by Alex Gerlis
He held both Rosa and Alfred, unsure of what to say. The only family I ever wanted.
It was 2.30 by the time Gunter and Rosa were able to be alone in a small room on the top floor of the house. Franz had told them he would wait with the children and keep an eye on the front. Gunter would need to be away by a quarter to four to be safe. He and Rosa sat quietly for a while, holding hands.
‘I thought you were in Paris, Rosa? ‘
He was trying hard not to sound angry.
‘We were. I wrote to you at the beginning of October. Did you get the letter?’
He nodded. She shrugged.
‘Harald was meant to join us in the middle of October: he’d remained in Berlin because he needed to make a few arrangements. The idea was he’d get what money he could out of the business, which wasn’t much, and transfer it to Switzerland. Then we’d have something to live on and, together with the money you gave us, we may be able to get to America.’
‘That was the idea.’
‘I promise you that was the plan. As you know, Harald had been forced to sell the business to two of his managers for a fraction of what it was worth. Both of them were men who were friends of his, who he’d always helped in the past. They’d always said they’d help him and one of them did, but the other refused. I don’t know exactly what happened, but from what I can gather Harald was reported to the Gestapo for trying to get money out of Germany, which is illegal for a Jew. I suspect the manager he’d fallen out with reported him. So Harald was arrested and taken to Sachsenhausen – it’s a special camp for prisoners of the Nazis. Have you heard of it?’
‘Of course I have – near Oranienburg. Are you sure he’s there?’
‘Believe me, I’m sure. Terrible things happen there. I don’t like to think about what he must be going through. I know he’s still alive, or at least he was two weeks ago, but I don’t know what state he’s in.’
‘So why on earth did you come back here? What were you thinking of, Rosa?’
‘I don’t know what I was thinking. Please don’t be angry with me. I thought if my husband was in prison here then I should come back to help him. I thought I could get him released.’
‘But Rosa, what about Alfred – and Sophia?’
‘I know Gunter. But remember, we left Germany for France in July. I’d no idea how bad things had become. In Paris I borrowed some money from my cousin and I sold all my jewellery. I thought I could pay a fine or a bribe or something like that and get Harald released. But when I went to the police station they confiscated my passport and wanted to know where I was living. I gave them the address of the old flat in Pankow we were staying at and they only let me go because I had papers showing I was registered there. I knew they’d come for us, but fortunately, I’d left the children with my old colleague Maria in Kreuzberg while I went to the police station. When I left, I went straight to Kreuzberg, picked up Alfred and Sophia then contacted Franz. He took us to his house for a few days then came up with this plan for us to move in here with his mother. It’s worked out well: the old lady is almost deaf and can’t climb the stairs, so as long as the children are quiet and stay upstairs they are alright and she’s no idea they’re here.’
‘And she doesn’t suspect you?’
‘She’s been told I’m a nurse from the north whose husband is in the Navy. Of course, I don’t let on I’m a doctor. I can use all my skills to keep her alive: if she dies, we’ll have to leave the house. I have some papers Franz managed to get showing I’m from Bremerhaven, but they’re not good enough to travel with. Franz comes round most days. The old lady has very few visitors other than that: one or two friends who pop in for an hour every so often, but they always call first. Franz’s sister doesn’t know the truth about me, and I think she’s just grateful someone is looking after her mother so she doesn’t have to.’
‘And the children?’
‘It’s terrible for them here; they just have to stay upstairs all day. Poor Sophia has no idea what’s going on, other than her father is in prison and she has to keep quiet all the time. Alfred understands, of course. That makes it worse, I suppose. He misses you terribly Gunter.’
Gunter sat for a while with his head in his hands, deep in thought.
‘Why didn’t you contact me before now – I mean, once you got back to Berlin?’
Rosa looked at him long and hard. You don’t know why?
‘Gunter – you always said I wasn’t to contact you directly. You said Gudrun doesn’t allow it. I didn’t know what your situation was, whether it was safe. I also thought you’d be angry with me. I was hoping we’d find a way back to France: Franz was going to see if he could find false papers, but it’s impossible. We’re trapped here in Berlin.’
Rosa was weeping now, her trembling hand holding Gunter’s.
‘I should never have divorced you Rosa, I was…’
‘Don’t blame yourself Gunter. We agreed it was for the best.’
‘No, I was being selfish. The three of us should have left after that damn law was passed.’
They sat in silence for a long while.
‘It’s 3.15 Gunter. Franz says you’re to leave soon. Please spend some time with Alfred before you go. He misses you so much.’
‘I don’t know what to do Rosa. Do you need food or money?’
‘Yes, but what we really need is to get out: even if you can just save Alfred. As far as the Nazis are concerned, he’s only a half-Jew. Could you take him, would Gudrun not understand?’
Gunter laughed. ‘Understand? Even if I said you’d abandoned Alfred and I’d found him in the middle of Berlin, she wouldn’t want to know. When we got married she made me promise I would never, ever have anything to do with the two of you again. Frankly, I wouldn’t put it past her to turn him in. Her brother, Norbert, who has all the intelligence of a field mouse but with less of the personality – he’s now a big shot in the Nazi Party in Bergdorf, which says everything you need to know about them. The fact I was once married to a Jew is a terrible secret in that family. Gudrun insists the children aren’t allowed to know about it.’
