by Jana Petken
Outside the restaurant bar, Otto gripped Wilmot’s jacket sleeve, stopping him from going in. “Just remember, Willie, the Finns aren’t always friendly towards us. I don’t know why they dislike us, but sometimes they deliberately start a brawl when they’ve had a few drinks. And don’t ask me why, but our Feldgendarms usually take the Finns’ side.”
“What’s our military police doing in Viipuri?”
“There’s been a spate of German desertions, and they’ve been sent to get them back. They’ve executed two of the daft runaways already. Point is, don’t lose your temper. Walk away from a fight, even if they insult your mother, and run like hell if you see the Feldgendarms coming into the bar. You’ve got your medal ceremony tomorrow, and you don’t want to cock that up.”
“Okay, Mama. Understood,” Wilmot grinned.
When Wilmot entered the club, his mind reeled to his early days in the SS when getting drunk and rowdy was a common, almost required, off-duty pastime. The air was blue with smoke and the smell of tobacco, beer, and perfume. It was packed with Finnish and German troops in uniform and women dressed to the nines with red painted lips and beautifully coiffed hair.
“Nice, eh?” Otto shouted in Wilmot’s ear.
“I’m in bloody heaven, Otto!” Wilmot shouted back.
They squeezed into chairs at a large round table where eight men were already seated, some with women perched on their laps. Wilmot smiled at a particularly lovely cigarette girl who was passing through the tables with her display tray of the new Milde Sorte and the more familiar Atikah cigarettes. On closer inspection, he counted only a couple of packs of German cigarettes, the rest were Russian cardboard lookalikes called makhorka.
Otto gestured to the cigarette girl with a wave of his hand, and when she got to the table he asked for four loose makhorkas.
Willie grimaced, his mind going back to his captivity. “Have you had those before, Otto? They’re bloody disgusting.”
“The German ones are too expensive. Only officers can afford them.” Otto picked up a makhorka and waved it in front of Wilmot. “Someone’s making a fortune taking these from dead Russians.” He picked up three more, then paid the girl who smiled sweetly at Wilmot before leaving.
A memory of the Russian guards smoking the makhorkas flashed through Wilmot’s mind. They flattened the ends by pinching the tubes to make them easier to hold, and when they’d finished smoking them, they’d spit great gobs of rancid phlegm on the ground.
At the sound of an American accent, Wilmot ogled the man sitting next to him. He was wearing a Finnish army uniform and was talking to the man seated on the other side of him.
As though sensing Wilmot’s curiosity, the man turned and snapped, “What are you looking at, ya ugly Kraut?”
Wilmot kept his gaze steady. The American, in his mid-twenties with black hair and dark, almost black eyes, was much taller than the others at the table but thin as a rake. And he’d had more than enough beer, judging by the way he was cursing and rocking in his chair.
“Sorry, I didn’t expect to hear English being spoken, even less so with an American accent,” Wilmot responded in perfect English.
“Where did you learn to speak like that?” the American asked, surprised.
Wilmot extended his hand, and after some hesitation the man shook it. “I spent a lot of my youth in England. I’ve got some distant relatives there … haven’t seen them in years. I’m Wilmot. You’re from America, I take it?”
“Louisiana, been there since I was four years old – my family is originally from Helsinki. Name’s Aleksi Koivisto. Call me Alek.”
Wilmot felt a tap on his shoulder; Otto had bought the drinks and laid a tall glass of beer on the table next to Willie.
“I got you this,” Otto said, eyeing the Americans.
“Where’s yours?” Wilmot asked.
“At the bar. I’ve met some friends. I’ll be back in a while.”
Wilmot took long slugs of beer; it was cold and bitter but just what he needed. Then he turned back to Alek. “How come you’re in the Finnish Army?”
“I wanted to kill Bolsheviks. I might have grown up in America, but this is my country, and these are my people. It’s a long story, but to cut it short … back in ‘forty, I read about the huge number of casualties from this area. I don’t mind tellin’ you, I got as mad as a bluebottle in August. One day, I was in New Orleans at work in my pa’s garage, taking a break and reading the newspaper, and I just got up off my behind, packed a bag, said goodbye to the folks, and got myself on a ship, then another ship, trains, and God knows what else. Eventually I entered Finland through Norway, much like you Krauts did.”
