Lehrter Station jr-5

by David Downing

  ‘Much the same. In fact, we had an almost identical situation with them — a trainload of refugees which the British wanted sent back. They forced the Italian police to put our people back on board, which took them half a day and really ticked them off. Ever since then the Italians have turned a blind eye whenever they could.’

  ‘Are there lots of different routes?’

  ‘Usually one or two. They change — one gets closed and another opens up.’

  ‘Does everyone end up in Italy?’

  ‘No, some go to France. We had a boat leave Marseilles not long ago.’

  Russell leant back in the chair. ‘Why do they want to go to Palestine, rather than America?’

  Mizrachi smiled. ‘You’ll have to ask them that.’

  ‘But how do you feel about the ones who want to go to America? Or the ones who want to stay in Germany? Do you think of them as traitors?’

  ‘Traitors, no.’ He shrugged. ‘The ones who want to stay in Europe… it’s their choice, but I don’t believe it’s a tenable one, not in the long run. Have you heard what’s happening in Poland?’

  ‘What, lately?’

  ‘A lot of Polish Jews thought they’d go home after the war, but they soon discovered what a bad idea that was. There have been anti-Jewish riots in Cracow, Nowy Sacz, Sosnowice… there was one a few weeks ago in Lublin. The murderers may be different, but Polish Jews are still being killed.’

  Russell just shook his head — sometimes there seemed no hope for humanity. ‘So, what are the arrangements?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘I’m waiting to hear when the next party is crossing the border. If it’s soon, you should take the train to Villach — it’s the quickest way. If they’re waiting for another group from here, then you can travel with that, by the usual route.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘The train to St Valentin, then across the Ems River by boat — the river’s the border between the Russian and American zones. Then south to Villach and the Italian frontier. That takes two or three days.’

  ‘Okay,’ Russell agreed reluctantly. He told Mizrachi the name of his hotel, and the Haganah man promised to be in touch the moment he heard anything. ‘There is one other thing,’ Russell added. ‘I’m looking for two people, a man and a woman. For personal reasons. And I know a man with the right name was travelling this way from Silesia. Is there anyone here keeping records of the people who pass through?’

  Mizrachi smiled. ‘Indeed there is. And he’s very proud of them. Let me take you to him.’

  They walked back through the basement, and up to the reception area, where a door behind the desks led through to several offices. In the last of these a middle-aged man in a yarmulke was bent over a ledger. ‘This is Mordechai Landau,’ Mizrachi said. He explained what Russell wanted, and left the two of them to it.

  Once apprised of the names, Landau began searching the filing cabinets that lined two walls. ‘The records are all alphabetised,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘We have Jews from sixteen countries here,’ he added proudly. ‘8,661 of them since July.’

  An indictment in itself, Russell thought.

  ‘Ah, I have an Otto Pappenheim. And you’ve just missed him — he left for the American zone a week ago.’

  ‘Do you know when he arrived here?’

  ‘A week before that,’ Landau said triumphantly.

  The date fitted, Russell thought. This had to be Isendahl’s Otto. A week ahead of him.

  ‘You don’t have any more details?’

  ‘See for yourself,’ Landau said, handing him the paper.

  He skimmed through it, and found nothing to rule the man in or out.

  ‘But no Miriam,’ Landau reluctantly concluded. ‘Four Rosenfelds, but no Miriam.’

  Not for the first time, Russell wondered if she’d changed her name. If she had, they’d never find her.

  He thanked Landau and walked back out to the crowded pavement. Above the broken skyline to the south the sun was trying to break through, but it seemed, if anything, colder than before. He put up the collar of his coat, tied the scarf a little higher round his throat, and started back towards the city centre at a hopefully warming pace. It wasn’t yet noon, but he already felt hungry, and when an open restaurant presented itself on Wahringerstrasse he took the opportunity to grab some lunch. The proprietor seemed pleased to see his dollars, and he was pleased to see the food, which seemed better than anything Berlin had to offer.

