The Vogels: On All Fronts (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  The Vogels: On All Fronts

  The Half-Bloods Series Book 2

  Jana Petken

  ©2018 by Jana Petken. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  The Vogels On All Fronts: The German Half-Bloods Series Book 2, is a work of fiction set against the backdrop of WWII. Its characters are purely fictional, as are their individual stories in this book.

  For authenticity purposes, historical personages have been mentioned. A few have been integrated into the storyline, but without contradicting historical facts.

  Cover design by Adriana Hanganu

  The Vogels: On All Fronts

  The German Half-Bloods. Readers’ Favourite, 2018 Award-Winner

  Book description of the Vogels

  “The Vogels are fighting on all fronts in this compelling story of intrigue and betrayal in a world at war.”

  European citizens feel the full force of German injustice, but not all are willing to bend the knee. From France to Poland, Resistance groups fight from the shadows to thwart Nazi rule and hinder their goal to exterminate Jews.

  In Russia, Wilmot Vogel struggles to survive the ravages of a frigid winter, compounded by the German army’s lack of progress. Hit by a surprise Russian attack on the front lines, however, he finds himself facing an even greater challenge than the freezing weather and Soviet bullets.

  In Łódź, Poland, an idealistic doctor is resolved to oppose the Third Reich, but is he willing to betray his country? Will a Gestapo major find the answers he’s looking for? Does a ghetto Jew avoid transportation to a Nazi extermination camp?

  Can two spies rekindle their relationship, or will past betrayals become hurdles too great to surmount? Can Britain’s MI6 maintain the upper hand in a contest against the German Abwehr? Who wins when one man fights for British interests whilst the other seeks to undermine them?

  In the darkest days of war, love flourishes. Two women with very different paths are led to one man who changes the course of their lives forever – but only one will win his heart.

  More Jana Petken Titles

  Multi Award Winning #1 Bestseller, The Guardian of Secrets

  Screenplay, The Guardian of Secrets

  Audio book, The Guardian of Secrets, with Tantor Media

  #1 Bestselling Series: The Mercy Carver Series:

  Award-Winning Dark Shadows

  Audio Book, Dark Shadows

  Award-Winning Blood Moon

  Multi-Award-Winning #1 Bestseller, The Errant Flock

  Audio Book, The Errant Flock

  Award-Winning Bestseller, The Scattered Flock

  Award Winning, Flock, The Gathering of The Damned

  Multi-Award-Winning #1 Bestseller, Swearing Allegiance

  Award-Winning #1 Bestseller, The German Half-Bloods

  Coming Soon, The Mercy Carver Series, The Flock Trilogy, Swearing Allegiance, The German Half-Bloods on audio in association with Cherry-Hill Audio Publishing

  Coming Spring 2019, Before the Brightest Dawn, Book 3 of The Half-Bloods Series

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to the following people:

  Editor, Gabi Plumm

  Proofreading, Caro Powney

  Patricia Rose

  Graphics and cover design, Adriana Hanganu,

  A huge thank you to all my readers who keep the faith and tell me to hurry with the next book. Without you, my titles would lie on a shelf collecting dust.

  My thanks also to friends who, every so often, dig me out of my hermit’s hole to have some fun and to Robyne who kept a tight rein on my German. My thanks also to her grandfather for the absolutely coincidental sharing of his name; Dieter Vogel.

  This book is dedicated to my darling mother, Rena, an avid reader in her time. Gone, never forgotten, always loved.

  Author’s Note

  This book is written in UK English and all spelling, punctuation, and grammar adhere to UK English, World English, and Oxford English Dictionaries.

  All German names and connotations have been written with German spellings.

  I hope you enjoy The Vogels: On all Fronts

  To be continued, Spring 2019

  Prologue

  Dieter Vogel

  Berlin, Germany

  April 1933

  Dieter Vogel peeked at his watch. He was running late for his next appointment with his old friend, Freddie Biermann; however, his present luncheon host, Konstatin Hierl, the State Secretary in the Reich Ministry of Labour, was his priority. Prior to the Führer taking office, Hierl had been a high-ranking member of the NSDAP and head of the Party’s labour organisation, the Nationalsozialistischer Arbeitsdienst. During that period, he had been instrumental in helping Dieter to acquire significant government contracts. He was not a man to walk out on.

