The German Half-Bloods (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  “Now, Dieter, you mustn’t be biased,” the beaky man said. “Psychiatric care is just as valuable as cutting someone open and removing a piece of rotten something or other.”

  Paul, dismayed at his father’s reaction, had not wanted the news to come out while standing in front of a room full of Nazis. Again, he looked to his mother for support. She’d been pleased that he’d not been influenced by her husband or anyone else for that matter. According to her, Father had already told everyone that his son was going to be a world-class surgeon one day. She’d also said his father was a snob who cared far too much about keeping up appearances.

  “… we should congratulate Wilmot tonight as well,” Dieter was now saying as though he wished to brush Paul and his news under the carpet. “Go on, Wilmot, stand beside your brother on the landing.”

  When the brothers were together, Dieter continued, “How could I pass up the opportunity to mention my youngest son’s achievements. After vigorous training, Wilmot is finally wearing his Waffen-SS uniform. The boy couldn’t wait to put it on.” He raised his glass and smiled at the people gathered around him. “As members of the Nazi Party, I know you will join me in a toast for his success, so here’s to both my boys, Paul and Wilmot!”

  “To Paul and Wilmot!” the chorus of voices echoed.

  Paul, presuming his father had finished, took a step down.

  “Wait!” Dieter shouted. “If you’d all indulge me, I’d also like to raise my glass to my absentee son, Max. Paul’s twin wanted to be here, but he’s doing outstandingly well in his job at a major city planning firm in London. Most of you here don’t know this, but he’s a fully-fledged cartographer and geographer.” Dieter paused to allow for the enthusiastic clapping.

  “And will he stay in England?” an SS Hauptsturmführer asked.

  “I believe so. He’s settled there,” Dieter responded cheerfully.

  Paul, gazing at his father, suddenly felt an urge to hug him as he struggled to contain his emotions. Papa missed Max terribly; they all did.

  “We Vogels are a close-knit family, and Max’s absence ... you can imagine how it hurts us that he’s not here. It’s still … well … if you would raise your glasses to him...”

  “To Max!” Paul shouted.

  Paul walked down the rest of the stairs on shaky legs. An argument with his father about the choice of medical speciality would come at the end of the night or tomorrow morning, yet he felt as though a ton of bricks had been lifted from his shoulders and he could breathe again. The truth was out. He, Paul Vogel, was not going to be a famous surgeon or a healer of plagues or rare diseases. He’d chosen to research psychological illnesses, ignored by many doctors who believed them to be terminal, to treat the mentally ill and the troubled, because that subject had called to him. I’ve made my decision, Papa, and you will just have to get used to it he’d tell his father as soon as the last guest left tonight.

  Chapter Three

  It was past midnight, and only a handful of guests remained. Most of the partygoers had left the Vogel’s home about an hour after the canapés had dried up, and just two of Dieter’s friends lingered in the garden with a final fat cigar and a last snifter of brandy. Laura was taking a breather in the parlour, drinking coffee, while Hannah and Frank had left the house earlier to take a stroll along the river embankment.

  Paul, who had been instructed to mingle with the guests until the last person left, leant against the terrace’s stone balustrade to admire the end of the garden where tiny twinkling bulbs lit up the trees for this special occasion. Halfway down, near the fish pond, his father sat in one of Mother’s new outdoor chairs, deep in conversation with his friends, neither of whom Paul had ever seen before tonight. He was relieved to have a few minutes to gather his thoughts and plan his defence before Wilmot returned with his glass refilled with brandy. His younger brother, angry about the news of Paul wanting to live in London with Max, had reacted as violently as their father had, and Paul, knowing his brother well, was expecting an ear bashing.

  It was a beautiful night, dry, still and mild. Paul breathed in the scents of flowers and newly cut grass and then cast his eyes over the lawn beyond the terrace. It sloped down to the garden wall built on the bank of the Elbe River where the Vogel’s motor-powered boat was tethered to the jetty.

