by Jana Petken
The Kapos and other collaborators were now going to die, and in the most horrific ways imaginable, Kurt thought, as he watched them being marched out of the hut. He wasn’t willing to participate, but such was the depth of his pent-up anger that he was looking forward to watching them die.
In the roll-call yard, Kurt observed the last Kapo brute, discovered in Block 7, being hauled into the centre of an enraged circle of prisoners where his fellow murderers were already on their knees. Only one man stood, his arrogance mirrored in his upwardly tilting chin and in his angry, hooded eyes.
“They are going to suffer before they die … the way they have made our comrades suffer and die for years!” a bag-of-bones prisoner shouted.
What the inmates lacked in weapons, they more than made up for in numbers and rage. Kurt was shunted and knocked down as people pushed past him to get to their prey. Pure rage sat on the faces of every man in the yard. Those too weak to kick or punch were consoled by fitter men who pounced on the collaborators with wooden sabots on their feet or in their hands. Kurt, enthralled by the abuse, held his breath as the men floored their victims, and then began stomping on their faces and stomachs until their guts came spilling out and their heads were flattened into shapeless masses of flesh and tissue.
Do I feel better after seeing that? Kurt pondered on his way back to the hut. No. We are all monsters.
After seeing to Romek and finally getting him to share the sardines, Kurt went to the gates to wait for a miracle, a disaster; something extraordinary to happen. At 1300, his patience was rewarded when American trucks carrying about twenty soldiers broke through the trees.
Beside Kurt, dead bodies were piled up, ready for burial or burning. More bodies were piled high on handcarts. One could not escape the dead, for they were everywhere; either visible in the flesh or with their residual stench permeating the huts and in every corner of the camp. The Americans, with their stars-and-stripes flags fluttering on short white poles on the sides of their trucks, were going to be shocked, but Kurt couldn’t care less about their horrified reaction to the genocide in Mauthausen-Gusen Concentration Camp. They should have reacted at least a year earlier when their government had been informed of the slaughters.
Metres from the main gates, Kurt surged forward with a crowd of Spanish inmates. They were surrounding an M8 Greyhound armoured car, and euphorically yelling, “Anti-Fascists salute the liberating forces!” and “Viva España!” Kurt laughed, their joy contaminating him as robustly as the many diseases in the camp.
Kurt got on well with the Spanish Republicans who had fought against General Francisco Franco’s Fascist forces in the Spanish Civil War. Most of them had escaped to France when the Republicans lost the war, but they were interned by the French, and later, when the Germans defeated France in 1940, they had been incarcerated as political prisoners because of their hatred for the Nazis and Fascists. They were boisterous by nature, and despite their lack of strength, they out-shouted and out-sang all the other prisoners combined.
“You are happy, my friend?” Kurt cried, his eyes smarting with emotion.
“I am, Kurt. They are nuestros salvadores – our saviours!” the small, skinny Spaniard wept.
The sounds of celebration increased, but Kurt, spent emotionally and physically, was now on his knees. A hand touched his bare shoulder, and he recoiled from habit. He looked up at an American soldier holding out a flask to him.
“Drink … you want drink?” the young American asked with eyes full of sympathy.
“Thank you,” Kurt replied in English, as he took the flask full of water and put it to his lips.
When he’d drunk a small amount, for that was all he could manage before becoming breathless, he handed it back to the American and asked, “Will you help my friend? He is in a hut not far from here. He needs water now. Please?”
The sergeant replied, “Sure, I’ll help you. Your English is pretty good. Will you help us translate?”
“Yes, Sergeant. And will you help me get to a British intelligence unit? I work … I was an agent for the British government, as was my friend in the hut.”
Shock crossed the American’s face. “Gee, you’ve been dealt a hard hand. I’ll talk to my captain about that.” Then he nodded. “Okay, how about this … you get through to your fellow prisoners for us, and we’ll get you to your buddies at the nearest British Company Headquarters?”