  Dieter held a hand over his crystal Scotch glass. “I really shouldn’t, Konstantin. As good as it is, I think I’ve had quite enough.”

  “One more, Dieter. Now that those boring farts have left, we can have a real conversation. Besides, thanks to Herr Goebbels’ boycott of Jewish businesses, Berlin is at a standstill today, and so are your factories. Ach, come on, you deserve a break.”

  “Oh, all right, you’ve twisted my arm.”

  The two men appeared relaxed in their chairs, sipping whiskies. But privately, Dieter was anxious about the damage the boycott was doing to his business, as well as the ticking off he’d get from Freddie for keeping him waiting. Biermann was a stickler for punctuality, always arriving at his destination ten minutes before time.

  Konstantin swirled the ice around inside his glass. Dieter had also sensed unease in the Minister during the long lunch they’d just had with other prominent business owners.

  “You seem quiet today, Konstantin. Is something bothering you?” Dieter asked, putting his own concerns aside.

  As he set his glass on the table, Heirl scratched one side of the rather untidy moustache that encroached onto his chubby cheeks. Still silent, he picked up his silver cigarette case and clicked it open. From a line of ten, he slipped one cigarette through the elastic holding band and then tapped it upright on the table to loosen the tobacco before lighting it. “I’m quiet but always thinking, Dieter,” he finally said. “You know, the Party needs industry giants like you. You donate money and employ more than a thousand workers in your haulage company, depots and factories, and whatever else you have up your sleeve, and you have great influence over the way your workers think politically. You’re also in a unique position to have the ear of politicians like me, but without having to get entangled in a web of dirty politics. You’re fortunate. There are times I think it’s a curse having inside information on the men leading the country.”

  “Why?” Dieter’s forehead wrinkled with surprise.

  “I’m seeing things, hearing things I don’t like, but I’ve got to keep my mouth shut no matter how much I might disapprove or want to change policies. That’s my curse.” Hierl exhaled a long plume of smoke. “Herr Hitler’s sycophants – and I don’t include myself in that bunch of power-crazed megalomaniacs – are squabbling amongst themselves for positions in the cabinet. The infighting is oblique, of course, never fully out in the open because Hitler detests discord amongst his ministers. But I swear, Dieter, Göring, Himmler, Goebbels, and Hess – yes, him too – spend more time trying to sabotage each other than working together on policies that will benefit the country.”

  Dieter was engrossed. It was rare to get insights like these into Hitler’s cab
inet woes. “I see. I can understand why you feel frustrated. Tell me, Konstantin, are they all aligned with the Fürher’s policies?”

  “Mostly. The anti-Semites in Hitler’s inner circle are resisting those who are more moderate towards the Jews. Personally, I don’t see the Kikes as a threat to Germany, and neither does Herr Göring.”

  “He’s an odd fish. He doesn’t seem to fit the socialist profile at all,” Dieter said.

  “I agree, yet Hitler gave him Minister of the Interior for Prussia, the largest state in Germany. Ach, no one will ever change Göring. He’ll always see himself as aristocratic, what with his ridiculous flamboyant outfits and living in his family’s castles. But unlike Goebbels, he’s not opposed to the inclusion of Jews in German life.”

  “I’ve always found Rudolph Hess to be a rather strange man as well,” Dieter mused. “Just before the general election … yes, just weeks before, I was at a dinner party with Hess, and he said the most extraordinary thing. He mentioned at the table … in front of ten other men, mind you, that he didn’t do anything until he’d consulted with the stars, the pendulum, and Nostradamus’ works. He believes in telekinesis. Did you know?”