‘But what are we going to do, Gunter?’
‘I don’t know Rosa. Give me time, I’ll think of something.’
***
Chapter 8: Geneva & Bern, June 1940
‘Do nothing unusual and certainly nothing that’s likely to draw attention to yourself.’
For eight long months Henry had followed Edgar’s advice, leading an unremarkable existence. The waiting to be contacted was tedious and living with his mother even more so. The fact he was now in control of the purse strings was more than she could bear. It was ‘intolerable’, she announced during a dramatic argument on the night he returned. She could not understand why he had returned with so little of the aunt’s money.
He explained their predicament once more, very clearly and very slowly.
‘Remember it was your clever idea to bypass probate and for me to attempt to bring all the money back here as soon as possible,’ said Henry. ‘That proved to be simply impossible – and illegal: I could have ended up in prison. I’ve told you what happened: I had to go to London and stay there for all that time to sort out the money. I was tangled up in reels and reels of red tape, then war was declared at the beginning of September, which made matters almost impossible. The British Government simply don’t want to release money overseas, they say they can’t be sure whose hands it’ll end up in. You ought to be grateful I managed to get anything out at all and return in one piece.’
‘But it’s our money Henry!’
‘My money actually – and not all of it as it turned out. In the end, the authorities accepted my explanation that there’d been a misunderstanding over the Will. I was fortunate. Then it took a few more weeks for probate to be granted. After that, I had to obtain agreement that the money could be released, but, as I told you, I don’t get it in one sum. You were advanced 200 pounds. I’ll be able to access a further 500 over the next few days
and the rest will come through at the rate of 100 pounds per month. It’s not the amount we’d hoped for, mother, but it’s enough for us to be able to live far more comfortably.’
Since the death of her second husband, Marlene Hesse’s perfectly formed world had steadily unravelled. She now accepted the changed situation with the minimum of grace. At least they had been able to afford to rent a larger apartment in a much more respectable location just off Quai du Mont Blanc, which was some consolation.
But the wait to be contacted was considerably more trying than his mother. Two days after his return, Henry had gone as instructed to the Quai des Bergues branch of Credit Suisse and made an appointment to see Madame Ladnier later that morning. In a small office in the basement she went through the details of the account, before handing him a folded piece of paper. My home telephone number: I only give this to special clients and then only to be used in particular circumstances. You understand?
After that, nothing. As soon as they moved into their new apartment he went to see Madame Ladnier to give her the details. She assured him the matter would be dealt with. He was desperate to ask her if there was any news, but managed to restrain himself.
He began to follow a routine, in the hope it would make it easier for whoever would approach him: leaving the apartment at a certain time, returning to it at a certain time, an afternoon walk, the shops…
Christmas came and went, celebrated mostly in silence with his still-embittered mother, and January brought the snows down from the Alps, but still no contact. By the end of the month, he’d started to wonder if he would ever be contacted and decided this would be no bad thing. Perhaps they’d forgotten about him: at least the money was still appearing in his account. There was the occasional contact from Viktor and he always told him the same: no news. Loyalty was proving to be a most complicated business.
At the end of February, he received a phone call from Madame Ladnier. Could he come into the bank to sign a document? You aren’t to worry, she assured him. They’ve told me to tell you that you will be contacted in due course, but it may take a few months. Remain patient – and discreet.
The same happened at the end of April: they want me to assure you that you’ve not been forgotten. Be patient. It shouldn’t be too long now. Viktor was not surprised when he told him: there’s no rush synok – that’s how people like us operate.
On the last Tuesday in June, Henry left the apartment off Quai du Mont Blanc as usual at 9.30. It was already a warm morning, with a light breeze skimming over the lake. As he headed south for a brisk walk before breakfast a woman swept past him before slowing down and studying a map. As he drew alongside her she looked surprised, then spoke in French with a Provençal accent, much faster than the Swiss.
‘I’m sorry sir, I appear to be lost! I’m looking for the Old Town. Do you know the way?’
It was so natural, so matter of fact, that Henry was taken aback and thought this couldn’t possibly be the contact, who he’d assumed, would be a man. It must be a coincidence, he thought, but then he noticed she was carrying a copy of Monday’s Tribune de Genève. It took him a moment to compose himself.
‘Of course. Would you prefer to walk or take the tram?’
She smiled. ‘I’d prefer to walk if you are able to show me the way to go.’
Another smile and a slight hesitation before Henry replied.
‘Well, I’m walking to the Old Town myself now. If you wish, you’re most welcome to follow me.’
She smiled and theatrically held out an elegantly gloved hand. Lead on.
‘Take any route to the Old Town.’
