The Berlin Escape

by Warren Court

  “That’s enough,” Aubrey snapped. “My apologies,” she said to the woman. “He’s been under some stress.”

  “Okay, okay,” he whispered mockingly. “Concentration camps are very nasty places, I hear.”

  “Me too. I know someone who was sent to one,” she said.

  He stared at her in astonishment. “You’ve only been here three days. Who is it? Tell me!”

  “Aren’t you afraid of guilt by association? I certainly am, with you sitting here drunk and shooting your mouth off.”

  “Is this person a friend?”

  “He’s not a friend, not even someone I know. I made a promise once. Seems I won’t be able to fulfill it, though. Heck… At least I tried.”

  “You have my attention now, Fraulein,” Fuchs said, leaning towards her, suddenly sober as a judge. “Please tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “Do people get paroled from these camps?” Aubrey asked him. “My understanding is if you go in, you don’t come out.”

  “They do release people. It just takes the right amount of baksheesh.”

  “What’s that?”

  He rubbed his fingers together and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “As high and mighty as the Reich may wish to appear, they are not beyond corruption. In fact, quite the opposite. The entire thing is corrupt. Government appointees, Aryanization of businesses. They’re even talking of kicking undesirables out of their homes and giving them to those of good German stock. Shameful, I know.”

  “So, you’re saying someone can be sprung for a bribe?”

  “I am saying that. It would cost a lot, though, depending on the person incarcerated. Plus, you would have to know exactly whom to bribe or you might end up in there with them.”

  “How much?”

  “Who is it?”

  “A scientist. A brilliant physicist. Name is…” She hesitated. “…Lazarus. I met his daughter.”

  “A Jew?”

  Aubrey nodded.

  “Ahhh, I see. Our short-sighted Führer doesn’t want the help of a Jewish scientist, even one that might help him win the coming war.”

  “It frightens me to hear you say that.”

  “What, ‘the coming war’? Have you ever seen as many people in uniform as there are here in Berlin, or in all of Germany? I haven’t. Not since 1918. All those uniforms can only mean one thing. Hitler laid it all out in his book, apparently. I tried to read it once, but it was damned hard to get through; the man is a raving lunatic.”

  Aubrey got to her feet. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “Fantastic! I know a great little bar.”

  “I can’t stay out long; I have a commitment later tonight.”

  “With the dashing count?”

  “Yes,” she said. She dished out the Reichsmarks for the coffees. Fuchs didn’t bother to reach for his wallet. It was the custom in Berlin; there was no stigma attached to a woman paying the bill. Or doing almost anything else, for that matter. She’d stopped into a pharmacy the day before and had been amazed to see a woman in a white pharmacist’s coat doling out medication. And the hotel night manager was a woman. As chauvinistic as this society appeared, with all the uniforms and the lantern-jawed men strutting around, Germany seemed to be far more advanced than the States when it came to gender roles.

  When they stepped outside, it became apparent that Fuchs was intoxicated; he stumbled against Aubrey, and she grabbed him to keep him from tumbling to the pavement.

  “You’re loaded. Where were you?”

  “In a bar, across from where I work. A long lunch. And it hasn’t ended.”

  “I think it has. I should get you home. Where do you live?”

  “Can’t go there. Not advisable at the moment. I went back to grab my things from the office; that’s when you called. As I was leaving, one of our crime beat reporters informed me that they have a warrant out for my arrest.”

  “Why? What on earth have you done?”

  “Written. Things I’ve written in the past—yesterday, last year. The things that have yet to be written. I’m a disgrace, not worthy of the heavy mantle that has been handed to me.” Fuchs chuckled wetly.

  “You think quite highly of yourself.”

  “I don’t mean that—you don’t understand. I know a quiet place we can get a drink. Come on.”

  “I’m not going for any drinks; I have a date tonight that I don’t intend to be late for. I’m taking you somewhere. Another coffee shop. Just stop shooting your mouth off about the government.”

  They were walking into a seedier area of Berlin; that was apparent. There were seductively-dressed women standing in dark alcoves talking to men, their hands caressing the men’s shirt fronts. Some played the part of seductress well. Others stood back from their conquests, frightened, their clothes simple dresses that might be worn to the market. They looked like scared children. Aubrey recognized them: street walkers. The newcomers to the game and the old hands.

  There were also a few shops; Aubrey recognized the outlines of Yiddish writing, signage that had been scraped off to try and save a pane of glass. There were Jewish men in the centre of the street talking. The merchants and the prostitutes, merchants of a different kind, coexisted.

  Richard said, “These women, ladies of the night, have recently set up shop here. The security forces are quartering in all undesirables on top of each other. It will make it easier to contain them, and finally crush them.”

  “We should turn back.”

  “No. I have friends here. They can help me. I need a place to hide.”

