The German Half-Bloods (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 1) Page 25

  It seemed that his mother was fully aware of what was going on in Germany. Tea, for her, was the best medicine in the world. It cured everything that was physically and mentally wrong with a person and made them feel better about even the gravest of circumstances.

  He watched her cut two slices of cake, and mulled over how she’d take the news about Max being an imposter in Brandenburg. Even as you pour your beloved tea, your son, Max, a British spy, is walking the hallways of a Nazi run hospital.

  This was like the worst nightmare where one knows he wants to wake up but can’t. He’d been excited, happy, and full of hope on the tram ride home from Herr Brandt’s, and now, an hour later his plans for Judith Weber were in tatters.

  He resented her decision to leave without so much as a by your leave. Because of his involvement with her, he’d risked Max’s life, had been a pain in Brandt’s proverbial arse and had run headlong into the international world of espionage. Guilt had led him to take desperate measures and lose his reason, and for what? Judith Weber had walked out the door without a proper goodbye.

  Paul recalled the strain in Max’s voice when they were driving to the train station. Everything had been discussed regarding the parts they had to play, but until that point, Max had not talked in detail about the family.

  “I almost thought of going to Mother and Father’s house and walking in on them. It stinks being this close and not being able to see them. It drives me mad just thinking about it.”

  Paul sat bolt upright in the chair as a terrible thought struck him. “Mother, when will Father be home?”

  “I don’t know. He’s staying late at the factory because he went in late.”

  Paul shot out of his chair, took his mother’s hand and led her into the hall. He picked up the telephone and said, “Get him on the phone. Tell him to come home straight away. Say it’s urgent, but that you don’t want to talk about it on the telephone. And tell him not to make or receive any other phone calls, especially to or from the hospital.”

  Laura’s eyes widened as Paul’s fear became contagious. “What’s going on? Does the hospital know you’re here? What did you say to Herr Rudolph when you left Brandenburg?”

  “Shh, Mother, please, do as I ask right now. I’ll tell you everything when Father gets home.”

  After the difficult phone call, during which Laura had burst into tears, she and Paul returned to the kitchen.

  “Will you look for Judith?” Laura asked.

  Paul shook his head. Her parting note had been clear. She didn’t want him or his help. “No, I won’t go after her. She knew the SS doctors were coming for her, and she won’t go home to her flat. She could be anywhere by now – I just wanted to do some good – forgive me, Mother, I was wrong to bring her here.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Max adjusted his tie and put on the SS cap. He studied himself in the mirror, scratched the stubble on his face, unused to it and not liking it, then removed his cap again to wet and flick up his hair. It was slightly shorter than Paul’s, but no one would suspect him of being an imposter because of a different haircut. It was his face and voice that mattered and having Paul’s mannerisms, such as the most annoying one where he ran his fingers down his face when he was nervous, making a scratching sound on his bristles. The clock on his room’s wall struck five in the afternoon. He had an hour to kill before the meeting with Herr Rudolph, the hospital’s director. After that, he’d begin his first shift.

  Paul had mentioned that Rudolph was supposed to be a long-time friend of their father’s, but he suspected that Papa had never met the director before the night of the graduation party. Paul was also convinced that Rudolph had gone to Dresden specifically to reel their father into Brandenburg’s gas programme by using Paul as a hostage. It was troubling to think that their father had lied, but what was even more disturbing was that he’d bartered Paul to the Nazis in return for financial gain.

  Paul had described Hans Rudolph in detail, right down to his round, freckled face, beaky nose, black glasses and white hair. “I don’t have daily dealings with him at the hospital,” Paul had also told him. “We’re not friends, but we are polite to each other at meetings. You won’t get a word in, Max, so remember to nod a lot and laugh if he tells a joke. He thinks he’s a bit of a comedian. He also likes to have tea during meetings, and he personally pours it for his guests. He prides himself on remembering who takes what, so don’t ask for milk and for God’s sake don’t take your usual three sugars.”

