by Jana Petken
As the buzz of voices around him grew, Wilmot reached more conclusions. The Americans’ calm acceptance of seeing Axis forces surrender could only mean that the Afrika Korps was giving up everywhere. When he’d arrived at this huge rallying point, he’d estimated that about half the one hundred thousand Axis troops already there were German. Field Marshal Rommel’s successor, Generalleutnant von Arnim, had been positioned further south. He must have witnessed his artillery and panzers being wiped out; the landscape was ablaze with burning trucks and tanks. The hills to the south of Wilmot’s position had also been pounded for weeks, and he believed that von Arnim and the Axis forces on them were either dead or captured.
For the first time, a mixture of excitement and disbelief rushed through Wilmot, as the unthinkable became a possible reality. He lurched to his feet and approached an American soldier with his helmet sitting cockily on the back of his head and his jaw jumping up and down as he chewed gum.
“Excuse me. Can I ask a question?” Wilmot asked in perfect English, tinged with a German accent.
“No.” The soldier’s eyes went to the Iron Cross pinned to Wilmot’s collar, then they shifted to Wilmot’s face and the unkempt beard, red-rimmed eyes, and ugly black scar running along his cheek. “You speak English? Where are you from?”
“Berlin. My mother is English … from Kent.” Wilmot’s mouth was dry. He swallowed painfully and asked his question despite the initial no. “Have we all surrendered? All of us? Is it over?”
“Yep. You’re beat … done. Go on now … back to your friends.”
Wilmot began to walk away, sad yet elated at the same time. Christ, I don’t know I feel.
“Hey, you, Jerry!” the American behind him called.
Turning around, Wilmot walked back to the man he’d been speaking to. “Yes?”
“Your guys put up one hell of a fight. Ain’t no shame in being beat when you’ve given it your all,” the gum-chewing American said.
“I know,” Wilmot answered and surprised himself when his lips spread into a broad smile. “We did fight well, didn’t we? Tell me something … had you heard of the Afrika Korps before you came to the desert?”
“Sure, ain’t no man here who ain’t heard of Rommel and his Afrika Korps.”
“Is that right?” Wilmot nodded with satisfaction.
“What’s your name?” the American asked.
“Wilmot. Staff Sergeant Wilmot Vogel,” Wilmot answered, a touch of pride lacing his voice.
“Call me Victor.”
Wilmot went back to his men. He sat down and scratched his head. Was that a smart-arse connotation for the American victory or the man’s real name? Wilmot shrugged and mumbled, “Ach, who cares?”
Well into the night, the dusty plain continued to fill up with surrendering Germans and Italians. Wilmot had not moved from his original spot since being dismissed by the American earlier that day. He was desperate for a drink of water and a secluded place to do his business. His eyes swept the area. A private place? Stupid git, he couldn’t even see a spare centimetre or two to squat, let alone a tree or bush to go behind.
His head jerked upwards as the atmosphere changed. Men were cheering and whooping. Vehicle horns were blowing from British trucks, LRDG vehicles, and British Jeeps, along with the Afrika Korps’ nemesis, the Eighth Army.
“Shit. Talk about adding insult to injury. Now the British have shown up to stick their snotty noses in the air,” one of Wilmot’s men complained.
Egon, who’d been dozing, woke up with the noise. He sat up, groggy-looking, and asked, “Willie, where will they take us? Or do you think they’ll let us go? Or maybe leave us here?”
Egon was rambling again with that far-away look in his eyes. To imagine the enemy setting free hundreds of thousands of Axis soldiers, only to confront them again another day was a ridiculous notion, but young Egon didn’t see it that way.
“I don’t know where they’ll take us, but it will be under lock and key, Egon,” Wilmot told the disappointed man. True, he didn’t know where they’d end up. Britain? A prison camp in the desert, then somewhere else later?
Humiliation set in as Wilmot observed the Allied troops’ celebrations. They even had cinematography cameras filming the Axis prisoners. As it panned around to Wilmot, he smiled for the camera, then in defiance, gave it his middle finger.
