by Jana Petken
Anubis ran nervous fingers through his wiry goatee. “You do not know what these fanatics are capable of … Allahu akbar, save me from this!”
Max’s eyes were pools of grey ice as he retorted, “Allah can’t save you, Anubis. I am what stands between you and a firing squad. You will attend this meeting and the one after that, and another and another until you get me an introduction. And you will share everything you hear and see with me – everything.”
“You are mad with the Egyptian sun! These people will never agree to seeing a foreigner.”
“I think they will – oh, it might take you a month or two to arrange a meeting, but they will see me when the time is right.”
Anubis sneered. “Why should they? What can you offer them?”
“They need weapons, money, maybe a way to help Herr Hitler. I can deliver all of those things.”
Max yawned, feigning boredom, but inwardly, his pulse was racing with excitement. This was a real breakthrough. Theo had been candid the previous day about Max’s limited chance of success. British intelligence had a lousy record for infiltrating the Muslim Brotherhood’s meetings for good reason, he’d said. British authorities had arrested members of the group and other Arabs who were too vocal with anti-British rhetoric, but the prisoners had always been released at the request of the Egyptian government, without having cooperated. MI6 had given money to young Arabs to spy on students in Cairo University, that being one of the Brotherhood’s recruitment centres, but every one of their embedded men had betrayed the British and sworn loyalty to the Islamists.
“I’m a patient man, Anubis. If your Sudanese friend is the killer we’re looking for, he will confess to you. It might take him a week or a month, but eventually, you’ll gain his trust and he’ll tell you. If he isn’t the murderer, he will lead you to the person who is. In the meantime, let him take you to the meetings. It’s time for you to do what you do best…”
“And what is that?”
“Lie.”
Anubis shot Max a thunderous look.
Max stood, stretched his muscles, and then changed his antagonistic tone to one that was almost friendly. “C’mon, Anubis, you’re a charmer. You managed to recruit British deserters into your little racketeering business, so I’m certain you can walk through the Muslim Brotherhood’s door. You must do it; if not for yourself, for your family. You don’t really want them to be martyrs, do you?”
Anubis flinched. “I will do as you ask,” he muttered.
Chapter Four
Wilmot Vogel
Berlin, Germany
2 July 1942
Wilmot got off the train at Berlin’s Anhalter Bahnhof station, situated five hundred metres southeast of Potsdamer Platz. Outside, soldiers he’d been on the train with were fighting to clamber onto the only tram in sight. In the busy streets around the station, he saw a handful of cars and buses, but hundreds of people walking. The Reich was short of fuel. Romania and Hungary supplied a large percentage of Germany’s needs, but it was not enough to satisfy the appetite of the Wehrmacht’s gas-guzzling tanks and fighter planes. He’d seen for himself how much fuel was used on the push into the Soviet Union – stop it, Willie. You’re on leave. Forget about the war for five minutes and enjoy yourself.
He had no hope of finding a taxi, nor any desire to make his way to his parents’ house by tram. No one would be there to greet him anyway, unless Paul were back. What a marvellous coincidence that would be.
After giving himself a good talking to about forgetting the war for a while, Wilmot crossed the road to the street leading to Potsdamer Platz. Happiness surged through him as he sauntered along with his army sack slung over his shoulder, his greatcoat doubled over its strap, and his army boots thumping the pavement as he tried to balance the weight. He was home; seeing, hearing, smelling, touching his Berlin in every brick, street, and tree he passed. Swastika banners fluttered on lampposts, pictures of Herr Hitler adorned shop windows. I’ve met him, spoken to him; an unbelievable event that he replayed every day in his mind’s eye. He wanted to share that memory with the people walking on the pavement with him, to confide in them his faith, that der Führer would lead Germany to victory and into a brighter, better future.