“So, you’ve been here for two years?” Wilmot asked.
“Yep, and a bit. I’m not the only American here, either,” Alek said, pointing to the two men next to him. “See those two guys? They’re Jewish Finns from Brooklyn, New York.”
Wilmot’s eyes widened. “You’re Jews?”
“Yeah.” Alek leant back in his chair. “You got a problem with that?”
Wilmot lifted both hands. “No. Not me, my friend.”
Knowing what he did about the German policies on Jews, Wilmot wondered why Jewish foreigners would want to set foot in this part of the world.
“See, now, you Nazis are all the same when it comes to Jews. You really can’t stand us, can you?” said Alek, taking an angry swig of his beer.
“Why do you say that?” Wilmot asked, eager to learn how much Alek knew about the Nazi persecution of the Jews.
“Why? It’s kinda’ obvious. All the newspapers are talking about the Jewish refugee situation in Europe. I reckon if they’re all trying to escape Germany and other countries your lot have occupied, it’s because nothing good is happening to ‘em. I heard tell that Jews are being murdered by your Nazi buddies.”
Wilmot’s stomach twisted as he recalled the Russian guards going down a line of German prisoners and shooting them in the heads while shouting, ‘That’s for a Jew! That’s for a Jew! And that’s for a Jew!’ as they went along. He’d seen plenty of Russian soldiers kill Kikes; they didn’t give a shit about their Jews’ wellbeing, but they seemed to find them a good excuse to murder defenceless German prisoners.
Wilmot finished his beer and tried to calm his thoughts; he had little control of his mouth once he got going, and tonight was not the night to get on the wrong side of anyone. “You shouldn’t say things like that unless you’re sure of your facts. Maybe you should hush up before you get yourself into trouble.”
Alek leant in, nose to nose with Wilmot, and growled, “I don’t need facts, Kraut. Everyone knows you’re throwing Jews into refugee camps and treating them like pigs. Well, here’s a news flash for you … Finnish Jews don’t get persecuted. We’re respected, so you can forget about pissing us off in this country.”
“For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you? If you hate Germans so much, why are you fighting with us?” Wilmot retorted.
The man sitting beside Alek leant across, his eyes round with beer. “Do you really think Finns wanted to ally themselves with your precious Adolf? No, no, boy, we’re only sittin’ here today because we need food and fuel and arms from Germany. That’s the only goddamn reason.” With that, he and Alek promptly turned their backs on Wilmot.
Wilmot pushed his chair back and lurched to his feet, the beer already affecting his brain. He wanted to find Otto; he was there to have a good time, not to defend his country against Americans who were now the enemy of the German people everywhere else but Finland, it seemed.
He looked down at the Americans whose loud, boorish voices irritated him. Unable to stop himself, he poked Alek’s shoulder. “Why don’t you lot join your own army? Go on, put your money where your mouth is and fight us Krauts like men on the battlefield.”
He walked away before he could do any more damage and found Otto at the bar talking to a short, surly-looking man with his arm around a young woman in a floral dress.
After
Wilmot had bought Otto a beer and swigged half of his own, he began to calm down. The soft, melodic voice of the singer soothed his angry soul, and eyeing pretty women took his mind of the recent altercation.
Seconds later, for no apparent reason, the dour-faced man landed a vicious punch to Otto’s nose. He reeled back, blood dribbling down his face, then staggered into Wilmot whose beer glass went flying, the contents landing squarely on the front of the woman’s dress.
All hell broke loose. The woman shrieked but Wilmot could do nothing for her as a punch from nowhere caught him on his cheekbone, followed by a right hook that crunched his jaw. He howled with pain and staggered backwards into people before skidding on his backside across the wooden dance floor.
Above Wilmot, Otto was body-punching a man in a Finnish uniform. Two other men were also throwing punches at each other, and women were screaming and running for cover.
Wilmot heaved himself to his feet, about to join the fray until some unseen strongman pinned his arms behind his back and frogmarched him outside.
