by Jana Petken
Up until now, Paul presumed that many personal truths that were intended to pass between soldier and family were thoroughly scrutinised. In reality, a statistically insignificant number of letters had been controlled by censors since millions were being sent from the Western and Eastern Fronts. Officers he lived with had been speaking about the subject recently. They’d heard that it would take about one hundred fifty thousand censors to read all the mail going through the Wehrmacht Post Service, and as that was a statistical impossibility, they thought, writings with negative content about the Reich would be left largely unnoticed. Paul surmised that the policy was going to change soon. A new directive had been issued, according to Gert, who’d stated that the Army was now going to read all letters sent by soldiers to their families and friends. Gert had been unimpressed. “Good luck with that,” he’d sniggered.
A warm smile replaced Paul’s scowling face as he began to read Wilmot’s letter:
Berlin
July 1942
My dearest Paul
I may be shot at dawn for airing my thoughts, but I know many soldiers who throw caution to the wind to bare their souls to their loved ones. We must – we must share.
Well, big brother, you have probably been wondering what has become of me – where I am, where I have been, what I’m doing, and what has passed. Let me say first; my war has been full of surprises. In the beginning, it excited me, but then cynical perceptions of German righteousness crept in. Where is the honour in this carnage? That is the question I kept asking myself whilst in the East. Which military manual states that it is fair to shoot and kill an unarmed civilian when there is no imminent danger to oneself? Why must the gun be turned on children not yet able to walk or talk or comprehend conflict?
War is more terrifying than I could ever possibly have imagined, Paul, and not only because of the violence evoked, but also for the ubiquitous disregard for life. Our rifles have no boundaries. They find the smallest child, the crippled, the elderly, and all those marked with a yellow star and they kill with impunity – our bullets never miss those defenceless, unmoving targets, screaming for mercy when they have committed no crime other than offending the Third Reich with their existence.
Another revelation: I have discovered that this conflict has little to do with betterment for our people. I now see it as a grand display of abject cruelty of man against man, at times for a single frozen river or metre of icy tundra, or for nothing at all but our leaders’ gratification.
Paul, I am no longer the man looking for glory that you waved off to Poland, for there is none to be found anywhere. The uncompromising, naïve soldier with dreams of invasion and armed with a God-given mission to rid Europe of those nasty creatures, the Jews, has died. Little by little, on a hundred battlefields, he was buried under a mountain of shame, and nothing but a confused and disillusioned shadow of himself remains.
I have witnessed the worst of mankind. I have been the worst man I could be; one our mother would scorn and spit upon. Our war in the East is not confined to military matters in which we are preoccupied with fighting the enemy and attempting to survive – instead, I, and others like me, have been forced to accept our leaders’ perception of this conflict as also being an ideological struggle where we are duty-bound to destroy the enemies of humanity: Bolshevism, Asiatic barbarism, and the Jews, to name but a few of the offenders.”
Contemptible as it is, many of my comrades found the special duties performed by the SS and defended by the Wehrmacht not to be abhorrent acts of mass murder, but rather a service to the German cause. But unlike those who agree with our high command, I find the killing of Jews and Bolshevik civilians to be both disturbing and beyond my comprehension of war. Indeed, I don’t think I will ever solve the conundrum between duty and conscience. The line of human decency is thin and often blurred, but it never fades completely, does it? It always has and always will be that right is right, and wrong is wrong, no matter how we might want to distort their lesser merits. Or am I wrong in that assumption?
Despite my misgivings about the unwarranted slaughters going on, I am Germany; I am the Führer, still loyal to him. Perhaps Herr Hitler doesn’t know all the facts? It is possible that rogue elements in our military have taken it upon themselves to carry out the slaughters I have witnessed? And even if he does know, now, more than ever, we must stand together, help each other, obey every order given, and believe in victory.
I shall not return to the East. I visited your father-in-law, Kriminaldirektor Biermann, here in Berlin and I asked him to secure me a posting that was not in the Soviet Union. I am certain he tried to help, but a strange thing happened … the next day, the remainder of my leave got cancelled, and I was sent to North Africa. I won’t say any more about where I am; suffice to say, I may not be able to write to you again for a while.
Paul, I kick myself when I think of the inflated pride and childish passion that divided us in our last short days together. Our rash debates seem inconsequential and petty now. We viewed the world through different lenses; each seeing a different political landscape, yet there was only one. We both heard on the radio and read in the newspapers the same words from the mouths of our government, but we had completely different views. We fought without knowing what was to come, what we would witness, what we were about to do, what the world would look like. For what it is worth, I am sorry for my part in our stupid spats.
I find it hard to believe that it’s been over two years since we last saw each other on the threshold of war – you, a fledgling doctor, and me, an ambitious SS Stormtrooper – unwavering in our opinions and willing to disavow each other for the sake of contrary ideologies. I wonder if we are more aligned now that we have tasted war.