Later that night, Wilmot curled up in a ball, closed his eyes, and wondered if history would judge the Afrika Korps as cowards who had given up. The Axis army wasn’t riddled with disease, shrunken with hunger, barehanded, or naked under the sun. They had deliberately laid down their weapons after reaching the conclusion that their aircraft had flown until they’d been wiped out, guns had fired until there was no more ammunition, their tanks had carried on firing even after their petrol was depleted, and soldiers had carried empty rifles even after there was no more ammunition. In the end, they’d recognised a superior power in the long and bitterly fought battles throughout North Africa ending in Tunisia. They’d been clever enough to know when to call it quits. That wasn’t cowardice; it was smart.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Paul Vogel and Romek Gabula
Bielański Forest, near Warsaw, Poland
July 1943
Bielański Forest was situated eight kilometres north of Warsaw and was, perhaps, too close to the city for comfort. It was made up of Mazowiecka Primeval Forest and was also connected to Kampinoski Forest by a narrow strip of woods, making it a warren stretching for over three kilometres from one end to the other. The Germans, who probably found it too inaccessible for their transport and too large to control on foot, had not ventured close to the hidden Polish campsite for over a year. The men in Romek’s unit were reasonably confident of their concealment; however, Romek insisted that the perimeters be constantly watched, and men patrolled those areas on a rotational basis.
At sunrise, Paul left his well-camouflaged shelter to see to the overnight fire used for cooking. The men or women on night watch always made sure there was a boiling pot of water ready when the sun rose, for just before dawn, all campfires were doused so no tell-tale smoke would advertise their presence to the enemy.
Afterwards, he returned to the shelter and the blanket on the groundsheet inside that hid Amelia’s half-naked body.
“Wakey, wakey,” he said in English while pulling the blanket down to her waist. “Wake up, darling. I’m making coffee,” he repeated in his best Polish.
Amelia pulled Paul to her, parted her lips and purred, “Not before you kiss me good morning.”
Paul gripped a handful of her hair and gently tilted her head back before his lips met hers in an ardent kiss. After a while, he felt his passion grow and pulled away. Shame, he thought, gazing at her sleepy face. As much as he’d like to make love to her again, he had work to do. “Satisfied?” he asked.
“Yes … for now.”
Paul stroked her cheek, then drew his finger down her hairline and across to her lips. “Darling Amelia, if it weren’t for the dangerous world beyond the forest treeline, I could imagine you and I being content here, despite the nits, creepy-crawlies and discomforts.”
“Me, too,” she said softly. “I can see our children climbing trees or fishing with you and learning to hunt for their dinner, and having dirty faces and long, wild hair. The thought of a life here doesn’t scare me at all.”
He kissed her again. “You, my love, have a vivid imagination; but you’re right, it’s not such a hardship, is it? Living rough, eating sporadically … improving my Polish to more than courteous phrases and medical instructions?”
“You’re being hard on yourself, Paul. You understand most of what’s being said now, and the men appreciate your determination to learn. I’ve heard them speaking about you. They trust and respect you.”
“Finally,” Paul sighed with contentment. “After three years in the country, and ten months living with Poles, I’m enjoying being able to converse and understand what’s being said around
me. I almost feel accepted – you know Darek hasn’t called me German swine meat for at least two months.” He laughed. “Ach, Amelia, if it weren’t for the horrors of war that fill our world, I would say I’ve never been happier than I am now.”
Outside, Paul smiled to himself as he spooned ersatz coffee grains made from roasted acorn and chicory root straight into the boiling pot of water before it went cold. He loved this time of the day. The forest, home to rich fauna and flora, had everything a small army needed to survive. There was an abundance of clear water streams and rivers deep enough to bathe in and cook with and with which to fill copious buckets to quench one’s thirst on these hot summer days. There were roots, leaves, and seeds that could be foraged and eaten, and edible berries and fungi ripe to eat by autumn. Game was also on hand, although hunting posed its own dangers. Whilst chasing down a rabbit, one of the men had been set upon by two local policemen who were known to collaborate with the Germans. They, too, had been looking for food. The surprise meeting had turned into a brief firefight, with Romek’s man winning but sustaining a leg wound in the process.