Wilmot drank a beer and smoked a cigarette in a Potsdamer bar he used to frequent as an adolescent, although he’d not been old enough to drink schnapps then or be out after midnight. Come to think of it, he’d not been the best of sons, he acknowledged, savouring every mouthful of German ale. Max and Paul had been the studious ones in the family, the good, obedient boys who were happy doing as they were told. But not Willie; he was the youngest, the sometimes-forgotten brother who was left to his own devices most of the time because his parents were far too busy, and his brothers were much older than he and barely acknowledged his existence.
In the Biergarten, he sat at a table alone, breathing in the aroma of German hops and malt; real beer, not like that piss-water in Finland. Ach, I’ve made it home. The army has been good to me.
The journey had been perfect; he’d been extremely lucky to get on a supply plane from Viipuri, with a smooth flight to Brand-Briesen Airfield at Brandenburg.
When it landed on the single thousand-metre airfield, a truck had been waiting to take him and fellow soldiers, also on leave, to the Brandenburg train station. There, he’d had a fifteen-minute wait in the sunshine and a great conversation with other military men who were genuinely interested in how he’d come to receive his Iron Cross.
After three beers, Wilmot walked back through the bar towards the exit. In the hallway, a public telephone hung on the wall. He searched his pocket, pulled out a handful of pfennigs, and put them on the narrow counter. Then he searched his wallet for a small, folded piece of paper. The beer had made him sentimental. He was becoming gloomy at the thought of going home to an empty house. He’d kill to see his mother and brothers, to hug Hannah, even to have a decent conversation with Frank; he wasn’t such a bad man.
A terrible thought struck him. Is my parents’ house still standing? Had Berlin suffered air raids? He hadn’t seen much bomb damage on his way into the capital; a few damaged buildings but nothing to write home about. And here in the centre, everything looked the same as it had on the day he’d left for Poland, three years earlier. The shelves in the shops were bare in places; the butcher’s shop his mother liked was closed, and apart from a few ladies’ dress shops displaying tired-looking costumes, window displays seemed to be a thing of the past. He wasn’t worried; the allies couldn’t hit Berlin. His house was safe, and he was working himself into a morbid state of mind when he should be celebrating his homecoming.
He dialled the telephone number on the piece of paper and after three rings, Kriminaldirektor Fredrich Biermann answered. “Ja…?”
“Hello, Herr Kriminaldirektor Biermann, sir. It’s Wilmot Vogel, here. I’m home … well, I got off the train in Berlin an hour ago.” He tensed at the long silence on the other end. “Hello, sir … are you there?”
“Wilmot – ja, Wilmot, it’s good to hear from you. Are you on leave?”
“Yes, sir. It came right out of the blue. I was told last night. They said not to leave anything behind, so I’m half expecting to be posted somewhere else when my two-week holiday is over.”
Another long pause.
“I was wondering if I could see you, sir … perhaps meet for a beer … or a spot of lunch, maybe? I’ll see my aunt and uncle while I’m here, of course, but it would be nice to thank you in person for your kindness to me when my father died.”
A strange clicking sound and static that grew and dimmed in volume continued for a full minute, then Biermann’s faint voice came back. “Of course, Wilmot. I’ll send a car to your parents’ house this evening at seven. My wife and daughter, and Paul’s daughter as well, will be delighted to see you.”
Wilmot’s eyes filled with tears, the beer making him emotional. “I have a niece … Paul’s? Göttergestalt … my God, how wonderful!”
&nb
sp; When he hung up, Wilmot sniffed and wiped his eyes. Silly sod. He’d survived Russia. He was probably one of a handful of men who had escaped Russian capture, and here he was, weeping like a girl. He was an uncle. Paul was a father! Christ, who’d have thought it?
Now I will take a tram home, he thought, crossing the road. He had something to look forward to that evening, and he needed a good sleep beforehand.
He walked back towards the station, acknowledging that he might be seeing double in places – Jesus, German beer was stronger than he’d remembered. He was going to put his dress uniform on and wear his Iron Cross for dinner. Kriminaldirektor Biermann might be proud of him.