Dropped unceremoniously to the cold, wet pavement, Wilmot howled when his bony buttocks hit the ground. Dazed, he raised his eyes and squinted up at the American, Alek, and his two tipsy, giggling buddies.
“Bloody hell, Alek, what was that for?” Wilmot said, getting warily to his feet.
“Like I said, Nazis are trouble every time. But you know what, Kraut, you don’t seem like a bad fella. I figured I should get you out of there before you got yourself into a whole world of trouble. If I was you, I’d hightail it out before your military police fellas get here and whip your ass to jail. I’m bettin’ most of them folks in there will be up on a charge or arrested before the night is over.”
Wilmot brushed himself down, glad that he hadn’t gone out in the dress uniform he’d borrowed for the ceremony the next day. He shook Alek’s hand just as the Finnish police and two German Feldgendarms arrived in a military jeep.
“Thank you, Alek. I owe you.”
“Yes, you do,” Alek grinned. “Nice meeting you, Willie. Good luck. Don’t you be getting’ yourself into any more trouble.”
Alone in the street adjacent to the barracks, Wilmot perched on a shop window ledge and gently prodded his swollen jaw. People were strange; he’d never understand them, he thought. He’d liked that Alek, and he’d had a great time. Pity it had ended abruptly and with only one and a half beers in him.
******
At 07:00 the next morning, Wilmot left for Viipuri’s military airbase on a crowded truck carrying German soldiers. When they arrived, the concourse was packed with both German and Finnish servicemen who were forming into platoons. A rare gathering of high-ranking officers up to the echelon of generals were also on-site and huddled together near the air strip. Every so often, they broke off their discussion to look up at the sky as if waiting for a plane to land.
A military band was playing the Westerwaldlied, Song of the Western forest. Wilmot felt a surge of emotion; it was a marching song he and his platoon mates used to sing when they were on one of their gruelling hikes in Russia. Oh, you lovely Westerwald! Over your heights the wind … funny, he couldn’t remember the rest of it. It had gone, like his dead comrades.
Stunned by the massive turnout, he stood open-mouthed beside the truck, his eyes darting in every direction.
“Name and rank?” a gruff voice asked Wilmot.
“Schütze Wilmot Vogel, Herr Stabsfeldwebel. Heil Hitler!” Wilmot’s insides were churning while the master sergeant checked his list.
“Form up with that lot over there.” The Stabsfeldwebel pointed to four lines of men.
Wilmot reported to the Leutnant in charge of a German infantrymen platoon, repeating his name and rank, and adding his serial number.
“Very well, Schütze. Form up in the front row.” The Leutnant ticked off his name.
The band began to play again as a brand new Focke-Wulf Pw 200 Condor aircraft came into land. It taxied and came to a complete stop a mere fifty metres from where Wilmot stood, but because the sun was shining in his eyes, he couldn’t see who was disembarking the plane by its forward steps.
The platoon was ordered to come to attention. Wilmot’s heart was thumping with pride as the band began to play the German national anthem, but loud as it was, he also heard the man standing next to him gasp and pull himself up even straighter than his ramrod position of attention.
Out of the corner of his eye, Wilmot saw the Führer – Adolf Hitler – striding across the runway in conversation with Finnish Field Marshal, Baron Carl Gustaf Mannerheim.
It’s a dream. It must be a dream. It’s too good to be true. Wilmot tried to wrap his head around what he was witnessing. Adolf Hitler was not only in Finland, he was now only fifteen metres away from the platoons.
Many times, Wilmot had been to rallies in Berlin where Hitler had appeared on a dais, so very far away he’d looked no bigger than a pin, and his voice had been like a whispered echo through a scratchy sound system. Yet here, now, Schütze Wilmot Vogel, was watching the great man in his brown Führer und Reichskanzler uniform walking across the airfield towards him.
Wilmot was very close to the action. He could see the Iron Cross pinned on Hitler’s jacket; it was sparkling as though someone had just polished it. His coal black moustache was perfectly trimmed, and his face, although just as it appeared in photographs, was heavily wrinkled with a stark pallor. He looked human, as human as every other man there, but he wasn’t like anyone else. He was the Führer! And there was a possibility, Wilmot thought, a real possibility that Germany’s leader, would come closer and might even say something to someone in the front line of the platoon. He hoped he’d be close enough to hear.
