The train began to cross the bridge over the Spree: the sound of its wheels changed, and the river appeared below, black and shiny like a giant slug. The train was running very slowly through Berlin, as if it was reluctant to leave the city. The line curved right in to the west end of the city, and the train ran slower and slower until it drew to a standstill at the Zoological Gardens station. David had to remind himself it was not unusual to stop there: his nerves were beginning to trouble him already. He risked looking out of the window: the station seemed nearly empty. A few yards away there must be the Café am Zoo. Curious that the train should stop, for a final goodbye, so near to that ill-omened place. He shook his head, twitching it suddenly as a horse does to get rid of an irritating fly. The train reluctantly moved forward again.
Before long it was running steadily, fast and smoothly, out on the great plain of Prussia. Now there were no lights outside, except the strip of orange which the carriages themselves threw out on the ground beside the track. They would run on like this for hours. Literally for hours: for it would be nearly four hours to their first stop, Hanover.
David took out a thick blue time-table and confirmed the times. He closed it and dropped it on the seat beside him.
On the cover were the words REJSERUTER OG HOTELLISTE. Mannheim looked at them with a dull curiosity. “What language is that?” he said.
“Danish.”
“Danish? Why Danish?”
David shrugged his shoulders. “I happened to find it in the Hotel Bristol’s reading-room. They’ve got them in all languages,” he said. “I thought I’d take it. If anyone happens to be inquisitive, it will darken counsel a little. Someone might be looking for two English travellers; someone who we don’t want to find them.”
Mannheim said nothing, and they settled down for another enormous wait.
Once they waved aside a steward who offered them drinks or food.
Once a ticket collector came in, inspected their tickets, saluted and left them.
Nothing else happened.
Neither spoke again until David said: “It’s two o’clock. We should be in Hanover in a quarter of an hour.”
“Um.”
“2.13. Train leaves again at 2.30.”
Mannheim yawned suddenly and then looked very ashamed.
Rather late—2.30—the train slowed down, passed the big board HANNOVER, and drew up into a vast, brightly-lit station.
David rose and stared out of the window without opening it. He rejected the idea of walking on to the platform, but walked out into the corridor and aimlessly moved about there for a few minutes. Mannheim remained sitting, but when David sat down again, he too rose up and looked through the window. He did not put his head out but leaned the side of it against the pane, in the corner, so as to see as far up the platform as he could while remaining in the carriage. After a minute he drew himself up.
Men do not really turn white when they are afraid: they more often turn yellow or green. Mannheim turned green. But he spoke in a steady voice.
“I am afraid that this is all,” he said. “They are searching the train. I have seen get in two men in police uniform and one who is Gestapo. It is not to be mistaken. And there is nothing to do.”
David jumped up.
“They mayn’t be looking for you,” he said, inadequately.
“If they are not, still will they find me. The one who is Gestapo I know, and he knows me. Several of my friends he has taken and not long ago he said to me that I was to watch myself. It is the end. I am sorry: I thank you for your effort. Unless perhaps,” he added wryly, “this was not unexpected to you?”
David answered in a firm voice: “We have one chance; only one, but if we are both steady, it will be all right. Before I took this train I looked up other ones. There is an express which stops in this station in a few minutes. It draws in at that transverse platform which you may have seen as you came in. It goes at right angles to this train—down into South Germany—Frankfurt. When we get there we’ll see what we do next: for the moment we can’t bother.
“Now: this is what you must do. Now, at once, walk out of this carriage into the refreshment room. Go to the counter: order a brandy, drink it quickly. Go out by the other door, if possible while the girl is serving someone else. If the train is not in—but I think I hear it coming—sit down on a seat on the platform where there are others, not alone. When it comes in, and people begin to get out, walk to the entrance of one of the carriages where there are plenty of people. Walk along to a third-class compartment where there is someone with luggage. Sit down, don’t look for me. I’ll come along after the train starts.”
Mannheim nodded and reached for his bag.
“No: take no luggage,” said David. “You’re just someone leaving the carriage to get a drink.”
Mannheim walked across to the refreshment room. Thank God, David thought, he looked inconspicuous. A pity the platform was so empty. Very few civilians, but plenty of porters and two men rolling trolleys along and offering drink.
He swiftly opened his bag and distributed all that he could of its contents about the pockets of his suit and large overcoat. The spare suit must stay behind, but pyjamas, travelling slippers, shaving tackle, a spare shirt, socks and handkerchiefs all had room found for them. They made him bulge, but he opened his coat and let it hang loose. His additional size was no longer noticeable to a casual observer, and that was the best he could hope for.
He put his case back on the rack, and left the Danish guide obviously on the seat. Mannheim’s portfolio he tucked under his arm. Then he walked out on to the platform.
Everything depended on his manner and confidence now. He must not attract attention, and he must not do anything for which an obvious explanation would not appear at once to the chance observer.