Wilmot got the correct tram and paid the conductor, and during the journey his thoughts wandered to his own family. Did his mother, Hannah, and Max know about Paul’s baby? Probably not; they were living with the enemy. He didn’t like considering the British Germany’s enemy. He felt disloyal to the Fatherland for not thinking it, but when he did, he felt he was betraying his mother and extended English family. It was a strange situation to be in; not one he’d talk about, not even to the Kriminaldirektor. Maybe Paul had informed their mother and Hannah in a letter, sent via the Red Cross Association? Perhaps he could also write to his family in Kent, now that he was in Berlin and could personally arrange such a thing with the Red Cross. He’d talk to the Kriminaldirektor about that.
He alighted from the tram, walked along a few blocks and crossed over the road until he stood in his parents’ garden staring at each window in the house’s upstairs before sliding his eyes to the downstairs living room, kitchen, dining room, and his father’s office. He drank in the sight and drowned in the melancholic nostalgia that came with it. Everything looked the same, except for the drawn curtains. Winter or summer, they had always been open
The garden was overgrown. In the month of July, his mother’s roses were usually blooming, and shrubs and plants burst into beautiful shades of greens and purple. He thought of himself as a man’s man, a bit of a tough nut, but he’d always enjoyed helping his mother prune and cut and shape her garden. He liked the beauty of nature, the marvellous scents in early morning and the hum of insects late at night.
The kitchen’s wooden shutters were closed, but the Willkommen mat was still on the front porch.
Before opening the door, he went to the garage and looked up at the apartment above it. “Kurt – Kurt, are you home?” When there was no answer, he walked back to the house. Kurt must be away; otherwise, he would have at least tidied the front lawn, Wilmot thought.
He saw the damage inside as soon as he stepped into the reception hall. A lamp was on the floor, its porcelain stand, broken. The telephone table was lying on its side. The phone was missing, and the address book his mother had used to keep her important phone numbers was ripped apart. The carpet and some floorboards underneath it had been lifted, and the door to the cubby hole under the stairs was wide open. He peeked his head into the dark space where his mother used to keep brooms and dustpans, her cleaning materials, and sewing machine. The items were still there, but they had been knocked about.
The kitchen had also been vandalised, and the person or persons who’d broken in had apparently been angry. They hadn’t taken anything from the shelves or cupboards, as far as he could tell, but for the sake of meanness alone, they had smashed every glass, plate, cup and saucer.
He strode from room to room, his anger growing at the devastation and clear signs of malice that met him: bed clothes tossed in piles on the floor, ornaments smashed, couch cushions slit open, feather stuffing pulled out of pillows, looking like snow covering the bedrooms’ floors. God damn the people who did this to hell!
Finally, he went to his father’s office and found its door ajar. Even knowing his vati was dead, Wilmot hesitated before going in; never in his life had he stepped inside this forbidden room. To his knowledge, no one, not even his mother, had ever broken that house rule.
The contents of the desk drawers were strewn across the carpet. Most of the papers were blank, apart from a few bills and work-related documents. A couple of fountain pens and envelopes were lying on top of a messy pile of books probably pulled from the shelves that lined the wall behind his father’s desk. It looked as though someone had pulled each book out individually and then tossed them on the floor for spite.
Wilmot stared at the strange break in shelving directly behind the desk chair. A wooden panel had been pulled out by rough hands to reveal a cavity.
A torch was on the floor. Willie picked it up and tried it; he was surprised the battery still worked. When the light hit the wall inside the black aperture, he popped his head in and looked right and left; it revealed nothing but empty space and a lot of dust.
For a while, he sat stiffly on the office room’s carpeted floor. Did Kurt do this? Of course not, why would he? He was family. Was this a random robbery? No, the lock on the front door was intact, as was the one on the kitchen door. Someone with a spare key had done this. The office door, however, had been kicked in with brute force. The lock and handle and part of the wooden frame were broken.
The residual aroma of his father’s cigar tobacco filled Wilmot’s nostrils, and he began to cry. What a miserable homecoming. How he missed his father, and everything that went with the old days.
