Bloodline

By Christine Harris

Gerhardt Klinsmann, a German guard stationed at Auschwitz concentration camp, anguishes over the man he has become. He despises the camp and his job, and, responding to an attack of conscience, he helps a pregnant prisoner escape. After the war, Klinsmann returns to his home in Kassel, Germany, determined to start life over. But he is accused of war crimes and becomes a man on the run, fleeing from a brutal past that haunts him at every turn.

Seventeen years later, Mikhail Krol, a boy living in communist Poland, learns from a drunken uncle he was adopted as a toddler and that his biological father was a German soldier. Devastated by this shocking revelation, Mik feels his whole life has been a lie. He vows to find his biological father and his birth mother, described to him as a mysterious, dark-skinned foreigner who sang to him in a strange language.

Miks commitment to discovering his heritage takes him to East Berlin and Paris during the height of the Cold War and eventually to Buenos Aires, Argentinaa journey that confirms his worst suspicions when he uncovers the shocking truth about his parents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491728581

Christine Harris

Christine Harris is a full-time children's author and has written over thirty books for children, including the CBC short listed title, Jamil's Shadow. Christine lives in South Australia with her partner and two children.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Krakow, Poland

June 1961

M ikhail Patryk Krol, known to almost everyone as Mik, was seventeen years old and more than six feet tall, a strong boy with long, sinewy muscles and large feet. He played soccer at his lyceum , or upper secondary school, in Krakow and was a member of the wrestling team, a team that had won the country championship three years straight. But Mik’s first love was music. He had earned the lead chair among the clarinet players in the school orchestra before he was fifteen and held the position right up to graduation.

It was Friday, and after helping his mother, Anyka, wash the dishes, Mik went to his bedroom to change clothes. Commencement had taken place the day before, and tonight Mik was going to meet some friends in town for a traditional postgraduation party. He had been looking forward to it all week.

Mik’s bedroom was in the rear of the stucco and half-timber house. It was a small house with modest furnishings and was the only home Mik had ever known. Mik felt luckier than most of his friends. The electricity worked, and the toilet was indoors and flushed consistently, conveniences that didn’t exist in many Polish homes. He was still in his bedroom dusting his boots when he heard Uncle Bolek come through the front door and into the living room, demanding that Anyka fix him a bowl of stew. Mik was certain by the way Bolek slurred his words that his uncle was in his usual inebriated condition.

Anyka responded in a quivering voice, But it is the end of the week, and I don’t go to market until tomorrow morning. I have a slice of bread and a small block of cheese. That’s all.

You’re lying, Bolek yelled.

Hearing this, Mik dropped his boot to the floor. He had put up with drunken visits from Bolek for two long years, ever since his father had gone to work in East Berlin. Bolek was a bully who pushed around Mik and anyone else who got in his way. Mik had never retaliated, out of respect for Bolek’s age and because Bolek was his uncle. But tonight was different. Tonight, Bolek was bullying his mother, a woman helpless against a man Bolek’s size. Mik couldn’t tolerate this.

He sprang from the edge of his bed and rushed into the small living room. Bolek was moving toward Anyka, while Anyka, wringing her hands in her apron and whimpering, backed away. Mik kicked a chair out of his path, but he was too late. He couldn’t reach Bolek before he struck Anyka hard across the face. Flushed with anger, Mik threw himself at Bolek knocking him backward into the wall.

This is the last time you will ever set foot in this house, Bolek. Get out of here. Now! And don’t ever come back, or you will have to deal with me.

Bolek was almost as tall as Mik and with a neck and shoulders like a bull. He smiled mockingly and poked Mik hard in the chest with his finger.

This is my sister’s house, you little bastard. You can’t throw me out.

Mik was fast and had the advantage of being sober. He grabbed Bolek by the throat and threw him against the wall while Anyka retreated to a corner. A bastard, huh? That’s what you think?

Bolek smirked and, in spite of Mik’s strong grip, managed to respond in his cigarette-raspy voice, Yeah, that’s right—son of a damn Nazi. Go ahead, ask your mother.

Mik strengthened his grip on Bolek’s neck until his eyeballs bulged. Bolek, fighting for breath, swung at air, too drunk to strike his target.

Anyka screamed, Mik, stop, stop! You’ll kill him.

Mik turned to her while maintaining his hold on Bolek. What is he talking about, Mama?

Please, Mikhail, let go. I’ll explain, Anyka pleaded.