  There was the sound of glass breaking and shouts back and forth. The men who were talking to the prostitutes looked around wildly and ran off in different directions. The women stood their ground, perhaps realizing there was nowhere else to go. Not for them, at least.

  “It’s started,” Fuchs said. “The revolution. Or counter-revolution!” he shouted drunkenly.

  A surge of people came around the corner. All men, heavily built and wearing not the brown shirts and swastika armbands of the SA but workmen’s clothes. They sported the same shaved heads as the SA, though, and wore military boots. They carried stout clubs and pickaxe handles. Their disguises were as pathetic as their attitude.

  “The SA,” Fuchs said. “I’d recognize them anywhere. Stirring up trouble again.”

  The group of Jewish men were quickly surrounded. There was no hesitation on the part of the SA agents provocateurs. A hideous scene unfolded as the clubs slammed down, again and again, onto the heads of the surrounded men. Aubrey felt weak at the knees.

  Richard grabbed her and held her up. “This is serious,” he said. “We must get out of here.”

  “Shouldn’t we witness this? You could write about it. So could I.”

  For the first time since her foray into the German Reich under her phony cover, Aubrey realized her responsibility, journalistic credentials or no. She could see the power of the words she could write about what was going on here. If only she had a camera.

  “If we don’t move, we’re going to get caught up in it,” Fuchs said. He started to drag her away, but more men rounded a corner from the opposite direction, cutting off their escape. Aubrey saw a stream of bright red blood flowing into the gutter as the victims tried to crawl away. Clubs rained down on their backs.

  “Aubrey, move—now.” He tugged her toward a narrow passageway between two buildings. There was the sound of breaking glass and the dull thuds of bricks being hurled after them.

  “What is this happening? Why are those men attacking the others?”

  “Because they are Jews—it’s the only explanation. There are no more communists left to beat up.”

  He dragged her down the alleyway and out onto a wider street, where there was even more commotion.

  “Oh no,” she said when they emerged. There was a line of men, more SA in disguise, advancing up the street. Richard looked back the way they had come. He could see the burly, silhouetted shoulders of the
mob coming after them. Further up the street was a line of mounted police, fat truncheons in their hands.

  “Why don’t those police do anything?” Aubrey cried.

  “They will. They’ll arrest you after you get beaten up.”

  There was another group of ordinary citizens being pushed down the street by the advancing line of attackers. Some of them brave, maybe stupid, stopped and tried to throw fists at the men with clubs. They were set upon and quickly disappeared into the throng.

  A man was on the ground bleeding badly. Aubrey broke away from Richard to try and help the poor man up.

  “Aubrey, no—leave him.”

  The surge of men trying to escape the mob swept past her, carrying Richard with them. The crowd was being pressed in on all sides. Bottles and rocks soared in every direction overhead. She turned to the man she was trying to help, saw the curly locks of a Hassidic Jew hanging over his ears.

  “You must go,” the man said in a hoarse gurgle. But it was too late: the goons were on them. They separated Aubrey from the man and dragged her away. She saw the Jewish man take a solid blow to the face; his teeth were dashed out onto the street.

  Then she was swallowed up by the SA, who called her all manner of nasty things. She couldn’t take it all in. She was swirled around and punched solidly in the stomach. It knocked the wind out of her and she collapsed to her knees. A kick to her side and she fell onto the street. The mob continued on, trampling over her. There was the shrieking of police whistles; she smelled the scent of something bitter, and it burned her eyes. Then there was a horse above her; the rider was a policeman wearing a gas mask. He pointed his truncheon at her, spouted something horrific in German, and more police surrounded her. They hauled her to her feet and pinned her hands behind her. She was stuffed in the back of a van, and the door slammed shut.

  18

  The damp cell held four other women besides Aubrey. One was sobbing incessantly. Another woman, dressed in the garish costume of a prostitute, her face red from drink, shouted at her to stop. The crying woman ceased and rubbed tears away from her eyes. Then her head fell back into her hands and the sobbing resumed.

  Aubrey sat next to her on the metal bench, the only one in the squat cell, and put her arm around her. The crying woman jumped and shrank away from her touch. Aubrey got up and went to the bars. She winced when she stood up; there was a sharp pain under her rib cage. She probed it with her fingers and felt the tender spot where the punch had landed, but she didn’t think her ribs were busted. She must have a hell of a bruise there. The woman with the red face spoke to her.

  “You’re American.”

  Aubrey nodded.

  “I heard them say they had a foreigner in the round-up.”

  “I tried to help someone. My friend and I were separated.”

  The woman came over. “My name is Helene.”

  Aubrey introduced herself, just her first name.

  “What are you doing in Berlin?”

  “I’m doing a story on the state exhibition for aeronautics.”

