‘Obviously the first job’s to check archives to see if Marek Ringelblum already has a file, or any known associates. Then it’s a case of going through every sheet of paper with a fine-tooth comb. It looks like Ringelblum took his little black book with him, but if he ran in a hurry, there’s a good chance he left something behind. Names, addresses, contacts. Christ, we’ll even put his doodles under a microscope. You know about indented writing? If he wrote something on top of another piece of paper, the other piece might contain an impression. The printing press will be turned over to the Pomorska, but they’ll need you as liaison. Whose office were the stamps taken from? Ditto the cartons of ration books. Who works there, who had access? Pretty Jewish secretaries, printers’ assistants, cleaners? Then there’s your own paperwork, the report you’ll have to submit, in duplicate. One more thing. If good luck comes in threes, you should buy a lottery ticket tonight. And remember who told you.’
‘I always remember my friends,’ I said. ‘What’s my second piece of good luck?’
‘Your luggage turned up.’
‘My what?’
Brühl pointed under the desk. Standing upright was a canvas suitcase with leather corner protectors, stencilled with Harry Mohnke’s initial. It looked intact, apart from a long stain like a map of Italy down the front.
‘Turns out the Hauptbanhof lost your address, but they got in touch with Pormorska and found out you were stationed here. Voila. A porter brought it over a few minutes ago.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Lost for forty-eight hours, that’s got to be a record, even for Deutsche Rail. You must have given up hope.’
I toed the case affectionately with my boot. ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’
‘How’d you forget it then?’
I recalled the scene I’d faced with the Gendarme outside the station. Impossible to believe it was only two days ago.
‘It was chaos. We were held up for hours - broken rear axle, apparently.’
‘At Lublin, right?’
So Brühl knew. There was no point in denying it.
‘Everybody got off to use the station facilities. Then there was a huge pile on when they finally got the train going. All mixed up together, soldiers and officers. I thought somebody had walked off with my case my mistake, but I guess not.’
‘Cheer up, old boy.’
‘Cheer up? Have you seen the size of that stain?’
‘I did, yes. I thought it might be an old one.’
‘Please. You think I’d have taken a bag like that to my brother’s funeral? My guess, some soldier’s jar of home-made pickled cabbage exploded in the racks.’
‘Why don’t you call Left Luggage and complain? They have a duty of care. You might get something back.’
The last thing I needed was to spend any more time talking about what happened at Lublin train station two days ago.
‘It’s thick canvas,’ I said. ‘I’m sure my clothes will be fine.’
***
Quite late in the day I realised Wilhelm Kunde had not returned. I couldn’t say why, but his absence disturbed me. There was something about our visit to the pharmacist that didn’t quite ring true.
I casually asked Brühl if he knew if Kunde was alright, but my colleague did not share my concern. The Hauptsturmführer’s comings and goings were notorious. Several times a week he could be expected not to return to Jozefinska after lunch. This was now a whole day, but since nobody else was worried, I kept quiet.
The office was almost empty when Brühl tucked his chair under his desk and offered to buy me a drink to celebrate the Department of Civil Affair’s first major breakthrough. Caught off-guard, I did not get my rejection in quickly enough.
‘There’s a great dive bar I know just north of Rynek Square,’ he said, warming to his theme. ‘Michael’s Cave. Fashionable young crowd, students and the odd trendy professor, but it should be quiet this time of day.’
‘The place on Tomasza Street,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that a jazz club?’
Negro music was banned from radio broadcast and the last jazz cellar I frequented in Kiel had closed down in 1937.
‘They might play the odd subhuman African standard in the evening,’ Brühl said, buttoning up his jacket with long slender fingers. ‘I’m sure we can find an oompah band if that’s more your style.’
‘You’ll have to find out my style another night, I’m afraid. I’m not lugging this filthy old suitcase all over town and back.’
‘We’ll get a cab. Could even drop it at yours first.’