Mik was stunned and confused. Explain? How could his mother explain? It made no sense. Still gripping Bolek tightly, Mik pushed him toward the front door. Get out of here, you piece of shit. Get out and stay out!

Bolek stumbled down the front stoop as Mik, still shaking, slammed the door and turned to his mother, who huddled on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees and tears streaming down her face. After helping her to her feet, Mik sat her at the small oak table in the kitchen and then pulled out a chair across from her.

Are you all right? he asked softly, looking at her reddened cheek.

Yes, it will be nothing tomorrow, Anyka replied as she touched her face.

When she had calmed down enough to talk and Mik was sure she had not been severely injured, he pressed her for the explanation she had promised. Mama, what did Bolek mean about the Nazi?

Her voice still shaking, Anyka responded, I should never have told Bolek. Oh, if only your papa was here.

Never mind Papa, Mik lashed out, surprising himself with his harsh tone. Papa hasn’t been here for two years.

I know, I know, Anyka said, crying and rocking back and forth in her chair.

Mik looked at his mother with pity. He recalled that she had once been a happy woman, or at least contented most of the time. That was before Mik’s father, Ivan, Anyka’s husband of twenty years, was assigned to a job in East Germany. While Anyka tried to keep a smile on her face and hide her loneliness, Mik knew she missed her husband immensely. She and his father had always been very close. All three of them had been very close, and his departure had left a huge void in the family.

Ivan was a man gifted with intelligence. He had been an engineering professor at the University of Krakow before he was sent by the government to work on a project in East Berlin. Anyka and Mik were told little about the project, only that it was a collaboration between the Soviet Union and East Germany, the Deutsche Demokratische Republik. Ivan was selected for the assignment because of his assistance in the design of the Soviet Union’s first space satellite, Sputnik.

Soon after Ivan arrived at his job, he sent money for train tickets and permits to Anyka that would allow her and Mik to join him in East Berlin. Ivan and Anyka had discussed this move before Ivan left, and while Anyka was reticent about it, she had agreed to meet Ivan when he was settled. Yet when the time came, she could not bring herself to leave Krakow. She wrote to Ivan and told him she wasn’t coming. She said she was frightened. She had never been outside the country, and she had heard alarming stories about East Germany, that it was much more of a police state than Poland.

Berlin is too big and too dangerous, she told Mik. Ivan will come home when the project is completed. It’s best we wait here in Krakow.

Ivan wrote to Anyka once a week and always sent a government check, and he often wrote Mik a separate letter. The money was good; without Ivan’s checks, Mik and Anyka would have had little to live on.

Mik cherished Ivan’s letters, but more than anything, he wanted him to come home. He knew his father had taken the assignment under pressure, but Mik couldn’t help feeling at times that Ivan had abandoned him and Anyka, and it particularly upset Mik that Bolek and Peter, Anyka’s brothers, had so quickly stepped in to fill the gap left by Ivan’s departure. There had always been something sinister about the two. While they helped with some of the household and outdoor repairs, they charged Anyka exorbitantly for their work. And when Mik finally insisted on taking over the chores from Bolek and Peter, they began borrowing money from Anyka and never repaid it.

Mik drew in a breath and exhaled while trying to control the thoughts spinning in his head. This is not about Papa. I want to know, Mama, why Bolek called me a bastard.

Eventually, stifling her tears, Anyka spoke. All right. I suppose you have a right to know. I only wish I had told you before. Anyka’s voice broke, and she stopped.

Mama! Mik said firmly. Just tell me the truth.

Anyka coughed, clearing her throat. Yes, yes, the truth.

Mik leaned across the table, his hands gripped tightly together in front of him, waiting for Anyka to continue.

Ivan and I were living in Katowice, and we took the train into Krakow. We had tried to have our own child, but we were not blessed with one. Finally, the parish priest convinced us to consider adoption. There were thousands of Polish children orphaned by the war; it made sense that we should do this. When we arrived at the agency in town, we were presented with four young boys. All of them were sweet, of course, but we chose you. You were a playful youngster, happy, not shy like the other boys. It was as though you had been untouched by the direness of your situation. Ivan and I fell in love with you instantly, and they allowed us to take you home that day, August 17, 1947.

Mik felt the air leave his body. He had to move, do something to shake himself from this nightmare. He stood and walked to the window, looking out to the birch trees lining the dusty road to the house. If what Anyka had just told him was true, his whole life had been a lie. He was not who he thought he was, and nothing would ever be the same again.

After several moments, Mik turned and faced Anyka. Why didn’t you tell me?