  “And you got caught up in the riots, how?”

  “I was out seeing the sights. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “I know the feeling.” The woman burped and Aubrey smelled a disgusting mixture of cabbage and gin. She almost vomited.

  The woman had a large belly and was wearing a soiled, frilly nightdress. “I was having a gay old time. I woke up here. They’ll let me go soon. They always do.”

  Aubrey sighed and pushed her face between the bars.

  “Don’t worry,” Helene said. “They won’t hold an American long. You’ll write bad things about them. They don’t want that.” She laughed. “Carl,” she called, “come let my new friend out. But don’t expect a blow job.” There was the sound of shuffling footsteps somewhere out of sight.

  There had been more women in the cramped cell when Aubrey had first arrived, but steadily, one by one they had been taken out and did not return.

  “Where are we?”

  “SiPo.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sicherheitspolizei, the security police. SiPo.”

  “They brought… someone like you… here with the others.”

  “You mean a whore? It’s because I am a bad influence. They want to give me another lecture. Send me underground. What they don’t know is that their senior officers are my best customers.” She grabbed one of her sagging breasts and hefted it up.

  “Carl!” Helene shouted again.

  Carl, still unseen, shouted back, “Shut up, Helene. Or you’ll get a beating.”

  There was the clang of a metal doorway and the sound of a stool being knocked over. Carl must have jumped to attention. Two men came into view. They wore the black uniform of the SS and were followed by a man in a police uniform. He was shaking in fear.

  “Oh, no, my dear,” Helene whispered. “The SD.”

  One of the men spoke to Carl. He did indeed have that little diamond patch on his sleeve with SD stitched inside of it. “We are taking possession of the American.” He handed a piece of paper over to Carl. “Unlock the cell and take her out.”

  Carl fumbled with the keys and got the cell open. Aubrey stepped out. She was marched out of the district SiPo building and put in the back of a large black car. An SS man rode beside her for the short journey across Berlin to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. She remembered Hewitt Purnsley mentioning that street name, and the building that resided there.

  The car descended into an underground parking garage. There were more SS men there, several carrying submachine guns. Others held just clubs. The door was flung open and Aubrey got out.

  “This way,” the lead man said in stilted English.

  She was led into a bright room. There were men in there, in suits, discussing something and having a smoke. They paused when Aubrey entered. There was an exchange between the suits and the black unforms. Aubrey was hustled down a corridor and locked in a room with a solid door; no bars, just a peephole. There was a metal cot affixed to the wall, but no blanket. She sat down on it; the mattress was soiled and thin, and the springs creaked under her weight. Then Aubrey heard the first of many moans, and what sounded like a terrified scream coming from somewhere else in the building.

  She knew where she was: 1195 Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. She was in the place she feared most, the basement cells of Gestapo headquarters.

  19

  Eventually they came for her. The door to her cell was thrown open with a clang and two SS men grabbed hold of her and dragged her out. She would have gone willingly, but they force-marched her down the deserted hallway, into a room with a long wooden table. She was thrust down into a chair in front of it and then left alone.

  Keep it together, Aubrey, she told herself. You did nothing wrong, just tried to help a man. Then she remembered her purse. It contained the compact with the false bottom that Hewitt Purnsley had given her. So what? she thought. The contact between herself and Agent Starlight had been aborted; he’d never handed over the important information. Come to your senses, Aubrey. It’s a spy’s tool—they’ll see that. It might be all they need to declare you an enemy agent.

  The door opened again. She did not turn to see who it was. This was all by design, of course: the terror of the unknown and the absolute authority of the state. When the man came around the side of the table, however, she gasped. She didn’t know why she did; she had half-expected to see him. Hauptsturmführer Schmidt. Agent Starlight himself.

  He had a file folder with him and dropped it on the table. There were other men with him, but they kept out of her peripheral vision. She heard something clunk behind her and the door was slammed shut. The sound hurt her ears.

  The captain sat on the corner of the desk, crossed his legs and laboriously extracted a silver cigarette case. He lit a cigarette and handed it across to her.

  Aubrey didn’t smoke. She had started as most young people had, in school, and probably would have developed a habit, but she was soon bitte
n by an even bigger addiction: flying. The fuel and vapours and threat of explosion were very real around airplanes, so she had quickly dropped cigarettes. Most of the male pilots still smoked, and some of her fellow aviatrixes did as well, but she felt there was already enough risk built into her occupation. Why add to it?

  But for this cigarette, even one offered by a Nazi, she was grateful. She accepted it and took a long drag. The brand was strong and foreign to her, but it helped calm her nerves just a tad. Not enough for her to cease being scared out of her wits, though.

  “Miss Endeavours, you have been arrested and are being held for your safety by the Sicherheitsdienst des Reichsführers of the SS. Do you understand?”