Danger was ever-present. The men had to eat, therefore fires had to be lit despite the threat of being spotted by the enemy. They had to stray outside their encampment to find protein sources, such as wild boar, deer, fox, rabbit, martens, squirrels, and the many different bird species that supplied fresh eggs during springtime. Every day posed new threats, yet the Resistance had found some semblance of normality deep in this woodland sanctuary.
Paul, now a fully-fledged member of Romek’s unit, felt quite at home when he and Amelia stayed in their makeshift semi-sunken branch shack in the forest, sometimes for two or three nights in a row. He was taking this new period of his life in his stride and was fully committed to Romek, who had probably saved his life by taking him in…
“Paul, did you make some for me?”
Startled, Paul looked up, beamed at Kurt, and then stood to hug him. “Kurt, you’re back. I was beginning to worry about you. It’s been weeks … almost two months since I’ve seen you.”
Kurt sat on another log next to the smouldering embers. His face was drawn, and his eyes were dull with grief. “I shouldn’t have been able to take you by surprise like that. I thought Darek was training you?”
Paul chuckled. “I have been training. Since I last saw you, I’ve learnt the art of shooting a pistol and rifle, how to correctly throw a grenade, best an opponent fighting hand-to-hand using knives and fists, and conceal myself from German patrols using what’s available in the forest. If you had told me you were coming, I would have wrapped myself in leaves.”
Paul stirred the pot, trying to dissolve the granules that were like hard stones. “Darek gave me my own rifle, so that’s a good sign?” he muttered, more of a question than a statement. “I’m not a bad shot, as it happens.”
After Romek had convinced his superiors and other unit heads to accept Paul, he gave the latter an ultimatum. On paper, the choice had been a simple one: regardless of his position as doctor, more adept at saving lives than taking them, Paul was to either vow to kill Poland’s enemies, should that need arise, or forget about fighting with the Poles and take the deadly consequences of being captured by them.
‘You’re either all in, or you’re not in at all. I have vouched for both you and Kurt, and if you let me down, I will pay a heavy price for my failure,’ Romek had stated after subjecting Paul to weeks of interrogations and virtual captivity.
‘I’m all in, but I’m a doctor, not a fighter. I hope you will use my skills wisely,’ Paul had responded, feeling both relieved and anxious.
Paul poured coffee into two rough-hewn wooden cups and handed one to Kurt. He’d let Amelia lie abed a while longer. They had walked and foraged for hours the previous day, and she was tired.
Kurt, his head down, his hooded eyes staring at the dying embers of the fire, exhaled a painful sigh.
“What is it?” Paul asked.
“I saw Anatol and Vanda on my travels. They send you their love.”
“Are they all right?”
Kurt looked up. Tears slipped from his eyes, and he let them fall.
Paul’s stomach lurched with grief as he imagined the worst. “Oh God, what’s happened?”
“The SS arrested Hubert and his wife. Anatol got word from Gert in Łódź that they were both executed.” Kurt cleared his throat as anger replaced his sorrow. “Sixteen people were put against the wall of a building in Łódź and gunned down by an SS firing squad. The Germans called them ‘hostages.’ They wanted the people involved in the raid on the weapons supply depot in return for the lives of Hubert and the others. Five German soldiers were killed in the attack, and four of ours didn’t make it out. Gert deserted. He’s gone to the east of the country to join a Polish Home Army unit – good for him.”
Paul kicked the hot remains of the fire, thinking back to his early days in Poland when he had discovered Hubert and Anatol’s human smuggling activities. Hubert had been one of the bravest and most loyal men he’d ever met. Not once had he refused to help a Jew escape or to treat one when injured or sick. “Damn it. We should have tried harder to convince Hubert to come with us. No house is worth dying for, no matter how long his family has lived there.”
“Paul, some people don’t want to run away in fear. They want to cling to what’s theirs … to what brings them comfort. It’s not about a house’s bricks and mortar, it’s what’s inside it … familiar objects, photographs of family, an old armchair that’s been comforting for years, a knitted bedspread, a china cup. Hubert told me the last time I saw him that he wouldn’t let the Germans chase him out of the house he, his mother, and his grandfather were born in. His wife was ill, and the Jews…”
“What about Jews?”
