Alexander quickly showered, shaved and dressed. Then he went down the stairs two at a time to the large and gracious hall where a servant stood watching him with a smile.
“The Count and Countess are hoping you will join them for breakfast on the terrace, Mr Martyn,” the servant said in good English.
“Thank you,” Alexander replied. “Is my wife with them?”
“Ah!” The servant turned to the hall table on which there was a white envelope. “I believe this is for you, sir.” Alexander took the envelope, saw his name written in Irene’s bold hand and hurriedly tore it open.
My darling,
Wasn’t it a wonderful night? I will see you when I get back from Berlin, very soon, and we will have many many more like it. Don’t worry about me because you know I am yours.
At the bottom was her almost illegible scrawl: Always, Irene.
Alexander went on to the terrace and slumped in a chair while Connie and Paolo looked at him with unfeigned curiosity.
“Something wrong?” Connie enquired raising her eyebrows.
“I’ve been such a fool,” Alexander said striking the table. “Such a terrible, terrible fool.”
Chapter Two
August 1939
“Any news?”
Alexander, who had been looking out of the window into the square, turned at the sound of Lally’s voice and shook his head.
As she came over to him, that special, beautiful fragrance wafted from her reminding him so vividly of his childhood. It was hard to think that Lally, eternally young, eternally beautiful, was now nearly eighty. She still had her neat, tiny figure, her blonde hair with its Edwardian coiffure of little curls and ringlets, her flawless skin and clear, deep-blue eyes. He put his arm round her, almost scooping her up like a small child, she was so fragile.
“I have an idea,” she went on, “that the honeymoon was not a great success.” She looked up at him searchingly.
“On the contrary,” Alexander replied. “It was a great success and I am very much in love, but we did have an altercation which I bitterly regret. Irene thought I was trying to put pressure on her not to go to Berlin and she resented it. She objected to the word ‘forbid’ and I was stupid to use it.”
Lally drew away from him, carefully examining the rings on her fingers as if she remained unconvinced.
“I think it was very reasonable of you not to want her to go to Berlin.”
“So do I.”
“After all she is Jewish and we know what is happening to the Jews.”
“She said she was now married to an Englishman and thought this would protect her.”
“Foolish girl.” Lally sat down and lit a cigarette.
“I had my call-up papers today.” Alexander perched on the arm of her chair.”
“The air force?”
“Yes.”
“I feel it will be very dangerous.”
“Anywhere will be very dangerous.”
“Oh don’t, Alexander.” Her arm stole round him. “I can’t bear the thought of losing you. I lost my son Roger in the last war and he was the same age as you.”
“You won’t be losing me. I can promise you that.”He bent and kissed her head. “I am very unhappy, Lally. I found someone to love and now I’ve lost her.”
“Oh, I’m sure that she’ll be back very soon.”
“You would think she would have contacted me. Ten days and not a word.”
“When do you have to report?”
“Monday. That just gives me a few days to leave things in order at the office.”
“Pieter Heering will take over?”
“For the time being. There is no one else. All the young men will be called up. Mother,” he looked tenderly down at her and squeezed her hand, “I want you to go and live in the country for the duration of the war.”
“I still hope –” she began.
“I have no hope at all. Things are moving too fast. The country is mobilising.”
“But my darling, people are still going on holiday to the continent. My friends the Routledges left yesterday on a motoring tour of Europe. They hope to go to Germany too,” she paused thoughtfully, “but, Bavaria not Berlin.”
“I want you and Kate to stay at Forest House. Promise me that, Mother.”
“But what shall we do about Montagu Square?”
“I shall use it when I’m on leave, and Roberts will be here.”
“Roberts may not want to stay here, or any of the servants. They might want to go to the country too.”
Roberts was the ancient butler who had been with Lally almost all her married life.
“Oh, Roberts will never leave London.”
“I think we should close the house,” Lally said sadly, looking round. “After all, we did so before, and you can stay at your club.”
“No,” Alexander replied. “I want somewhere for Irene to come back to.”
“But she will be back long before that, won’t she?” Lally gazed anxiously at Alexander who, however, avoided her eyes.
Irene looked up from her seat at the bar in the Unter den Linden as the young man came towards her. He glanced nervously round before taking a seat next to her and ordering a beer.
“Can I get you one?” he asked looking at Irene’s glass, but she shook her head.
“Any news?” she asked, trying to conceal her anxiety.
Ernst Stern frowned.
“She has vanished into thin air.”
“Then my visit has been futile.”
“You must get out of here, Irene,” Ernst said in a low, urgent voice. “I hear people are asking questions about you at your hotel.”
“But that is impossible,” she said in astonishment.
“No, it is possible. They will have taken a note of your name and the details of your passport at the border. I don’t think you are any safer than Stella was.”
“But I must try and find Stella. Surely I can help?” Anxiously she lit a cigarette and blew a long thin jet of smoke into the air.
“There is nothing you can do. Your visit is futile. As a non-Jew I am in a much better position to help Stella than you are.”
Irene had the feeling that Ernst was quite angry with her and was anxious to placate him.
