by Jana Petken
He wanted Manfred Krüger dead, not out of sick revenge or even personal hatred, but for the people of Łódź who might stand a chance of surviving the war should the Kriminaldirektor not exist. Perhaps he was naïve to think that the next Gestapo chief would not be as evil or find gratuitous killings as enjoyable as Biermann and Krüger had, but if he were going to kill a man in cold blood, he’d cling to that hope.
Paul found Romek sitting on the bank of the stream that ran past the camp. His eyes were closed, his feet bare and resting on the white pebbles on the stream’s bed. The two men had not seen each other since April when Romek had finally returned from England with the letters Max had given him for Paul.
“How was your assignment? Did Darek give you a hard time?” Romek asked, wiggling his toes under the water.
“No. It’s clear he’s not keen on having me here. Don’t get me wrong, he doesn’t disrespect me or … ach, never mind. He’s a good leader. We worked well together, and to be honest, I was too busy to take any notice of his personal feelings towards me.” That wasn’t strictly true, Paul thought. Darek had made it apparent to the other men in his unit that he wasn’t happy about having a German anywhere near him.
“Any trouble with Germans at the farm?”
Paul had been reasonably relaxed at the farmhouse. It was owned by Alojzy, a Resistance fighter who delivered milk and eggs to the German garrison two kilometres south of the farmhouse. German and Polish police collaborators had slaughtered the Jews in the nearby village, and without their presence, German soldiers no longer had any reason to go to the farm. It was an ideal hiding place – if there was such a thing as ideal. Polish combat units frequently congregated there before or after missions, especially if they had wounded fighters with them, and Paul had been comfortable on the nights he stayed there.
“No trouble as such,” he finally said. “We had a couple of frights. The first occasion was when we spotted a German patrol heading across the field towards the house, and the second time, a lone German on a motorcycle came for food. Alojzy has a great pile of straw and manure in his courtyard. It sits on top of the trapdoor to a bunker in the ground. As soon as the lookout saw the Germans, I got down there with the wounded man I was treating.”
Paul had been much busier than he’d ever imagined he would be before his first stint at the farm. It had been nothing like his time with Florent Duguay’s Partisan group in France. Here, in Poland, he felt he was in a bona fide army. “I saw a lot of wounded men, Romek. What’s going on?”
“It’s as I said at the meeting. Our army is growing. We’re going to surpass a quarter of a million men and women at arms soon, and with those numbers, we must expect greater casualties and wounded.” Romek smiled. “Don’t worry, we have plenty of Jewish doctors helping out.”
Romek threw a stone into the water. “Amelia will start training today.”
“For what?” Paul asked with a worried frown.
“She’ll learn how to shoot a gun, same as everyone else. If we need her nursing skills, we’ll use her, but she needs to be able to fight, too … or she can leave. I can’t have bystanders, and you can’t have her around just to keep your bed warm at night.”
Paul bit back his retort. Whatever he said, he’d be in the wrong. He wasn’t happy about Amelia being given a weapon, but this had been inevitable, he supposed. “I understand. You won’t have any trouble convincing her. She’s been desperate to pick up a gun.”
For a while, Romek spoke of his failure in England to get support for the Jews as well as the Poles now being persecuted in the Nazi cleansing programme, but after a while, he turned to a more personal subject.
“A British agent arrived in Warsaw last week.” Romek went into his pocket and brought out an envelope. “He gave me this to give to you.”
“Max?” Paul asked, his eyes shining with hope.
“No,” Romek spat. “When you’ve finished here, you’ll find me with Darek and Kurt. Don’t be long.”
As Romek began to walk away with his socks and boots in his hand, Paul wondered why he always appeared angry whenever Max’s name was mentioned. He had not had the courage or opportunity to ask Romek, but now that they were alone, it was the right time if ever there was one.
“Before you go, can I ask you something?” Paul called out.
“What?” Romek turned around.
“You don’t say much about him, but I get the impression you and Max are not friends. What went on between the two of you?”