  Max looked out of his third-floor window. A dense treeline was about three hundred yards away, but above it and beyond he spotted the barn’s roof and its tall chimney stack. Behind that he could see the prison buildings where inmates were being held in secret. He was going to confront those places in a few hours, and God help him, see despicable things being done to human beings. As much as he hated the thought, he was still convinced that he had to see it for himself in order to write an accurate report later.

  It had been a hard job convincing Heller to allow the mission to go ahead, Max reflected, as he lit a cigarette, hurriedly stubbing it out when he remembered that Paul didn’t smoke. A role of this magnitude behind enemy lines would normally take days if not weeks to plan, and would typically be extremely important. But Heller had recognised a unique opportunity to get to Brandt, code-named Romeo because of his love of William Shakespeare’s plays, and to get a clearer picture of what was going on in Berlin from inside the Reich, right under the Germans’ noses.

  Max had first put the idea of this mission into Heller’s mind by using Romeo’s situation. “He’s been out in the cold for far too long, and you know how Brandt gets when he’s neglected. Sooner or later, someone at the office will have to go to Berlin to check in with him. We can’t send money to him the way we used to, and no one can manoeuvre around Berlin as well as I can,” he’d pointed out, to which Heller had responded, “True. Romeo is overdue his operational and living expenses, but this is a reckless plan, given that we’re at war. No agent has gone to Germany since August of last year, and that was Frank. It’s a different world now, Max.”

  Max recalled the silence that had ensued. Heller had been deep in thought, shaking his head at whatever he was thinking and weaving his pen through the spaces between his fingers. “I’ve just had the most ridiculous notion,” Heller had finally said. “Imagine MI6 having identical twins as agents, both being in two different places at the same time, confusing the hell out of the enemy – it’s espionage heaven – our boss will sanction the mission, but he’ll want your brother on board with us. Can you convince him?” Max had assured him that he could, but he had no intention of forcing his brother into a career that was clearly at odds with his gentle nature.

  Paul’s study notes were on top of the bed. Max leafed through them, seeing mostly written medical mumbo-jumbo and drawings of the human anatomy. Nothing of importance jumped out at him. He supposed it was forbidden to take notes of the mass murders taking place in the name of that ambiguous term, eugenics.

  Paul had briefed Max on the secrecy surrounding the gas chamber. He’d also handed over his shift schedules, which, he’d pointed out, Leitner had hand delivered to their parents’ house together with the SS enlistment papers.

  Max had learnt all he could about August Leitner, the SS Hauptsturmführer, who seemed more interested in giving Paul a rough time than in being a doctor who genuinely cared for his patients’ well-being. Paul had mentioned that he’d never once seen Leitner examine a sick person on the wards or assist in any of the sterilisation procedures. “Be careful around Leitner, he’s vicious,” Paul had said. “He has this way of looking at people, as though he’s trying to bore into their minds. You’ll be stuck with him like glue for the next two days and nights. I’ve been seconded to the Görden Prison complex under his command until I’m fully trained in gas chamber procedures, so don’t question his orders.”

  Paul had whispered the words gas chamber as though he was ashamed to say t
hem aloud, but he’d recovered quickly to stress the reason he was allowing the swap between them to go ahead. “You’ll be working in a completely different part of the complex. It’s run by the SS, not the doctors. You probably won’t go near the wards, and if you do it won’t be to see live patients. And you’ll be on night shift and won’t have to witness any surgeries. Max, those are the only reasons I’m allowing you to take my place, and because I want the British and her allies to know about the gassings.”

  Max rested his head against the pillow, lamenting Paul’s experiences in Brandenburg. His twin didn’t have a nasty bone in his body nor a malicious thought in his mind. As a child, he would see a fallen bird and try to heal it, and collect frogs and ladybirds because he thought he could protect them from predators. He wasn’t a saint by any means, who was? He’d been a scrapper in the playground as much as the next boy, but whereas he, Max, would punch his fist in the air and bask in victory after winning a fight, Paul hid, swathed in guilt for bloodying his opponent’s nose.