He had his plan ready. He walked briskly towards the inner side of the platform—away from the train—turned along past the lighted stationmaster’s office and refreshment room windows, and entered the gentlemen’s lavatory. “It is forbidden to use the train lavatories while stopping at a station”: that instruction is known by heart by every German, and David’s trek was self-explained.
There was no attendant, fortunately, in the lavatory when he entered. It was a silent, empty hall, white-tiled and brilliantly lit. He let himself into one of the compartments and sat on the seat. He found he was sweating so much that he must stink.
He waited ten minutes, which he thought were the worst ten minutes of his life.
No one came into the lavatory. Yet they must have finished exploring the train. They might be satisfied that he and Mannheim were not on board it. They might not be looking for them at all, and might have found whoever it was they wanted. They might be dissatisfied and someone might think of looking in the lavatories. It was time to go.
He walked out, firmly on to the other platform.
Thank God, there was the long dark-green train, blowing steam out from between its wheels, filled with people, and with the white boards on its side, saying in Gothic lettering:
Altona— Hamburg— Hannover— Kassel— Frankfurt a/M.
The platform was fuller of people than the other; busy, ordinary German people. David again did not walk to the train direct. He walked towards the ticket office, examined a notice, turned about, and mounted the train. Unless anyone had been closely watching him, he had not come from the lavatory on to the train; he had come out of the ticket office.
He sat down in a corner seat of a third-class carriage with three other people in it. He did not dare to look through the train for Mannheim.
It was 2.40 by his watch. The London train should have left ten minutes ago, but it was still standing there. He could see the lights of it by looking through the ticket office windows. Something must be wrong. Would this train be allowed to start? 2.45 was its time. Five minutes to go.
Five … blasted … minutes.
David fixed his eyes on the station clock and watched it. It scarcely seeme
d to move. He felt his skin taut all over his face, and then wondered if his expression was giving his anxiety away. Certainly he had been breathing much too fast.
He relaxed and lay back in his corner, looking at the rest of the passengers under half-shut eyes. They seemed to have noticed nothing. The old gentleman opposite him was still asleep. The middle-aged lady in black in the far corner was knitting still. The youngish man who was reading a paper-backed novel in yellow with a red title was still reading his novel.
Four minutes to go.
David decided to clear his mind of every thought and anxiety. Let it be emptied, and rest. That was the only way to stop the jitters. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. Like the three monkeys. Hear nothing, see noth-nothing, speak nothing, think nothing. Not so easy, for as you swept thoughts out, scraps of them would slip past your broom back again. Like Mrs. Partington sweeping back the sea. Still, if you were persistent you could empty your mind, and then, people said, you got into communication with the Beyond. Whatever that was.
That had actually consumed two minutes. Two whole bloody minutes. Only two more to go.
David wondered what he should do if Mannheim was not on the train. That would mean that Mannheim had been arrested. There wouldn’t be any other explanation. And there was nothing that he, David, could do, but go on to Frankfurt, take a train to France there, and be damn grateful if he didn’t get it in the neck himself.
He half rose to start searching the train now. But that would only attract attention, and what good would it do?
Suddenly the porters began to shout to passengers to take their seats. Last minute good-byes began.
This train was going to go! This train was not going to be held up and searched ! David nearly laughed aloud.
A few seconds later the carriages jerked and the train began to move. 2.45 exactly. As it moved slowly away, David looked back at the station. The London train still stood there, all lit up and motionless. The Gestapo was still looking for something it had not found.
David waited until the train was well out of the station and running in the open country before he began to walk down the corridor looking for Mannheim.
10
He moved cautiously along the corridor. The train swayed, and bumped him from side to side. Each German he met he seemed to cannon into; he who was above all anxious not to be noticed. And still he had not found Mannheim.
Tired. So tired. A monstrous yawn seized him. Worried though he was, he could not help wishing he could sleep. Just at that moment, when his attention had wandered, he collided with a short man dressed in his own yellow overcoat.
“Mann—” he said, and then cut himself short.
Mannheim pushed by him with unseeing eyes. “Excuse me,” he said in German. “Is the way to the restaurant car?”
“I believe so,” said David.
“Many thanks.” Mannheim rolled on like a teetotum bouncing from side to side of the corridor. David pressed back against the window, to allow passage to the man following Mannheim. He was taller, sallow and had a soft hat pulled over his face. He had a bony nose, and nothing in his manner or appearance gave any indication whether he was some kind of policeman or not.
After a few minutes of hesitation David decided that Mannheim’s words had been a hint. He followed him along to the restaurant car.
It was in semi-darkness. One or two tables alone were illuminated, and only one waiter was in attendance. At one table sat Mannheim, eating a plate of mixed sausage and drinking lager.
There was no sign of the tall man with the bony nose.
David looked round for a minute and then sat down at Mannheim’s table.
He ordered a Munich Export-bier. Nothing to eat.
Neither spoke for several minutes. Then Mannheim finished his beer, rose up, bowed to David, and said in an undertone: “I will see you on the platform at Frankfurt.”
“Bitte,” said David. “Nine o’clock.”