Romek considered his words a moment, then said, “He was a friend, once upon a time … like a brother to me. I saved his life in the North Sea and sheltered him in Poland before this war even began. I shared my dinner table with him, and, apparently, my wife as well. Let’s say, I think him a selfish bastard, no longer worthy of my trust.” Romek turned to walk away again but threw over his shoulder, “However, if Max were in trouble, I’d save his life a second time, and I’ve no doubt he would save mine.”
Paul, still not much the wiser about Romek and Max’s past association, ripped open the envelope and gasped when he saw his father’s handwriting. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling both elated and bitter. His greatest joy in years had been receiving the letters from the family in April. He was an uncle to a boy called Jack. Judith Weber was not only alive, but she was now his sister-in-law; he’d look forward to hearing about that story when he was reunited with his brother. Frank Middleton was, at the time, well and somewhere in the Middle East. His mother was happily living with Hannah and her grandson, and everyone was healthy and united. But the truth about his father’s situation had not come in those letters, and he’d felt betrayed by Max ever since.
Finally, swallowing his hurt pride, Paul began to read the letter from the father he’d thought dead.
My dearest Son
I imagine you feel let down, angry, and betrayed by all of us. You must believe me when I say I hid my real situation from you to protect you and your mother, but mostly to protect myself. Now that you probably know the truth from Kurt, I beg of you, do not blame him or Max. They followed my instructions and are not at fault. Ask Kurt to tell you everything, from start to finish. I cannot say anything else, for if I tried to explain to you on paper, it would only be half the story. Just know that I love you. I am proud of you. We all yearn for the day we can be reunited with you and your younger brother.
Your loving father
Paul turned the page over – blank.
Was that it; a few lines? A short rationalisation to make up for the years of grief and lies? He scrunched the paper in his fist, then ripped it up into tiny pieces. One day, he might forgive the subterfuge that had caused him such misery and had given Biermann his moments of gloating joy, but not now.
He got up, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and headed to the encampment. He was going to murder a man today – he, Doctor Paul Vogel was going off to kill with his gun. Jesus, who the hell was he?
Paul found Amelia and kissed her hard on her mouth. He breathed in the fresh scent of river water and soap on her hair, savoured the softness of her skin, the beauty within her and without. “You’re going to start weapons training today. You have your wish, kochanie – darling. Promise me you won’t volunteer for anything? We’ll talk about this when I get back, all right?”
Tears ran down her cheeks. “I promise I won’t. I … I’m sorry for being like this. If you were going anywhere else, I wouldn’t be as upset, but Łódź … Łódź, Paul.”
He kissed her again. “I’m going to get rid of the man responsible for the deaths of our friends.” He was always reticent to mention her late husband, even though he’d told himself a hundred times his death had been a mercy killing. “I want to go, Amelia.”
“I know, and I love you for it.” She stared at him, as if looking deeper than his outward appearance. “Are you ready to fire your rifle, Paul? To kill fellow Germans if you have to?”
Paul held her hand, raised it to his mouth, and kissed it. “Yes, of course. How ca
n you even ask me that?” He let her go. “I know what I’m doing. I knew this day would come. I love you, too, my sweet Amelia.”
After his goodbye to Amelia, who was staying with Romek at the camp and then moving to an undisclosed location for training, Paul joined Romek, Kurt, and Darek. The latter held a glum and openly hostile expression, Paul noted. Apparently, Romek had briefed Kurt on Operation Krüger before Darek, and he had also named Kurt the team leader. Darek, who had never fully accepted having to fight alongside the taller, stronger Kurt, was taking what he saw as Romek’s betrayal to heart, and that did not bode well for what was going to be a high-risk mission.
******
At midnight on the third day of their journey from the forest near Warsaw, the men arrived at the rendezvous coordinates in the woods, three kilometres north of Łódź. There, they met up with the ten members of the Combat Sabotage Unit taking part in the plot to kill Manfred Krüger.
One of the men present; a seventeen-year-old called Bogdan, veteran of numerous firefights with German patrols, greeted Paul with a bear hug. “Lekarz Paul, I like … I feel better now that I see you,” the boy said in stuttering German.