  Hierl nodded. “Yes, unfortunately I did. He once vowed at a meeting that one day he would move objects with his mind, including a chair. God help Germany if Hitler were to die or be removed. Hess, as Deputy Chancellor, would take over and probably start a crazed religious cult.”

  Both men, unwinding with the aid of their whiskies, enjoyed a moment of silence until Hierl said, “Hess is not the only one with strange ideas, Dieter. Himmler also has an interest in the occult. He interprets Germanic neopagan and Völkisch beliefs, which he claims espouse the racial policy of Nazi Germany. He’s already incorporated esoteric symbolism and rituals into the SS – now, that’s a man who detests Jews.”

  Dieter, his head spinning with too much alcohol, was fascinated by the titbit about Himmler’s hobby. “He’s never hidden his hatred of the Jews, but you know, I think Goebbels…”

  “I call him the Nazi spin-master.”

  Dieter chuckled. “I call him a man with a vitriolic, pathological hatred of the Jewish race, bordering on obsession. He’s probably the most anti-Semitic member of Hitler’s cabinet. What do you think?”

  Hierl shrugged, “There’s not much difference between him and Himmler to be honest, only their ideas on how to deal with the Jewish problem.”

  Dieter placed his empty glass on the table in front of him and asked, “And what of our Führer? Is he really against the Jews?”

  “Hmm. Yes, I believe so. But not to the same extent as Goebbels and Himmler. The thing is, Dieter, the economy is not doing as well as the Party is leading the country to believe. It hasn’t pulled itself out of the depression yet, and as much as I hate to admit it, demonising the Jews is a clever move. It shifts the blame for the lack of economic progress onto them, and what’s more, it casts them as the architects of Germany’s woes.”

  ******

  Dieter zig-zagged through the crowded streets towards the beerhall he frequented once a week with Freddie Biermann. Although he was late for the meeting because of his lunch, street demonstrations, and picket lines, he halted for the third time when he reached a mob standing in front of a shop. One of Rohm’s Stormtroopers was putting the finishing touches to a white Star of David that he’d painted on a grocer shop’s window. Next to him, another Brownshirt was writing the word JUDE on the wall. He turned to glare at the bystanders, his face full of malice, the paint brush waving in his hand. “Jude – you see what that says? Look, everyone – Jude – he’s not welcome here!”

  Another Sturmabteilung, a pubescent-looking bully, blocked the shop’s entrance and shouted out the written text on the wide placard he held flush against his chest, “Buy from real Germans! Don’t buy anything from Jews. They are our downfall. Go back to Palestine, Jews! Get out!”

  Dieter grumbled to himself as he bumped into people watching yet another ugly scene outside a Jewish jewellery store two doors along from the grocers. Hitler had won the Chancellorship in the most spectacular way, using a very simple slogan to convey his message: Brot und Arbeit, Bread and Work, yet he had chosen to begin his term in office under a banner of anti-Semitism in its rawest form. It was ironic and deeply troubling.

  Dieter’s factory had ground to a standstill that morning due to the senseless disruption caused by the nationwide boycott of Jewish businesses. The Brownshirts had formed a picket line outside his gates, preventing Jewish workers from entering. Deliveries of machinery parts and tools ordered weeks earlier couldn’t get through. His suppliers, many of whom were Jewish, had telephoned to apologise for the inconvenience; truck loaders and drivers had been scared off by thugs who had destroyed merchandise and flattened truck tyres to stop them from leaving the depots. It was blatant hooliganism coming directly from Herr Goebbels’ office. The Minister of Propaganda had been on the radio for days spurring the would-be protesters on. He’d gone beyond mere encouragement, insisting it was the duty of all Germans to deny Jews a living for the sake of the country. Dieter was furious. This carry-on wasn’t why he’d voted for Hitler. This was not what he wanted for Germany.

  As always on a Friday, the beerhall was full of men enjoying a few drinks before their wives grabbed their pay packets. Because of the mild spring weather, the owner had opened the French doors leading to the establishment’s back garden, and drinkers were standing in groups discussing the day’s events.

