by Jana Petken
“Tonight,” Gert answered. “But you’ve got to be as far away from the hospital as possible when we take him. I suggest you spend time with your wife.”
“That’s a novel idea. We’ll go home to my apartment if I can tear her away from her mother’s house.” Paul had a lot of questions buzzing around his mind. Kurt’s rescue plan seemed complicated, but he felt they had told him all he needed to know regarding the ins and outs of the escape, and it was time for him to leave. They had a job to do, and Valentina was expecting him at the Biermann’s house.
He rose from the couch, relieved and excited about what he’d heard. “I have a lot more questions, but as time goes on I’ll become more familiar with the finer details of your operations.”
“Don’t get carried away, Paul,” Hubert warned. “This is a dangerous path you’re taking, and only we four know what you’re getting yourself into. Tell nobody, trust no one. This is how we survive.”
“We will also be asking you favours, and we don’t expect you to refuse us.” Anatol slipped in.
“Yes … yes, of course. I’m grateful to you for trusting me. Will you … I presume you’ll let me know where you’ve taken Kurt?”
The room grew quiet. “No,” Hubert said with an emphatic shake of his head. “That’s a detail we won’t share. I hope you’ve said your goodbyes to him. You won’t be seeing him again for a while. If you do, we will all have failed.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Kurt and Paul
“How are you feeling, Kurt?” Anatol asked, as he closed the storeroom door behind him.
“Better, Doctor. I’m not sure if it’s day or night in here – what is the time?”
“Just after three.”
Kurt, anxious about why the doctor was at his bedside during the night shift when doctors usually worked office hours, looked at the closed door and then back to the man who was filling a hypodermic syringe from a glass vial. “What are you doing with that needle? What’s in it?”
Anatol squirted liquid from the tip of the needle and then replaced the vial in his pocket.
Kurt tried to sit up, but fell back, too weak to get up on his own. “Have you come to kill me? Is this how you do it here?”
Anatol put the syringe on the bedside table and smiled. “No, Kurt, I’m not going to kill you. I’m here to save your life. Paul Vogel has sent me to get you out of here, but to do that I need to give you an injection, a mixture of Atropa belladonna combined with morphine. It’s a strong sedative that will make you sleep through your entire rescue. The Atropa belladonna and morphine are the nearest medications that we know of that can preserve life but mimic the symptoms of death. You will have dilated pupils and depressed respiration, which will get you through the briefest of inspections, which is all we need.”
Alarmed, but desperate to believe Anatol, Kurt looked again at the needle. “Get me out of where … the hospital, the ghetto? Where are you taking me? How will you do it?”
“I’m taking you somewhere safe. As for your second question … how I’m going to do it? That doesn’t concern you. All you need to know is you’re in good hands. Paul trusts me, and you should, too.”
Anatol sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you want the chance to live, Kurt?”
Kurt swallowed. Yes, he wanted to live, of course! But he also wanted to know what the man was going to do.
“Kurt, do you want to escape? If so, I must inject you now. Time is not on our side.”
“And where will I wake up?”
“If we’re successful, you’ll be in the basement of a house, lying on a bed, and that is where you will stay until the Germans leave Poland. You might be cooped up there for months or moved somewhere else. The Gestapo might find you, in which case you’ll be executed along with your hosts. This is your choice. I won’t put you under or move you without your consent.”
In hiding for years, or death in the ghetto or some concentration camp? Kurt mused. It didn’t seem like much of a choice, but one outcome was infinitely better than the other. “I’ll take my chances with you. Can I speak to Paul before you put me under?”
“No. Not until we think it’s safe for him to come to you.”
“I understand.” Kurt had seen this doctor talking with Paul on a few occasions. Paul had mentioned that the man was a good friend and trustworthy, which he’d thought strange, because Paul didn’t trust anyone.