Bogdan turned to the others standing behind him, saying in rapid Polish. “Doctor Paul may be a German pig, but he saved my man-parts for me.” Then he undid his trouser buttons and pulled down his trousers and undershorts. “Look, my wound is all healed, and I’m in fine working order.”
“You’re still a virgin, Bogdan,” one man stated, and the group laughed. As the men tittered with amusement, Bogdan turned back to Paul, spread his legs and pointed to the scar, a couple of centimetres from his manhood, and it was his proud manhood that now stared Paul in the face. “Good work, eh, Lekarz?”
Paul chuckled. “A decent job, even if I say so myself. Thanks for showing me, Bogdan.”
Darek and the other Poles standing behind Bogdan laughed again, and Paul felt the day’s tension leave his body.
“Bogdan, put your arse away. We have a lot to get through,” the mission’s overall leader, known as Wójcik, said,
Darek, Paul, and Kurt sat on the ground. The last fifteen kilometres of their journey had been on foot across country, and they were ready to drop.
“I will translate for you and Kurt, should you get lost in the discussion. It’s important you know all the details. I don’t want you two making a mess of things,” Darek said.
Wójcik began, “Our spy in Łódź has been monitoring Kriminaldirektor Krüger’s movements over the last two weeks. We know where he lives in the city, where he routinely goes, and how he gets there. But we have two problems with him. The first is that he never walks in the open, much less alone. Even if he’s travelling a block or two from his house or office, he uses a driver and car, a black Opel Admiral limousine. The second is that he doesn’t always leave his house, but instead has his Gestapo officers and other authorities going to him.”
“Are you planning an attack on his car or on his house? If it’s his car, we’ll need some heavy firepower,” Darek said.
“We have it, Darek. I’ve brought ten men and enough assault weapons to take out a street of Germans. The assault will be on the Kriminaldirektor’s car, and this is how it will go. Our first executioner will be armed with an MP 40 sub-machine gun, by courtesy of some dead Germans, Vis pistol, and Filipinka hand grenade. Our second-in-command and security screen will carry grenades. The second executioner will use the Sten sub-machine gun and grenades. The third will drive an Adler Trumpf-Junior and will be armed with a Parabellum Luger P08 pistol and grenades. Our covers will have sub-machine guns, Parabellums, and grenades. Bruno, here, will drive an Opel Kapitän and will be armed with two Parabellums and grenades. We will also have another man driving a Mercedes 170 V and armed with two Parabellums and grenades. And we will have three men covering signals.”
Wójcik paused for questions. When there were none, he continued, “Despite our falsified identity papers, we can’t take the chance of driving cars in civilian clothes through numerous roadblocks in the city, so we will walk to the cars, which will be parked reasonably close to the hit zone. We expect this to turn into a street battle. Krüger always has an escort when he leaves his house, and there are at least three German checkpoints in the vicinity. Stay sharp and remember your training. Not all of us will get out of this in one piece.”
Paul, who had observed each man nodding as Wójcik had gone through the roles they would have, wondered what parts Kurt, Darek, and he would play. He threw Darek a filthy look; for some inexplicable reason, the Pole had given him a rifle only to confiscate it later. ‘You won’t need that, Doctor,’ he had stated.
Paul looked around at the other men who were going to carry a huge cache of guns and grenades on their persons and in duffel bags. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but not this large gathering with men talking of expected firefights and street battles. He was terrified.
Darek, on the same train of thought as Paul, asked Wójcik, “Where do you want us three?”
“You and Kurt will give cover fire. The doctor will be travelling in the Mercedes with his medical supplies. Keep him safe. We will need him.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
At 0909 the next morning, Manfred Krüger left his home in the German named Kanalstrasse. Oblivious to the plot against him, he lit a cigarette, got into the back of his limousine, and opened his briefcase.
Members of Wójcik’s combat unit were in place, with the first lookout standing near the entrance to a park opposite Krüger’s house. As soon as he saw Krüger’s car going through the open gates, he gave the signal to the next man further along the street.