  The baroque city of Dresden was a breath of fresh air after Munich. It stood on both banks of the Elbe River, mostly in the Dresden Basin with the further reaches of the Eastern Ore Mountains to the south, the steep slope of the Lusatian granitic crust to the north and the Elbe Sandstone Mountains to the east. The views were spectacular wherever one stood on the embankments, and he could understand why his parents had chosen this house where they spent most of their summer vacations and Christmases.

  The garden was his mother’s pride and joy. She had contracted a man who worked tirelessly in it from March until November, landscaping, weeding and pruning the prize roses to try and recapture the English garden she’d left behind in Kent. His father would pay any price to keep her happy.

  “Do you remember nights like these when we were growing up?” Wilmot said softly beside him.

  Paul turned and took the refilled glass from his brother. “Do you mean when you, Hannah, Max and I used to sneak out of the house late at night to jump off the jetty into the river for a swim?”

  Wilmot chuckled, “Yes, and afterwards we’d lie on the jetty looking up at the stars, hoping to see planets like this one with people walking on them – the silly buggers that we were – do you still do that?”

  Paul snorted. “That wasn’t as bad as the game you made us play. Remember the one where we had to imagine what the families were doing in the houses on the other side of the river. I hated that stupid game.”

  “Because you had a stinking imagination,” said Wilmot.

  “Those were simpler days, weren’t they? It’s hard to remember us seeing eye to eye on most things, and Max being here with us … God, I miss him,” Paul sighed. “I’m glad you came home today, Willie, despite our stupid spats – you can be a pain in the arse at times.”

  Wilmot sipped his drink and a comfortable silence ensued. Again, Paul focused his eyes on the tiny sparkling bulbs strung from trees and bushes, one to the other, then draped over them like Christmas tree lights. A childish imagination would say they were fairies flitting from place to place, but, Paul thought, their childish innocence, with all its glorious memories was long gone now.

  “I know you don’t approve of me joining the SS, Paul, but I hope you accept my choice, just as I did when you let father down to become a doctor.” Wilmot shrugged. “I might not have your brains, but I have other skills, and unlike you, I believe Hitler is good for our country. I don’t know why you’re against his policies after everything he’s done for us.”

  “I accept who you’ve become,” Paul responded, determined not to spoil the present friendliness between them. “But don’t ask me to approve of the Nazi Party because that’s not going to happen. And while we’re at it, what exactly has Hitler done for us?”

  Paul was astounded by his brother’s devotion to the Führer. They hadn’t spoken to each other in over a year because of their polarised views. “Don’t answer that. The last time we spoke to each other, you finished the conversation by punching me in the mouth. I’m not going to talk politics with you again.”

  “Nor should you. Traitors and dissidents are being arrested and put into camps every day for saying the things you do. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t say another word against Hitler.”

  “Is that a threat from the SS I’m hearing?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Wilmot mumbled. “I’m just saying that you’d be wise to keep your thoughts to yourself, that’s all.”

  Paul tossed his drink back. He wanted to be on good terms with his younger brother who was still awaiting his first posting. He had no idea where the SS were going to send him, but Wilmot was excited about his new career. “So, where do you
think they’ll send you?”

  “I don’t know. Since Hitler and Stalin’s pact for Eastern Europe, new borders have been mapped. It could be anywhere. I’ll probably be sent outside Germany.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Well, yes. They’ve agreed to divide Eastern Europe between themselves, haven’t they? I can’t remember who gets what exactly, but I do know that Germany is looking to expand into Western Poland and Lithuania.”

  “If Adolf Hitler puts so much as his big toe into Poland we’ll face another major war. Just because Stalin and the Führer agree to take what’s not rightfully theirs doesn’t mean that Britain or France or anyone else will allow it. Jesus, Wilmot, Hitler is not God.”

  “Maybe he isn’t, but he’s determined to purify our race and give us back our pride. That’s been a long time coming. Germans deserve more living space, more respect. I’m sick of seeing Jews running our financial institutions, gypsies and migrants cluttering our streets and taking our jobs. Ever since that bloody Treaty of Versailles, we’ve been forced to destroy our industries...”

