Hudak noticed that Niska was jangling the change in his pocket nervously. Hudak gave Niska a look that was a wordless reprimand to him to be less noticeable with his anxiety himself.
To be caught at a border without proper documentation for inanimate goods risked only the confiscation of the goods by border guards, Niska thought. What would happen to impounded human contraband, or to someone trying to smuggle such contraband, Niska didn’t quite know, but he could imagine. Rumors were circulating about the detention camps, the Konzentrazionslager, that had been opened in the past five or six years.
The train lowered its speed, and then came to an abrupt stop that caused the passengers to lurch forward in their seats. Niska and Hudak gave each other a glance that communicated alarm, but encouragement at the same time. They were at the inspection station on the German side of the frontier.
Two German border guards entered the car through the door from the car in front. At the late hour, they appeared tired and not a little irritable. That did nothing to alleviate Niska’s and Hudak’s nervousness.
“Remember, Jiri, to assume the confident posture and demeanor of a typical German businessman.” Niska pulled out his Finnish passport from the breast pocket of his gray suit jacket. He looked over at Hudak expectantly, as if to say, “Now, take out your passport, Jiri.”
Hudak started to dig around in his rucksack. His face turned white. He took out each item from the rucksack one at a time. He was becoming frantic. But still no passport.
“Shit, I must have forgotten it.”
“Don’t panic, Jiri. Your passport had that damnable ‘J’ stamped on it. It would have been a detriment to our plan.”
Hudak didn’t appear wholeheartedly convinced or comforted by Niska’s attempt to reassure him. Niska, for that matter, wasn’t sure the effort at calming Hudak was for Jiri or himself. The closer the border agents came to the rear of the car, the more fatalistic Niska became that his career as the smuggler of human beings to safety would be over before it started; that, in fact, this doomed effort was to be his very last smuggling act, period. Why had he let Hudak talk him into making this trip prematurely? Why had his usually dependable good judgment deserted him? Why had he allowed his heart to overrule his head?
The border agents were clearly growing bored and impatient with their task. The Deutsche Reichsbahn system had become terribly over-subscribed by the transport of Wehrmacht toward the Austria border for some reason. Consequently, the Prague train’s departure from Berlin and its arrival at the border had been delayed by almost an hour. The Reichsbahn paid its employees overtime, but the Zollverein, the customs and immigration department, had promised to begin doing so to its employees as well when the Nazi party assumed control of it, but hadn’t. These men were working past their quitting time, and their faces and demeanor indicated they were none too pleased.
The agents were examining the documentation of the passengers seated in front of Niska and Hudak. Hudak couldn’t get his shirt collar loose enough for all his efforts. Niska glanced back furtively at the door at the rear of the car. He had a sudden and overwhelming urge for them to get up quickly and slip through the door unnoticed into the car behind them while the agents were occupied with the passengers in the seat in front of them.
Escape now, while you still can!
But he had immediate second thoughts. What was he thinking? Trouble was, he wasn’t thinking, just obeying an innate instinct to flee. They were seated in the very last car of the train. There was no car behind them into which to escape. What did he think they were going to do? Jump off the train? They’d be seen and apprehended—if not shot―before they could count to five by another agent sitting in the guardhouse. That would defeat the whole purpose of the journey, not to mention abort their lives. No, there was no other viable option but to await their turn with the border agents and hope for…what? A miracle?
Niska and Hudak both overheard one of the agents say to the other, “For Christ’s sake, Heike, let’s get the hell off this bloody train and go home. Our work is done. Just enter ‘No irregularities’ in the book, and then let’s head home.”
The other agent let out a tired, conspiring laugh.
As the agents approached their seats, Niska began to furnish his Finnish passport to a hand he expected would be waiting for it. But the agent dismissed it with a wave of his hand and wished Niska and Hudak a good trip. Then he followed his colleague back down the aisle toward the exit.
~~~
On the Czechoslovakian side of the border, however, the border guards were much more meticulous and conscientious. Jewish refugees and other travelers had been causing a lot of concern to Czech officials recently. There was the fear of spies, especially from Germany. A lot of unconfirmed reports were in circulation about an imminent action by Hitler against Czechoslovakia, at least into the primarily German region of Sudetenland.
Niska and Hudak watched the border agents warily from the last row of seats in the coach. The agents were the usual unsmiling, humorless functionaries one had come to expect, conscious of the power they were exerting over and anxiety they were rousing in even the most honest passenger. One by one each passenger put himself or herself into the hands of these nitpicky and diligent officials.