Henry tried to walk at a normal pace, unsure what a normal pace felt like. He crossed the Rhône at the Pont des Bergues, allowing himself a glance behind to check the woman was still following. He crossed the Rue de la Rôtisserie into the Old Town and soon after that the woman overtook him: it was now his turn to follow her. She walked through alleyways, crossed roads, waited on corners and eventually they emerged onto Rue de l’Hôtel de Ville. Her pace did not change, other than when she paused briefly at a shop window. Henry was wondering how long this would go on for, but then they crossed into the Grand-Rue and there on the corner was the Brasserie de Hôtel de Ville and outside it a waste-paper bin, into which she dropped her copy of Tribune de Genève. She carried on walking, but Henry knew his rendezvous would take place here. He entered the café.
You’re to enter the building and wait. If no-one has approached you after five minutes, you are to leave and return home.
He glanced at his wristwatch and the clock on the wall. Within two minutes a man entered the café, smoking a cigar and greeting two people sat at a nearby table. He shook hands with the barman and walked straight over to Henry.
‘I am Marc. Would you care to join me?’
If someone joins you and introduces themselves as Marc you’re to go with him. He will take you to meet your main contact. At that moment, your new career will have begun
Henry nodded. Beside the bar was a door that Marc opened: after you.
A narrow staircase twisted and turned to the top of the building. When they reached a small landing, Marc gestured for him to wait then knocked three times on a polished oak door.
‘It’s me, Marc. I have the delivery.’
Henry heard a bolt being drawn then the door opened. It was a corner room, expensively furnished with an ornate fireplace and a thick carpet: one wall was taken up with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, many of the volumes leather-bound. On a French-polished sideboard there was an exquisite cut-glass decanter with matching glasses on a silver tray. Next to that was another tray, with a teapot and various cups.
The door was opened by a dapper man in his sixties who was wearing a three-piece suit. His iron-grey hair, going white at the sides, was slicked back, slightly longer than Henry would have expected.
‘Ah, Hunter: welcome! At long last. Welcome indeed. Sorry about all this John Buchan stuff. Not really my idea: seems to be the form these days. Apparently we can’t be too careful.’ It was a distinctly upper-class drawl.
‘Now do come in and make yourself at home. My name is Basil by the way, like in the Swiss city.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Basle, Hunter. The Swiss seems to find it amusing, or at least they would do if they allowed themselves the indulgence of a sense of humour. Basil Remington-Barber. There’s an ‘Hon’ that goes in front of the name if you’re a stickler for that kind of thing. As far as the Swiss are concerned, I’m a commercial attaché at the British Embassy in Bern. As far as you’re concerned, I run the station out here in Switzerland and if you’re still confused that means I look after all intelligence matters from our place on Thunstrasse. Thought it’d be a quiet place to wind up my career. Had rather expected to have retired by now, but I’m told there’s a war on and someone in London has decided I’m indispensible: helps I speak the lingo I suppose, all of them as it happens. Had hoped to be hacking my way round some of Scotland’s easier links courses by now, but there we go.’
With that, he switched to Swiss-German, alternating between it and German. ‘Now, tell me Hunter, are you raring to go or had you been hoping we’d forgotten all about you?’
‘Well, I can’t really say. I imagine that…’
‘Bit of both probably, perfectly understandable – not knowing is the worst part. Sorry about the delay, but the good news is – the waiting’s over. The fall of France has rather spurred London into action as far as I can gather. We have a little errand for you. But first of all, let’s have some tea: milk and sugar?’
Henry relaxed a bit now. The civilised serving of tea and the promise of a little errand sounded quite acceptable, perhaps even fun. What was it Edgar had promised? Chances are the first job will be something relatively straightforward, probably within Switzerland. Shouldn’t be anything too dangerous; a warm-up, if you like.
The Hon Basil Remington-Barber took a while to serve tea, fussing first that Henry’s and the
n his own tea was neither too weak nor too strong. When he was satisfied everything was just right, he leaned back in his armchair and addressed Henry through the steam rising from his china teacup. Henry was beginning to enjoy his morning. His pleasure was to be short-lived.
‘We understand you’re very familiar with Stuttgart, Hunter?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Henry felt his throat tightening.
‘Stuttgart, the German city?’
Henry placed his teacup down on the side table next to him. His hands were beginning to shake and he needed to cover that up, so he folded them on his lap, crossing and then un-crossing his legs as he did so.
‘Yes, I know it.’
‘Been there often?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘Really?’
Henry shrugged. Not sure.
‘Quite a few times, we understand Hunter.’
‘Well, possibly…’
‘Something you omitted to tell any of my colleagues back in England?’
Henry hesitated for longer than he knew he should. ‘Forgot rather than omitted, I’d say.’ He was not convinced by his own answer. Nor was Basil Remington-Barber, who shook his head in mild disapproval. ‘I rather know the feeling; I seem to forget the odd thing these days. My wife tells me I’m starting to remind her of how her father was just before he went completely potty! The old boy had to be locked up after he shot one of his gamekeepers: thought he was a pheasant, apparently. The point is, though, that not mentioning Stuttgart is a rather important omission. Perhaps you’d like to tell me about it now?’
Henry tried to sound as casual as possible, hoping to convey the impression that his knowledge of Stuttgart was really nothing very important, the kind of thing one could so easily forget.
‘There’s not an awful lot to say. My stepfather had some property in Stuttgart. I used to pop up there every so often to keep an eye on things for him.’