  It seemed the Austrians were getting off lightly, which Russell found less than fair. He remembered the scenes after the Anschluss, the Viennese Jews forced to clean unflushed toilets by their laughing tormentors. And those had been the lucky ones. No one had filmed the Jewish pensioners’ involuntary high-speed ride on the city’s scenic railway — an experience that had given several of them fatal heart attacks.

  The Austrians were hardly innocents.

  But then who were?

  He decided he would walk to the Danube. He had always liked big rivers, ever since seeing the Thames as a boy. And the Spree’s lack of real width had always seemed a major shortcoming. Though it would make the bombed-out bridges cheaper to replace.

  Once a convenient tram had carried him back to the Stephansplatz, he walked north to the Danube Canal, whose crossings seemed mostly intact. He was now moving into the Russian sector, but there were no signs to tell him so, and no obvious military presence on the streets. Praterstrasse offered the straightest route to the river, and he headed on up past the entrance to Prater Park, where the famous Ferris wheel was in the early stages of post-war reconstruction. Russell had written about it once, in an article on European funfairs that some American magazine had commissioned, and he could even remember some of its history. It had been built to celebrate the Habsburg Emperor Franz-Josef’s Golden Jubilee in 1897, and the following year one of his subjects had summed up Franz-Josef’s reign in spectacular fashion — hanging by her teeth from a gondola to protest against the treatment of the Empire’s poor. Twenty years later another woman had gone full circle while seated on a horse, the latter standing, no doubt nervously, on a gondola roof. That stunt had been staged for an early silent film, and Hollywood had been back on several further occasions. Everyone loved the Vienna Wheel.

  Ten minutes later, he was gazing out across the wide Danube. There was nothing blue about it, and no sign of the once busy traffic — the wharves away to his left stood empty and apparently abandoned. The dark, heavy current rolled remorselessly past, like a conveyor belt with nothing on it. Over on the northern shore the hulk of a burnt-out Panzer had its gun barrel dipped in the water, and looked like an animal taking a drink.

  Russell stood there for several minutes, stray thoughts hopping in and out of his mind, then turned abruptly on his heels and started back towards the city centre.

  Once in his hotel room, he spent a couple of hours sorting through notes and ideas, then closed his eyes for a nap. Awoken by coughing heatpipes, he was thrilled to find the water running hot, and was only slightly deflated by the absence of soap. A long soak in a full bath might be a luxury in much of post-war Europe, but it still felt like a human necessity. Feeling suitably restored, he sallied out in search of alcohol and food.

  There would be an American Press Club, he realised — it was just a question of finding it. The hotel desk clerk thought it was on Josefstadterstrasse, which was only a five-minute walk away. Once there, a convenient passer-by directed him, with rather an envious look, towards a nearby side-street. The Press Club was open, well-lit and warm. As an added bonus, his old friend Jack Slaney was propping up one end of the bar, one hand wrapped round a half-empty stein.

  Slaney had come to Berlin for the 1936 Olympics, and stayed on as the resident correspondent of the Chicago Post for almost five years. He had sailed pretty close to Goebbels’ wind on several occasions, and had finally been asked to leave in the early summer of 1941, allegedly for calling Barbarossa an overgrown version of the Charge of the Lig
ht Brigade. He and Russell had spent many a happy hour trying to out-cynicise each other in the Adlon Bar, contests which Slaney had usually won. Russell hadn’t seen him since the summer, when the American had spent a few days in London en route to the Potsdam Conference.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ Russell asked, sliding himself onto the neighbouring bar stool and signalling for two more drinks.

  ‘The bar or the country?’

  ‘The continent.’

  Slaney considered. ‘A valedictory tour, I suspect. A sort of “now that they’re gone, was it all worth it?” What brings you to Vienna?’

  Russell told him about the illegal Jewish exodus to Palestine, and how he’d been asked to tell the story.

  Slaney nodded his appreciation. ‘If I wasn’t leaving tomorrow, I might follow along at a respectable distance. Not that I have the knees for mountain-climbing anymore.’

