Prisoner 441

by Geoff Leather

  Was still possible to obtain emigration permits? Mum and Dad knew the right people, but had we hoped too much and left it too late to escape. I pleaded with Dad to use his influence to get us out of here before it was too late. The next day, Dad went alone to see if Rudolph and Constance Konig could help us.

  Jonny bundled up the manuscript to take home later. He felt it was probably safer in his apartment and in any event, he’d have peace and quiet to work out how he was going to deal with Dr Solomon Isaacs. In the meantime, there was this month’s edition of the Journal to finalise in the boardroom.

  Chapter 10

  Munich 1942

  Swaddled in woollen blankets and placed in a carefully constructed cot within a large leather suitcase tucked under the bench seat in carriage number three, seat nineteen, Avyar Heidmann remained silent as he slept to the rhythm of the train wheels as the clanked their way over the tracks towards Switzerland. The timetable told Olga Smit that the Swiss border was three hours away. The baby would sleep at least four hours if not more, the doctor promised so long as you give him this liquid with his bottle at the very last minute before travel. She clutched tightly her own travel papers.

  The many weeks of waiting for her visa were over and relief was nearly upon her as she gazed at the passing countryside, mesmerized by the simple beauty of the Bavarian mountains as the tracks followed the river through the valleys towards another world that she hoped would be free from chaos. All she'd known recently was fear that someone somewhere in Munich would destroy her life. She had no reason to think this, but nevertheless worse things had happened in her neighbourhood. She was living next door to a Jewish family and helped out with babysitting as both parents worked in shifts coincided. This could have been regarded by the authorities as being anti-German. She had done everything she could to look after her neighbour's child, little Avyar, but was this act of compassion a risk too far?

  Elsie and Gurt Heidmann had lived next door for two years. Elsie had worked at the Burgerbraukeller that was renamed in 1939, the Lowenbrau. She was a very popular waitress and that had made her feel safe as did the fact that she’s worked there since she left school, but suspicion as to her Jewish background was never far from her mind.

  It was not so with Gurt as he had lost his job at the Paulaner Brauhaus in Kapuzinerplatz as a foreman and now with his Star of David sewn to the sleeve of his jacket, he was demoted to the lowest job available, loading barrels onto wagons for distribution, despite the manager’s reluctant acceptance of orders from the local Nazi office Under his placid acceptance of his fate lay a fierce temper that had got the better of him two days before their arrest.

  He had finished a long shift and was walking home along the marshalling yards. This was Liam, an uncompromising, working-class neighbourhood. Tough but he was used to it. The sound of locomotives echoed through the shabby buildings that lined the track. The autumn chill of the wind ruffled his hair, he pulled his scarf higher over his collar as he left the railway shortcut and continued down the road.

  A group of youths started chanting racial abuse behind his back as they passed by. He had got used to this but tonight for some unknown inner reason, he turned and asked them to repeat what they’d said. As cowards do, they ran off as he cursed the whole world for his plight. Gurt knew at that moment when his temper subsided that he made a terrible mistake. He began to relax as the cracked pavements, litter swirling in rotating gusts and dirt slowly gave way to the pristine boulevard where he lived but knew deep down that those kids would seek to teach him a lesson, one that they hoped he would not forget. Moments later he heard the rubber of tyres squealing as the black Mercedes rounded the corner. He tried to outrun the car but it was in vain, two thugs in long leather coats grabbed him and they wrestled him to the ground and hit him with rubber truncheons, out of the corner of his eye he saw the youths watching and smiling.

  ‘Next time, it won’t be pleasant, Jew.’

  That night at home Gurt told Elsie what had happened as they sat opposite each other at the kitchen table. She’d washed his face and bandaged his hand.

  ‘The sheer pain of the first rubber truncheon was something like…,’ he hesitated trying to find the words that would really describe the feeling, ‘like the dentist's drill when it strikes a nerve, but then the pain spread over my entire body.’

