Lehrter Station (19 page)

Back in 1939, Isendahl had scorned the notion of a Jewish homeland in Palestine – ‘you don’t fight race hatred by creating states based on race’ Russell remembered him saying – but the six years since had modified his stance. Now he was keen to stress the distinction between right and leftwing Zionists, rather than condemn Zionism
per se
. Without being asked, he rattled off a long list of different groups, ending, somewhat dramatically, with one called the Nokmim, or Jewish Avengers. These followers of a Lithuanian partisan named Abba Kovner were, as their name suggested, determined on vengeance. They believed that six million Nazi deaths were necessary before the Jewish survivors could learn to live with themselves.

Isendahl smiled at the conceit. His view of the Nokmim seemed a mix of amusement and awe.

Russell had never heard of the group, but he recognised the makings of a story. He asked Isendahl if he was in contact with them.

He wasn’t, but he promised to ask around. He was thinking of becoming a journalist himself – or a writer of some sort – once Europe was put back together.

‘Do you remember Miriam Rosenfeld?’ Russell asked abruptly.

‘The mute one.’

‘Do you know what happened to her?’

‘Not in the end, no.’

‘Did she get better?’

‘Yes, she did. I remember now – she had a baby, and that changed everything. Or so I heard.’

‘Did she stay with the same family?’

‘The Wildens? Yes, but later they were killed in the bombing. Someone told me that Miriam hadn’t been hurt, but I don’t know what happened to her after that – we all got more isolated as the war went on. But I can ask around.’

‘Thanks. I don’t suppose you know any Otto Pappenheims?’ He explained about Rosa, and their search for her father.

‘I do know one Otto Pappenheim. Not well – I only met him once.’

‘When was this? How old would he be now?’

‘I only met him a few weeks ago. I should think he’s about thirty-five.’

‘Did he ever have a wife and daughter?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘How would I find him?’

‘Good question. He’s not in Berlin, anymore. He and a friend of mine went off to Poland last month. They’re on their way to Palestine.’

‘Through Poland?’

‘The road begins there, in Silesia. Do you know about this?’

Russell shook his head. He had assumed that Palestine-bound Jews were following well-beaten paths, but had seen no reports of their actual location.

‘A group called Brichah started organising things in Poland,’ Isendahl explained. ‘Then the Haganah – the army of the Palestinian Jews – did the same at their end, and eventually the two of them met in the middle. There are people right along the route now, in Czechoslovakia and Austria, across the mountains and down through Italy to the ports and the ships. The ships that the British try to intercept and send back.’ He noticed the gleam in Russell’s eyes. ‘Another good story, yes? And I am in contact with these people. I could arrange a meeting if you want. They won’t talk to many Western journalists, but I think they would talk to you.’

‘I’d like that,’ Russell admitted. It did sound like a great story, and he might get news of this third Otto Pappenheim.

Walking in the Grunewald was like walking through the past. Some damage had been done by stray bombs or shells, but nature was rapidly repairing all but the deepest scars, and the smell of the pines reminded Effi of Sunday strolls before the war. It was only when they reached the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Turm, and looked back across the treetops at the lacerated skyline in the distance, that the present again became real.

It was a cold day, and seemed to get colder as Annaliese told her story.

‘When I was picked up by American soldiers I felt really pleased with myself. I’d done it – I’d got away from the Russians. The GIs were pretty free with their suggestions, but the ones I met took no for an answer – I wasn’t raped, and neither were any of the other women I came across during those first few days. I was put on a truck with other refugees and some soldiers they’d found hiding in a village, and we were driven west. We were told that there were camps waiting for us, which sounded a little ominous, but just letting us loose didn’t sound so wonderful either – there had to be some sort of organisation, and we thought that was why they were keeping us together.

Annaliese shook her head. ‘We couldn’t have been more wrong. The camp was called Rheinberg – it can’t have been far from the river – and it was hell on earth. You wouldn’t believe how bad it was. There were thousands of us: mostly men, but families as well, and far too many children. When we got there it was just a huge field surrounded by barbed wire – there were no buildings, no tents, no shelter of any kind. And there was hardly any food. Teething troubles, I thought, but things got worse rather than better. Any food that arrived was rotten, and there was hardly any water. Before too long we were eating grass, and getting sick.’