‘I can’t. Erich’s girlfriend is popping round later. There’s some jewellery and clothes she needs to pick up.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a lot of fun. Another night then. Don’t work too hard.’
I didn’t. Five minutes after Brühl left, I followed suit out onto a dark and grey Jozefinska.
I could look no Jew in the eye. Here I was, taking my suitcase home to a nice warm apartment, while their luggage was piled in the street like trash.
Back through the Lworska gate, I passed a group of bricklayers packing up their barrels as a beautiful, well-dressed young Jewish woman headed towards them, returning from a job outside the Ghetto. One of the lucky ones. Perhaps a secretary in a Government office from where Marek Ringelblum’s stamps or ration books had gone missing. Thanks to my exploits, she might return tomorrow to find the Gestapo waiting at her desk.
First she had to navigate the No Man’s Land of a pavement of Polish builders. I braced myself for their abuse, but it was a feminine yelp that pierced the air. I span round. One of the men had pulled a stick of quicklime from his barrel and was flicking hot white streaks at the woman’s shoulders. Quicklime burnt her hair, her shoulders, her pretty neck and face while the bricklayers stood laughing.
I strode back and gave the woman my handkerchief to wipe the caustic from her skin.
‘This Jewess is a commodity in the war effort,’I shouted to the thug with the white stick. ‘You’ve just defaced essential property of the Reich. I ought to report you for treason.’
I waited, fuming, while the woman hurried under the gate and showed her Arbeitsamt pass to the soldiers on guard. She was safe, for now.
I made it back to my apartment without being spotted by Otto Escherich and locked my door. If there were planks and a hammer, I believed I would have nailed myself in.
After changing out of the uniform, I sat down briefly in the living room and gazed at the square of white paint left by the Judas painting and the safety deposit box it had concealed.
Ten minutes later, I took Harry Mohnke’s suitcase into his brother’s bedroom and opened it on the mattress. The contents had not been marked by whatever stained the front; at least I’d been right about that. In fact, his things were in pristine condition, barely even creased.
A clean white shirt.
A pair of silk pyjamas.
Socks and shorts.
A wash-bag containing razor and toothbrush.
That was it – the standard weekend-away bag. Nothing to help me flesh out the character of the man whose identity I had assumed.
Lifting the case up onto the wardrobe, I stopped when I noticed a bulge in the lid pocket. Back down on the bed, I unzipped the pouch.
Harry Mohnke’s leather address book, each entry filed alphabetically. Fourteen names, friends and family, mostly in and around Dahme, a few further afield.
The good news was that Harry had no-one in Cracow who would be tracking him down. If his contacts book was as fastidious as the rest of his suitcase, there wasn’t a single soul in the city who knew him. Now his brother was dead, there were no other siblings. Which just left the father. From the way Julian Scherer spoke, the two weren’t particularly close. Presumably they had met at Erich’s funeral. With any luck, the father would not be communicating any time soon. Harry certainly wouldn’t be.
The address book contained one loose sheet behind the back cover, a brief, prophetic note from the de
ad brother:
If anything happens to me, look behind the Caravaggio.
6-5-1-2-6-9
E.
There it was, finally. The combination.
Inside the safe, arranged in ten bundles the size of house-bricks was over two thousand Reichsmarks in crisp fifty denomination banknotes.
I went to bed early, too early for sleep. Lying in darkness, my mind spiraled through the day’s events, reshaping conspiracy from confusion.
Wilhelm Kunde’s failure to return to Jozefinska still troubled me, as did the episode at the pharmacy. The more I thought about it, the more it felt like I’d wandered into a scene from a French farce. The secretive examinations in Tadeusz Pankiewicz’ back room, the snooty assistant, the mysterious doctor with his imposing eyebrows. Although I had been the one to suggest going alone to Szeroka Street, it was almost as if Kunde had ordained it, by shepherding me out of the station in the first place, cutting me off from Augustus Brühl, the only colleague who could have helped. Was Kunde testing me? To see what Julian Scherer’s much vaulted family friend was capable of? If so, had I passed?
