Lehrter Station (30 page)

‘You’ll do what you have to. It sounds familiar, but I never took much notice of politics. And I still don’t understand what all this philosophising has to do with me.’

He breathed a sigh of frustration. ‘Nothing, if you confine yourself to what you are good at, and leave crusades to the church.’

Effi smiled inwardly, remembering something Russell had told her weeks ago, that a quarter of the country’s Protestant clergy had joined the Nazis before they even came to power.

‘We intend talking to Mr Russell when he returns,’ Exner said, as if that would make Effi feel better. ‘Perhaps the two of you should talk this through before you take any more unconsidered actions.’

That made Effi angry – receiving an incomprehensible telling-off from a brash young idiot was bad enough; hearing him suggest that she wait for the balm of Russell’s calming influence was downright insulting. ‘So you’re telling me I should come to work each day, do my job and go back home, and forget about everything else.’

‘A dramatic way of putting it, but yes.’

She shook her head. ‘And if I don’t? What are you threatening me with?’

‘Nothing terrible. You will just find that the difficulties you encountered in getting a work permit – those difficulties that we resolved for you – will rear their ugly heads once more, and the film will need a new
leading lady. If it proceeds at all, that is. We help those who are prepared to help us,’ he added, his voice turning suddenly colder.

Effi’s first and almost overwhelming impulse was defiance, but she bit back her tongue on the words that were forming. ‘I understand,’ she said, a deal more graciously than she felt. ‘No more crusades.’

He smiled at that. ‘It’s in all our interests,’ he said. Job done, he got up to leave. ‘Have a good weekend.’

Once the door had closed behind him she went back over the conversation. If their trip out to Teltow had occasioned his visit, then there had to be more to it. Neither she nor Annaliese had done anything to suggest they were anything more than buyers, so where had anyone got the idea they were starting a crusade?

There was only one explanation that fitted. The men they had met must work for Geruschke – hadn’t Kuzorra told Russell that the black marketeer included drugs and medicines among his illicit trades? One or both of the men had recognised her as Russell’s partner, and reported it to Geruschke. And he had concluded that her presence at the canal basin was part of a continuing ‘crusade’ on her and Russell’s part.

So Geruschke employed the former Gestapo officer. She had been wondering what to do about the latter ever since she recognised him. She had thought of reporting him to the occupation authorities, but what was the point if she didn’t know where to find him again?

Now she probably did. She had arranged to meet Irma at the Honey Trap on Saturday – she would see if the singer recognised the man’s description.

But – and the realisation brought her up short – she had also learned something else, something much more troubling. If Geruschke was behind it all, how come his envoy was a man from the American Government? Had she just been warned to lay off the black marketeer because he was vital to their war against the ‘new enemy’?

That, she realised, could explain why Geruschke had let Russell go. The Americans needed them both, so first they saved Russell from Geruschke, and now Geruschke from Russell and her.

How crazy was that?

The party reached the transit camp at Pontebba early on Tuesday evening. Since reaching the road on the Italian side of the border, they had endured a day of seemingly interminable waits, first for the lorry, and then for the various Italian authorities to decide on what bribes they were willing to accept. The British had been conspicuous by their absence, but that hadn’t felt surprising – even up here in the northern foothills, Italy seemed far removed from the war and its hangover, from the bleakness afflicting so much of northern Europe.

It was partly the relative warmth, Russell thought, as he stiffly climbed down from the back of the lorry. It was the first time in a week that he hadn’t felt really cold.

The Pontebba site had hosted a munitions dump before the Jewish Brigade arrived, and now that both were gone it look like a half-abandoned POW camp, a few dusty barracks in a sea of discarded packing. Russell headed straight for the office to enquire after Otto Pappenheim.

‘He’s here,’ the Haganah representative confirmed, once Russell had explained why he wanted him. ‘But he and a few of the others have driven down to Resiutta – there’s a cinema there. And girls.’

Russell walked across to the group’s designated barracks and left his suitcase on an empty cot. The room was full of excited chatter – his Jewish companions might still be a long way from their Palestine, but reaching Pontebba obviously felt like a huge step in the right direction.

