait.”
“You’re not going to stay with Papa?” Valentina was appalled. “Tell me you’ll stay?”
“I suppose I could sleep in the staff room, but I’d rather go home to my own bed.”
“No, you can’t leave. What if he wakes up and no one’s there?” Valentina rolled her eyes as though the very idea were preposterous. “I’ll go to Mother’s house. You can telephone us if there’s any change in his condition.”
“I’m off duty now after a very trying day. If I don’t get proper rest I won’t be any good to anyone,” Paul snapped.
“Oh, you can be selfish at times. Please, stay here, there’s a good boy.”
After Valentina gave him a peck on his cheek, Paul watched the two women get into their waiting car. For the first time since meeting her, he’d wanted Valentina out of his sight. This good boy had something much more important to do than sit by Biermann’s bed. To hell with him, and to hell with her!
Darkness was falling, and it was cold and drizzly with thunderclaps coming in from the east. The ghetto was still under curfew, but Paul had commandeered a horse-drawn ambulance cart and still had Kurt’s hospital admission order in his pocket; he was confident that the ghetto’s police force would let him pass should he be stopped and questioned.
“We have to cross over,” Paul told Tomasz, the driver, as he manoeuvred the horse and transport across the road to the entrance to the German Jews’ tenement blocks. Paul recalled seeing a couple of motorised ambulances when he’d first arrived in the city, but the Jews were now deprived of such comforts, as were the doctors and orderlies transporting the patients.
Paul was in high spirits, a strange phenomenon for him. He felt in control, confident, and very relieved. For the first time in weeks, the weight of Biermann’s scrutiny and threats had been lifted. He looked over his shoulder; a habit as automatic as breathing. Were Biermann’s men following him even though their commanding officer was lying in a hospital bed? Probably, but they wouldn’t be given access to their boss until his doctor permitted visitors, which gave him possibly a week or two to sort Kurt out.
“… Doctor … Doctor Vogel. Which block is it?”
“Sorry, Tomasz, I was miles away.” Paul pointed to a building. “This one here. The patient is on the third floor.”
“I might have known,” Tomasz complained. “I’ve been here four times today already. Fifteen people were shot and killed by the SS and Gestapo, and an entire family committed suicide on the fifth floor of another tenement block. I’ve had enough going up and down stairs, carrying bodies – those poor children. I wouldn’t say this to any other German, but you’re a kind man, sir, and I trust you…”
“Don’t trust anyone,” Paul cut in. “Don’t talk to me or any other German about how you feel. Do you understand me?”
“Yes. But I wanted to…”
Paul sighed. “Shut up, please. I’m trying to think.” Fifteen people had been shot that day. Fifteen? He’d seen one incident, the mother and child, but fifteen? And how many were in the family that took their own lives? How did they do it? Regretting telling Tomasz to shut up, he asked, “How did the family die?”
“The four children and the mother had broken necks, and the father had slit his throat, or someone else had done it for him. They were lying on a double bed, all six of them, three at the top and three at the bottom. It shook me, Doctor.”
Kurt shot into Paul’s mind. He panicked but then relaxed as he recalled Biermann’s order that he obtain Kurt’s confession within three days. That meant Kurt must be alive. If he didn’t truly believe that, he wouldn’t have taken the ambulance through the ghetto in the dark.
“Wait here until I come down for you. No point lugging your stretcher up three flights of stairs until I see what condition my patient is in,” Paul said at the building’s entrance.
An elderly man whom Paul had never seen before opened the flat’s door and then stepped back hurriedly.
“I’m here for Karl Ellerich,” Paul sai
d softly. “Ask him to come to the door, please?”
The door remained open and Paul caught a glimpse of the flat’s interior. A woman was lying on a blanket on the floor in the square hallway. She was covered by her coat and facing the wall, either fast asleep or ignoring his presence. The door to another room was ajar. A woman slicing a potato sat on the floor next to a bowl, and behind her were Gertrude’s parents weeping in each other’s arms. Paul sensed the absence of the three children who’d lived there. He’d watched them leave on the back of trucks, either already dead by suffocation or going to their deaths in Chelmno. It was as though their souls had been yanked out of the place, leaving behind this morbid, sorrowful atmosphere that would never brighten.
“Herr Doctor, I’m sorry to report that Herr Ellerich can’t come to the door. He’s very ill.”
“Take me to him.” Paul, breaking his own rule about not entering the flat, barged past the man into the hallway. “Where is he?”
The bedroom floor was bare but rolled up blankets and pillows were stacked against the wall. Kurt was lying on one of the beds; the other was occupied by a young couple who got up as soon as Paul walked in.
“I’d like to speak to the patient alone.” Paul dismissed the couple.
The extent of Kurt’s injuries made Paul gasp as the terrible irony confronted him. “I came here to take you to the hospital using a false admission order, but it seems I have a genuine reason to admit you. Who did this to you, Kurt?”
“I’ll give you one guess.” Kurt tried to sit but gave up with a groan. His eyelids, swollen to twice their size, were impairing his sight. His speech was compromised because of a deep gash stretching across half his top lip. Matted hair was covered in blood at the crown, and dried, red streaks had streamed down his forehead to meet another deep cut above his left eye.
Paul sat on the edge of the bed. He was silent, afraid of sobbing if he opened his mouth. He lifted Kurt’s bloodied shirt and spotted a football-sized bruise stretching from his side to his belly button.
Kurt winched, “Careful … I think my ribs … might be broken.”