  ‘Neither do I. I’m assuming trucks — it must be too late in the year for walking.’

  The beers arrived, and tasted as they should.

  ‘Your government won’t be too pleased at your dallying with the enemy,’ Slaney observed.

  ‘The British Government? No, I don’t suppose it will.’ This should have occurred to him, with half his family living in London at His Majesty’s discretion.

  ‘I can see their point of view,’ Slaney went on. ‘About the Jews and Palestine, I mean. It was bad enough before the war, when the Jews were a small minority. If they let in every Jew that wants to go they’ll have all the Arabs gunning for them.’

  ‘I can’t see that worrying anyone else.’

  ‘No, it won’t — the Jews will win the propaganda war. They have the two things that matter — lots of money and the biggest sob story in history. They’ll get their homeland all right. Though I doubt it’ll be the paradise they’re hoping for.’

  ‘After the last few years I expect they’ll settle for somewhere safe.’

  Slaney snorted his disbelief. ‘In the middle of an Arab sea?’

  Russell sighed. ‘Point taken.’

  ‘They’ve been giving out chunks of Germany to all and sundry — why not give the Jews a piece, make the criminal pay for the crime?’

  ‘Because “Next year in Dusseldorf ” doesn’t have the same ring to it?’

  It was Slaney’s turn to sigh. ‘I guess.’

  ‘So, “now that they’re gone, was it all worth it?” Was it?’

  Slaney took a first sip from the new stein and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. ‘I really don’t know. A year ago I had no doubts. And sometimes I still get that feeling — like the other day, when I was reading that testimony from Nuremberg about camp commandants using Jewish heads as paperweights. You think to yourself, we just had to get rid of those bastards, whatever it took.’

  ‘And yet,’ Russell prompted.

  ‘Yeah. And yet. What we did to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, what you limeys did to Dresden. And God only knows what good old Uncle Joe has been getting up to — the Poles are already accusing him of wiping out their entire officer corps.’

  ‘The same Poles who are now persecuting their returning Jews.’

  ‘Exactly. You end up asking yourself — how much better off are we? Enough to justify fifty million dead?’

  Russell grunted his agreement. ‘And you missed out the French,’ he added. ‘Last week one of their journalists told me that they murdered around ten thousand Arabs in Algeria. Last spring, a little place called Setif.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have — nothing appeared in the French papers. You know, there’s one thing that really upsets me. Every last idiot in thrall to violence, every last government hoping for some glory that rubs off — they’ll be trotting out the Nazi precedent for another hundred years. And even if the war against the bastards actually was worth fighting, I can’t help thinking they were the exception that proved the rule.’

  ‘The rule being?’

  ‘That wars sow only death and grief. I thought we’d learned that in 1918, but apparently not.’

  Slaney grimaced. ‘You know, until I ran into you, I didn’t think I could feel any more depressed.’

  Having arranged to meet Annaliese for some sort of supper on Tuesday evening, Effi asked the Russian bus driver to drop her off at the Dahlem-Dorf U-Bahn station. The train that arrived reeked to high heaven, but was mercifully almost empty. Exhausted, she sat with her eyes closed, drifting in and out of sleep, and almost missed her change at Wittenbergplatz.

  It was dark when she finally emerged, and some desultory flakes of snow were visible in the dim glow of the few working streetlights. When she reached the Elisabeth there were twenty minutes remaining of Annaliese’s shift, so she took the opportunity to look in on the Rosenfelds. Esther had reported an improvement in her husband’s condition since the latest news of Miriam and the baby, and Effi was delighted to find him sitting up in bed. He still looked dreadfully weak, but his breathing seemed more regular and the flatness had gone from his eyes. He even looked interested when she told him the story behind Russell’s trip to Vienna.

  Annaliese looked even tireder than Effi felt, but still insisted on their going out to eat. A new place had opened on nearby Lutzowstrasse, and several of the nurses had been astonished by the variety of food on offer.

