On Either Side

ON EITHER SIDE by Jon Halfhide ‘In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hope on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness; I hear the ever approaching thunder that will destroy us too. I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end and that peace and tranquillity will return again.’ Anne Frank He stood tall and proud, breath steaming as he eyed across the death calm of the frozen battlefield. Nothing stirred, no birdsong; silent now the crack of rifles and boom of artillery. Just the sinking, musky fog of conflict stubbornly remained; the enemy had gone. Beneath the ghostly Death’s Head (Tokenkopf) emblem on his Waffen SS cap, blood and sweat matted his ash blonde hair. His quietening eyes, blue as sapphires, continued to survey the scene like a panther searching for prey. Corpses of men and horses scattered everywhere, pinned to the scene in grotesque throws of death as if the Grim Reaper had swung his cruel scythe in one merciless swoop. The bitter cold grasped the smouldering, torn and ravaged landscape like iron. Burnt-out, smouldering carcasses of tanks and trucks strew the horizon between battle shredded trees silhouetted against the sinking sun like witches fingers clawing at the weary sky. It was late February 1943 and the German forces were retreating westerly towards the Ukraine following defeat by the Russian Red Army at the Battle of Stalingrad. They were cold and hungry as sufficient supplies of food, ammunition and warm clothes had not reached them. Many thousands of troops loyal to the Fuhrer and the Fatherland had simply frozen to death during the many months of this campaign, a waste of lives in the icy wastes of the region. Many of these men had volunteered from Germanic State countries such as Norway, Sweden and Denmark. But to those who remained, whatever their nationality, an air of despondency now suffocated their loyalty and their patriotism. Untersturmfuhrer (Second Lieutenant) Karl Wulf was a young man of glorious good looks and proud Aryan heritage. Like so many other young Germans he’d been swept along by the tide of patriotism that ensued after the country’s humiliation and defeat following the Great War. But Germany’s phoenix would rise again from the ashes thanks to their leader Adolf Hitler. Karl was a huge admirer of The Fuhrer and had been a former member of the Hitler Youth. He had joined the SS in 1939 at just 17 years old, when the regiment was the finest, most admired and respected in the whole German army, at a time before its’ great reputation was slighted by savagery and cruelty. Every proud Nazi had wanted to join the SS; and his parents (even his oppressive father) had brimmed with pride when he was selected for the Officer Cadet School at Brunswick, 145 miles west of his home city Berlin. There he excelled in training showing instinctive qualities of initiative and leadership, quickly graduating to the rank of second lieutenant. He had also demonstrated inane bravery and level-headedness in the field and had been awarded the Iron Cross, second class. Karl was a soldier first and foremost, a fighter with a kill or be killed ethic; never a ruthless cowardly murderer as so many in this regiment had become. On this bitter winter day Karl had been with a squad of almost five hundred SS and Whermacht (regular Army) soldiers when they had encountered a wandering, rogue force of Russian troops and tanks. The battle had been unexpected and fierce, an inferno of hatred, a bullet raged slaughter which had lasted most of the day. Only a few of his comrades in arms remained alive, most of whom lay wounded and huddled behind whatever cover they could find. Among these survivors was his Commanding Officer, Obersturmbannfuhrer (SS Lieutenant Colonel) Fredrik Adler. The Colonel had been shot through the shoulder and Karl had laid him down behind the sanctuary of a stone-frozen horse carcass. Adler’s immediate junior Hauptsturmfuhrer (SS Captain) Marc Schneider was only a couple of years older than Karl, a man he respected albeit with a distrust of his fascist ideology. Just moments beforehand Schneider had led Karl in an assault on a machine-gun nest that was causing havoc among the German ranks, preventing victory and an end to the slaughter. But as the Captain rose from cover to storm the post he was torn apart by a blizzard of bullets, torso shattered like a water melon smashed by a mallet. This happened right before Karl’s horrified gaze, his brother-in-arm’s flesh and innards splattered onto his face and chest forming a scene so bloody and appalling that it provoked an adrenalin fuelled frenzy within the young man, causing him to storm the nest single handed. In an avenging rage of grenades and gun fire, Karl slayed the seventeen Russians responsible for the Captain’s death, bayonetting the last three with the fury of a blood-lust maniac. The remaining enemy troops withdrew, scurrying away like frightened rabbits. The gun shots ceased. An uneasy, baying silence had begun. Karl was shaking, courage