Anatol placed his hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “I don’t have much time to do this. You either trust me or you don’t, in which case I’ll say goodnight and we will forget this conversation ever…”
“No. Please, Doctor, get me out of here. I won’t ask you what or who is involved.” Kurt, still in pain with three broken ribs, choked back a sob as his emotions flooded him with a potent blend of hope and fear. For months, he’d dreamt of freedom while believing he’d never attain it. If the price of life was a dark, dismal basement, he’d take it. He’d suffer every discomfort and months of loneliness to be free of the Gestapo, the squalor of the ghetto, and an eventual gas chamber.
Kurt sighed and relaxed. His eyes followed Anatol as he picked up the needle. “Thank you,” he croaked when the needle found a vein.
“Freedom, Kurt, is worth every risk,” Anatol said. “Without it, we are barely human…”
******
It wasn’t pain that bothered Kurt the most but the bleariness preventing him from opening his eyes. His head, arms and legs felt trapped under a great weight. He tried to sit up, but waves of nausea swirled in the pit of his stomach and up his throat. His ribs still hurt, stabbing like daggers, and he had to concentrate on taking shorter breaths than was usual. He felt strangely relaxed, as though untethered to the world around him, yet questions were beginning to nag him. Whatever had happened, wherever he was, he seemed to be alive, but without any memory of what had occurred.
“Open your eyes … Kurt, open your eyes.”
Kurt moaned. Someone was pinching his earlobes and tapping his cheek. “Get off,” he groaned.
“Open your eyes…”
Shut up, Kurt wanted to say, as his face was slapped again.
Now his body was being pulled up the bed until he was in a sitting position with his head resting against a pillow. He tried again to open his eyes, this time managing to keep his eyelids up. Doctor Anatol sat on the edge of the bed, and standing behind him was a woman holding a glass of water.
“You … Anatol?” Kurt murmured.
“Yes. It’s me,” Anatol grinned. “You’re safe, Kurt. We got you out.”
Tears welled in Kurt’s eyes, whether from relief or the drugs in his system, it mattered not. Unfettered emotions going back years poured down his face. He couldn’t stop weeping, and being weak, sounded like a cat meowing.
Anatol, appearing deeply affected by Kurt’s reaction, said, “You’re safe now, you’re safe. It’s over.” He stood up, giving way to the woman beside him. She sat on the edge of the bed, put the glass to Kurt’s lips, and spoke to Kurt in Polish.
Kurt, trying desperately to focus on the woman’s gold cross and chain, began to drift off until those annoying fingers tapped his cheek again. “Let me sleep…”
“Not yet. Take a sip of water, Kurt, just a few sips,” Anatol urged. “It will help wash the drugs out of your system.”
After he’d drunk some more water, but not as much as he would have liked, Kurt became alert enough to focus on his surroundings. Anatol and the woman stood close to the bed. At the bottom of the bed was a wall, and on either side of the bed, more walls, one of which had a door – he was in a tiny box.
“Where am I?” Kurt croaked.
“You’re in my house, in a blocked off corner of the basement. This is my wife, Vanda.”
“Hello … I’m sorry for sleeping…”
“Oh, don’t apologise,” said Anatol sitting on the edge of the bed again. “I gave you anaesthetics. I had to give you a heavy dose of morphine to make sure you didn’t become conscious during the re
scue.
“Is that why I feel sick?”
“Probably. They can have nasty side effects. There’s a bowl beside you on the bed if you need it. You’re going to feel groggy for a while.”
Anatol indicated the tiny space. “It’s not much, but it’s all we have to offer for now. The main basement is behind those walls. This portion is concealed on the other side by my junk cupboards. Should the Gestapo or SS conduct a search here – and there’s no reason why they should – they should not notice this small area. Not unless they tear the place apart. We’ll keep you safe, and as time goes on and we become more confident, you can sit in the basement. We have an old armchair you can use, and books in German to read. I’ll bring you the odd newspaper, although they are not always easy to find, and when you’re feeling better you can come upstairs and eat with us, even listen to the radio.”