As Krüger’s vehicle approached the junction at the end of the street, the Adler Trumpf-Junior, carrying the driver and the two executioners, swerved in front to block its path. Immediately, the two fighters jumped out of the Trumpf, approached Krüger’s car, and fired on it from close range, killing the driver and wounding Krüger.
The Mercedes had arrived on the scene seconds after the first gunfire popped in the morning air. Paul, sitting in the passenger seat, watched the bloodied Manfred Krüger fall out of his car and begin to crawl away from it. Holding his breath, Paul then saw the driver of the Trumpf jump out of the car and run towards Krüger.
Unthinking, Paul left the Mercedes and followed the driver to where Krüger now lay exhausted and dying from a wound to his neck. He raised his hand to the hole spurting arterial blood and tried to speak.
“You’re dead. Go to hell,” Paul heard himself say in a stone-cold voice.
Krüger stared up at Paul and his terrified eyes widened with confusion. “Y-you…” he gasped.
The driver aimed his pistol and finished off the injured Krüger with a gunshot to his head, then snapped, “Doctor, get back to your car.”
On his way back to the vehicle, Paul observed one of the executioners searching Krüger’s dead body for documents while the other man was taking the briefcase from the back of the car. Frozen, with only the thought of Krüger’s death on his mind, Paul watched in awe as the other getaway vehicle moved into position, just as the German guards stationed nearby opened fire on the assassins.
Paul’s driver opened the car’s door to get out, shouting at Paul to take cover. Paul, still mesmerised by the intense firefight ensuing between the Germans and the covering team, now including Kurt and Darek, watched as three of the combat unit’s men fell to German bullets, including the driver who had called to him.
Bullets sprayed Paul’s car, but instead of running away from them, he jumped in and took cover in the narrow space between the front and back seats. All sensible thought deserted him, apart from his inner voice screaming that he didn’t want to die. Seconds later, grenades went off, rocking the car as Paul struggled to get out of it again before it was blown up with him inside.
In the street, Paul’s eyes stung with smoke and the stink of gunpowder and cordite rushing up his nostrils. “Withdraw!” Paul heard someone shout in
Polish, but he was already on his way to Darek, who was lying wounded on the ground. Machine-gun fire was deafening, and the chaos was compounded by the fog the weapons produced. Bending down, he gripped Darek’s shoulders and began to drag him along the ground toward the Mercedes behind him.
“Get in the car!” Kurt shouted as he yanked Paul’s hand off Darek and pushed him roughly into the vehicle. Seconds later, Darek was being thrown in beside Paul, as though he weighed the same as a sack of bread.
Paul, panting for breath, lay across Darek’s bloodied body as bullets continued to spray the air. He raised his head as Kurt got in, started the engine, and drove off, hitting a German soldier blocking their path. Then the car slowed, the front passenger door opened, and a Polish Scout jumped in, with Kurt driving off before the car door had closed.
Gunfire struck the back window, smashing its glass into various-sized shards that left small, stinging cuts on Paul’s head.
“Stay down, Paul!” Kurt shouted, as the car swerved and screeched around a tight corner.
Minutes felt like hours to Paul in the back, unable to see or hear anything but the bright flashes and deafening noise of deadly weapons. With his face pressing against Darek’s shoulder, he imagined a violent car chase and then being caught and executed on the spot. Out of the ten combat fighters, he’d seen three go down, but he had not seen any dead bodies apart from Krüger’s and his driver’s. He had no idea where they were or whether Darek’s injuries were life-threatening. Petrified to move, unwilling to see the danger or to confront death in the face, he covered his head with his hands and prayed.
“See to Darek, Paul!” Kurt shouted.
At last, Paul came to his senses. He looked out of the window, saw no German soldiers running along the road after them or other cars chasing them, and he became the doctor Darek was counting on.
When he’d ripped open Darek’s shirt, popping all its buttons, he gasped. “Kurt, we need more than the first aid I can give. We need a hospital surgeon or another doctor to transfuse and suture his wounds – now! If not, he won’t make it!”