Then there was the unexpected arrival of my suitcase. Brühl hadn’t said anything, but he must have worked out I was at Lublin train station on the same day the Gendarme’s translator was found murdered. If he ever saw a photograph of Damien Plotz, my little adventure was over.
I needed to befriend Brühl, to keep him close. Maybe I should have gone to the jazz cellar after all.
I knew I wasn’t going to fall asleep tonight without a stiff drink inside me. Mr. Mochowitz’ glass of cheap liquor had settled my nerves that morning. After forty-three years, I had finally developed a taste for alcohol. A war will do that, I suppose.
I dressed in civilian clothes, took down the Caravaggio, opened the safe, peeled off a fifty Reichsmark note and went out into a blizzard to buy two bottles of peppermint schnapps.
18
Next morning I was summoned to Kunde’s office. The one-armed Rottenführer Rausch was typing in the corner and the Hauptsturmführer was at the ledge, slotting a replacement window pane into place. Job done, he took off his white gloves and tossed them out into the courtyard. Instead of falling, they knotted together at the thumbs and floated away over the roof of the detention centre like a bird.
‘I hear congratulations are in order.’ Kunde walked round and sat at his desk. Cautiously I approached, remaining on my feet.
‘Thank-you, sir.’
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
‘Shame Ringelblum got away though. I know for a fact he was there earlier that morning.’ Kunde turned his attention to the paperwork on his desk and I thought I was dismissed.
‘I’m just going through your report,’ he said. ‘Very thorough. Only one thing I want to get straight, in terms of the order of events. Mochowitz came out onto the street and made use of his telephone after you’d gained access to the bakery?’
‘Yes, sir. I wouldn’t have had much need his phone before.’
‘No, no,’ Kunde murmured. ‘I see that.’ Dabbing his finger, he turned to the next page. Except I called Mr. Mochowitz last night, to offer my personal commendation.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Did you, sir?’
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
‘He said the first he knew what was going on was when you were outside number 17, rattling the doors and shouting. Apparently you didn’t gain access to the shop then, but crossed the road and knocked on Moschowitz’ door, pretending to be looking for the Jew - ’
‘Look, I have money.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Lots of money.’ I reached inside my jacket and yanked out a chain of banknotes like a magician pulling an endless silk streamer.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I opened my eyes.
Half slumped on Erich Mohnke’s couch in t-shirt and shorts, my right shoulder on the floor and the side of my face gummed to the carpet with drool. One empty bottle of schnapps on the table. I must have fallen into a stupor before starting the second. According to my watch, it was quarter-past eight in the morning.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Somebody was banging on the apartment door.
I lurched across the room fearing I was about to be sick. Ordering my stomach to stand down, I peered through the spy-hole in the hallway. A small man in a Gestapo-like overcoat and large trilby hat gaped back at me.
I opened the door.
‘Mr. Mohnke?’ he said, removing his hat. The top half of the man’s head appeared much too large for the rest of his boyish face, certainly too wide to be adequately covered by the few wisps of blonde hair vainly layered across the scalp.
‘Harry Mohnke,’ I said.
‘Forgive me for disturbing you so early, but I wanted to introduce myself. I’m often away on business. We’re neighbours. I live opposite. Your brother was a good man. You must be very proud of him.’
‘Yes,’ I said, offering my hand. ‘I am.’
‘Rudolf Ditzen. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know. I’m not home that much, but you can always leave a note, or let Mr. Escherich know.’
‘Thank-you,’ I said. ‘And what is it you do, Mr. Ditzen?’
‘Industrial surveyor.’
‘Right.’ I had no idea what that entailed. ‘I appreciate your kindness, I really do.’
I kept a grin plastered across my jaw until Rudolf Ditzen disappeared down the corridor to the stairwell.
