The Runaway Family

by Diney Costeloe

  “They have driven us out of our home, and now they’re driving us out of our city. I would rather die here than live in Shanghai.”

  “Well, I would not,” David said. “And we have the children to think of. I have to get them out of Vienna, and I can’t leave you and Mother behind.”

  “David’s only doing what he thinks is best for all of us, Friedrich,” said his wife soothingly. “We need to take the children away from here to somewhere safe.”

  That evening, when they were back in their apartment and the children were tucked up in their beds, Helga finally allowed her self-control to snap and began to weep. When they had said goodbye that afternoon, she had remained dry-eyed, even when Edith dissolved into tears. She had hugged her grandchildren convulsively, but had talked brightly about the great adventure of going to China, making them promise to write and tell her about all the new and exciting things they had seen. Knowing how distressing they would find them, she had held her tears at bay until there was no one but Ruth to see them.

  Ruth, too, had managed not to cry as she had said goodbye to Edith. Deep in her heart she knew it was unlikely she would ever see her, or her nephew and niece again, and, despite Edith’s self-centredness, she was still Ruth’s big sister and Ruth loved her. David had shaken her hand and then reached across to kiss her cheek. Startled, Ruth drew back, looking up into his face, and was surprised to see his expression was a mixture of affection and admiration.

  “God bless you, Ruth,” he said. “You’re a brave and resourceful woman. I admire you for how you’ve coped since Kurt was arrested.” He seemed about to say more, but simply gave a small shrug and turned to Helga.

  “Look after my Edith,” Helga had said, and David had nodded.

  They had left then, no one wanting to prolong the painful goodbyes, and had brought the children home.

  “Well,” said Helga when, clasped in Ruth’s arms, she had wept until she had no more tears, “we’re on our own now.”

  15

  Kurt sat on the bed in his tiny room in Hans Dietrich’s house and pulled out the latest letter that had come from Ruth.

  My darling Kurt, she had written,

  They have gone now. They left for Shanghai on Wednesday. Goodness knows what awaits them there. Mother was very upset when we went to say goodbye on Sunday, though she’s been very strong in front of the children, I know she’s grieving inside, almost as if Edith was dead. Mother is certain she’ll never see her again.

  Life goes on here much as it did in Kirnheim, the children are well and though we haven’t much money, provided I am able to keep my job they won’t go hungry or cold. Hans and Peter are a real pair of monkeys and keep Mother on her toes during the daytime. Inge worries me these days, she is still very quiet, nothing like her old volatile self, though she seems to be settling at school at last. She has begun to make friends with some of the other girls in our little complex, but she is very clingy and always wants to know where I am and when I am coming home again. Laura is, as she has been ever since you left, my rock. She is so grown-up you would hardly recognise her. She never complains about what is happening to us and she is fiercely protective of the younger children. I enclose a picture of us all that David took a couple of weeks ago… just so you’ll recognise us when we meet up again!

  If you do manage to get to see Berta it would be lovely if you could arrange for us to come and see her too. The children haven’t seen her for ages, and of course Mother would love to see her again as well.

  Keep well and safe, my darling, we all miss you, but are happy to know you’re with friends.

  All my love,

  Ruth

  The letter was dog-eared, and its enclosed photograph was decidedly ragged at the edges. Kurt stared down at the little group in the picture. In the ten months he’d been away the twins had changed from toddlers into little boys, grinning mischievously into the camera. Identical twins, and still so alike that if they walked in through the door now, after ten months’ absence, Kurt was not at all sure he would know which was which. He looked again at the girls; Inge seemed to be clutching a piece of cloth against her cheek, and Laura, solemn-eyed, was staring into the camera. Standing behind them was Ruth, his beautiful Ruth, but now a shadow of the Ruth he remembered. Her face was thin, the flesh drawn tightly over her cheekbones, making her nose more prominent; her hair, even in the photograph, showed streaks of grey, and although she was smiling for the camera, there was a sadness in the eyes that struck at his heart.