Kurt finally lifted his eyes to Paul. “… Hubert was sheltering Jews in his attic. He had five of them up there.”
“Ach, Hubert,” was all Paul could manage.
“Damn it, Paul, I can’t wrap my head around what our countrymen are doing here.” Kurt also kicked the hot ashes, spreading them more evenly. “I was in a town called Słonim last week. There’s hardly anyone left alive. Almost twenty thousand Jews have been murdered. A few weeks ago, a Ukrainian SS squad executed over one hundred Poles, along with the town’s priest, for sheltering Jews in their church. I’m ashamed of where I come from. I’m so damn angry, I want to kill every Wehrmacht, Gestapo, SS … whatever their nationality … fucking policeman in Poland!”
Paul killed the last of the fire with a handful of soil, deeply saddened by Kurt’s news. “Hubert and his wife were heroes, Kurt. That’s how I’ll always remember them. And yes, good for Gert.”
Kurt cleared his throat, his face full of pain as he snapped a twig and threw it on the ground. “Romek is here as well. He wants both of us to attend his meeting.”
Paul stood. Romek, whom he hadn’t seen in almost a month, was back, which meant changes were coming. “Now?”
“No, in about fifteen minutes. Sit. Time enough to finish drinking your shit excuse for coffee.”
Paul glanced surreptitiously at his tent, and Kurt laughed. “And how is the lovely Amelia?”
“Fine. She’s asleep,” Paul said with a red face. After a rocky start together, during which Paul had slated Kurt for lying about Dieter, the two men had finally agreed to be honest with each other about everything. Everyone in the unit knew about Paul’s affair with Amelia, and no one cared or gave it a moment’s thought, apart from Paul, who felt the guilt of a married man going behind a wife’s back. Stupid, he admitted. His signature was probably on divorce documents by now, forged by Biermann himself. For all he knew, Valentina might have remarried a staunch supporter of Adolf Hitler; a high-ranking officer, perhaps. So what? It was his angst over never having met his one-year-old daughter that gave him sleepless nights, not heartache for the child’s mother. He often wondered what he’d ever seen in the woman … or had he become unrecognisable of late?
Kurt, studying Paul’s pensive gaze, said, “Enjoy what you have with Amelia. Don’t ever feel sorry for finding love. God knows, I wish I could.” Then he gave Paul a playful push. “Ach, come on, boy, it’s your duty to have a good time for all those people we’ve seen die. If we can’t have fun, what’s the point of it all?”
“I know that, Kurt. How are things with you? Are you still doing what you do?”
“Yes. Why do you find it so hard to say the word?”
“You mean assassinate?”
Kurt chuckled, “Ach, Paul, if only it were that simple.”
“Will you tell me about it?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I do.” Paul sipped the coffee, not quite boiling hot anymore, but warm enough. “How do you find your victims?”
“First thing you should know is that they are not victims. Every one of them deserves what they get from us.”
“Is it wide-scale … the collaborations?”
“No, not wide-scale … in fact, it’s marginal. The tragedy is that it takes only one collaborator to get dozens of good Poles killed. Most of the German collaborators are those in possession of Volksdeutsche ID cards and come from the German minority enclaves. We have men who track down the people who are actively reporting on their neighbours to the Generalgouvernement. They’re put on a list, which is then handed over to the Underground Court. You think I spend my days shooting people?” Kurt chuckled at Paul’s sombre expression. “Not true. We kill very few Poles. They’re sentenced and punished by the Home Army Court.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot you have to learn, Paul. For instance, the level of help the Germans are getting goes much deeper than that from ethnic Germans. It’s sickening to the people here when they find out that an unsympathetic Polish neighbour has reported a family hiding a Jew in their street, or that the szmalcownik – blackmailers, are extorting money to keep their mouths shut about the whereabouts of Jews. We also have the ethnic Ukrainians to deal with. Many of them are pro-German, as are the Jewish collaborators from Żagiew and Group 13.”