  Elsie looked at him. She moved her hands across the table and covered his. Elsie had worked the afternoon shift at the Lowenbrau and put little Avyar to bed in his cot. As she said “goodnight” she looked into his little eyes and saw how remarkably similar they were in colour and shape as Gurt’s. “You’ll be just like your Dad when you grow up my little one”, by which time he was asleep. She stared into space knowing that Gurt had crossed the boundary they’d been so careful to avoid. They knew that formal retribution was not now far away, for both of them. Within minutes they were knocking furiously on Olga Smit’s door.

  ‘Olga, they pleaded. Please take Avyar and keep him safe,’ as they bundled the little baby into her arms.

  Next day they were gone. She was never to see them again and neither was their son.

  Elsie and Gurt Heidmann were arrested to be resettled in the East along with thousands of other Jews rounded up as part of forced labour programme. They had already heard the rumours that had circulated before their arrest about the real purpose of the programme. There and then they pledged to each other that come what may, they would both do what it takes to survive the hell that was to befall them for their only child, Avyar.

  Both were young, fit and healthy. On the platform in the freezing night air amongst the downtrodden mass of humanity that had emerged from the wagons after their journey East to Auschwitz, they survived the segregation process. The one day at a time silent look passed between them as they were separated and marched into different barrack huts.

  Olga Smit remembered very little of the journey to Zurich. She was too frightened and stared aimlessly out of the carriage window trying not to think about little Avyar. She took in the occasional station sign, Furstenfeldbruch then Memmingen as the train headed south. Whatever was she to do. She loved the little fellow and longed to hold him tightly to her chest and rock him gently in her arms. It had been sad to leave her home in Munich, but there really was no option. Her husband to be, Marian had died in 1938, killed by a runaway car that didn’t stop. The driver was never found. Since then she’d remained in their flat. Yes, she’d been comfortably off. His pension and the lump sum she’d received from his estate, his savings and life insurance.

  The war had changed everything for her. All she wanted was to run to safety, but she hadn’t anticipated doing so with a one-year old child, a Jewish child, not that his faith mattered to Olga. He was a little human being completely unaware of the trauma and torture that was Germany. Her first step was the Austro-German border near the town of Sankt Gallen in Switzerland.

  Her mind slipped back to her formative years when she studied textiles at the Institute near Marienplatz station where she’d boarded this train. It seemed like a lifetime ago. She’d never visited Sankt Gallen but had been wowed by the quality and ingenuity of the embroidery she seen and touched during Herr Fienfeld’s college lecture. She’d written her first essay for her diploma on this little town. She’d been amazed at the machines that are now so common had, at the beginning of the 19th century, been developed here. Her mind raced to the little case under her feet, she had her first purchase of an embroidered Sankt Gallen ballet dancer tucked safely over little Avyar, along with several others but most of her collection from theie heydays of the early 1900s were still wrapped in brown papers where she’d had to leave them in the apartment as little Avyar took up the space now. A smile crossed her face as she wondered if he was still comfortable.

  The First World War, the Great Depression and now this war had led to the town’s steady decline. She looked sadly at the landscape of ruined buildings and disused sheds. One day it would rise again maybe only withi
n Parisian haute couture designers landscape. The train slowed as it neared the station. It had followed the river Steinach for miles as it snaked its way towards Switzerland and safety. Her heartbeat loudly under woollen coat as the fear of discovery loomed over her, she could hear the carriage doors slide back and forth as the border police checked each passenger. She rearranged her long skirt and coat for the fourth time ensuring that it was only her large suitcase that was visible overhead. The door slid open. There were four others in her carriage compartment. The orders were barked.

  ‘Papiere.’ He clicked his heels. She waited, soon it would be her turn.

  ‘Frau.’ She stood and reached across. He studied the photograph and looked at her twice. The wait was interminable. She looked at him and then cast her eyes to the floor.

  ‘Koffer.’ She reached across as he watched. The man opposite stood and helped to take down the suitcase from the overhead shelf and place it on the floor.