‘People started digging holes for shelter – the soil was sandy so it wasn’t too hard – but the walls would collapse and those inside were covered in sand, and too weak to fight their way out. Almost everyone had dysentery, and the toilets were just poles strung across pits. People who didn’t have the strength to hold on would fall in and drown.’

‘Did the people higher up know about this?’ Effi asked. ‘Was it just this one camp?’

Annaliese shook her head. ‘I don’t know who knew, but it wasn’t just Rheinberg. I’ve met people since from several other camps, and they all sounded much the same. It was policy – it had to be. How should I say this? The guards didn’t beat people up or torture them with irons – they just killed them with neglect. We found out later that there was enough food and water – but they’d deliberately withheld it. During the weeks
the Americans were in charge about a hundred bodies a day were carried out. They stacked them in quicklime outside the fence.

‘There were a few doctors in the camp, and several nurses like me. We did what we could, but it wasn’t much. We were all so weak ourselves. I’m still thinner than I was in the Bunker last spring.’

‘How did you get out?’

‘The camp was in the British zone, and in June the Americans handed it over. The British couldn’t believe what they found, and some of their officers talked to the press, but it was all hushed up. One officer told me that a few dead Germans weren’t worth a big row with the Americans, not with the Russians to worry about.’

‘I expected better of the Americans,’ Effi said.

‘So did I. But most of them seem so angry. When the British arrived they were much more sympathetic – they seem to get it that we weren’t all Nazis. The Americans hate us, or at least a lot of them do. The ones at Rheinberg blamed every last one of us for the war, and all the horrors that were done in our name. And they were quite prepared to let us all die.’

They were both silent for a few moments, listening to the breeze stirring the pines. ‘Why did you come back here?’ Effi eventually asked.

Annaliese smiled. ‘I missed the place. And I felt guilty about leaving Gerd’s parents to fend for themselves. I persuaded the British to let me go – one officer took a bit of a shine to me, I think – and I managed to get on a train. What a journey that was! I’ve never seen anything like it – every place we stopped there were other trains full of people, and huge camps by the side of the tracks, with everyone hungry and begging for food. It felt like the whole world was on the move.

‘It took me four days to get here. I needn’t have worried about Gerd’s parents – their staying was a damn sight more sensible than my going. They were surprised to see me, but pleased, I think. And I got my old job back. I took a trip in to the Elisabeth Hospital, partly to see if it was still there, and hoping to find old friends if it was. And of course they were short-staffed.’

‘But you’re a sister now.’

‘Impressive, isn’t it? The pay’s better too, or would be if the money ever showed up. And if you could buy anything with it. But it’s all so frustrating, Effi. Without medicines, we’re just a half-wrecked hotel with nurses. We know the medicine’s out there, but most of the time we can’t afford it. I ask you, what sort of bastard wants to get rich on the backs of dying children? After all we’ve been through, it’s still pieces of shit like that who are running things. Why don’t the occupation authorities do something about it?’

‘I think you already answered that – because, consciously or not, they want to see us suffer. And because they’re up to their ears in shit themselves.’

Annaliese gave her a look, part surprise, part admiration.

‘We’ve all lost our innocence,’ Effi said. ‘Even the children.’

That evening Russell told Esther what he’d learned from Kuzorra and Isendahl, that Miriam had given birth to a child in either 1940 or 1941, and that both had been alive in early 1942. Esther had listened with her usual composure, made sure that she had understood him correctly, and then sat in thoughtful silence, as if carefully weighing what it did and didn’t mean.

First thing on Monday morning, Russell arrived at the French administrative HQ on Müllerstrasse. Major Giraud proved willing to see him, but, as Jentzsch had feared, knew nothing of Kuzorra or the reasons for his arrest. Thinking he was being helpful, he took Russell upstairs and introduced him to Jacques Laval, the man who’d been so singularly obstructive on his last visit.