fleeing from his psyche like a sneak-away traitor as the horror of what he’d just witnessed and been involved in seeped from his system, the grip of shock he was forced to slap away as if turning from a back-biting friend. He took a deep breath as duty swilled his conscience and he turned in the direction of where he had left the wounded Colonel. As he did so, several white German helmets rose gingerly from behind animal carcasses and burnt-out vehicles, emerging like periscopes surveying c*****e. He could sense the awe in the gazes that trained upon him. As he approached, one of the men, a lanky Private, jumped up and saluted him, slow and admiringly while he gulped air like a beached fish, ‘Sir, what you’ve just done, the bravery I’ve just witnessed with my own eyes…’ Karl interrupted, eying the man dispassionately. ‘Private, I’ve done nothing. We’ve all fought well today.’ ‘But Sir…’, insisted the Private trying to continue. ‘Quiet man!’ instructed Karl firmly. The soldier tensed. ‘Now where is Colonel Adler?’ ‘He’s alright, Sir, being attended to by a medic’, replied the Private. ‘We moved him over there’, he added pointing at a burnt-out vehicle. ‘He’s behind that four- track, Sir. He’s being well cared for’. ‘Thank you,’ Karl answered, less irritated. ‘Now can you please take some men and search the area for any survivors and collect up all the guns and ammunition you can find.’ Gathering discarded weapons was important as their supply had dwindled. They needed these for rearmament and to prevent them falling into the hands of the enemy should they launch another attack. ‘And Private…be bloody careful,’ he added almost as an afterthought. ‘There might be some communist bastards still out there.’ The soldier straightened and saluted again, clicking his heels together obediently. ‘Immediately Sir,’ he replied respectfully. Karl casually reflected the salute then went to search for the Colonel whom he found slumped by the front wheel of the four-track, his wounds being dressed by a member of the KruckenKreuz (German Red Cross). He squatted down to address his superior. Adler’s eyes were screwed shut in his dishevelled, battle-weary face. ‘Sir, it’s Lieutenant Wulf,’ said Karl quietly. The Colonel’s green eyes snapped open. ‘Lieutenant,’ replied Adler, his voice gravelly and tired. ‘Word has reached me of your magnificent act of bravery.’ He tried to reach out but his arm flailed by his side. Karl was concerned. ‘Try not to move Sir. Let them attend to your shoulder.’ ‘I’m alright Lieutenant,’ replied the Colonel indignantly. ‘More tired than hurt; exhausted by this bloody war and the months of this relentless bloody cold.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I will ensure Herr Himmler hears of your act of heroism.’ ‘It wasn’t heroism, Colonel,’ replied Karl. ‘If anything it was rash and foolhardy. I simply saw red and did no more than you would’ve done had you been in my shoes.’ Adler passed a withered, doubtful gaze which met Karl’s. ‘Well we’re getting out of here tomorrow, Lieutenant,’ he replied. ‘We’ve managed to radio for help and there’s a platoon headed our way. We’re going home my friend, those of us that are left.’ He passed a questioning look at Karl. ‘Did Captain Schneider make it?’ ‘He’s dead, Sir,’ replied Karl coldly as the horror of the Captain’s slaughter sparked in his head. ‘My God in Heaven!’ burst the Colonel. He paused while remorse poisoned his thoughts and haggard his face. He looked at Karl with steely eyes. ‘It’s without doubt thanks to you that these few of us left here are still alive, that 30 or 40 of us will get to see our mother’s again.’ He hardened his gaze at Karl. ‘It is my duty, Lieutenant, to make sure a full account of your actions and bravery here today reaches high command and I will recommend you for promotion and award.’ Karl stood and saluted the Colonel as another voice drifted to his ears, calling his attention. He recognised the willowy figure, the man he had asked earlier to search for survivors and weapons. He and four other German troops dragged forward two Russians, limp like rag-dolls and clad in mud and blood smeared khaki trench coats. Karl approached them and their captors threw the prisoners down onto the ice and oily mire with an avenging mercilessness and ire of contempt. The private pointed a machine gun menacingly down at the terrified men grovelling in the mud. ‘Shall we shoot them, Lieutenant?’ he asked. Karl looked to the Colonel who had closed his eyes again and appeared disinterested. He then glanced at the shameful figures sprawled helplessly in the mud. Hatred iced his blue eyes, tempted by the private’s suggestion. But it was unnecessary to add to the death toll, nothing could bring back Schneider and the others who’d sacrificed themselves that day. ‘No, Private, the killing is done,’ he said, sighing resentfully. ‘They too will see their mothers again. Tie them up, they’ll leave with us tomorrow.’ Lieutenant Wulf then searched amongst the c*****e, looming shadows and twisted metal, for survivors most of whom were bunched or laid on the frozen ground, wounded like the Colonel, belligerent in pain and anguish. He took time to talk to each man, reassuring them and taking their names to arrange medical attention as would be necessary. The evening was fast closing in and the temperature dropping rapidly. They would need a fire but there was danger in lighting one as it might lure unwelcome attention to their location. But he considered it a risk worth taking as all their equipment for sleeping in the cold had been obliterated during the fighting of that day. It was a priority for him to keep these brave men warm in the sub-zero temperatures. So he ordered a large fire to be built out of shattered crates and torn canvas, then escorted the Colonel, arm over shoulder, to the fireside and sat him down on an upturned wooden crate. Then the other survivors (34 including the 2 Russians) clambered and limped in bedraggled, pitiful hunched bunches to the welcoming, flickering heat that licked and thawed the frozen air. Some slumped beside the fire others sat on crates, wrapped and huddled around the flames that danced in their eyes and played over their faces, steam lifting from their damp clothes like rising ghosts. Karl then dispatched a posse of six uninjured men to search through the remnants of battle for anything to eat or drink. Within half an hour they returned carrying two large crates of Russian vodka and another full of bread, bacon and eggs. Everyone was ravenous, a chasm in their stomachs left in the wake of adrenalin and fear. So after frying and toasting the food in the raging flames, bacon on sticks, eggs on sheets of bent metal, Karl handed each man a steaming hot sandwich, chunks of bread stuffed with charred eggs and bacon. It was simply the best meal they’d enjoyed for weeks, a silence of gluttony washed down with vodka, all except for one of the Russian prisoners whom Karl noticed wasn’t eating. ‘Eat up man,’ he demanded to the Russian. ‘I don’t know what our prisons are like but that’s probably the best food you’ll have for many months.’ The prisoner remained silent so his comrade sat next to him replied, best he could. ‘It not possible, he Zhid.’ ‘You mean Yid? A Jew?’ asked Karl. ‘Yah, a Jew. No pig allowed.’ Colonel Adler’s ears pricked up. He tried to stand but a shard of pain nailed his shoulder. Instead he looked at the prisoner as a snake might its’ prey. ‘A f*****g Jew,’ he shouted with all the strength he could muster. ‘I can’t share my space around this fire with a f*****g Jew.’ Karl intervened calmly. ‘Colonel it’s only for a few hours until our relief arrives. I beg your compassion, Sir. He’s going to have a rough time ahead as it is.’ Adler relented, his wounds still too sore to warrant further exertion. ‘Just keep the Jew away from me,’ he said wearily. Rank, seniority and, to some extent nationality were forgotten that night as the blaze licked upwards to the star-studded winter sky. There was a happy comradery, a bond that only the horrors of warfare can engender. Happy laughing faces, infused by vodka, bathed in heat and the flickering tangerine luminescence of flames. They talked and laughed as animated shadows pranced between them like court jesters, sung “Lili Marlene, Mein Regiment Mein Heimatland and Das Deutschlandlied” over and over again to a clattering orchestra of mess tins and boots. The vodka swilled and bubbled in gulps until dawn when the rumble of diesel engines thundered towards them. The relief platoon had arrived. They were going home. ------------------------------------- Karl was chauffeured through the war-torn streets of his home town, Berlin, sat in the rear of a black Mercedes staff-car, swastika flags flapping from the bulbous front wings, jubilant, nationalistic emblems of glory. He had been flown from a field aerodrome near Kiev, landing in Berlin a few hours later and then collected by the car. All had been organised with typical German timing and efficiency so that there were no delays with travel, not even time to wash properly nor to change his clothes. This was something he considered a priority since he still wore the blood and mud soiled camouflaged combat uniform he’d worn for the last week or so. And he smelt bad, a smell of battle, sweat and blood much of it being from poor Captain Schneider’s bullet torn torso. Being a soldier in the SS was not always compliant with personal hygiene. The city was barely recognisable, the street scene further obliterated by British bombers since his last visit several months beforehand. That had seemed bad enough but now he only recognised a façade here and there, a statue or fountain choked in dust and rubble. It was saddening, hollowed his heart as he recalled the alleys and squares he’d played in as a child which had rang with their laughter; now lying silent, entombed beneath a carpet of debris. Does the spirit escape the body through that fatal laceration? It seemed to Karl that the city had lost its’ soul. The houses and offices that had once stood so arrogantly in ornate