“The man who helped to get my father out,” she said eagerly, “I’m sure he can help. He had a lot of influence with the bigwigs in Berlin.”
“Then where is he?”
Irene bit her lip.
“I know he has an apartment in Berlin but I don’t know where it is. His name is Bart Sadler. He does a lot of business with Germany.”
“Then that’s not a very good sign.”
“It is. He brings goods in and takes Jews out. He has saved a lot of people. He was able to get my father out of the concentration camp.”
“Then it’s a pity you didn’t ask Mr Sadler to find out about Stella instead of putting yourself in danger. Me too, incidentally, if they are after you.”
“I assure you I’m not in danger, and nor are you. I could leave tonight if I wished.”
Ernst looked round again. “Then please do. If at all possible you should leave this very night.”
Despite her pretence of bravura, Irene did indeed feel rather fearful as she left the bar and made her way through the narrow streets of the Unter with their bars, clubs and dance halls to the small hotel which she had chosen at random for its anonymity and discretion. Her family home had been a large apartment in a block in Charlottenberg, but Irene had had her own small flat above a shop in one of the streets off the Unter which teemed with life, especially at night when the lights never went out and the noise of the cabarets and dance halls continued until morning.
Irene was filled with nostalgia as she crossed the streets she knew so well pausing every now and then to look in the window of a familiar shop, at a delicatessen with sausages and hams hanging from the ceilings, its counters stuffed with delicacies of every description, or to sniff appreciatively the enticing s
mell of freshly baked bread issuing from the door of a bakery. Several shops were boarded up – which surprised her until she saw the Star of David and the word JUDEN scrawled all over the walls – a jeweller or a laundry, a tailor’s or another delicatessen whose owners were once her familiars. She could recall their names and their faces, their wives and the names of their children and her eyes suddenly filled with tears.
The danger of her situation then really dawned on her. Grief as well as fear made her short of breath and she began to regret her hasty action in coming to help a friend who had already disappeared. Perhaps the real reason was that she had wanted to go back to Berlin, her home, a place she loved and missed.
Irene had crossed the border without difficulty. Her passport had been carefully inspected, taken away and then politely returned to her without comment. That had made her bold and she had made no attempt to conceal her presence in Berlin, telephoning a number of friends and meeting them openly in public places. But they were mostly non-Jewish and the calls to her Jewish friends had inevitably resulted in failure. Many of her non-Jewish friends made excuses or didn’t turn up, and the ones she did meet told her she had been very foolish to return to a place so many Jews were anxious to leave.
Things had indeed deteriorated since she had, at her parents’ earnest request, left Berlin, ostensibly for good, a couple of years before.
Irene had found it hard to settle in London. The ambience was not the same, and life with her parents in staid Golders Green had lacked the glamour of her bohemian existence in Berlin. But then had come the increasing interest of Alexander and life began to assume a different hue. He was charming, good-looking and rich. In her youth Irene had never been without money and was only too aware that her parents now lived in rather reduced circumstances. Her father, once a wealthy art dealer, had had his stock confiscated and had been forced to leave most of his money in Berlin having failed to get it out in time.
She had known that if she returned to London with Alexander from Venice she would never be allowed to get away. Not only would he stop her, but so would her parents.
However, not for the first time, Irene regretted her impetuosity in leaving as she had and her selfishness in not calling Alexander to let him know where she was, but she had been afraid that he’d be very cross with her or that he might attempt to come and get her. So she had finally sent a slightly risqué postcard to let him know she had arrived and was all right.
Irene reached her hotel and collected her key from the concierge who said, as she gave it to her, “There were two gentlemen asking for you, Frau Martyn.”
“Oh?” Irene’s blood ran cold.
“They looked like officials.” The concierge’s face darkened. “Perhaps the police. I hope you’re not in trouble Frau Martyn.”
“Did they say what they wanted?”
“No they did not, but they said they would return. They asked to see your name in the register and compared details of your passport with a paper one of them had in his hand.”
“Sounds sinister,” Irene said lightly. “I shall be leaving soon anyway. Maybe tonight. Perhaps you’d have my account ready.”
Irene ran up the stairs to the first floor and, unlocking the door of her room, looked carefully round. There was no indication it had been searched. In any event she had only brought a small suitcase intending to spend only a few days, long enough to assure herself that Stella was well and, if possible, urge her to leave with her.
But Stella had moved from her flat and it had taken Irene some time to locate Ernst who had rooms above a bar near the Brandenburg Gate.
Suddenly Irene was overwhelmed by a feeling of acute apprehension and, taking her suitcase from under her bed, quickly emptied the drawers and wardrobe and packed it. Then she took her coat and hat and, within less than twenty minutes of returning, she was on her way out again.
She was about to descend the stairs when she heard voices in the hall and, peering over the banister, saw two men in suits and Homburg hats poring over the register which the concierge had produced for their inspection.
Suddenly she heard her name mentioned and the concierge nodded and pointed towards the staircase.