Niska and Hudak gave each other an apprehensive glance when they noticed the border guards shake their heads emphatically as one couple tried vigorously in vain to explain away whatever inaccuracy the guards had detected in their paperwork. Hudak translated the Czech for Niska as the agents ordered the two passengers to gather their belongings and to remove themselves from the train, much to the vocal chagrin of the couple.
The incident caused Niska’s and Hudak’s hearts to beat faster. They were the next to be inspected by the agents. Niska did his best to push his anxiety aside and appear as relaxed and nonchalant as he could. Hudak couldn’t get his shirt collar loose enough for all his efforts to loosen it during the last stages of this leg of the trip.
The border agent seemed to take more than the usual official interest in the document. Niska appeared unperturbed, but he could almost sense the heightened pulse of Hudak’s heart, as though it was migrating toward him through the padding of the seat.
Surprisingly, a smile came over the face of the border agent.
“Ever been to Salpauselkä, my suomalaiset ystävät?” the agent asked the two passengers, pronouncing the Finnish words for “Finnish friends” with a thick Slavic accent that almost made the words incomprehensible.
“Why, yes,” said Niska in German, much relieved. “You appear to know my language. Impressive. How do you know about such a prominent physical feature of my home country?
“Yes, in Lahti. At a ski meet there.”
“I haven’t had the good fortune to be there for the ski competitions,” Niska replied, “but I’ve followed them in the sports pages. But I gather you have skied there?”
“You bet! At three separate meets. Brought home a ribbon from one of them. You Finns produce some terrific skiers.”
Niska tried to conjure up all the he knew about cross-country skiing in Finland, and cross-country competitive skiers. Niska and the border agent spent the next quarter-hour in an amiable conversation about skiing, and Finnish athletics in general, the legendary victories on the track of the Flying Finns Paavo Nurmi and Hannes Kolehmainen in prior decades, and the prospects for the ski jumping world championships later that month in Lahti.
The official’s partner was growing impatient with this gregarious delay at the end of their work day. The affable skiing border agent didn’t seem to notice. Finally, he looked at his pocket watch, got up suddenly, bid a hasty farewell, “Näkemiin,” in a passable approximation of the Finnish. He and his partner managed to get off the train just before the locomotive resumed its chugging toward Prague.
Hudak slumped down into his seat and let out the breath he had been holding in his lungs in a long sigh of relief. Niska looked as though a huge weight had been taken off his s
houlders. The inspection of Niska’s and Hudak’s suitcases and documentation was thereby fortuitously overlooked.
Algot Niska couldn’t believe their luck…Or was it the invisible machinations of the goddess of fate, or whatever force it was that had enticed him into this daring operation? He didn’t know. He resolved at that very moment that he must not rely entirely on similar luck the next time, that he’d make sure he was better prepared for unforeseen eventualities.
In any case, he had smuggled his very first Jew out of Germany.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Berlin: February 27, 1939
The Finnish passports finally arrived at Niska’s post office box in Berlin. Bruno Altmann invited him to his amply and fashionably adorned flat in Charlottenburg to meet with several couples, all distinguished Jewish businesspeople, attorneys, and other professionals.
The Jewish population of Berlin formed a veritable “village within a city.” News and rumors traveled with ease within and through such a village. Most of the gathered guests knew of Niska and of his success in smuggling young wine merchant Hudak out of Germany into Czechoslovakia just a week earlier. They were inquiring whether he could smuggle not only their valuables to safety beyond the grasp of the Nazis, but themselves as well.
Niska realized that he was entering a high stakes poker game in which he was gambling with his own personal freedom, perhaps even his own life. He addressed the three couples after dinner from his seat at the end of Altmann’s mahogany dining table.
“I’m sure Bruno has told you about the absolute confidentiality of this gathering. Nothing—I repeat, nothing—that is said here this evening is to be repeated beyond these four walls. You understand, I am sure, that were a single word of our deliberations to reach the wrong ears, it could mean imprisonment—or even death—to any or all of us. That includes me.”
“We have learned to be wary of the SS and Gestapo particularly, Herr Niska, we assure you,” said a man in a dark suit and prominent bow tie.
“That’s a very prudent precaution, Herr...”
“Goldberg, the jeweler.”
“Herr Goldberg, thank you. I trust that before you came here this evening, Herr Altmann passed on to you the instructions I related to him. These days, as successful Jewish citizens, you simply have to assume at any given time that agents of the SS and Gestapo have their eyes on you, and probably their ears, too. Do any of you have any reason—even the slightest—to suspect that you were being watched or even followed as you traveled to Herr and Frau Altmann’s residence? If so, it is absolutely vital to this operation for you to express your suspicions right now and not hold anything back. Is that understood?”
The group was silent, each seated around the table looking nervously at the others. Niska paused a long time to give time for anyone who might be needing to gather courage to speak up to do so.