  Kurt could only imagine what life must be like for his family in newly Nazified Austria. He wished with all his heart that he’d managed to reach them in Vienna before the Anschluss, but even as his heart ached to be with them, he knew in his head that he had been right to come to Hamburg.

  The train journey had been uneventful. There had been a couple of document checks, and, as the police came through the train, he braced himself to make a break for it, but his identity card was unquestioned and handed back to him. Perhaps his fear of Loritz was out of all proportion. Surely an SS camp commandant could not have such far-reaching tentacles, but even if it wasn’t Loritz after him, he was still a Jew travelling between cities with no luggage and no apparent reason for the journey. Since his escape from the hotel in Regensburg, he’d had no chance to shave, and his clothes were looking decidedly slept-in, just the sort of scruffy individual to be picked up by the Gestapo as a vagrant. He slept for a good while, and when he arrived at last in Hamburg he was hungry, but wide awake. From a station kiosk he bought a street map and set out to find Festungstrasse and Hans Dietrich.

  Festungstrasse turned out to be a side street in a smart part of the city, where exclusive shops offered expensive goods. Kurt felt completely out of place in an area where chic and fashionable women sauntered the streets, glancing into the discreet shop fronts of jewellers, furriers and couturiers, where a single item might be displayed, its price tag delicately turned inward. Hans Dietrich’s shop was just such a one, the bow window holding one disembodied hand through the fingers of which trailed a three-row pearl necklace with a diamond clasp. Even as Kurt watched from the outside, a hand reached in and removed the pearls. The shop was closing for the day, the precious merchandise being placed in the safe overnight.

  Kurt glanced along the street. There were few shoppers around now, and the couple who had been approaching flagged down a taxi, and drove away in the opposite direction. Kurt pushed the shop door, but it was locked. Anxiously he peered in through its frosted glass panel. A light shone through the window; there was definitely someone inside, moving round the shop. Then Kurt noticed a discreet bell beside the door with a sign: “Please ring for attention”. Hans Dietrich was not going to allow just anyone inside his premises. Kurt drew a deep breath and pressed the bell. For a moment he thought there was going to be no response, but then a disembodied voice crackled in his ear, and he realised that there was a speaking tube from inside the shop.

  “Yes? What do you want? We’re closed.”

  “I’m looking for Herr Hans Dietrich,” began Kurt.

  “Who are you?” The voice was distorted by the speaking tube, and Kurt could not tell if he were being addressed by a man or a woman. Kurt had been about to give his own name but then realised that whoever was in the shop would have no notion who he was, so he replied, “Günter Schiller.”

  There was movement behind the glass. Kurt saw the silhouette of a man, and he stepped back from the door so that the streetlamp behind him would light his face. The door opened on a chain and a voice said, “You’re not Günter Schiller. Günter Schiller is dead.”

  “His father, Paul Schiller, sent me,” Kurt said. “I’m looking for Herr Hans Dietrich.”

  The door closed, the chain was released and then the door opened again. “I’m Hans Dietrich; you’d better come in.”

  Kurt edged through the partially opened door and the man immediately closed it behind him, pulling down a blind so that it was impossible to see through t
he glass panel from the outside.

  “You’d better come through to the back and tell me what this is all about.”

  The man led the way through the shop, behind the counter and into a room beyond. It immediately reminded Kurt of Paul Schiller’s backroom. An overhead lamp threw a pool of light into the centre of the room, and when he turned to face Kurt, Hans Dietrich was revealed. Aged about fifty, he was a small man with delicate features. His blue eyes were pale in the pallor of his face. His fair hair was too long, curling on his collar, and his mouth was small, lips pursed together as he surveyed his visitor. One long-fingered hand pushed a lock of hair from his forehead as he said, “Well, what’s your name and why did Herr Schiller send you to me?”

  Kurt looked at the strange man in front of him, and knew that he had no option but to trust him. Paul had said to go to him, and now he was here there was nothing to do but to tell him. “My name is Kurt Friedman… and I need to leave Germany,” he said.

  “You don’t want much, do you?”

  “He said I should come to you if I needed help,” said Kurt.

  “Did he now? What a cheek!”

  “In which case,” Kurt said, stepping towards the door, “I’ll leave now.”