Anyka wrung her hands and struggled to hold back tears. "We tried to tell you before you started school. But you were too young to understand, and so we let it go, intending to tell you when you were a little older.

But then we moved to Krakow, and no one here knew you had been adopted. In the beginning, you spoke of things you remembered at the orphanage, but gradually those memories seemed to fade away. The neighbors and the children at church and school assumed you were our natural child. As the years passed, even Ivan and I almost believed it. And when you were finally old enough to understand, we couldn’t see what good would come from telling you.

Mik was dumbstruck. How could this be? This woman he called Mama was not his mother. Ivan was not his father. Then who were his parents? Bolek said his father was a Nazi. Surely that could not be true. Bolek was drunk; he didn’t know what he was saying.

Mama, was my father a Nazi, as Bolek said?

I don’t really know. Anyka struggled to catch her breath. The agency told me nothing. They spoke only to Ivan and told him that your father was a soldier in the Wehrmacht, the German army. Does that mean he was a Nazi? I honestly can’t say. Anyka wiped her cheek with her sleeve. I should never have told Bolek. I thought I could trust him.

And what of my mother? Mik continued, still reeling.

The orphanage told us nothing, only that you were born in May 1944.

Where did you find me? What orphanage? Mik felt he might throw up from the shock and confusion.

Anyka sputtered out an answer. At the agency on Pawia Street. It used to be Saint Mary’s orphanage.

That’s it? That’s all you can tell me?

Anyka nodded, her face hot with sorrow and shame. Yes. That’s all. Mik, I’m so sorry. She reached across the table to take his hand, but he pulled away quickly, nearly tipping his chair as he stormed from the room.

_________________

Mik didn’t go out with his friends that night. Instead he found the family photo albums and took them to his bedroom, where he slowly turned page after page, looking for answers to questions he hadn’t yet asked. His life passed before him one page at a time, until he slammed shut the final album. The photos seemed to be of someone else, from another family. They were not photos of the real Mik, the son of a German soldier and a mystery woman.

Frustration and pain overwhelmed Mik as he choked back tears. Ivan had told him that it was okay for a boy to cry, but Mik had been the man of the family for two years now, and he was determined not to act like a child. Besides, what does Ivan know? Mik asked himself, slamming his fist into his pillow. He isn’t even my real father. My father is a German, a damned German!

_________________

An exhausted Mik crawled from his bed at dawn, slouched into the kitchen, lit the gas stove, and heated a cup of yesterday’s coffee. The sun was rising, and as he sat down at the kitchen table, he peered out the window, spanning the neighbor’s familiar wheat field. Over and over, he replayed in his mind what Anyka had told him until he thought he would go insane with the repetition.

Finally, he stood and threw his coffee in the sink. He had to get out of the house. He sat back down and pulled on his socks, but before he could slide on his boots, a weary, swollen-eyed Anyka came into the kitchen. She didn’t look like the mother Mik remembered yesterday morning at breakfast, the one he had loved as his own flesh and blood. He now saw only a plain-looking, middle-aged woman, worn out by fatigue and weeping. He stared hard at her, and it occurred to him for the first time that there wasn’t a feature in her face that resembled his own.

He had tried to tell himself, while tossing in his bed, that it didn’t matter that Anyka hadn’t given birth to him. She had been the only mother he had ever known, and he had loved her all these years. But it did matter; she was not his real mother, and Ivan was not his real father. As much as he wanted to run from it, this was a reality he had to accept.

Mik’s gaze followed Anyka as she shuffled to the pantry in the corner. She pulled a loaf of dark bread from the breadbox and turned to Mik, forcing a smile.

I’ll fix some bread and jam for you, she said, grabbing a knife.

Never mind, Mama, I’ll eat later. I need to get the chores done before I go to town.

But we need to talk more about last night.

Mama, Mik said, realizing how strange Mama sounded now as it rolled off his tongue. I am seventeen and finished at the lyceum. I want to work and go to the university. It is time for me to leave.

Anyka’s eyes widened with alarm. My God, what have I done? You will leave me because of this?

No, Mik replied emphatically, brushing back a lock of his strawberry-blond hair, this has nothing to do with last night.

Although Mik had not spoken to Anyka about it, he had been preparing to leave home as soon as he had saved enough money to rent a small room. The events of last night merely accelerated his plan. He had to be away, away from her, away from home. He had to think.

I’ve been preparing for this for weeks; I should have told you sooner. I’ve saved some money doing small jobs for the neighbors, so that I can pay Felix to come over from the tool shop to help you with the garden and the house. You won’t need Peter or Bolek.