He finished his beer slowly, went back to his carriage and composed himself to rest. Anxiety, he thought, would prevent him sleeping; but it did not wholly. He had dozed off, with his mouth open, and was snoring most disagreeably, when a sharp jerk occurred and the train stopped.
He woke up in acute terror, sweat pouring down his face. He cursed himself under his breath when he saw that they had only stopped at a station. Kreiensen.” Kreiensen? Never heard of the place,” he said to himself with a sense of personal injury.
But the same thing happened to him at each station. Sweat poured off him and his eyes bulged out with fear.
Gottingen.
Eichenberg.
Kassel
At Kassel there was a wait of ten minutes and the train did not pull out till nearly six. Then, to his surprise, he fell deeply asleep and did not wake until the train was nearing Frankfurt. It was broad daylight by now. There was a steady rain, and a ticket collector was gently shaking him by the shoulder. David looked round the carriage. All the fellow passengers who had been in the compartment at Hanover had gone. The middle-aged lady had got out at Gottingen; the others must have left during his sleep. That was a convenience.
“I got on at Hamburg,” he told the collector. “I was late and am without a ticket. I must pay you.”
“So,” said the collector, holding the conversation in suspense for a moment while he considered. David looked respectable: moreover, the mere fact that he asked to pay from Hamburg was in his favour. A swindler would have pretended to have got on at a nearby station.
He took out a large yellow paper pad and made out the ticket. A short while later, David was standing on the platform at Frankfurt and watching Mannheim go out through the main exit. He followed him at a safe distance, saw him cross the square and join the queue for a tram. He joined the same queue; got on the same tram; and sat several seats away from Mannheim as it rattled through the crowded streets.
His heart was singing with relief and he grinned with delight as he watched the people pushing to and fro. Once again they were two ants in an antheap. Let the Gestapo hunt for them: they were safe for the minute. Bless all these busy, nameless Germans.
They picked on a crowded café and talked over coffee.
“Where did you tell the collector you had come from?” asked David.
“Gottingen.”
“I said Hamburg. So when they check the tickets they will find two persons, one from Gottingen and a foreign speaking one from Hamburg. That will not be suspicious. Not for the moment. How good it is to drink coffee, and not to have to be frightened.”
“We have only gone a little way,” said Mannheim, more chillily. “Where can we go now?”
“Saarbrücken. Only four hours by train; and very near the French frontier. After that we must walk across the border. Somehow. We’ll work that out when we come to it. But for the moment we can just take a peaceful train, like two peaceful citizens, from one German town to another. There are plenty of good trains. One goes at eleven. It gets in at twenty-past three.
“Meanwhile, let’s eat.”
11
Next morning two tourists left the Zwei Schüssel inn at Saarbrücken, both with rucksacks on their backs and with stout walking-sticks in their hands. Both were dark, but one, who spoke little, was tall and thin, and the other was older, shorter and stouter. They talked in German, clearly and in distinct voices, well in the hearing of the inn staff. It was made quite clear to everyone that they were on a walking tour and were going south-west, along the banks of the Saar. The taller man spoke chiefly in monosyllables, but the shorter was loquacious and had a north German accent.
A remarkable thing about them, perhaps, was that when they left the hotel they did exactly what they said they were going to do. They walked south-west, and they took the road that followed the course of the river. This was David’s idea. If they were not being followed, he argued, there was no harm in telling the truth. If they were, their pursuers were sure to be aware that, they were dodging and double-crossing
on their own tracks. Consequently, if they left a heavily-marked trail pointing in one direction (and that the direction of France) their hunters would be certain it was false. That place would turn out to be the safest of all places to go to.
Mannheim had not been convinced, but he had said: “It is very well. I trust you. I have no other plan, even if I do not.” He had, however, stipulated that they should talk German and appear to be German. The latter at least they did: nothing could have been more Germanic than their appearance as they walked along in the mild sunlight (the rain had passed with the previous day), the elder one at regular intervals pointing out the beauties of the countryside and receiving suitable expressions of admiration in return.
The road had but little traffic on it, but not until they had walked five miles did David decide that he could pass out of his assumed character.
“I think,” he said, still speaking in German, “that we could almost decide we have not been followed. It would be funny if all this journey of ours was a complete mistake. I wonder whether we might not have gone straight on to Holland in the first place. After all, it is most probable that they do not even yet know you have escaped from Berlin.”
“It would be more than funny,” said Mannheim dourly. “It would be miraculous.” He looked round as if expecting a policeman. But the road remained empty.
It should have reassured them both. But Mannheim’s words had destroyed David’s ease of mind. The road was so long, so straight, and so easy to be seen along all its length. Nothing could save them David reflected, if a car searching for them were to appear even four or five miles away. They could be seen for miles. He felt as though an invisible watcher might be behind them all the time. Against his will he kept turning his head to look. Nothing, always nothing. And yet … A scrap of verse, half-remembered, kept running in his head:
Somebody at the Door Page 13