  Dieter found Freddie reading a newspaper at a small round table near the garden’s end wall. “Sorry, Freddie,” he said, wiggling his backside into a hard wrought-iron chair without a cushion.

  “It’s not like you to be late.” Freddie tapped his watch. “Sit, you look puffed out. I’ll get the beers. I’m one ahead of you already.”

  When Freddie returned, Dieter took the tall, cold glass in both hands and drank the frothy golden liquid until he was breathless. He exhaled. “It’s chaos out there, Freddie. I don’t know what’s come over people. How could they fall for Goebbels’ fearmongering?” He banged the almost empty glass on the table. “Although, having said that, not everyone was obeying those browbeaters blocking shop doors. Some sensible people are barging their way inside and buying what they damn well please, as they should.”

  “They’re curious, I suppose. Herr Goebbels instructed people to stay at home and not to go anywhere near Jewish shops or businesses, and what do the people do? They run from one Jewish establishment to the next to appease their curiosity. It’s like a waiter saying in a restaurant, “Please don’t touch the plate; it’s hot,” and the diner then burns his fingers because he just had to do it. Apparently, the word don’t is a paradox, with don’t meaning do.”

  Dieter grunted. “Can you blame them for wanting to see the boycott for themselves? I thought all this anti-Semitism was just an election stunt…”

  “It wasn’t a stunt, Dieter,” Freddie interrupted. “It was a promise, and Herr Hitler’s going to keep it. You should be pleased.”

  Dieter frowned. Why should he be happy about businesses losing money? The divisive rhetoric was tearing the seams of democracy apart. He took a more measured sip of his remaining beer and decided that getting even more drunk than he already was had lost its appeal somewhere between Wilhelmstraße and Brandenburg Gate. Drowning anger in alcohol wasn’t going to work anymore. His guilty conscience for voting the Nazi Party into power wouldn’t be assuaged by a few beers and a double Scotch, nor would his premonitions of doom. He’d made a monumental mistake, and so had every other fool who’d been swept away by Hitler’s populist promises, including Freddie.

  “You’re not sticking up for the Jews, are you?” asked Freddie, breaking into Dieter’s thoughts. “If you are, you’re being unfair to Herr Hitler.”

  “Unfair?”

  “Yes. He’s got to take tactical considerations into account every time he makes a move. It can’t be easy manoeuvring between the Party’s radical in
clinations and the need to satisfy the conservative German elites, not to mention international public opinion. I think he’s getting it just right. The Jews need to go if we’re to stand any chance of economic recovery. There’s no other way of looking at it.”

  Shocked, Dieter played with his glass, turning it around in his fingers. The Jews need to go. The Jews need to go. The changes in Freddie’s political attitudes were like fissures fracturing their friendship. He could no longer be honest with his opinions or thoughts. He was not even sure if he could trust his oldest friend anymore. Maybe fissure was the wrong word; it was more like a glacial crevasse, a minefield that would blow his head off if he said the wrong thing.

  “Are you regretting your vote, Dieter?” Freddie asked outright.

  “I regret what Goebbels is doing today. I don’t like my businesses being hurt by his ludicrous propaganda campaigns. Half my workforce in Dresden and Berlin are Jewish, and this nonsense is damaging to Germany’s growth.”

  “I asked if you regretted your vote.”

  Dieter flinched at Freddie’s harsh tone. “No. I still think Hitler’s the man for the job.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  After their second beer, it seemed that Freddie’s mood lightened. Dieter laughed at his joke directed at the stupid Jews, but he was heavy-hearted. Five years earlier, his and Freddie’s principles had been aligned. They’d actively followed Adolf Hitler’s rise to power, attending his rallies and meetings together and joining the Nazi Party on the same day. The Führer’s promises to lift people out of poverty and to regain Europe’s respect for Germany on the international stage had convinced both men that the country they’d fought for in the Great War would be returned to greatness under a new, dynamic leader. But unlike Freddie, Dieter’s faith in that magnificent goal had waned.