  ‘Offnen,’ he barked again. She fumbled for the keys and opened the case. He took a step closer and leaned into the case. His hands searching, she was left with a jumble of her neatly packed worldly possessions spread across the floor. She bent to repack them. Foolishly leaving little Avyar’s case exposed.

  ‘Frau Präsidentin, könnte Ihnen gehören. Es Jetzt öffnen. Olga spoke in English. ‘Yes, it’s mine,’ her voice wavering almost inaudible.

  A shot rang out further down the carriage. The man looked at her for a moment.

  ‘Das ist alles.’

  She slumped back into her seat. The rest of the passengers were staring out of the window. A young man ran past dodging left and right. Further shots rang out.

  ‘Anhalten.’

  The young man turned to face his pursuers. He raised his hands in capitulation. Those at the window turned away as a volley of bullets ripped into him. His bloodied body fell in slow motion onto the platform as the soldiers gathered around. Moments later the train started to move slowly at first then quickened its pace and Olga and Avyar left Germany for the last time.

  Chapter 11

  Zurich Switzerland 1942

  Olga gathered her belongings and walked the few steps to the toilet situate at the end of the carriage. She struggled to enter into the tight space and closed the door. The train had slowed to a halt as she took her first look at Avyar in hours. She felt his heartbeat that gently pulsed under her finger. He was warm and still under the influence of the sedatives.

  Thankfully, the trains from major cities arrived on the ground level of the station. No stairs or lifts to negotiate. At the gate leading from the International arrivals, there was a cursory glance at her paperwork as she made her way through the throng of people that made Zürich Hauptbahnhof one of the busiest and the largest railway stations in Europe. After the relative silence of the train carriage, the noise of steam gushing from the locomotives, the clamour of echoing announcements and the shouts of commuters, momentarily swallowed her attention. She’d planned this moment in her mind for weeks but now she hesitated.

  Would her presence at the British Embassy be totally compromised when she revealed the existence of little Avyar with no papers. They’d hardly send him back to Germany to certain death, after all she had the letters from her brother in London. She had a home waiting and people to look after her. She also had a great deal of undisclosed diamonds that she’s purchased gradually over the year and months leading to this day. No, she’d register at the hotel and then go straight to the Consulate. Her large case was safely stored in left luggage which she’d retrieve later.

  Carrying little Avyar, she turned left out of the station on Bahnhofplatz across the river Limmat and right down Zahringerstrasse. Habit had left her with the constant need to look over her shoulder, hesitate at corners, skip across roads and avoid open spaces without people. That was the life she’d left behind but she’d still be careful, she told herself.

  The unprepossessing lobby of the Rutli Hotel was manned by a young woman soberly dressed in white shirt and black skirt. She smiled sweetly at Olga and immediately came around the desk to look at Avyar who was still with his eyes closed. She stoked his little hand that had emerged from his shawl during the walk. Olga had a pleasurable smile on her face as she told the girl he now thirteen months old. However, Olga was aware that time was passing, and she needed to be at the Consulate long before it closed at 4 pm. She paid for three nights in advance and asked for a taxi as she was getting late for a meeting. One telephone call from behind the desk and within minutes she was sitting holding Avyar in the rear of the taxi.

  She was grateful that here they spoke German. She’d struggle with French or Italian. She was also glad to sit quietly in the taxi rehearsing her plea to the British officials as the car left the northern end of the Altstadt, or old town, in central Zürich, and made its way along the edge Lake Zurich. She looked out admiring the Alpine scenery in distance, the winter snow blanketing the higher slopes. It seemed that the city nestled between the wooded hills on the west and east side. The taxi followed the curve of the lake to the west and then over the Schanzengraben canal bridge into the heart of the new town. It stopped outside an austere grey stone building slightly set back from the pavement outside. She looked at her watch, she had two hours to plead her case.