Polish citizens could not own private property under the Communist system, but they were allowed to have small gardens near their homes, and because of Ivan’s position with the government, the Krols had a larger garden than most. Anyka grew vegetables, herbs, and flowers in the space. It was the one activity since Ivan had gone that seemed to bring joy to her life.

I want to go to university. If I don’t, the government will put me in factory work. I can’t let that happen.

Anyka wiped tears from her eyes. But … but when will I see you?

Mik forced a smile. Always on Sunday, and in between I’ll come as often as I can.

But you have nowhere to live!

I’ve packed my bag for Stephan’s. He has an extra bed in his room.

Stephan Gryzbowski had been Mik’s best friend since their first year at the lyceum, when the Gryzbowski family moved to Krakow from Lodz. Stephan’s father, Konrad Gryzbowski, had been a professor for several years in the Fine Arts Department at the University of Krakow and was now the dean of academic affairs. Mik had always been fond of Professor Gryzbowski; they shared an interest in language and music, and often spoke French with each other to maintain their fluency.

I will stay at Stephan’s until I can find something else.

Anyka stiffened. I see. So that is the end of it, she said evenly. After all these years …

Mik looked into her sorrowful, blue eyes. No, it is the end of nothing. Now, I want you to send Felix for me if Bolek or Peter bothers you for money or anything else. Promise me you will do that?

Anyka was silent for some time. Then her eyes softened, and she smiled a tired smile. Yes. You have been such a good boy, Mik, so kind and dutiful. Please don’t stay away.

Mik stood, walked over, and awkwardly kissed Anyka on the cheek, then went outside to mend the fence, grateful for an excuse to get away.

_________________

Later that morning, Anyka gathered some pierogies, an apple, and two slices of brown bread and placed them in the tin lunch pail Mik had used as a young boy. She wept when she saw that his name was still painted on the inside. When Mik had finished his chores and had bathed and dressed, she gave the pail to him, along with a Saint Christopher’s medal for luck.

Mik was touched. He knew Anyka had spent the morning baking for him. She was a good woman. But why had she deceived him? Why did she and Ivan allow him to live an illusion all of these years? It was the same as if they had lied to him over and over. He wanted to question Anyka about this again today, but he shook off the temptation.

The bread smells wonderful. Then, as uncomfortable as it was, he forced a smile and said, Thanks, Mama.

There is something else; I have put it beside the door. In his last letter, Ivan asked me to give it to you.

Mik looked to the door, where he saw Ivan’s clarinet propped against the wall next to its case. The clarinet was still like new. Ivan had bought it four years ago, soon after his last one had lost its tone from many years of use. Ivan loved instrumental music; he played saxophone, as well as the clarinet. Often in the evenings, he had played with a troupe in Krakow.

The clarinet had come to mean everything to Mik. It was the one tangible, significant memento he had of his father. Ivan had taken the saxophone to Berlin with him, leaving the clarinet behind for Mik to play in the school band. But Ivan hadn’t actually given it to Mik.

Mik had learned to play on Ivan’s old clarinet as a youngster. He didn’t take lessons, but he listened to Ivan play, and he listened to American jazz on Voice of America radio broadcasts whenever he had a chance. He played by ear until he learned to read sheet music.

Mik’s first impulse was to tell Anyka to keep the clarinet, that he didn’t want it. That way he could strike out at Ivan for deceiving him. But why do that? Ivan wasn’t there, and such an act would only cause Anyka more pain when she was already suffering the long absence of her husband. Besides, that clarinet had become an extension of Mik, a part of him. He couldn’t give it up.

Mik gently placed the instrument into its case. He had always assumed he had gotten his musicality from Ivan, that it was in the Krol blood. He and Ivan even used to laugh about it. Ivan once told Mik how his father had played a harmonica to call in the pigs. And Ivan had a cousin who was a concert pianist in Warsaw.

In the past twenty-four hours, Mik’s sense of himself, of who he was and where he came from, had been shattered. He slipped the lunch pail Anyka had packed for him into his duffel bag and began sprinting the two miles to Stephan’s with the duffel bag in one hand and his clarinet in the other. It was a warm day, and a strong breeze kicked dust from the fields into his face. He took out his handkerchief. He was plagued with allergies and felt a sneezing spell coming on.

When he arrived at the Gryzbowskis, he was out of breath and perspiring through his shirt. Stephan had gone with his father into town to look for new bicycle tires, so Mik chatted briefly with Mrs. Gryzbowski, a chubby-cheeked lady with prematurely gray hair. Her glasses were balanced on the end of her nose, and she was intent on her knitting.