******
Three days after the camp was liberated, Kurt and Romek, now dressed in the civilian clothes the Americans had provided to them, lay on mattresses in the yard. The two men had been starved for months, but they were in better condition than many of the inmates who had been incarcerated for years or those who had been marched to death. Prisoners were still dying in front of the Americans, who were doing all they could to help the inmates. Kurt supposed a starving person must get to a certain point where no amount of food, water, or medicine could resuscitate his body.
The American 11th Armoured Division brought in medical teams to treat the casualties, cooks to prepare calorie-rich food for the starved inmates, and engineers to clear the hundreds of corpses from the main camp. They also brought in Austrian civilians from neighbouring towns, who were being tasked with digging mass graves at the far side of the football field and quarry.
The American doctor gave Romek good news. The Pole had a severe stomach infection that would probably have killed him in days without the antibiotics he was now receiving, but he did not have typhus.
In the yard, Kurt and Romek lay on mattresses like kings, sunning themselves while eating crusts of bread and boiled potatoes in their skins. Upon his arrival, an American doctor had been furious to see soldiers handing out full loaves of bread to the inmates. Kurt, who had fought his way to the supply truck, had been horrified to see the food disappear moments after the truck’s long-awaited arrival. In hindsight, however, after seeing many prisoners die just after they had eaten, Kurt agreed with the doctor’s assertion; overfeeding prisoners whose stomachs had shrunk to the size of peas was more damaging than not giving them food at all.
As soon as he learnt he might live, Romek began mapping his future.
Kurt wanted to return to Germany, and as he chewed his crust, he said to Romek, “I am going to look for the Vogels. The American captain has promised to help me get to Berlin in due course. Will you come with me, Romek? I told the sergeant you were also working for the British. You don’t want to return to Poland, do you?”
Romek took tiny bites of his potato, as instructed by an American corpsman. He swallowed painfully, then answered Kurt’s question. “Poland is not an option whilst the Russians are there, but neither is Germany. I think I will eventually use my past collaboration with MI6 to get to England, but first, I have unfinished business in Paris.”
Kurt raised a sceptical eyebrow. “You’re not talking about the communist Duguay, are you?”
“Yes. If he still lives, I’m going to kill him, and if he’s dead, I will piss and spit on his grave.”
“Maybe you should let it go and begin afresh, Romek. Trust me, I watched the Kapos die, and their deaths didn’t appease my anger. Making a good life for yourself … that’s the way forward.”
“There is no way forward while that scum Duguay still breathes.”
“Okay, you know yourself best,” Kurt said, popping the last crumbs of crust into his mouth.
“Why are you determined to go to Germany? I don’t know why you want to go back there after everything those people did to you.”
“I’m going to look for the Vogels.”
“But they’re in England.”
“I know, but I can get to them through the British in Berlin. Why do you think I told the Americans about my connection to British Intelligence? Do you think they are going to give train and boat tickets and a new house to every inmate in this place? Anyway, I know Max and Dieter, and I’ll bet you my boots they will turn up in Berlin to see what’s going on.”
“Max wi
ll take Paul’s death hard,” Romek said.
“I know.” Kurt’s voice was husky with emotion. “They are my family, Romek, and I must tell them how their son died – ach, I wish Paul could be here with us, and go home to Berlin with me – I’m so damn proud of that man.”
II
Berlin, Germany
5 June 1945
Dieter and Max sat in the back seat of the British-registered Austin 10HP staff car being used by representatives of the British Intelligence Services. Dieter studied Max’s profile. He had not spoken a word since leaving their headquarters in the British sector of Ortsteil Zehlendon, now more commonly known as the Green Zone. Not even the sight of British Union flags flying from tall white poles on every street corner and British soldiers marching in files of three in a spectacle of power on Berlin’s streets had moved his son.
Dieter erred on the side of patience. He would not press Max into conversation or ask him how he felt; his grief was obvious. A light had gone out and cast a dark shadow over his face as if half the brightness in his soul had dulled. Max, a deeply private man by nature, had refused to talk about Paul and had, instead, plunged into work and the mission at hand. Not even Judith could get through the wall of silence he had erected.