  Paul had a placid soul. He didn’t understand the nature of conflict where poker-type politics played a significant role. Max wasn’t sure if the British would take any action regarding the gas programme. Very often, one side was loath to reveal to the other what it knew, and thus, never acted on intelligence. Secrets were gold, every one of them with a price tag that could be bartered or sold when the market was right – but even knowing the illicitness of war, he had assured Paul that his report would reach MI6 and the Central British Fund for Jewish Relief – that he could guarantee if he got back to London in one piece.

  Max, becoming nervous about the night ahead, paced the room. Paul had said several times that it was too late for him. “I’ve seen it. I’ve been party to it, but you don’t have to put yourself through this.” But Max was convinced he did. He had two shifts to get through, and during his time off he intended to mix with other doctors and SS officers at the hospital to find out all he could about the Nazi’s plans. There were no guarantees that he’d pick up a crumb of usable intelligence but he’d have a damn good stab at it.

  He ran his finger across the map of the hospital that Paul had drawn, tracing the line from his room to Rudolph’s office; ground floor, up the stairs, first right and then second left. He looked up at the clock. He had ten minutes to get there. Paul had indicated that it took five, but he was familiar with the hospital’s maze of corridors.

  After brushing a bit of fluff off his jacket, he positioned his cap on his head and stared at his face once more in the mirror. “I am Doctor Paul Vogel – Paul Vogel.” He cleared his throat and heard Paul’s voice in his head. It was slighter softer than his, but that was the only difference. Their accents and intonations were identical, as was the way they laughed and smiled. He stared at his lips, imagining Paul’s, then he looked at his eyebrows and pictured Paul’s lifting when he was excited and joining in the middle when angry. He practised making Paul’s faces, but he reminded himself again that he had no need to rehearse, their facial features behaved in the same way quite naturally.

  Finally, adrenaline rushed through him, making him breathless. Nervousness before a mission was a good thing, he’d always maintained. Any agent who walked into danger without nerves would be careless. An apathetic man in this job was usually rash, a bad observer and analyst, and lasted no more than five minutes.

  Max clenched his fists at his side and made a slow growling noise. There was nothing laid back about him. He was on a knife’s edge and knew exactly what was at stake. “You can do this. You are Paul Vogel – Paul Vogel. Good morning, Herr Rudolph, Hauptsturmführer Leitner, and not forgetting Fräulein Göring, Rudolph’s secretary. I’m glad to be back. I’d be honoured to gas Jews,” he growled again, stretching the muscles around his mouth. “Heil bloody Hitler, you bastards!”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “I see you’ve come to your senses, Untersturmführer Vogel,” Leitner said, eyeing Max’s lieutenant’s uniform. “It looks good on you. Do it justice.”

  Max, standing at the door to Rudolph’s office, nodded at the three men already seated: Rudolph, Leitner, and a third man he knew nothing about. “Yes, Hauptsturmführer, I’m ready to do my duty,” Max responded to Leitner.

  Rudolph pointed to a chair. “Come in, Vogel. Sit.”

  Max shot a sideways glance at Leitner as he took the chair next to him. His twin’s description of the man was spot on. Early thirties, handsome with a penetrating gaze through dark blue, almond-shaped eyes. He was the quintessential German Aryan with a blond mop of hair and fair skin. In Paul’s brief, he had mentioned that Leitner was from upper Austria, Linz, the town where Adolf Hitler had been born, and that he’d volunteered for the Waffen SS before the war had even begun. He was ruthless, dedicated and underhanded, and his family, prominent Nazis, had moved to Berlin to be near him.

  Rudolph smiled approvingly at Max, then addressed the unknown man in the room, “Herr Heinze, this is Paul Vogel, our new SS medical officer working with Hauptsturmführer Leitner. Of course, you know Vogel’s father?”