  Hans Dietrich made no move to stop him, but said, “You can’t go out onto the streets round here looking like that. You look like a vagrant, and they aren’t welcome in this part of the world, I can assure you.”

  “My luggage is lost,” Kurt began. “I need a shave and…”

  “Why did you say you were Günter?” Hans cut him off with a wave of the hand. “Why are you using his name?”

  “Paul gave me Günter’s passport and told me to use his name if I needed to.” Kurt paused before adding, “And he said you might be able to help me.”

  “Did you know Günter?” asked Hans, dropping into a chair and waving Kurt towards another.

  “We went to the same school,” answered Kurt, ignoring the second chair, “but he was older than I am and we weren’t close friends.” He looked across at Hans Dietrich and said, “Were you just business acquaintances, or were you friends, too?”

  “Oh, I think you can say we were friends.” Hans Dietrich was inspecting his fingernails as he spoke, not looking at Kurt, but running the nail of his right forefinger under a nail on his left hand to remove a speck of dirt. “Günter used to stay here when he was in Hamburg.” He looked up, suddenly irritable, and snapped, “For goodness’ sake, man, don’t tower over me like that, sit down.”

  This time Kurt took the chair Hans indicated, perching on the edge of it. He looked across at the jeweller, trying to decide why Paul had thought he might help. He was clearly not a Jew and yet Paul had been sure it would be safe to approach him in need; that was why Kurt had expected him to be Jewish. Why, Kurt wondered, would he put himself in danger to help someone he didn’t know?

  “Have you got the passport here?” asked Hans. “May I see it?”

  Kurt reached into his inside pocket and passed it over to him. Hans opened it at the picture page, and stared down at it for a long moment, before looking up and saying bluntly, “Well, you don’t look very like him do you?”

  Kurt agreed that he didn’t, but added that the beard made all the difference. “I have to decide whether to say I shaved it off, or to grow one myself.”

  “You’d look more like the picture if you grew one,” Hans said, “but you’d also look more Jewish, which would be dangerous. Günter Schiller isn’t a particularly Jewish name, if you stay clean-shaven, perhaps wear some spectacles, they might not look at you too closely. Whichever you do is a risk, but then we’re all at risk, aren’t we? Still,” he went on, “the first thing, Kurt Friedman, is for you to have a bath. Not to put too fine a point on it, you smell. Come with me.” Hans Dietrich got to his feet and opened what Kurt had supposed was a cupboard in the corner of the room, to reveal a narrow staircase leading to the floor above. He led the way up the stairs, which opened onto a tiny landing, off which were three doors. He opened one and said, “Bathroom in there.” Opening a second door to show a small bedroom, he said, “You can sleep in here tonight. I’ll put some clothes out for you to change into.” He gave the surprised Kurt a little push. “Go on,” he said, the irritability back in his voice, “have a bath. We’ll talk when you’re clean.”

  After luxuriating in the first hot bath he’d had for weeks, Kurt towelled himself dry and crossed the landing to the bedroom Hans had shown him. On the bed were some clean clothes.

  They’ll be far too small for me, Kurt thought as he picked up the shirt, but to his surprise they all, more or less, fitted him. Surely these couldn’t be Hans Dietrich’s clothes, they would hang off the little jeweller like those on a scarecrow.

  When he was dressed, Kurt emerged onto the landing and was about to go downstairs again when he noticed the other bedroom door was ajar. Unable to stop himself, Kurt took a silent step and gently pushed it wider, ready to apologise should his host be in the room. But he was not, and Kurt, ashamed of himself even as he did it, took another step inside. It was a larger bedroom, furnished with a wide double bed, beside which stood a chest of drawers and a bedside table. On each of these was a framed photograph, the one on the chest showing two men laughing together, Günter and Hans; the other, on the bedside table, was of Günter, his head turned back over his shoulder, smiling into the camera. And Kurt understood; he now knew whose clothes he was wearing, why they were in the apartment and why Hans Dietrich, himself, was already at risk.

  Very softly he pulled the door to, and went down the stairs to where Hans Dietrich was waiting in the little sitting room.