Mik told her he had left home and asked if he could stay for a while, until he could get into the university or find a job in town. The bespectacled woman paused in her knitting and looked up over her glasses. You are welcome to stay as long as you need to. Konrad will be pleased.

Mik thanked Mrs. Gryzbowski and dropped his duffel bag in Stephan’s room. Then he hurried out the door and headed to Pawia Street, wolfing down his lunch on the way. He had no time to waste. If the adoption agency on Pawia Street was still where it had been in 1947, records of his birth, his parentage, and his ancestry might still exist. He didn’t intend to rest until he found some answers about his true identity.

CHAPTER 2

East Berlin

August 1961

I van Krol stretched his long arm to the top of the closet shelf in search of his saxophone case. As he was bringing the case down, he heard three knocks at the front door, followed by a pause and then another two knocks. Ivan recognized the code.

Just a minute, Hans. I’m on a ladder.

When Ivan opened the door, his friend, Hans Hertzog, entered carrying a brown paper bag. Hans, it’s eleven thirty. What are you doing out at this time of night?

Just thought I would stop by and see what you were up to. Do you have time for a drink with a friend? Hans, a German man of medium build with a small, dark mustache, pulled a bottle of vodka from the bag.

Ivan was anxious and had no time to waste having a drink. I heard the news on Radio Free Europe, he said. The bastards will be putting up a wall any minute now. Things are going to get much worse. I tried to reach you earlier today at the store, but you were out. Hans, I’m leaving, and I want you to come with me.

Ivan and Hans had been friends since Ivan arrived in Berlin in 1959. They had met on the train into the city, and Ivan had found Hans to be the opposite of how he imagined the typical German, brusque and unfriendly. Instead, Hans was congenial and helpful, and Ivan liked him immediately. They discovered a shared passion for popular music, particularly jazz, and for the next three hours on the train, they talked, mostly about that subject. When they reached their stop, Hans gave Ivan his name and telephone number and told Ivan to call if he needed help getting settled. Later, when the government couldn’t find Ivan a suitable place to live, Hans took him to the housing agency and helped him find an apartment.

Ivan’s work absorbed his energy during the day, but evenings were lonely. He missed Anyka and Mikhail and was eager for them to join him. To fill the time, he joined a musical troupe, playing saxophone three nights a week at a local club. Later, when the troupe lost its trumpet player, Ivan convinced the troupe to bring Hans in to fill the spot. Neither Ivan nor Hans were first-rate musicians, but they blended well with the others, and the troupe became popular with the club crowds.

Hans now moved to the middle of the room and put the vodka bottle on the small coffee table. I can’t go, Ivan. He shook his head sadly. I work here, you forget. And I have a family, a wife and a daughter, to feed.

You can get them out of here when you get settled on the other side, replied Ivan as he pulled clothes from the hallway closet and threw them on a chair.

"Ja, like when you came to Berlin. We know how that worked."

Ivan abruptly stopped packing and turned to Hans. "So we do. But you know very well I have begged Anyka for years to bring Mikhail and come to Berlin, but she would not. She will never leave Krakow, and the government will never let me return. But that is beside the point. Hans, this may be your only opportunity to get to the West. You think the restrictions here are crazy now? The DDR will crack down on everything once the wall goes up. You won’t be able to go across again. Ever. Go home, get your family, and get out now, before it is too late."

I’m not the adventurer you are, Ivan, and my family would think me crazy. I’ll take my chances here.

Ivan snapped shut his small suitcase and crossed to the window. Come here, Hans, and look out at this view one last time with me. This fence is bad enough, but believe me the wall will be worse. Good God, the Americans will soon be putting a man on the moon while these dolts are putting up a wall!

Ivan and Hans looked out at the ominous barbed-wire barrier that had divided the city since 1947. Most apartments along the fence had been ordered closed to cut down on the number of defections that had soared since the Vienna Summit in June, when Khrushchev threatened war with the West. Before the DDR boarded up the windows in most of the buildings along the fence, many East Germans had escaped by jumping out of windows and over the barbed wire. Because Ivan’s building housed only trusted government employees, the government had allowed it to stay open. Still, the tenants were required to pass tight security clearances.

Abruptly Hans turned from the window and walked to the door. Well, you do what you have to do, Ivan. But I must stay in the East.

Ivan looked at his friend, his face awash with sorrow. "And