I am a senior lance-corporal, Paul, an Obergefreiter, a leader of men. I am also the recipient of the Iron Cross – yes, I can sense your disbelief, even from here. I’m a hero in the eyes of our Führer and to the men who follow me. I hope, one day, you and Max will also believe in the person I am striving to become – no saint, never that, but rather, a more considerate human being. How I wish I could adequately describe the moment the medal was pinned onto my jacket, and who pinned it on me, but as in the throes of battle, unless one is present, one can’t possibly imagine the event.
Now, I must ask about you. For weeks … months, perhaps, I have toyed with the idea of writing to you. Where is Paul? I kept asking myself. Why has he not written a single letter to me, knowing that we are connected to the same military post service? Did he receive the notification from Kriminaldirektor Biermann of my capture and subsequent time as a prisoner of war in Russia? Did he know about the months I was missing, presumed dead? Did he hear about my reappearance after battling to get back to our lines, or that I now only have eight toes? Or did he not think to investigate my whereabouts and silence. All those questions have run through my mind, but I will never know the answers unless you decide to reply to this letter.
It is strange, is it not, that you and I no longer have a family to go home to. I was devastated to hear of our father’s death, as I’m sure you were. I imagine our mother now, lost and broken. It breaks my heart to think of her grief and our inability to comfort her. It kills me every time there is mail-call and I receive nothing; as though my family has disappeared from the face of the earth or I have ceased to exist in their hearts.
I have shocking news now. When I returned to Berlin, the house was in a mess. Someone had gone in there to deliberately break Mama’s cherished possessions. Nothing of great value was lost, apart from the sentimental objects – some of the ornaments and dishes will be irreplaceable to her. Hasn’t she been through enough? Who had a spare key, Paul? The doors and windows were not broken. Who would have done such a rotten thing to us? Kriminaldirektor Biermann is looking into it. He was most helpful.
I want to talk about Kurt, but I cannot. I am disgusted with him and glad he’s dead. Sorry, but that is how I feel about the traitor.
I am adrift, Paul. Please,
write to me.
Wilmot hasn’t received any mail from Łódź? That’s strange; the military post service is usually reliable, Paul thought, folding the letter with great care. Officers received mail every day, and most were in reply to letters they had sent to family; yet his letters, two to Wilmot and too many to count to Valentina, were apparently not reaching their destinations. Was that bad luck or something more sinister?
He put Wilmot’s letter into his rucksack and felt his pulse quickening. His eyes filled up, and he swiped roughly at them with the back of his hand. It was too late to worry about the Wehrmacht Post Service. It was too late for him to write and receive letters, too late to turn back from his new path, even if he wanted to.
Every nerve ending in Paul’s body tingled with fear. The previous night, he had received orders to report at 1200 to Kriminalinspektor Krüger at Gestapo headquarters. The reason for the formal invitation, he believed, was his arrest and execution for the crime of aiding and abetting Jews to escape the hospital on 1 September.
Gert had informed Paul the previous day that they had captured an escapee hospital orderly. During the man’s subsequent torture at the hands of the Gestapo, the Jew had apparently admitted that the German doctor had let him out of the hospital via the mortuary. According to Gert, Manfred Krüger’s gleeful response had not been lost on those present. He had revelled in his plan to take Paul by surprise on the day after the deportations ended.
“Krüger wants to make a spectacle of the arrest, but he can’t do it while the German police and SS are conducting searches for missing deportees and supervising the Jews getting on the trains,” Gert had scoffed. “He wants the full attention of every soldier, policeman, and Jew in the ghetto when he drags you to the prison wall to be shot. You must get out now, Paul.”
******
It was 0700, five hours before his fateful meeting with Krüger. In the ghetto, he went straight to the new mobile medical centre where he found two orderlies and three nurses; all of whom had been spared the deportations. Amelia Bartek, the wife of the man Paul had smothered with the pillow, rushed to him as he entered the shell of an old clothing store in the street running parallel to Alexanderhoffstrasse.
Late at night, on the day of the hospital closure, he had returned to the abandoned building to collect Amelia from her hiding place in the pharmacy. The medical centre was in complete darkness, and the entrance doors were chained and padlocked in a purely symbolic statement, for most of the ground-floor windows were devoid of glass, and no one had bothered to board them up or clean the pavements that looked frosted over, as the broken glass sparkled under dimly lit lampposts. The door to the mortuary hadn’t been secured, and most surprisingly of all, the area around the hospital had been deserted.
That day had been horrifying, with events that would, along with the Brandenburg gassings and Chelmno death camp, remain forever locked in his mind. But a glimmer of light had touched his soul when he’d found Amelia hiding in the exact spot where he’d left her many hours earlier. Since that day, they had worked tirelessly together to maintain some semblance of healthcare in the ghetto, and he had become fond of her.
He looked at a tearful Amelia now. Dawn was breaking; not quite day but with enough light streaming through the windows to see her pale complexion and wide, red-rimmed eyes.
“Herr Doctor, something terrible has happened,” she told him.
The two orderlies, who were folding well-used material strips used as bandages, stopped working to join Paul and Amelia, their worried frowns mirroring her own.