  Word had spread, and they had to queue for a table, but the aromas wafting past them seemed well worth the wait. ‘Chicken!’ Annaliese almost cried out when they finally got to see the menu. ‘Fish!’ Effi replied in equal amazement. ‘My treat,’ she added, pulling out her leading-actor-grade ration coupons. Looking around, she became suddenly aware of the clash between decor and clientele — a cafe used to serving workers was playing host to Berlin’s new rich. ‘Someone’s making a lot of money,’ she noted.

  ‘Grosschieber bastards,’ Annaliese observed almost cheerfully.

  The meal cost the best part of a week’s coupons, but was worth it. There was even wine — nothing wonderful of course, but better than either of them expected. As they sat there nursing the last few drops, Annaliese leaned forward in her chair. ‘I’ve got something to ask you,’ she said softly. ‘I feel guilty about asking, so please, please, don’t feel guilty about saying no.’

  ‘All right,’ Effi agreed, wondering what was coming. ‘I learned to say no in the war,’ she added, then laughed. ‘That doesn’t sound right, does it?’

  ‘No. But here it is. The works committee that runs the hospital has negotiated a deal with a certain supplier for a bulk load of medicines. But the doctor who arranged it has come down with pneumonia, and now he needs the drugs as much as the patients do. No one was willing to take his place — they’re all too spooked by what happened to his friend, the one who went looking for insulin.’ Annaliese sighed. ‘So, like an idiot, I volunteered.’

  ‘Aren’t you spooked?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. I mean I know these are not nice people, but the deal has been agreed. The other time was different — that doctor was trying to find a legal source of insulin.’

  ‘Threatening their business.’

  ‘Exactly. This deal is their business. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d come along for the ride. Like old times.’

  Effi smiled. The memory of their night drive across Berlin the previous April was one of her fondest. Not least because it had ended with her finding Russell half-asleep in her armchair — the first time they’d seen each other for more than three years. ‘Where would we be going?’ she asked. ‘And when?’

  ‘Tomorrow evening. The meeting’s scheduled for nine o’clock, out in Teltow. We bring the money, they bring the medicines. Will you come?’

  ‘How could I resist?’ She wouldn’t get much sleep that night, but her character was supposed to look wasted — she would save the make-up people some work. And, if she was being honest with herself, the prospect excited her. Her work in the war had occasionally been terrifying, but it had thrilled her in ways that acting never
could. She had assumed that life was over, but maybe it wasn’t. She dreaded to think what John would say, but there it was. As long as she remembered to think before she leapt.

  One thought occurred straight away. ‘How will we get there?’

  ‘A jeep. The British gave four to the hospital.’

  Effi grimaced — after Russell’s experience in a jeep she would have preferred something a little more bullet-proof. Then again, they would be doing all their driving in the American sector, and would happily stop if so requested. ‘What if they try and rob us?’ she asked Annaliese.

  ‘Why should they? The Grosschieber want regular customers, and the men we meet won’t dare cross their bosses.’

  That sounded like sense. ‘Where does the money come from?’ she asked out of curiosity.

  Annaliese shrugged. ‘The committee gets money from the Occupation authorities and our local administration, and quite a few of us have dipped into our own pockets — doctors, nurses, families of patients who need the medicines.’

  ‘Do the Allies know what their money’s being spent on?’

  ‘Of course. They pretend not to, but that’s just a joke. They could bring us supplies from the outside, destroy the black market in medicines overnight if they really wanted to.’

  ‘Why don’t they?’

  ‘Remember what you said about that camp I was in? It’s the same two things. They still think we need to be punished, and more than a few of them are making small fortunes selling official supplies on the black market.’

  ‘I suppose that’s it,’ Effi agreed. There were free tables now; it was getting late, and she had another six o’clock start. ‘I must get home,’ she told Annaliese, ‘but I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time at the hospital?’

  ‘Okay. And thank you,’ she added, giving Effi a hug. ‘You know, I’ve almost forgotten what a normal life looks like.’

  That said, it couldn’t hurt to take precautions. The gun that the dead American had given to Russell was still in the bedside table, and taking it with her would provide some insurance.