As the British army driver took them west through Berlin’s rubble-filled streets, Dieter swallowed his own grief and stoically stared through his tears out of the window. It had been a monumental morning; excitement still coursed through him, but that feeling was accompanied by dark, contradictory emotions: regret, sadness, bitterness; but then also the sensation that a renewal was coming, one in which his country of birth would slip into a more tolerant and peaceful age. His Paul was dead. The Vogel’s opulent home in Berlin was irreparably damaged, his factories in both Berlin and Dresden were flattened, his holiday home by the river destroyed, his money in Germany lost; yet, somewhere in this mess, loomed a brighter future.
He glanced again at Max, and this time, the latter returned his gaze.
“Tell me about this morning, Father? Keep my mind off what we are about to do,” Max said.
“I was not involved, of course. I didn’t even get into the room, but I did manage to catch sight of the four leaders when they arrived at Niebergall Street in Wendenschloss. The Russian, Marshal Zhukov got there first – I presume because he had based his headquarters there. I thought he was going to fall over with the weight of his numerous Soviet medals. Eisenhower arrived second for the United States, our Montgomery with his oversized entourage got there a few minutes later, and he was followed by Jean de Lattre de Tassigny for France.”
“Do you think the declaration will hold firm with all four countries?” Max asked, his face drained of colour, his eyes encircled by sorrow-induced, dark rings.
“It must. We cannot afford to upset each other, not whilst military forces are still armed to the teeth in Europe.”
“I agree,” Max said, “although I worry about Russia. Churchill has never warmed to the Soviets. He calls the Bolsheviks crocodiles. He’s never trusted them. I think if there’s going to be trouble, it will start with Stalin making moves to annex more land than he’s been given.”
“That is a possibility, but Winston Churchill will not always be in power to make the hard decisions for Britain. Heller accompanied Anthony Eden to Checkers Court earlier this year and told me afterwards that Churchill was worried about what will lie between the white snows of Russia and the white cliffs of Dover after the war ends.”
Max mused, “I hope Churchill remains as Prime Minister to temper the notion of further conflict with a cool head. He doesn’t dislike all Soviets. He stills feels a twinge of pity for Tsar Nicholas II, and he’s praised certain Russian individuals in the past, like Savinkov and Maisky.”
“I agree, but the reality is if the high commands of the Anti-Hitler Coalition who signed the declaration this morning don’t stick to the accords laid down by the Allied Control Council, we may well be facing a new war with the East sooner rather than later.”
The car arrived at its destination, signalling the second intelligence car behind it to also stop. “Are you ready for your last undercover job for a while, Max?” Dieter asked his son.
“This is something I will never be ready for. Let’s get it over with, Father.”
Dieter nodded. “Remember, don’t speak unless you must. The more you say, the more chance there will be for Biermann to uncover you, and I will not allow that man to have the satisfaction of knowing Paul is … no longer with us.”
A woman opened the front door. She stared at Dieter, then gasped as her hand shot to her throat. “Mein Gott – you are alive!”
Dieter, not in the mood to give explanations about his resurrection to Freddie’s neighbour, Frau Mayer, asked, “Is Herr Biermann home?” He was also not inclined to call Freddie Herr Kriminaldirektor. He is a murdering swine, that is all.
Frau Mayer, ignoring the question, shot Max a contemptuous glare. “You’ve come back, too, Paul … after running away from your duty?”
“Is he home?” Max snapped, with less patience than his father had displayed.
She nodded, and despite Max’s earlier worries that he and Dieter might not be invited in, she opened the door and led them to the living room.
Biermann sat in his armchair, looking frail, sickly, and timeworn. Erika, now two years and three months old, stood between his legs with her little arms resting on each of her grandfather’s knees.
“No. No … it can’t be?” Biermann stuttered, transfixed on the two visitors.
“Yes, Freddie, it can. Why are you so shocked? Didn’t you always believe I was alive?” Dieter questioned.