Who had keys to the house now? he wondered. Family members, of course. Kurt. Possibly his aunt and uncle. Maybe Mother asked those two to keep an eye on the place? “Whoever did this is a rotten, filthy bastard,” he muttered.
They’d certainly taken the word Willkommen, written on the front door mat, seriously.
Chapter Five
Wilmot and the Biermanns
Freddie Biermann opened the door to Wilmot. “Ach, young Vogel! Wilmot, it is good to have you home. Come in, come in.”
In the hallway, Biermann shook Wilmot’s hand and prolonged his grip. “Look at you. The last time I saw you, you were a boy. You’ve had a hard war … nein? Never mind. Follow me. Frau Biermann and Valentina are looking forward to seeing you.”
Biermann was thin and frail. He had a greyish tinge to his skin and walked slower than he considered masculine because breathlessness constricted his chest to the point of pain whenever he exerted himself. Damned heart. The pervasive, often-terrifying glare he used on prisoners had dulled; his sharp, green eyes were now cloudy and red-rimmed, and they tired quickly. Even his booming, guttural bellow reserved for the Jews in Łódź was now a slow murmur that wouldn’t intimidate a cat. Hearing from the youngest Vogel had got his heart racing with hope, but it had also made him anxious, and being anxious was not good for his ailing health.
Olga and Valentina stood in front of the couch. Baby Erika was in a crib. She was awake and stared contentedly up at the lights on the ceiling. Wilmot stood at the door like a shy, awkward boy until Olga rushed to him and gave him a kiss on each cheek.
“Oh, Wilmot, you have no idea how happy I was when Freddie told me you were in Berlin.” Her eyes shot to the medal. “And you have the Iron Cross! Your father would have been proud of you. Yes, indeed he would have…” she croaked to an awkward stop.
As her mother’s words tapered off, Valentina stepped forward, her eyes scrutinising Wilmot’s face. “You don’t look anything like Paul,” she said, momentarily disappointed. “You take after Frau Vogel. You’re her image.” Then her face lit with a proud smile. “Let me introduce you to your niece. You’re the first Vogel to meet her.” She picked the baby from the crib and stepped closer to Wilmot.
Wilmot stared at the baby. He said nothing, but emotion filled his eyes when her tiny, raised hand wrapped around his index finger. “She’s beautiful,” he eventually murmured. “She definitely takes after her mother.”
“Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes, dear,” Olga informed her husband. “Why don’t you have a nice chat with Wilmot while Valentina and I are in the kitchen?”
Biermann poured Wilmot a whisky and himself a glass of water from a porcelain j
ug then led his guest to his study and invited him to sit in a comfortable chair facing the bay window. It was still light outside, with a sky streaked with red bands. The branches of a Linden tree swayed in the breeze, and underneath them, purple Knapweed Kornblume crowded a flowerbed that sat next to bushy mounds of the slender, threadlike bright green leaves of Love in a Mist. The smell of freshly cut grass wafted in through the open window and mingled with the perfumed long-stem roses sitting in a vase on the ledge.
This was the peaceful vista that Biermann craved now; his days at the Reich Main Security Office were coming to an end, as was his life, he feared.
He waited until Wilmot had taken his first sip of whisky. The boy must need a stiff drink after seeing the state of Dieter’s house.
Biermann finally broke the silence. “You must be delighted to be home, Wilmot. I was worried about you for a long time. I got the notification you were missing in action, and I admit, I wasn’t hopeful you’d be found alive. I’m afraid missing in action means dead in most cases nowadays, especially in Russia. Anyway, I got the letter from a Major von Kühn a few weeks ago. He confirmed you were well and serving again after sustaining an injury. I hope it wasn’t too serious.”
“I lost two toes. It could have been a lot worse,” Wilmot said, sitting proudly upright.
Biermann watched Wilmot gulp the whisky. He hoped the boy would talk about the mess in his house now, and not wait until they were at the dining table with Olga and Valentina. He’d rather not have that conversation with the women present. He hated lying to Olga; she had never lied to him.