He went in search of something to eat, and ended up sharing a table with two young men from Breslau. They were happy to describe their escape from Poland – a meet at the abandoned farmhouse, the walk across the mountain border, a long train journey through Czechoslovakia. But what had impressed them most was the warmth of their reception in the small Czech town of Náchod, where two local Jews had created a place of refuge for those heading south and west. This was brave but not surprising – what astonished Russell’s companions was the whole-hearted
involvement of the town’s non-Jews. Náchod, almost alone in Europe, seemed eager to lend a helping hand.

Listening to the two young Zionists, Russell knew he would have to visit the town. Not on this trip perhaps, but soon. Both Poles and Czechs had treated their new German citizens appallingly in the immediate aftermath of the war – like Nazis, as one sad American journalist had told him in London – and if one Czech town was doing well by the Jews it deserved both praise and publicity. In post-war Europe kindness was a story in itself.

He returned to his bunk intent on waiting for Otto, but thirty-six hours without sleep had taken their toll. The next thing he knew a hand was gently shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes to morning sunlight and someone standing above him.

‘You wanted to speak to me,’ a male voice said. ‘I’m leaving in half an hour so I thought you’d want me to wake you.’

‘You must be Otto Pappenheim,’ Russell said. He levered himself off the bunk and offered his hand. This Otto was a tall young man in his twenties, with bushy black hair and a friendly smile. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Palestine, I hope.’

‘Thanks for waking me,’ Russell said. Looking around, he saw that many others were still asleep. ‘We’d better talk outside.’

It was a lovely morning, the sun dousing the distant hills in an almost golden glow. A large bird of prey was drawing circles above the camp, presumably hoping for breakfast. Otto lit a cigarette as Russell launched into his now familiar spiel.

Otto shook his head. ‘I have no children,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been married,’ he added, in apparent explanation.

‘Are you sure? I don’t mean to question your honesty, but you’re a good-looking boy…’

Otto gave him a self-deprecating smile.

‘You didn’t know a girl, a woman, named Ursel? In the summer of 1937?’

‘I had my first real girlfriend in 1938, and she threw me over for a
goy
. I was only sixteen in the summer of 1937.’

‘Okay,’ Russell said. ‘Thanks.’

‘Pappenheim is not an unusual name,’ Otto remarked, grinding his cigarette out in the dust.

‘So I’ve discovered,’ Russell agreed. ‘You’re our third Otto.’

‘Well, good luck with the fourth.’

‘And to you,’ Russell replied. Watching the young man walk away, he wondered whether Shanghai Otto would prove to be the one. With any luck Shchepkin would have some news the next time he saw him. Whenever that was. He wondered how long an absence from Berlin the Soviets would tolerate.

With no little effort, he worked out what day it was – Saturday the 15th of December. What should he do? If he continued on with the group, he might end up hanging around some South Italian port for weeks on end. Sailing on to Palestine – or a British internment camp on Cyprus – would certainly round off the story, but could he spare the time? And he had the gist – the journey and how it was organised, the people and why they were taking it.

The Soviets might or might not be pining for him, but he was certainly missing Effi. If he started back now he should reach Berlin by the end of the week, in plenty of time for Christmas.

Always assuming he could find some sort of transport. He doubted whether any trains or buses were running into Austria, at least along the road they’d travelled. There might be flights north from Venice or Trieste, but it would be a long journey south to find out. Hitching a lift seemed the best bet. A lorry most probably, though a private car would be nicer.

A car like the one moving northwards along the road that skirted the camp. He thought of waving to attract the driver’s attention, but knew he was too far away. And then the need disappeared – as if in response to his silent entreaty, the car turned in through the open gates and drove up to the barracks containing the office.

The young man who got out seemed familiar, but Russell was still trying to work out why when the man caught sight of him. ‘Herr Russell!’ he exclaimed with what sounded like pleasure, and walked across to meet him.

It was Albert Wiesner.