  Hans looked up as he came in. “You’ve decided not to shave,” he remarked.

  “No, not decided,” replied Kurt, “just kept my options open.”

  The next few weeks Kurt stayed with Hans Dietrich. He worked in the shop as an assistant during the day and with the help of a dictionary and with Hans himself as teacher, set about learning to speak English. During the evenings spent learning the new language, Kurt and Hans gradually got to know each other, and, each liking what he found, a real friendship was forged. Kurt told of his arrest and the troubles that had surrounded him ever since. He spoke of Ruth and the children and his desperate desire to get them out of Vienna. He found that talking about them, speaking of them aloud instead of simply thinking of them, brought them closer, made them more alive.

  Hans spoke little of his past and never of family, but he revealed himself in his generosity to Kurt and in his hatred of the Nazis.

  They had decided that the best way forward was for Kurt to travel to England through Holland, visiting another of Hans’s business acquaintances in Amsterdam on the way. He would have letters of introduction to the Dutch jeweller and to James Daniel in London, and he would travel on Günter’s passport, which named him as a jeweller. Other papers were needed before he was able to leave the country, and Hans, through unnamed contacts, set about getting these, all in the name of Günter Schiller. In the meantime, Kurt learned as much as he could about the trade, so that he could, at least, answer superficial questions without difficulty. He was seen in the shop, and though it was not the sort of establishment that encouraged idle chatter with its prestigious customers, they let it be known that Günter was a cousin of Hans, who had moved from Munich. After some discussion they had decided against the beard.

  “It makes you look too Jewish,” Hans said, “as it did with Günter, but it used not to matter as much.” So, Kurt remained clean-shaven.

  At last the day came for him to try and leave. All his papers were in order; he had the relevant permits, identity card, ration book and passport with its visas still in date, all in the name of Günter Schiller, jeweller. Each, including the passport, was adorned with a recent picture and stamped with the required stamps. How Hans had managed it, Kurt didn’t know, and Hans had refused to tell him anything.

  “What you don’t know can’t harm anyone but yourself,” he
said. “If you have a problem with the authorities, you can point them in the direction of no one but me… and with the current political thinking I am probably on one of their lists already. It is almost certainly only the high profile of several of my regular customers that has saved me from a knock on the door in the middle of the night.” It was the nearest he ever came to explaining himself and the relationship he’d had with Günter.

  The station was busy, reverberating with the noise of steam engines, announcements and whistles. Carrying a small suitcase, Kurt boarded the train that would take him on the first leg of his journey to Amsterdam. Once across the border into Holland he would be safe. In a wallet in his inside pocket were the required documents to leave Germany, including a return ticket from the Hook of Holland to Harwich.

  “They won’t let you into England, even on business, unless they think you will be leaving again,” Hans had said. “Günter travelled over quite often, so if they decide to check their records they will find you there. Once you’ve contacted James Daniel you’ll have to be guided by him as to what to do next.”

  The two men had said their goodbyes in the privacy of Hans’s sitting room, with the firm grip of a handshake. Kurt was surprised to see tears in Hans’s eyes, and reaching forward put his hands on the other man’s shoulders.

  Hans pulled him close for a brief hug and then broke free, saying as he did so, “You’re more like Günter than you know. Now be off. Write to me from London, and I’ll forward any letters that come for you here.” He smiled a rueful smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t let her lose track of you.”

  Kurt settled himself in a corner seat and buried his face in a newspaper. As he scanned the inside pages, an item, tucked away at the bottom of a column, caught his eye. He read it and then reread it, hardly believing what he read, and he realised that he was getting out of Germany just in time to escape the next move against the Jews. All Jewish men were going to have to add the extra name of Israel to their names, and all the Jewish women, Sarah. There would be no protection afforded by a non-typical Jewish name. Every Jew would have to register, every Jew would be known. Every Jew would soon have to have a huge red J stamped on his passport. Kurt stared at the article and knew real fear. The Nazi grip was tightening, and his family were held within it. Now, even more, he must try and get them away to safety, and his best chance was to work from England.