Without pausing for a second longer Irene retraced her steps and ran lightly up the staircase to the next floor. Somewhere there was bound to be another way out.
She heard the heavy tramp of the two men coming up the stairs and go along the corridor to knock at the door of the room she had just vacated. Irene flew back the way she had come and climbed the next flight of stairs to the top. She ran again to the end of the corridor, pushed open a door and saw a narrow staircase which she swiftly descended to the basement of the hotel which was dark and smelt of beer and something not so pleasant.
There was a chink of light at the far end and she ran towards it, discovering to her relief that it was a half-open door. She pushed it; it yielded easily and she found herself in one of the narrow streets at the back of the hotel.
Breathing heavily she leaned against the wall and then, reactivated by a new and very real sense of fear, she walked quickly along the street towards the Brandenburg Gate and the only hope of refuge she had.
The concierge eyed Ernst suspiciously as he came up to the desk and turned the ledger on it towards him, opening it and inspecting the names.
“Yes?” she asked peremptorily.
“I’m here on behalf of Frau Martyn.”
“She’s gone.” The concierge pointed to the name on the ledger with an arthritic forefinger. “She left without paying the bill.”
“I know.” Ernst produced his wallet and extracted a few notes. “She asked me to pay her bill ... and collect her passport.”
“I see.” The concierge held her hand out for the notes, but Ernst clung on to them. “Is she a friend of yours?”
“In a way.” Ernst hesitated. “I don’t know her well. She’s the friend of a friend.”
“Well, if she’s a friend of yours,” the concierge said with an edge to her voice, “you should tell her to be careful. The police are after her.”
“Why should they be after her?” Ernst asked feigning surprise.
“Because she’s Jewish that’s why.” The concierge leaned over the desk and almost spat out the words. “Anyone can see she’s Jewish, and a British passport is no protection. I expect she stole it. The police seemed to think so. They took it away with them. I told them I thought it was a stolen passport.”
“They took it away with them!” Ernst exclaimed furiously.
“As a stolen passport, in order to pretend she was English. She’s a German Jew.”
“She is a British citizen married to an Englishman. They had no right to take her passport, or you to let them have it.”
“Tell that to the authorities,” the concierge said sulkily, handing him the bill. “What do you think I could do about it?”
“How did they know she was here in the first place?” Ernst demanded.
“I told them, of course. As a good citizen it is my duty to report suspicious people to the police. You know where she is now?” The concierge’s eyes gleamed, perhaps in the hope of earning a few more Deutschmarks for her treachery from the police, and Ernst felt a sense of contempt as well as despair at the greed and narrow-mindedness of his compatriot. Obviously she was in the pay of the police to inform them about any suspect guests.
“If I knew,” Ernst said glancing at the bill, “I wouldn’t tell you!” And after a quick calculation he handed it with the notes to the concierge saying contemptuously, “Keep the change.”
Then he made a swift exit in case anyone was observing him from outside.
Irene sat with her head in her hands, her thumbs pressed hard against her throbbing temple. Then she looked up at Ernst who was staring down at her.
“Do you think they really took the passport?”
“I’m sure they did, otherwise she might have tried to sell it to me. The old crow.”
“I am in a hopeless si
tuation.”
“It is bad,” he agreed.
“I never thought about the passport when I ran away from the hotel.”
“Well, there was nothing you could have done about it. It would already have been too late. You did the right thing to get away.”
“Have the hotels a right to keep everyone’s passport?” Irene demanded.
“It’s a way of making sure people don’t leave without paying the bill, also of informing the police if they think it necessary. Anyway they can do what they like. This is now virtually a lawless nation full of snoops informing on people to the authorities for gain.”
“How am I going to get out of the country?” Irene lit a cigarette, swept back her hair and looked at Ernst wearily. She was pale with fatigue, dark smudges under her eyes.
“At the moment I have no idea. You will have to be smuggled out.”
“How? When?”
“I don’t advise it right now. The police presence at the border is a very heavy one. They already have your name. Perhaps they suspect you of being a spy.”
“Then I must go to the British Embassy.”
“I don’t advise that either.” Ernst sank on his knees beside her. “They are deluged with people wanting to leave, and you have no passport.”
“My father-in-law is a member of the British aristocracy.”
“I don’t think that makes much difference,” Ernst said ruefully. “It may even count against you. I think you must lie low for a week or two. They are already rounding up all the Jews. You can stay here for the time being, and when I think the coast is clear I’ll tell you.”
Ernst, who was a lecturer at the university which was now closed for the vacation, got to his feet and going over to the window, glanced out. He felt nervous, ill at ease, resentful of the situation Irene had got him into. He already had enough trouble by having a Jewish girlfriend and he knew that some people suspected him of being involved in her disappearance, which was not true. Stella, who was a painter, had failed to come home one night and all his attempts to find out what had happened to her had so far failed. The police denied any knowledge of her and hinted that she must have run out on him. Ernst knew that wasn’t true but, at the same time, there had been a number of arrests of Jews or Jewish suspects and wholesale deportations from the city.
In Time of War (Part Six of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 3