Russell should have been surprised, but he wasn’t, not really. In these circumstances, running across Albert was not such a great coincidence – there couldn’t be many young Palestinian men better versed in the whys and wherefores of fleeing a hostile Europe.

Almost seven years earlier, in March 1939, Russell had helped smuggle the seventeen-year-old Albert out of Germany. Originally employed by Albert’s doctor father to teach English to his daughters Ruth and Marthe, Russell had quickly become a friend of the family, and when Frau Wiesner had begged him to talk to her son – whose angry outbursts were putting them all in jeopardy – he had reluctantly agreed. Albert was certainly prickly, but few of Berlin’s Jews were brimming with good humour in March 1939. At their meeting in Friedrichshain Park, Albert had calmly predicted the death camps. ‘Who’s going to stop them?’ was the question he’d posed to Russell.

Then his father Felix Wiesner had been beaten to death in Sachsenhausen concentration camp, and Albert had gone into hiding after braining a Gestapo officer with a table lamp. As part of a convoluted deal with British and Soviet intelligence, Russell had managed to arrange the boy’s escape to Czechoslovakia and the rest of the family’s emigration to England. Albert had gone on to Palestine, and had been there ever since.

He was now in his mid-twenties. He looked bigger and healthier than Russell remembered, with shorter hair, a permanent tan and the same intelligent eyes. ‘It’s good to see you,’ Albert said. ‘The last time Marthe wrote to me, she said you’d all had dinner together in London.’

‘In early November,’ Russell confirmed. It seemed months ago. He explained his and Effi’s return to Berlin as best he could, given the need not to mention spying.

‘So what are you doing here?’ Albert asked.

‘Telling these people’s story. Someone thought I’d be a sympathetic witness.’

‘And are you?’ Albert asked with a disarming smile.

‘How could I not be?’ Russell replied in kind. ‘But what are you doing here?’

‘I’m a
sheliakh
. You know what that is?’

‘An emissary.’

‘Yes. I’m here to find out how things are going – the camps, the transport, all the arrangements. There’s more trouble in Poland, and that means more people we have to move. So I’m travelling back up the chain, checking that everything’s working smoothly.’

‘Do you feel like company?’

‘I thought you were travelling south.’

‘I don’t think so. I have all I need at this end – I’m much more interested in the early stages of the journey. There’s a place called Náchod – are you going there?’

‘Ah, Náchod.’

‘Do you remember, in the car on the way to Görlitz, you said that cruelty was easy to understand but that kindness was becoming a mystery?

‘Did I really say that?’

‘You did. I was impressed.’

Albert shook his head. ‘How wise I was at seventeen!’

On Saturday evening, Effi asked Thomas to accompany her to the Honey Trap. ‘If I go on my own I’ll spend the whole evening fending off drunken Russians – they won’t care that I’m almost forty. And you need a break,’ she insisted.

He told her he spent his weeks watching Russians behaving badly, and doing so at weekends hardly constituted a break.

‘But you’ll come anyway?’

‘All right. But only because Frau Niebel has invited friends over for dinner.’

The latter were arriving as they left, two women who stared at them with almost indecent interest. Frau Niebel must have been gossiping overtime.

On their walk to the bus Effi asked Thomas exactly how badly the Russians were behaving at the Schade print works.

‘Oh, no worse than anywhere else. They’ve brought in extra presses for the school books, but no one will tell me whether I’m expected to pay for their hire. Sometimes it’s hard to tell whose business it is – I sometimes think it would make more sense if they confiscated it, and then hired me to run things. I know it’s Lotte’s inheritance, but…’

His voice trailed off, and Effi knew he was thinking about his son, who should have inherited the works, but had died in far-off Ukraine.

They didn’t have long to wait for a bus, and there were even seats to spare. Across the aisle a woman was sitting beside a pile of Christmas shopping. Where she’d found gifts worth giving, let alone the beautiful paper and ribbons, was something of a mystery, and half the passengers were staring at her with the same perplexed expression.

‘Are you going to Hanna’s family for Christmas?’ Effi asked Thomas.