Jakub, one of the men, shook his head and placed his hands on his hips. “I think we have a bigger problem than dysentery, Doctor. Cases of typhus are being reported in the city’s east and west districts. The Generalgouvernement are not allowing supplies to come into the ghetto from outside. People are saying we are spreading the disease to the Christians in Łódź, but it’s just another excuse to starve us to death … that’s their plan, you know.”
“It’s true,” Kacper, the other orderly agreed. “I heard it from a man who heard it from a man who knows someone who works in the food sorting depot. I asked him … how can we spread typhus when there’s a three-metre wall keeping us in here and away from the world outside? You see, Doctor? You see … again, we are being blamed for everything.”
Paul raised his hand to silence the men. “Listen, all of you. I’ve heard nothing about this, and I would know long before you ever did if it were true. I’m ordering you not to spread rumours. Gossiping about such things could get you into trouble with the authorities. Not everyone wants to hear speculation like this, and eventually, someone will report you to your council leaders. You’ve been warned; not another word about it. You hear me?”
“Yes, Herr Doctor,” the five people present answered in unison.
“Now, get back to work and think about how you’re going to help the people inside these walls.”
Paul was used to listening to the Jews gossiping about this and that. One of the most crucial aspects of their isolation in the ghetto was the curtailment of contact and relationships with the rest of society. The Jews had almost no access to outside information, including the progress of the war – something that would have a tremendous impact on their collective fate across Europe. The Germans had deliberately cut Jews and Poles off from such information by making it a crime to own a radio. All newspapers were banned unless they were German, and the publishing industry was strictly supervised and censored.
Three basic fountains of information were available in the ghetto: official information brought by the Germans who controlled dissemination through posters with propaganda, German movie chronicles screened in cinemas, news broadcast through szczekaczki – the annoying megaphones, or by the Jewish Council, who took their orders from the Gestapo.
The use of radio was illegal, but people on both sides of the ghetto wall took the risk to know what was happening in the wider world. Amelia had conveyed to him that many Jews thought the opportunity to hear a different narrative was worth dying for. She’d told Paul earlier that week that groups of people in the tenements got together in a basement after dark to listen to communiques broadcast from various countries. The radio was still active, even after numerous searches of the buildings – she wouldn’t say which building had the radio, and he had not pressed her on the subject. The broadcasts spread hope, she’d insisted, and they counterbalanced the news spread by German propaganda.
Paul felt a rush of adrenalin course through him as he watched his staff keeping busy with their tasks. He went to the window, looked left, then right, and then turned back to the room. “Nurse Bartek, come with me. I have another job for you today.”
Amelia took off her apron and donned her cardigan.
“The rest of you go home,” Paul said. “There’s no work for us today, by order of the Gestapo.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Paul headed to the ghetto’s gates with Amelia following meekly behind him. He said nothing as they walked in the soft-red glow of dawn, and she asked no questions. He didn’t have to tell her anything. Jews didn’t demand to know why they were following this or that order, nor did they ask why they were going here or there. They did as they were told, as quickly and efficiently as possible, and usually in silence.
“Good morning, Herr Doctor. Where are you going this early?” the policeman at the gate asked whilst ogling Amelia. “What’s the Jew doing here? She can’t go out.”
Paul eyeballed the man and stuck his chest out in indignation. “I need a driver and car. There are reports of typhus cases in the city, and as senior medical officer while Herr Oberstabsarzt Mayer is in Warsaw, I am responsible for all emergencies that arise. If there is an outbreak, I must report it to the Generalgouvernement immediately. This nurse is my assistant. I need her to take notes – don’t worry, she will not examine Christian patients, I know the rules.” He paused to glare at the young man. “Well, where is my car?”
The youth
went to the telephone in the guard box. “I need to clear this with Kriminalinspektor Krüger, Herr Oberarzt. The ghetto is under curfew while the deportations are going on.”
“I know that. I helped arrange the curfew.”
“Even so…”
“Even so, nothing. My orders come directly from the Wehrmacht High Command, and you will answer to them if I’m delayed, not the Gestapo.” Paul checked his watch for effect. “Every minute you keep me here, the threat of an outbreak grows. Do you know how quickly typhus can spread, hmm? Do you want this entire ghetto to be quarantined, with you locked inside it and under curfew with the Jews who are probably carrying the damned disease? My car. Now, before a full-blown pandemic hits this city and everyone in it, including you.”
The young Orpo lifted the telephone and eventually asked the operator on the other end to send a car and driver from the carpool. Both arrived less than five minutes later.
Paul ushered Amelia to the vehicle’s back door but was stopped in his tracks when the guard blocked it.
“With respect, Herr Oberarzt … of course, you … you can go, sir, but you cannot take this Jew with you. What if she tries to run away?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’ll be in my custody.” Paul glared at the puce-faced lad whilst fishing out a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket.
The nervous-looking novice stared at it, then stepped aside as though the paper were a deadly weapon trained on him.
Paul unscrewed the top off the pen. “Give me your name. I’ll be reporting you when I get back.” His eyes blazed with anger, but privately, he felt sorry for the youngster who was probably experiencing his first days of his first posting in the German police force.