Kurt coughed and drank some more water. He was feeling more like himself, but with consciousness came worries. “Biermann will be looking for me. He’s a stubborn man, and he won’t believe I’m dead until he sees my corpse. You and your wife could be in grave danger.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s very ill. He had a serious heart attack and though he hasn’t been told, he’s not expected to recover fully. He could have another one at any moment.”
Kurt was elated. “Do you think he’ll die?”
“He might do us all that favour.”
God, please kill the bastard, Kurt thought. “Does Paul know where I am?”
“No, and I’m not going to tell him, for his sake and ours.”
“I understand. I don’t know how to thank you – I have nothing…”
Vanda poured water from a jug into the glass which she set on the vegetable crate beside the bed.
“Vanda will bring you some soup later, but you should sleep now.”
Kurt’s eyes teared up again. “Doctor, I don’t expect you to understand this, especially when I’m not looking or feeling my best. You see, for as long as I can remember, my life has been an endless battle for survival … now I’m… it has purpose again. Not yet, but when I regain my strength, I’d like to fight the Nazis. Is there any way you know of to get me out of the city?”
Anatol chuckled. “We’ll talk about that some other time – and, yes, I do understand. Sleep now.”
Alone with his thoughts of freedom and battles to come, Kurt let out a contented sigh, then drifted off, his tears still wet on his cheeks.
******
“You’re back,” Biermann grumbled when Paul entered his hospital room. “I’ve had a horrible night. Is Valentina with you?”
“No, she was looking a little peaky this morning, so I told her to rest.”
“This damn heart attack of mine isn’t good for her or the baby. It’s a bloody nuisance for everyone concerned. It couldn’t have come at a worse time.”
“Frau Biermann will be here soon,” Paul said. “I thought I’d catch you alone before she arrived. I didn’t think you’d want her to hear the news that Kurt Sommer died during the night. His internal injuries were too serious to treat.”
Biermann’s face turned purple and he clicked his tongue. “Hmm. Unfortunate. Not good news. You let me down, Paul … let yourself down.”
“With respect, sir, I didn’t beat Kurt to death. You and your Gestapo did.”
Biermann frowned. “Where’s Sommer’s body?”
Hubert had personally instructed the sympathetic pathologist dealing with the corpses at the public mortuary to incinerate the cadaver of a ghetto Jew while recording the dead man’s name as Karl Ellerich. Biermann’s investigation was over, Paul thought, and that meant he was safe, politically, at least. His father-in-law was a lying, vicious piece of shit. Hopefully, his obsession with Dieter Vogel’s paintings would fester and give him another heart attack to finish him off.
“I don’t know where Kurt’s body went. I was at home with Valentina last night. I found out about his death this morning. Three others died as well but they were also insignificant Jews. I’m sorry, but I didn’t think to ask the nurse where their bodies were taken. I presume they were incinerated if contagious or buried in the Jewish cemetery pits,” Paul answered with a mournful expression.
“I want to see Karl Ellerich’s corpse. I won’t be tricked again … not again.”
Paul shrugged, “I’ll make enquires, but the chances of his remains being intact are slim.”
“Even so, you will try. Bring what’s left of him here to me.”
Biermann was tired, but Paul was beginning to wonder if he might have also lost oxygen to his brain. He shook his head and muttered, “You want me to bring a corpse to your bedside? Are you mad?”
“No, not mad … diligent. I don’t trust you, Paul. When did you see him last?”
“Yesterday evening. And I told you then he wasn’t expected to live through the night.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Apart from he didn’t want to die, no.”
Paul rose from the chair, throwing Biermann a defiant glare as he crossed to the other side of the bed. There, he poured water from the jug into an empty glass, and then handed it to his father-in-law. He’d suffered enough questions from the old bugger and didn’t need to tolerate them anymore.
“Sir, may I speak to you as a son-in-law who cares about you?” Paul asked in a more affectionate tone.
Biermann’s skin was tinged grey, his lips still blueish with oxygen deprivation, but his eyes hadn’t lost their superior arrogance. “If you’re going to tell me to give up on my investigation, don’t bother. I’ve sent word to Manfred Krüger, my Inspektor. He’s familiar with your father’s case … and with Hauptmann August Leitner’s murder.”