Wilmot held his breath. His heart was banging so loudly under his ribs he thought the soldier next to him would hear it; but perhaps his too was pounding.
Hitler approached Wilmot’s platoon, leaving Field Marshal Mannerheim to watch from a distance. The Leutnant saluted the Führer with a snap of his arm and a click of his jackboots. Then the father of Germany walked past the first three men until he came to stand before Wilmot.
“Schutze Vogel, step forward,” the Leutnant commanded.
Wilmot, his legs like pliant rubber, took a step forwards and stood proudly. He couldn’t see Hitler’s face, being a good twenty-five centimetres taller than his leader and with his eyes front, but eventually, he heard that unique, unmistakable voice.
“Schütze Vogel, you’re a brave man,” Adolf Hitler said.
Wilmot, his eyes smarting with emotion, said, “Thank you, Mein Führer.” Then he dared to return his leader’s gaze in a moment that would be forever etched in his mind and seared into his heart.
“I knew your father, Dieter. Not personally, you understand, but as a loyal member of the Party. He was a good Nazi and a great benefactor. My condolences. He will be missed.”
“Thank you, Mein Führer.”
The Leutnant held out a black velvet tray with the Iron Cross Second Class medal on it. The Führer pinned the medal on Wilmot’s jacket at chest height just as the flash of a camera went off. Wilmot instinctively bowed his head, then saluted, “Heil Hitler!” Then the Führer walked off to another platoon.
“Congratulations, Schütze Vogel,” Major von Kühn said, appearing in front of the platoon from the right with two Hauptmanns standing behind him. “You are promoted forthwith to Obergefreiter, by order of the Führer.”
Wilmot was weak at the knees. Random thoughts tumbled through his mind as he stood to attention for a further fifteen minutes while Herr Hitler inspected the troops. He was now a Senior Lance Corporal. Him, Willie Vogel, no longer the grunt in military rankings. He’d shot up – not just one rank, but about four. He had just spoken to Adolf Hitler, an achievement neither of his brothers nor anyone else he knew back home would ever be able to beat. The Führer had known the Vogel name. He didn’t just pretend to know it, he’d said, Dieter. This, Wilmot thought, was his finest hour, one that wou
ld live with him until the day he died and was buried – with his Iron Cross stuck to his chest.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Paul Vogel
Łódź, Poland
June 4th, 1942
It had been two months since Biermann’s heart attack which, according to the most renowned German senior physician available in Poland, should have killed him. Paul still believed that death was knocking at Biermann’s door and could take him at any time, but every morning his father-in-law insisted he was feeling stronger. Maybe he was staying positive for his wife’s benefit or because he truly thought his health was improving, Paul mused, but eventually the Biermann family would have to face the medical facts and deal with them.
Paul wasn’t happy about lying to Biermann about his prognosis, but he had agreed with all the doctors who’d treated his father-in-law that it was important to maintain an optimistic outlook, not so much for Biermann’s sake, but for Olga’s, and, of course, Valentina’s. She was nearing the end of her pregnancy, and as far as Paul was concerned, Biermann could die the day after she gave birth, but preferably not before.
Before arriving at the Biermanns’ front door, Paul got out the key his mother-in-law had given him from his trouser pocket and peered through the dining-room window. Biermann, Valentina, and another man in a Gestapo uniform were already seated at the table. Valentina had mentioned that morning that her father had invited a friend from Berlin to dinner, and she’d reminded Paul numerous times not to be late.
“Ah, come in my boy, come in. We were waiting for you,” Biermann said, as Paul entered the dining-room.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Paul said, as he bent to kiss Valentina’s forehead.
The stranger got up and extended his hand. “Kriminaldirektor Biermann has told me a lot about you, Paul. It’s good to meet you in person.”
Paul’s relationship with his father-in-law was now purely a farcical display of niceties created for Valentina and Olga’s benefit, but they only thinly veiled the contempt both men felt for each other. “It’s nice to meet you, Kriminalinspektor.” Paul smiled at the good-looking young man.