Twenty minutes later, clutching the unopened bottle of schnapps in a checked cloth bag, I was out on the street.
Instead of doubling back on Tragutta towards the Lworska gate, I followed the Ghetto wall round on Kacik where the snow was deeper and crossed the river on the Slaskich Bridge. I strode north through my mother’s old neighbourhood, forking right at the Remah synagogue for Szeroka Street.
Mochowitz answered his door in a dressing gown as purple as the scab on his nose.
‘Oberführer Mohnke,’ he said. ‘Not more Jews in the neighbourhood, I trust?’
‘We must always be vigilant,’ I said. ‘But no, none that I’m aware of. I wanted to thank-you again for your family’s assistance. As I mentioned, it was my first day in the Ghetto, and I earned quite a few plaudits for my discovery. To a large degree, I owe that to you, and your continuing discretion. If my oversight with the addresses should ever come to light, my reputation would, I’m afraid, suffer… quite dramatic consequences.’
‘It is a pleasure to be of assistance. Trust me, it’s my boys who feel like heroes. They’ll be dining out on the story for months.’
‘Well, this little aperitif is a token of my gratitude.’ I removed the gift from the bag and presented it as ceremoniously as one can a bottle of peppermint schnapps.
‘Humbled, sir. Touched and humbled.’
‘And should you or your family ever need a well placed associate within the SS,’ I continued. ‘Please call me at Jozefinska Street. I even know the telephone number now.’
I gave Mochowitz a slip of paper with my contact details.
‘Very kind.’
‘Heil Hitler.’
Half a dozen Ordnungsdienst men were assembling for roll call outside the station when I arrived. Their senior officer inspected the line, fussing over buttons and belts. Although not wearing his infamous white admiralty jacket – perhaps it would have rendered him invisible in the snow - the tiny figure of Symche Spira was unmistakable. Struggling under heavy grey coat and cavalry breeches, he looked like a child let loose in his father’s wardrobe. The eyebrows, glasses, nose and moustache could have been styled on Groucho Marx. Spira stopped halfway down the line and tutted at a crooked cap. He reached his spindly arms up to straighten the man’s brim, while the officer beneath grimaced and the square-jawed bruiser next in line closed his eyes and sighed in grim forbearance.
A black limousine pulled up on the dot of nine
o’clock. Hauptsturmführer Kunde swung out and crunched across the pavement, ignoring the salutes of the ODs and giving myself only the most cursory of nods. Inside the building, he made straight for the bolt-hole on the first floor and would not be sighted again for the rest of the morning.
Augustus Brühl was typing a letter at his desk at the far end of the office. Noticing his empty cup, I offered to fetch drinks and returned with two strong black coffees.
‘So did you get to hear any subhuman African standards?’ I asked.
‘No. Had an early night. You?’
‘Same.’
‘How about the borscht juice?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Or was it pickled cabbage.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Brühl stopped typing and made a show of folding the piece of paper down over the carriage roller in order for an obstructed view across the desk.
‘Your suitcase,’ he said. ‘Any stains?’
‘Ah, right. No, all good. I told you, thick canvas.’
‘Glad to hear it. Erich’s girlfriend?’
‘Yes, she popped round.’ I shrugged stoically. ‘That’s the last of his stuff gone now.’
And the last time I could use sorting through Erich’s belongings as any kind of excuse, I realised.
‘Things will get easier,’ Brühl said, letting the sheet of paper spring back behind the carriage. With time.’
All in all, it was an encouraging start to the day. Kunde was back in the building and wasn’t about to summon me upstairs for a dressing down anytime soon. If he had already forgotten about Szeroka Street, that was absolutely fine with me. Brühl appeared not to have any lingering suspicions about the nature of my stop-over at Lublin station either. The only person who’d spent the night obsessing about all of it was me. Here at Jozefiniska, it was business as usual.
I Am Juden Page 29