  Paul raised his hand with his palm facing Wilmot. “No. Wait a minute. Germany was told to disarm its Rheinland region and to destroy its heavy arms industry. It wasn’t told to shut down all its industries, that’s Goebbel’s propaganda machine talking. He’s spreading all the bogus news. Besides, you weren’t even born when that treaty was signed. Why don’t you read books on the subject instead of believing everything you hear coming from the Nazi Party?”

  “I might not have gone to university like you and Max, smart arse, but I do know what’s been going on in my country since 1918, and you’re wrong, Paul. Ask Mother and Father about how much they suffered after the war ended, forced to live in shame and dictated to by other countries. I know what I’m talking about, and if war is the only way to sort things out and put people in their places then so be it. I’ll fight whoever tries to stop our march towards a better Germany, including Britain if it comes to it.”

  Paul gritted his teeth and took a calming breath. He knew instinctively that this might be the last open discussion they’d have together before Wilmot’s uniform went to his head, and he became a thug and a bully like all the rest of the SS and Gestapo officers he’d come across. It was bound to happen. Their bloody motto was loyalty to Hitler until death, and Adolf was the biggest thug of all.

  “Look, I know you think you’re on the right side of history, but you were too young to remember what happened in Munich five years ago with the Brownshirts,” Paul tried a softer tone.

  “Are you going to give me a history lesson?”

  “No. I just want to remind you about how easily Adolf Hitler can turn on his own followers and what he’s capable of.”

  Wilmot wagged his finger in Paul’s face. “For your information, Ernst Röhm’s Storm Troopers had nothing to do with Hitler’s army. They wanted to be bigger and better than the Wehrmacht and compete against the regular military. They were patrolling the streets like a bunch of delinquent bullies, thinking they were untouchable because they were protecting Nazi Party meetings, marching like pompous pricks in rallies and regularly assaulting people. I was taught their history at basic training camp and know more about Operation Hummingbird than you will ever hear about.”

  “You might have been taught in a classroom about the slaughter, but I was in Munich and lived through those three nights of executions when hundreds of people died.”

  “Rubbish,” Wilmot waved Paul away, “It was nowhere near that number. The newspapers exaggerated and twisted the facts like they always do. Besides, they had no right to write about what happened in the first place.”

  “I was there,” Paul fired back. “I saw the funerals going on and the lists of the dead in newspapers. I heard Goebbels’ radio address describing how Hitler had narrowly prevented Röhm and his sidekick, Schleicher from overthrowing the government and throwing the country into turmoil. That was the lie.”

  “You should be grateful to us. The SS rid Germany of a threat, a menace to society.”

  “Oh, wake up for God’s sake...”

  “What are you two yelling about? We can hear you from down here,” Dieter shouted. “Paul, come here. Herr Rudolph, has something to ask you.”

  Paul turned sharply at the sound of his father’s voice.

  Wilmot stormed back to the house. “Please, wait,” Paul shouted after him, to which Wilmot’s faint reply was, “Get lost.”

  Paul shook his head then reluctantly joined his father facing Herr Rudolph and an SS Hauptsturmführer by the name of Leitner. It had been a hellishly long night full of political correctness, apart from his heated debate with Wilmot, and a five-minute chat with his mother. He was in no mood for any more discussions or to endure polite conversation with his father’s friends, but he’d been brought up with a high standard of manners and etiquette; as co-host he would be the last man standing.

  “Paul, let me introduce you properly to Herr Hans Rudolph and Hauptsturmführer Leitner of the SS Medical Corps.”

  Paul shook the men’s hands and then settled back in his chair.

  “Herr Rudolph and Hauptsturmführer Leitner would like to talk to you about a wonderful opportunity, so I want you to listen carefully and not make any rash decisions. You’ve already shocked me once today.”

  Dieter’s expression was not lost on Paul. A sullen, almost childlike pout seemed to be permanently engraved on his father’s face these days. He was a dry and flinty character by nature, not known for public emotion or affectionate outpourings. His watery blue eyes rarely lit up under thick lashes and unkempt eyebrows that knit perpetually across the bridge of his nose. And his lips, partially thatched by a moustache and beard, turned down like a fish’s mouth giving him a permanent air of disapproval. He rarely laughed aloud or showed his teeth when he smiled, which only solidified his cold exterior and lack of any good humour.