Paul’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. “Leitner? Murder? What murder? He died in a car crash.”
“No … don’t think so, and neither does Hans Rudolf … remember him?” Biermann sat up straighter and took a deep breath through his oxygen mask before pulling it down to the edge of his chin again. It was on, off, on, off, depending on whether he listened or spoke.
“I had a chat with the Inspektor before leaving Berlin,” Biermann continued. “He had some interesting theories to share about Leitner and you, and about the day the Hauptmann died. Kriminalinspektor Krüger will interview you about Leitner and Karl Ellerich when he gets here. Given my inability to work at present, I will direct him from this bed – I’m sorry, Paul, but I cannot let family connections interfere with these cases. You must understand.”
Paul’s jaw tightened, as he felt himself falling back into the Gestapo hole he’d just climbed out of. He clenched his fists, furious that his heart was beating a tattoo in his chest. Biermann, even at death’s door, continued to have the upper hand.
“Why are you doing this to me … to yourself? You’re going to have another attack if you get worked up about a tragic accident that happened almost two years ago. It’s a closed case … and the … the fixation you have with my father has already cost Kurt his life. Will you have it cost your daughter her marriage?”
Paul paused to catch his breath. “What are you trying to achieve? You’re chasing ghosts that no longer have any bearing on your life or that of your family. No one cares about Dieter Vogel anymore. For Christ’s sake, let it go…”
“How dare…”
“Yes, I dare!” Paul panted, fuming now and careering out of control. He glanced at the pillow behind his father-in-law’s head and wished he had the balls to crush the life out of the man.
Biermann’s hands trembled as he pulled at the oxygen mask, clicking his tongue again and again like an annoying tick. He gestured to the door, waving Paul off with his habitual dismissal. “I have my reasons, and I will pursue your father for as long as I live and breathe, using any means at my disposal. I will win, Paul. I always win. Now, get out and don’t come back until you have what I asked for. I want to see the Jew’s body, or at the very least a photograph of the corpse … and I expect an apo
logy from you.”
Paul turned at the door. He would never come back to this room while Biermann was in the bed. “I pity you. You have everything a man could ever want … a family that loves you, and a new addition about to be born … a miraculous recovery from a heart attack that would have killed healthier men than you, and the chance to retire and get out of this war…”
“I’ll have everything I want when you cooperate with me, and I see your father hanging for his crimes…”
“I’m doing nothing for you. And you will not threaten me again.”
“I am Gestapo!”
Paul’s chest heaved with anger as he approached the bed again. “You might be a Gestapo Kriminaldirektor with a long reach, but I also have connections in Berlin. My father met some very important people in his professional life, men of higher standing than you. They came to our houses, they ate my mother’s food and bought us kids presents. Try … dare to come after me with your Inspektors and Assistents, and I will set an even bigger pack of wolves on you. You, Father-in-law, will rue the day you smeared my father’s good name and desecrated his grave. Now, for your daughter’s sake, let this be the end of it.” Paul turned on his heal and slammed the door behind him.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Max Vogel
London, April 1942
Since their return from Grimsby, Max had given Romek plenty of opportunities to mention the letter with the rare twenty-pound note that Mrs Mullins had given him the minute he’d walked in the front door. Max had informed Romek that guards were no longer needed to monitor his movements, and he was to stand down from all intelligence-related business until Charlie at MI6 heard back from the Abwehr. And in the case of not hearing back at all, he was to be considered burnt and would be transferred to another British Intelligence section.
Their mission now, Max had also informed Mrs Mullins, was to find out why the Pole had been given such a large sum of money. To do this, Romek needed to believe he had the space to contact his female benefactor without MI6 constraints on him. The reality of the situation, however, was that even more agents were involved in around-the-clock surveillance on the Pole, with Max being kept in the loop as to Romek’s whereabouts every time he left the house.