  “Yes, indeed. I briefly met Dieter some months ago.” Heinze nodded then addressed Max. “If I remember correctly, you were suspended last week, Dr. Vogel?”

  “Yes, Herr Heinze, and I deeply regret the actions that led to the suspension.” Max heard Leitner’s grunt and continued, “As Hauptsturmführer Leitner remarked, I’ve now come to my senses.”

  “I’m a great believer in forgiveness, Paul. Everyone deserves a second chance. How is your father? I’m sorry I couldn’t attend the meeting at his house in Berlin last week. Next time, perhaps. What did he think of the gift I sent him?”

  Max smiled and nodded to hide his panic. What gift? Was it to drink, eat or look at? “He enjoyed it very much, thank you, sir,” he answered.

  Rudolph said, “You missed a good piece of chocolate cake at the Vogel’s, Hans. Paul, please thank your mother again for her hospitality the next time you see her, will you?”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  “Good.” Rudolph then turned to the business at hand. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, we were talking about when we should relocate.”

  Leitner snatched a piece of paper from the desk. “Must we go through this again? I told you earlier, I don’t wish to move that part of the operation at this stage just because a group of people from the town have been asking questions about what we’re doing in Görden. It’s none of their business, and it will send the wrong sort of message if we let them dictate to us.”

  “Of course, it’s their business,” Rudolph retorted. “They’re seeing the smoke and smelling the stench. They obviously want to know what we’re throwing into the fire. I blame those blasted propaganda notes that were distributed.”

  “What notes are those?” Heinze asked.

  “They were written by a troublemaker warning people not to let their children be admitted to the hospital. Whoever scattered them around Brandenburg’s town centre should be strung up for treason.”

  “I believe they caught the man,” Leitner said. “He was arrested in Berlin.”

  “Who told you that? Why was I not informed of this problem sooner?” demanded Heinze.

  “I’m informing you now. He was a Jew causing mischief not only in Brandenburg but in a Berlin Jewish district where he lived. He won’t be doing it again. He’s been dealt with.”

  “How?” Rudolph asked.

  “Executed by firing squad.”

  “He might be dead, but it sounds as though he did a lot of damage before they shut him up,” said Heinze, his face reddening. “I knew I shouldn’t have spent an entire week in Poland. My business in Auschwitz could have waited.”

  Leitner lit a cigarette, then returned the gold-plated lighter to his jacket pocket. “You wouldn’t have stopped the man even if you had you been here. The crux of the matter is civilians don’t have the right to question the actions of the Interior Ministry. I can have a list of Brandenburg troublemakers compiled by tomor
row morning, if you wish, and have the traitors on transports to Dachau by the afternoon. If we make examples of those spreading the rumours, we’ll stop future ones from starting.” Leitner tossed the paper back onto the desk. “Don’t you agree?”

  Hans Heinze was the Nazi who was heading up the Görden programme, and he also served as one of the three evaluators for children’s euthanasia. He picked up the discarded paper and studied it. “Hauptsturmführer, I don’t like this situation,” he said. “Brandenburg and Görden’s prime purpose is to serve as models for other wards throughout Germany and to make sure that all physicians assigned to the euthanasia programme are trained properly in order to provide terminally ill children and adults painless but necessary deaths. What we don’t want is a public outcry before we even get things off the ground. We have achieved our objectives here, so maybe it is time to move on.”

  “We still have a long way to go,” Rudolph reminded him.

  “And we will continue this path, Herr Rudolph. With Vogel Industries supplying us with what we need, and other camps being built as we speak, we can expect to expand the programme by next year to all our territories, new and existing. But we can’t continue to operate here in secrecy if people are coming to Görden’s gates demanding to know why there is smoke and a stink of flesh coming out of the chimney stack.”

  “That is my view exactly, Herr Heinze.” Rudolph nodded.