  “So, don’t you think you owe me an apology?” the subject of Paul’s observations asked.

  “No, I don’t think I do, Father. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it’s up to me what I specialise in, and I’ve made my decision about psychiatry.”

  “I know you have, Son,” Dieter mellowed, “and I’m not so much disappointed in you because you chose to do that, but for your secrecy. Why didn’t you tell me? I had appointments lined up for you to see doctors at Berlin’s Beelitz-Heilstätten hospital. You would have had the opportunity to spend your internship and residency under the tutelage of the very best surgeons in the country. I thought you wanted to be a proper doctor...?”

  “I only knew myself a few weeks ago,” Paul interrupted. “I read works by Eugene Bleuler, and I was fascinated by his views and diagnoses of schizophrenia subjects, and Father, I consider psychiatrists to be proper doctors...”

  Herr Rudolph roared with laughter until the sound trailed off to an amused chuckle. “Paul, I’m very happy you said that. I’ve been hearing remarks like that all my adult life. I think your decision to treat the mentally ill is admirable, and I can understand why Eugen Bleuler turned your head. He’s the genius who’s shaped modern psychiatry.”

  Paul’s eyes widened. “You’ve read his works? Are you a psychiatrist, sir?”

  After taking a puff of his cigar, Rudolph answered, “Yes, but I qualified at the turn of the century when medicine was very different. I switched to general medicine during the Great War but went back to psychiatrics when it was over.”

  Paul’s eyes brightened and his desire to retire for the night was instantly replaced by his wish to talk to the birdlike man who had shouted his questions from the hallway. “May I ask why you felt the pull towards psychiatry?” Paul asked.

  “Hmm, a difficult question, and not one I can answer in a few words, but perhaps you’ll understand my reasoning if I quote the cliché, I was drawn to the mysteries of the human mind.”

  Paul nodded enthusiastically.

  “Of course, what you might not know is that at the
height of my career there was not much money to be made in the public sector, at least not in psychiatry. Of course, one could have gone into private practice where one could bore oneself to death in some fine residential centre for the rich. If you go that way, Paul, you’ll find that the wealthy regularly confuse their foul moods and personal problems with mental illness. I always seemed to drift off in sessions with those people. Listening to mollycoddled well-off men and women talk about their unhappy marriages and professional squabbles all day is as tedious as waiting for the tip of a fishing rod to bend. Be careful not to fall into that trap.”

  “You mentioned there was no money in the public sector. Does that mean you’re still in private practice?”

  “No. I returned to state psychiatry five years ago after I was approached by Wilhelm Frick of the Interior Ministry. He requested my expertise in a new programme that was being implemented at that time. You might have heard of it: The Prevention of Hereditarily Diseased Offspring?”

  Paul nodded. “Yes, of course. It prescribes compulsory sterilisation for people with conditions thought to be hereditary.”

  “Exactly. It’s used in cases such as schizophrenia, epilepsy, Huntington’s chorea, and imbecility, and against my better judgement, chronic alcoholism. I felt that people with drinking problems could be treated in a way that doesn’t interfere with the person’s right to procreate, and that it should be exempt from the law. I even took my opinions on the matter to the Hereditary Health Court but lost when the consensus body deemed that alcoholism could be passed from parent to child.”

  Dieter, who’d been listening intently, mumbled, “That does seem a little harsh to me, Heinrich.”

  “It’s been proven,” Hauptsturmführer August Leitner chipped in for the first time. “And I believe you meant to say, Hans, Herr Vogel?”

  “Yes … a slip of the tongue. Forgive me, Hans … too many brandies,” Dieter apologised.

  Paul took his father’s disapproval a step further. “I recall having classes on the subject. I didn’t condone any part of a law that denied a person’s basic right to reproduce. I also read somewhere that since the law’s implementation, an estimated 360,000 people have been sterilised in Germany. Is that true?”