gothic terraces, now skeletons of their former glory, yawning to the elements with missing walls and roofs, like gaping flesh-less skulls. Mangled floor and roof joists straggled together like broken ribs, ragged furniture and sodden curtains hanging despondently like tears grieving the c*****e. Here and there a spire or pinnacle pierced up to the heavens as if pointing in warning to the peril expected from the night sky. The roads had been cleared of bomb debris and people meandered around between rubble piled up in heaps and pushed against the foot of the buildings. ‘I presume you’re taking me home?’ asked Karl, switching his attention from the window to the driver. ‘I’m looking forward to a hot bath and decent meal. Do you know where my mother and father live? ’ He loved his mother but resented his father. His father was an autocrat, had been an ambitious and successful Berlin banker between the wars, one who’d been ruthless to achieve his goals. Back then he’d shown no interest in his son and had sent him away to an English boarding school at the tender age of just eight, denying him that reverie of childhood, toy trains, tadpoles and puppy dogs. Karl’s mother had pleaded tearfully for her little boy to remain at home but her husband stuck his ground heartlessly, a cruelty he inflicted on her with malignant, belittling pleasure. He continued speaking to the driver. ‘Does my mother know that I’m home yet?’ ‘I am not privy to information about your parents, Sir,’ replied the driver sedately. ‘My orders are to take you to SS Headquarters in Prince Albert Street where Reichsfuhrer Himmler wishes to see you.’ That statement exploded and slapped awake Karl’s reasoning. The great Heinrich Himmler himself? thought Karl a little anxiously. Why would he want to see me? He addressed the man at the wheel again. ‘Driver, I can’t possibly go and see one of the most powerful men in the whole of Germany dressed like this.’ ‘These are my orders, Sir,’ replied the driver, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. ‘I am to take you to Herr Himmler without delay.’ The drivers’ attitude was resolute, there would be no argument so Karl relaxed back in his seat as they drove to a part of the city which seemed to grow out of the chaos surrounding it. Then the car swung into Prince Albert Street, a name plaque high on a building at the corner, and came to a stop outside number nine. The driver got out, opened Karl’s door, escorted him to the building and rang the bell. A few moments later the chunky wooden front door swung open and Karl entered a cavernous hall, swastika flags draped down the panelled walls and a wide marble staircase that swooped up gracefully from the centre like some Hollywood set. ‘Follow me please Lieutenant,’ said the man who’d opened the door, an immaculate SS officer attired in a smart black uniform and knee-high shiny black boots. Karl felt bedraggled following in the wake of this smart man as he climbed behind him up the marble stairs. At the top he was ushered into a large room, ornately decorated with hanging tapestries of ancient battles bordered by dangling tassels. Sunlight burst in through two large sash windows, shafts of light swimming with dust and which reflected onto a painting of the Fuhrer hung on the centre of one wall. A typewriter clattered and whirled from the room next door. The officer motioned at a chair. ‘Kindly take a seat, Lieutenant and I’ll let the Reichsfuhrer know you’ve arrived.’ Karl sat and waited. Five minutes, ten…soon half an hour. The solitude and the quietness in the room made him uneasy. He felt like a child sat outside the Headmaster’s office. This brought back memories of his school days in Kent, of his formative years, that benevolent essence evoked by his young English friends who were almost certainly now at war with his beloved Fatherland. Friends back then, enemies now, the bitterest divorce. He recalled how he helped so many of them cope with that strict, almost penal environment. It seemed as if they’d received punishment yet committed no crime. So he’d comforted when needed, been a shoulder to cry on when bullies punched and teachers screamed and slapped. These young children, barely weaned from their mother’s breast had been betrayed by their parents and faced months of confusion and utter loneliness. So he’d helped whoever he could, warded off bullies and tempestuous prefects. This benevolent nature had stayed with him and blossomed. He now wanted to protect his fellow Germans in this dreadful, turbulent time of conflict, just like he had those children at school. Ironic really, he thought, for if he met those old classmates today they’d be at war and trying to kill each other. His thoughts were interrupted by sharp footsteps. A man entered the room dressed in a lavish grey Nazi suit with medal bands, a man he recognised immediately from photos in the Press. Karl stood instantly, snapped to attention and gave a crisp salute reflecting his awe. Himmler approached and shook Karl’s hand. ‘Lieutenant Wulf,’ said the Reichsfuhrer, smiling from a weak mouth, cold grey eyes fixing Karl’s from within round spectacles. ‘I’ve been eager to meet you,’ he said, placing a gloved hand on Karl’s shoulder. ‘Come with me into my office.’ He accompanied Karl, past a girl engrossed with work and rattling a typewriter, across the landing and into a room with a large leather-topped mahogany desk in the middle, scattered with papers and photos. A half empty bottle of cognac stood to one side. The Reichsfuhrer closed the door then wandered nonchalantly behind his desk, poured two glasses of brandy and offered one to Karl. ‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Karl gratefully accepting the drink, still very much in awe of the moment. ‘Have a seat, Lieutenant,’ said Himmler hospitably. Karl sat but the Reichsfuhrer remained on his feet facing away, gloved hands clasped behind his back. To Karl’s young, influential mind he seemed magnificent. ‘I have learned from your Colonel of your recent and quite extraordinary act of bravery and great leadership on the eastern front, Lieutenant, and the Fuhrer has personally asked me to extend to you his gratitude and that of the whole Reich.’ Karl didn’t think this was the right time or place to play down his actions on the battlefield, to be self-effacing such as he had with Colonel Adler. He just kept quiet, reverent to the moment. Himmler continued. ‘Furthermore the Fuhrer recognises your fortitude and strength of character. In fact, Adolf Hitler took the trouble to phone me back and discuss your case despite enjoying a well-earned rest on holiday in Berchtesgaden.’ He glanced at Karl, smiled then looked away again. ‘I have taken time to examine your military records and have learned that this isn’t your first act of extreme bravery.’ The Reichsfuhrer cleared his throat. ‘I understand that in Czechoslovakia in ’39 you were with a small company of men and that you carried two injured comrades to safety under heavy gun-fire.’ Himmler turned and looked at Karl again. ‘Very commendable, Lieutenant, especially as you were only 17 at the time.’ He looked away. ’Somehow this was overlooked at the time. You should’ve been awarded for bravery and as your overall commander I wish to apologise for this incompetence.’ The Reichsfuhrer took a swig of brandy and looked at Karl again, this time resolutely. ‘I have it on express instructions from the Fuhrer himself that you are to be awarded with the Iron Cross first class, The Knight’s Cross with oak leaves’ (this was one of the highest awards for gallantry issued in the German army). Himmler paused to assess Karl’s reaction. ‘I can see you are pleased Lieutenant.’ ‘Thank you my Reichsfuhrer,’ replied Karl. ‘I am truly honoured that both you and the Fuhrer have shown such interest in me.’ ‘Not only that, Lieutenant,’ continued Himmler. ‘Adolf Hitler has insisted that you be promoted with immediate effect. We are to ignore protocol as you ought to have been promoted after Czechoslovakia. So I’ll skip the rank of Obersturmfuhrer (first lieutenant) and award you the rank of Hauptsturmfuhrer (captain)’. Himmler grabbed the bottle of cognac, strode towards Karl, a large congratulatory smile splitting his face. He glugged brandy into Karl’s glass, then his own. ‘Prost! (cheers), Captain Wulf,’ he announced, tapping his glass against Karl’s. ‘I understand you’re a modest man and that you’d prefer to avoid a formal ceremony. Is that correct, Captain,’ he asked. ‘Yes, if possible, Sir,’ Karl replied meekly. ‘Good, good. I’d anticipated your reaction and I shall keep our secret from Herr Goebbels and his publicity machine.’ Himmler then placed the brandy bottle back on the desk, reached into his pocket and produced a swastika embossed iron cross with silver oak leaf clasp and red and white ribbon which he hung proudly around Karl’s neck. He then returned behind his desk, this time with his attention on Karl. ‘I will have the medal’s providence typed and stamped. You’ll be able to collect the official document from this building whenever you’re next passing.’ He paused, sipped some brandy then looked up again. ‘The Fuhrer has also insisted that you have a few weeks leave to build your strength and recuperate.’ This time Karl felt the need to interject. ‘But Herr Reichsfuhrer,’ he protested. ‘We are a country at war, I am a soldier….’ Himmler interrupted, smiling limply. ‘Very well, Captain. I am pleased you are so duty-bound and conscientious. However we need to cherish our heroes of the Reich. Men like you are our secret weapons and so I agree with the Fuhrer that you need rest.’ He scratched his head in thought. ‘However, having regard for your sense of duty I will assign you light but essential duties for a few weeks. It is of utmost importance that men such as your-good-self are at full strength to help our wonderful Fatherland win this war.’ His spectacles glinted. ‘I will prepare orders I think will fit the bill and have them ready for you to collect later today.’ ‘Thank you Herr Reichsfuhrer,’ said Karl standing to leave. ‘One more thing before you go, Captain,’ said Himmler his smile stronger again. ‘I have had my people contact your Quartermaster. I’m guessing you won’t have put on much weight on the eastern front.’ A chuckle slipped from his mouth, ‘so there’s two new SS Captain’s uniforms, new boots and a leather trench coat waiting for you downstairs in quarters we’ve prepared for you. You’re most welcome to stay if you have nowhere else to go. Feel free to use all facilities and I would suggest a bath is long overdue.’ He paused and thrust out his arm. ‘Heil Hitler, Captain.’ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Karl luxuriated in a hot bath for at least half an hour, lathering his skin and hair, massaging the creamy suds into every pore. As he swished the warm water he felt rejuvenated, so pleased to be away from the frozen wastes of the eastern campaign. Bliss, no danger here, no enemy lurking in the cupboard. Laying back, sunk in watery comfort, he thought of his mother, her jaunty spirit, mess of opinions and general chaos of character. But her love and influence had been like a guardian angel and he carried her in his heart as a buttress through thick and thin; the horror of war and death somehow relieved by the thought of her. He longed to see her again. He shaved, towelled himself dry then slipped into his new uniform. There were two laid on the bed, immaculately folded, one grey the other black with new caps to match. He chose black which fitted perfectly. Modest man or not, standing in front of a full length mirror he felt so proud, so fulfilled and appreciated. Woven silver epaulettes decorated his shoulders, lightning strike SS emblem on one side of his collar, three silver studs denoting his new rank on the other. And there, proudest of all The Knight’s Cross with oak leaves which he pinned on the collar under his chin. He then slid into the black, leather trench coat and settled a cap precisely on his head. As he left his quarters he was approached by a middle-aged woman clutching a small brown envelope. She held it out. ‘Your orders from Reichsfuhrer Himmler, Captain,’ she said dutifully. ‘Thank you Fraulein,’ he hastily replied as he thrust the envelope into his inside pocket then left the building. He felt spritely, almost frivolous with pride as he paced the pavement. Despite the war this area of the city retained the sumptuous memory of old Berlin, not the bomb wrecked ghettos and slums where Jews and Gypsies hid with teeth-chattering tension, like foxes from the huntsman. And this was a time before casual inelegance, before jeans and T shirts, when men wore suits, crombies and trilby hats and women floated by in glorious, colourful opulence and a cloud of perfume. Yet Karl felt almost narcissistic as be wandered among these people, men, women, soldiers and airmen glancing at him admiringly, flashing a smile as if they too felt pride for his rank and status. It was late afternoon by now and the wispy late winter sun had ducked behind the roof-tops. He was stopped in his tracks by someone shouting his name, echoing from within a dark alley. He looked across the street at a man approaching, a figure hobbling out of the shadows in a billowing fawn overcoat. Karl quickly recognised the face, a family friend called Peter a few years his senior. ‘How are you?’ Peter asked Karl, his body-language welcoming, his smile beaming. He closed in on Karl and shook his hand like a parched man might pump the water-well. ‘Peter, I’m fine,’ replied Karl, pleased to see his friend. He stood back from the welcome and straightened. ‘Better than you anyway! What happened to your leg?’ ‘Blown off I’m afraid. I’m invalided out of the army now.’ Peter eyed Karl up and down looking a little in awe. ‘But look at you, so smart.’ He looked straight at Karl. ‘Why don’t we go and grab a drink, catch up on old times?’ ‘That’s a great idea,’ Karl replied happily. ‘It’s good to see you after all this time.’ The friends walked a few hundred yards chatting and laughing cheerily before entering a bar buried in the basement of a tall, town house. The room was dark, suffused in cloying, smoke swirling shadows. Gravelly voices rattled and animated the musty ambience as several pairs of eyes set on Karl. He ordered a couple of beers then sat opposite Peter behind a sticky table. A pretty young fraulein with flashing coloured eyelids wiped the table-top clean with a deference and servitude she might reserve for the Fuhrer himself. Clearly they were not used to such dignified company in this establishment. Karl eyed across to Peter. ‘So if you’re out of the army, what do you do to pass the time? He asked curiously, sipping his beer. ‘I’m employed by the government,’ he hushed his voice and glanced round the room surreptitiously, ‘to find Jewish families still living here in Berlin. There’s still quite a few hiding out in the city.’ Karl thought back to the Brown Shirt thugs trashing and looting Jewish businesses and homes all over the city. The anger had flared up in November 1938 and had been called ‘The Night of Broken Glass’. He was sixteen at the time, had just left school and returned home from England. Of course he’d felt an uncertain sympathy for those afflicted by the violence but had trusted the Fuhrer that Jews were enemies of the state and had to be punished accordingly. ‘So what do you do with the Jews once you find them?’ he asked Peter. ‘I simply report their whereabouts to the Authorities. Then the Gestapo flush them out and I believe they’re then sent off to internment camps somewhere in Poland. They’re controlled by us of course. Hitler simply wants the Jews exiled from German soil.’ Karl sipped his beer. ‘And dumped on Poland!’ He pondered briefly. ‘Seems like a good solution.’ ‘And how about you?’ asked Peter. ‘A Captain now with the Knight’s Cross. You must have done well. When I last saw you, you were been sent to the eastern front. I know that hasn’t gone to plan.’ ‘Don’t worry,’ replied Karl positively. ‘I’m sure our Fuhrer has plenty of ideas of how to defeat Stalin. There’s rumours of thousands of Tigers and Panzers being sent in. It’s only a matter of time and Russia will be added to our glorious Fatherland and Germany will have the greatest empire on Earth, greater even than the British.’ Karl knew Peter well enough, felt sure he’d keep their conversation to himself. So he told of his story, the campaign in the east, of how he’d won the medal and been promoted by Himmler himself earlier that day. When he’d finished Peter stood. ‘I’ll get more beer,’ he said. As he wandered off into the shadows, Karl reached inside his coat and withdrew the envelope he’d been given at Headquarters. He opened it carefully and withdrew the letter inside. He unfolded the orders, stamped with an eagle insignia and glanced at the sheet of paper as Peter slammed two beers onto the table and sat again. ‘Orders, Karl?’ asked Peter inquisitively. ‘Yes, looks as if I’m being sent to work at one of those internment camps in Poland.’ He looked at the paper again. ‘Place called Sobibor. Have you heard of it?’ Peter looked thoughtful. ‘Can’t say I have. I expect it’s full of Russians and Poles as I think the Jews are sent to a place called Auschwitz.’ ‘No matter,’ said Karl matter-of-factly. ‘All prisoners are enemies of the state, enemies of the Fuhrer and of Germany.’ ‘When do you leave?’ asked Peter. Karl looked at the orders again. ‘A week today. I’m being collected from SS Headquarters.’ ‘Where are you staying?’ Karl smiled warmly as he thought of his mother. ‘I’m going home. I’ll stay with my parents until I leave for Poland.’ Peter raised his eyebrows, looked confused. ‘Karl your home isn’t there anymore,’ he explained solemnly. ‘It was bombed by the British.’ He sighed. ‘I’m afraid your father was killed and your mother hospitalised.’ Karl looked at Peter, his face twisted by disbelief. ‘Is my mother alright? Is she still in hospital?’ he asked anxiously. Peter’s face relaxed. ‘You’re mother’s fine. She’s made a full recovery and is staying in a safe location with her sister somewhere south west of here, near Frankfurt.’ Karl sighed with relief. ‘My aunt Magda lives in Obernburg a few kilometres outside of Frankfurt.’ ‘So where will you stay here in Berlin?’ asked Peter. ‘You’re very welcome to come home with me.’ ‘That’s a kind offer, Peter,’ said Karl gratefully. ‘But I’ve got excellent accommodation at Headquarters so I’ll stay there tonight and leave to see my mother tomorrow.’ Karl finished his beer, stood and put on his trench coat. He shook his friend’s hand. ‘It was good to catch up with you Peter. I’ll see you next time I’m in Berlin.’ ------------------------------------------------------ Karl was driven to Obernburg in a staff car the following day. He’d been able to change the travel arrangements and was due to be collected a week later by a truck taking supplies to his new transfer at the Sobibor internment camp. He climbed a flight of grey stone steps, suitcase in hand, up to his Aunt Magda’s cottage, a pretty little log built cabin sitting on a wooded hill just outside the village. The cottage was clutched beneath the bare and tight budded branches of an oak tree, green shutters by the windows and an olive painted front door. He dropped the suit case on the veranda, knocked and waited. Moments later the door swung open. At first his aunt looked edgy being confronted by the tall, intimidating figure of an SS officer; but quickly she recognised her nephew and a welcoming smile broke on her attractive face. She sucked him into her arms and into a vacuum of joy and called out to his mother. His mother came to the door, pretty like her sister but a few years younger. She froze looking completely surprised, her face relaxing as recognition glowed into a serene expression of delight and love. She hurried to him, hugged him warmly, holding onto him as they walked into the sitting room and sat on a plush settee. Hanna couldn’t take her eyes off her son, so his aunt interjected. ‘Karl, how lovely to see you. What a surprise, we had no idea you were back in Germany.’ She then looked at her sister who was stroking Karl’s cheek. ‘Leave the poor boy alone, Hanna,’ she said teasing jauntily. ‘He’s a handsome young soldier now and I don’t expect he likes being made a fuss of.’ Hanna sat back from her son, tears of joy still glassing her eyes. Karl removed his cap and laid it on the coffee table. ‘It’s alright, Aunt Magda,’ he said happily. ‘Mothers will be mothers.’ He looked at his mother gravely. ‘I was sorry to hear about father.’ His mother’s reply was unexpected and quite sharp. ‘Well don’t be, Karl. He never had much time for you and me.’ A slight look of satisfaction twisted her mouth and sparked her eyes. ‘He was a very wealthy man though. I opened an account for you in Berlin before I left. You’re a wealthy young man too now.’ For the next hour or so Karl fielded the women’s curiosity about the war. Luckily they were naïve to rank and medals so Karl was able to play down his exploits on the eastern front so as to protect his mother’s feminine and passive sensibility. His account was helped by the women’s only knowledge of the war by propaganda which had recently appeared German newspapers and been broadcast on the radio. This was just a string of lies, a pumped up patriotism intended to boost morals. Rumours of the retreat from Stalingrad may had reached some ears in the cities and larger towns but was certainly not broadcast and had not yet strayed into the more remote parts of the country. For the next few days until it was time to leave for Sobibor, Karl was pampered and cosseted by his mother and aunt. He ate and drank what he wanted when he wanted and his mother hardly ever left his side. On sunny days they walked the fields or trod the streets of the village. On rainy, cold days they huddled around the radio together while she proudly sewed medal bands onto his uniform. And his heart felt heavy when he left, watching the two women waving goodbye as their image grew smaller and smaller in the truck’s mirrors. Hanna Wulf (Karl’s mother) It’s important to understand Hanna as Karl saw and loved her, as everyone who knew her said that he took after her. She was always with him in his heart, his sensibilities paying some homage to her femininity, her elegance, her compassion and her scatter brained flights of fancy that somehow determined or coloured his decisions without her being there. To some degree this explains his character, his preparations and thinking (what would mum do?) for the events that would unfold over the weeks and months that lay ahead. Hanna is based upon my own wonderful mum who has sadly departed this life. So this is my tribute to a very special woman and a little touch of magic I will always harbour in my soul. Without wanting to sound hackneyed, it was a privilege and delight to have known her, albeit for too shorter time, a sweet memory I caress daily. My mother was a curious woman and I never really understood her. She could be quite chaotic yet so very organised, so very funny yet often so secretly sad. She watched ‘Songs of Praise’ yet laughed madly at ‘Steptoe and Son’ and she cheated at cards. She loved to feed people, would migrate from the house to the shops like a bird with nestlings then return with bulging bags she could barely carry. Then she’d turn her kitchen into a whirling, buzzing chaos like a mad scientist’s lab, creating pies and cakes, tarts and buns, loafs and rolls, enough to feed a small town. Most of it ended up being fed to the birds and to this day fledglings hatch in a sleepy part of Essex with bent beaks evolved in consequence to her rock cakes! People loved my mum, those who knew her still do. Her life was her children and her grandchildren and her accepting disapproval of our antics. I came to know more of my mother in the last year of her life than in the 50 or so that preceded it. By then she was a wrinkled old woman confined to her chair and not her flighty jaunts. She read ‘The Bible’ from cover to cover then over again as if she wanted to memorise it. It’s only after her death that I begin to understand her and that secret part of her she was determined to protect me from. I now know that, as a wartime nurse, she witnessed the consequences of unimaginable cruelty, of poor men and women who simply couldn’t survive because their spirits were broken, hence her sullen moods, her love for everyone except the Japanese and her need to feed anyone who came through the door as she saw them as some walking skeleton from a prison camp. I could write another book about my mother, on how she was a secret snob, the plum in her mouth when she answered the telephone and how she sewed ‘Harrods’ tags into coats she’d got from a charity shop; the punkish tints to her hair; her fixation with and gross exaggeration of numbers;her hatred of violence but love of heavyweight boxing; her fast driving and the thrill she derived from it and, regrettably, of how I tried her to the very end of her bent. She was the only woman I’ve been almost true to and couldn’t escape from and who somehow tolerated me back. I miss her.