Biermann flicked his eyes from a satisfied-looking Dieter to Max, and then back to Dieter, as if not knowing where to begin unravelling the knot of surprise.
Max stared at his niece, his eyes watering with emotion. Erika, with her golden curls and sky-blue eyes, had Paul’s blood running through her. She was family. She was all he had left of the twin brother he’d adored. He sniffed awkwardly and realised that enacting this scenario was much more emotional in reality than it had been in his mind when he rehearsed it. He lifted his eyes to Biermann, who painted a perfect picture of an old, decrepit man, dressed in his pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers, with his hair greasy and sticking to his head, his mouth agape and his tiny round mobile pupils shifting nervously from one visitor to the other.
“I was sorry to hear about Valentina and Frau Biermann. Please accept my condolences. I am here to take my daughter home with me,” Max said.
“How dare you! Take Erika upstairs, Frau Mayer,” Biermann said hurriedly.
Max, leaning heavily on his walking stick, shot Frau Mayer a warning look not to move, then he hobbled a couple of steps towards the armchair. Erika was becoming upset. Her little plump lips were trembling, and she was cowering into Biermann, who had placed possessive arms around her. For Erika’s sake, Max relented. “Frau Mayer, you may take my child upstairs. I don’t want my little girl upset any more than you do.”
“Frau Mayer, take her, now!” Biermann demanded, as though he thought he should stamp his authority on the matter.
Max waited until the neighbour had left with the baby before addressing Biermann. “Erika will be in my arms when my father and I leave here. I am her father, and I have the custody papers with me. Please, do not make this harder than it already is for all of us.”
Dieter sat on the couch. Max, however, remained on his feet, for at times, sitting was more bother than it was worth.
“Well, here we are, Freddie. You and I sitting here like old times, chatting with each other like the best of friends. A lot has happened since the last time we did this, eh?” Dieter said, with a wry smile.
“You are no friend of mine, Dieter Vogel. Get out, both of you. I will not have two traitors in my house.”
Max, although desperate to defend Paul’s honour, reminded himself that the more words he uttered, the greater chance there w
as of Biermann discovering that he wasn’t speaking to Paul. Meanwhile, Dieter shrugged off the insult.
“I may be a traitor to some, but I am a hero to others,” Dieter replied through narrowed eyes that did nothing to conceal their contempt for their host. “You, Freddie are scum, and when you die, you will be remembered as a mass murderer, an abomination to all of mankind. Oh, I’m not innocent, but when I lay my head down at night, I don’t hear the screams of the women and children dying in agony on my orders. I don’t feel the perverse pleasure of seeing their bodies being incinerated in ovens – I can live with my deeds – can you say the same?”
“I did my duty to the Führer and the Fatherland. I am proud of my service to my country.” Biermann threw Max a sneering glare of reprisal. “Look at you. I was right about you all along. You’re no patriot. What sort of man abandons his army, his country, his wife, his daughter? I will fight you for custody of Erika. No court will give her to a deserter, especially not a crippled one. It’s comforting to see God has punished you in some small way, although I would have preferred to have been informed of your death.”
Dieter chuckled with genuine amusement sparkling in his eyes.
“Does the state of your crippled son amuse you, Dieter?” Biermann asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No, not at all. What I find comical is that you still think there are German courts. Let me tell you what happened this morning. Representatives of the four Allied States signed the declaration of the defeat of Fascist Germany. Adolf Hitler’s successor, Karl Dönitz, tried to establish a civil government, but the Allies found that notion unacceptable. As a result of the gross criminal abuses of Nazism and in the circumstances of complete defeat, Germany now has no government or central administration – in essence, the vacated civil authority in Germany has been assumed as a condominium of the four Allied Representative Powers on behalf of the Allied Governments. There are no German courts, Freddie, no men in power who will do you favours, no one to whom you can kowtow or bluster or grovel to. No Gestapo to use as your personal resource for blackmail and coercion and bullying. My granddaughter will go with her father to England, and you will never see her again. This is fact.”