  After half an hour of form filling, she was exhausted. Little Avyar was now awake and demanding a feed. She opened the case she’d brought knowing that at some stage he’d need a change and food. The receptionist was very obliging and pointed to the first floor where she would be able to attend to his needs. She was descending the staircase with a calm Avyar clinging to her coat lapels when a deep voice announced her name. She turned. In front of her stood a tall straight man in a dark blue suit. His hair brushed back and shining in the lights from the chandeliers.

  ‘Anthony Bancroft. You must be Mrs Olga Smit,’ he announced holding out his hand.

  She followed him into his office and sat down.

  He held the forms in front of him. ‘I see you want to join relations in London.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Your paperwork seems to be in order but what about your son. You have said nothing and I have no birth certificate or other emigration papers.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Olga standing up and placing the case on his desk. Anthony Bancroft stared as she opened took the keys and slid back the locks removing the bag and bottle she’d just used. He stood and peered into it.

  ‘This is how I smuggled him away from Munich and certain death.’

  He looked horrified at the little bed and then at Avyar. Olga then told him about life in Nazi Germany. The persecution of her neighbours, the daily violence and the disappearance of thousands to Dachau just outside Munich to the north of the city.

  ‘You heard the rumours of death camps, have you, Mr Bancroft? Well, they are true.’ He looked at her. There was silence between them.

  ‘Yes, heard the same thing from others fleeing Germany.’

  What could the Allies do? They were trying to survive themselves. London had been the target of blitz bombing which had killed hundreds of innocent civilians, but the tide was turning slowly.

  Anthony Bancroft looked at the scrap of paper nestling in the case. He read it aloud. We, Gurt and Elsie Heidmann give you our son Avyar to take care of him until we can meet up again.’ It was signed and dated.

  Anthony Bancroft stroked his brow in thought, fingering the paper and looking at the case. At last, he spoke looking directly at Olga.

  ‘This is a most irregular situation, Mrs Smit. Our main Embassy is in Berne. I alone cannot authorize anything other than your onward journey, not the little boy’s.’ He witnessed the distress in Olga’s eyes as she started to cry.

  ‘What am I to do, Mr Bancroft?’ she pleaded. ‘I am staying in an hotel. I have no friends here. I don’t know the city. I cannot leave him alone again. You can see that, can’t you?’

  Bancroft sighed. He knew he’d have to do something. Political refu
gee, persecution, fear. He’d never had a situation quite like this and the thought of letting a defenceless little boy suffer more, made his mind up. He left the room and returned holding a small camera. He faced Avyar who took notice of the funny black object in front of him and stared at it long enough for Bancroft to secure an acceptable image that was in focus. The click and flash soon resulted in the silence being broken by a loudest wail Bancroft had ever heard as Avyar was reduced to tears rubbing his little eyes.

  ‘These were desperate times that need desperate measures. I’m sorry about that, Mrs Smit.’

  His mind was racing back to the case he’d uncovered of forgery of British transit papers six months ago, of the stolen Consulate papers and the men and women who sold entry into the Britain at a price most people couldn’t afford.

  He stood up. ‘Mrs Smit, leave this problem with me and I will see what I can do the help. Come back in two days and make sure you bring your boy with you.’

  Whether or not Olga felt any better, she did not know. She felt she could trust Mr Bancroft to do his best, but would that be good enough. He seemed less of a stickler for the rules than she’d been used to. He could have just said ‘No’ but he didn’t. That night in her room at the Rutli, with Avyar asleep in the cot that the hotel had provided, she thought of London, being safe with her family, but then Mr Bancroft had mentioned the devastation caused by the German bombing. After all this, would they still be alive, it was an awful realization that her life would be yet again lost in this dreadful war.

  The next morning, she was woken by Avyar’s cries from the cot. She picked him up and ran the hot water. ‘It won’t be a moment little one,’ she murmured into his ear, smelling the characteristic sweetness of his unblemished skin. With the warm bottle, she sat on the bed as he supped his way through the contents. ‘What a little fatty you’re going to become,’ Avyar smiled at her and she melted again.