Russell refused to be daunted. He told the cold-eyed Frenchman that he’d been to see Uwe Kuzorra at the detention centre in Wittenau, and was pleased to note the momentary look of surprise in the other man’s
eyes. ‘I’m writing a story about his arrest,’ he lied glibly, ‘and the treatment he’s receiving at French hands. As far as I can tell, no date has been set for a hearing or trial.’

‘That is quite usual,’ Laval replied. ‘We only have the people to conduct a few cases at a time. Even the Americans have this problem. Your friend will just have to wait his turn. Now…’

Russell noticed the slight sneer in Laval’s voice when he mentioned the Americans. ‘You arrested Kuzorra because the Americans told you to,’ he said coldly. ‘Are you holding onto him out of spite?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Then why? Why hasn’t he been handed over to them?’

‘He will be.’

‘When they snap their fingers, perhaps.’

‘When they make an official request.’

Russell laughed. ‘Monsieur Laval, let me tell you what my story will be. That you are holding a wholly innocent man in custody, with no intention of giving him a fair hearing or trial. And that you’re not doing this in the interests of France, but because the Americans have ordered you to. Is that a fair summary of the situation?’

‘We don’t take orders from the Americans.’

‘Then give me the name of the American who wanted Kuzorra arrested, so I can ask him why the man’s been left to rot out at Camp Cyclop.’

Laval considered, but only for a second. He had, Russell guessed, no qualms about holding an innocent man for as long as expedience dictated, but a public reputation for sucking up to the Americans was not something he wanted to defend at Parisian dinner parties. ‘Colonel Sherman Crosby,’ he said, almost biting out the syllables.

‘Thank you,’ Russell said, and left it at that.

He made the long trip back to Dahlem – he was, he reckoned, covering more miles each day than he had with Patton – and asked for a brief meeting with Dallin. ‘I can give you five minutes,’ he was told on reaching the intelligence chief’s office.

‘I’ve found out who had the French arrest Kuzorra,’ Russell began.

‘Who’s Kuzorra?’

‘My detective friend. We agreed he’d be an asset to any Berlin network.’

‘Did we? So who was it had him arrested?’

‘Colonel Sherman Crosby.’

‘Ah.’

The name had made Dallin sit up, Russell noticed. And the look on his face suggested a rival. Had the Americans decided to imitate the Nazis and Soviets, and create their own perpetual feud between competing intelligence services? He sincerely hoped not. Four years earlier he had almost been crushed between Canaris and Heydrich, and was not keen to repeat the experience.

He suggested that Dallin talk to Crosby. ‘Ask him why him why he wanted Kuzorra arrested. And whether the name Rudolf Geruschke means anything to him. He’s a black marketeer that Kuzorra was investigating, and one of the letters denouncing Kuzorra came from one of his employees.’

‘I can ask,’ Dallin agreed, almost too readily. ‘Come back this evening. Say five ’o’clock.’

It was now almost two. Russell walked round to the Press Club on Argentinischeallee in search of lunch and some news of the local journalists. The former met all expectations, but the latter was harder to come by. In pre-war days Berlin’s foreign press corps had shared watering holes with its German counterpart, but under the occupation there seemed little in the way of mixing. Fortunately for Russell, one of the older American scribes had run into a German colleague, Wilhelm Fritsche, whom they both knew from pre-war days. Fritsche was keeping ‘office’ in one of the re-opened coffee shops at the eastern end of the Ku’damm.

Russell took to the buses again, wondering where he could find a bicycle. According to Thomas, the Russians had stolen most of the city’s supply in the spring, and broken them learning to ride.

He found the coffee shop without too much trouble, and saw Fritsche and another man right at the back. Fritsche had never been a Nazi, but,
like any German journalist who wanted to work in the Thirties, had kept his true political opinions to himself.

He was surprised to see Russell. ‘I thought you’d escaped from Berlin.’

‘I had.’ For about the twentieth time since his return, Russell went over his and Effi’s recent history. Fritsche had heard of Effi’s film, and seemed encouraged by the fact that it was being made. So did his younger companion, who introduced himself as Erich Luders. He was also a journalist, and exactly the one that Russell was seeking. Luders, as Fritsche announced with a mentor’s pride, was investigating Berlin’s black marketeers.