“Hearing none, then good,” Niska said, but glanced slightly dubiously at Altmann. “We will proceed, then, on the assumption that, for this evening at least, it is safe to do so.”
He explained to those gathered that he was able to arrange for forged Finnish passports for about ten of them.
“But there are ten couples who have expressed interest in being smuggled out of Germany—that’s twenty people,” protested Goldberg. “How will you decide who the fortunate ten will be?” Niska didn’t want to think about that possibility. He had never been any good at playing God.
“I am sorry, but until I and my contacts in Finland have worked out a smooth and watertight system, ten is all I can procure at this time. I leave the decision about who goes this time, and who stays, to you.
“I need to emphasize to you that at any given time, things can go wrong. I urge you to underscore that in your communication with the others. I know that some of your people think smuggling people is always as easy as they might have heard it turned out in the end to be with Herr Hudak. I do not want you to have any illusions. Every passport has to be imprinted with valid stamps and notations. These can be acquired usually only by bribing a German immigration official here in Berlin in advance. That’s the responsibility of each individual or couple. In wartime, it seems, money is required over and over again. Bribery involves significant risk, as I’m sure you appreciate.”
Altmann and the others swallowed hard. The jeweler Goldberg was the first to speak again.
“We’ve become accustomed to bribery, Herr Niska, just to get our fair ration of beef or lamb at the butcher’s.”
“True enough, I’m sure,” Niska replied. “Most often, immigration officials can be trusted to act out of self-interest and not call attention to an attempted bribe. After all, they need to buy beef and lamb, too. But occasionally there’s an absolutely conscientious, strictly-by-the-book alumnus of the Hitlerjugend who has swallowed the Nazi line about the Volk above private gain hook, line, and sinker.”
“A definite pain in the ass, those Nazi straight arrows are,” Goldberg said. His wife looked over at him disapprovingly.
“Yes, they can be. That is why you need to be absolutely sure not to walk straight on up to an immigration kiosk without having taken time to observe each agent carefully. You can usually tell who the straight arrows, as you call them, are by their demeanor.”
“But,” interrupted Altmann,” at the same time, you will have to be careful not to be too obvious about your scrutiny of the agents.”
“Absolutely right, Bruno.” Niska concurred. “The simple fact that this is a group of ten Finnish tourists leaving Germany is bound to draw some attention, to be sure. It’s vital that if one or more of you runs into complications, the others do not in any way seek to interfere. They’d be looking for unnecessary trouble. But we Finns are fortunate. We look Nordic. We have a history of keeping our noses clean. Usually the immigration people are happy just to pass us along and send us on our way.”
“Some Finns, at least, have kept their noses clean,” Goldberg inserted with an attempt at humor to lighten the tense mood.
“If you’re referring to me, Herr Goldberg, mine is rather unclean, I admit.” Niska chuckled self-deprecatingly.
“But it’s from Herr Niska’s brave experience in evading the prohibition laws in Finland that we are benefitting now, Simon. You should be more grateful.”
“No, I am, I am. I didn’t mean any disrespect, I assure you, Herr Niska. My wife, Galia, can tell you that I tend to inject humor in all the wrong ways and at the wrong times.”
“Das est sicher,” Galia concurred, to the light laughter of all. “That’s for sure.”
“No offense taken, Simon,” Niska assured him. “But I have more precautions you will need to know if you’re still willing to volunteer for the journey in spite of all the risks.”
“Go on, Algot, please,” Altmann said.
“Each person will need to get a valid photograph for their passport.”
“How in heaven’s name do we do that?” asked the other male guest, a tailor named Aaronssohn. “An Aryan photographer is not allowed to take them. Even to request such could arouse grave suspicion. The Jewish photographers have all been driven out of business by Himmler’s henchmen.”
“Just be patient, Samuel,” Altmann urged. “I’m sure Herr Niska has thought of that.”
“Indeed, I have, Samuel. I have a contact right here in Berlin who can take reasonable facsimiles. But I warn you, nothing is foolproof. The German authorities have become quite sophisticated in detecting false papers, especially, I’m afraid, if the bearers appear to be or are Jewish.”
“Remember how poor Marek and Rebekah Horst were caught at Hamburg trying to board a ship to England with false papers?” Aaronssohn’s wife, a nervous Nellie if there ever was one, asked the group.
“And yes, remember that they were carted off to the camps, Marek to Dachau and Rebekah to Ravensbrück,” Altmann interjected.
“That’s precisely the kind of risk you would be taking,” Niska added. “My passport forger in Helsinki is the best there
is, and my photographer contact here is an excellent, and most importantly, an absolutely discreet one. But there’s no guarantee of success, you must understand.”
He told them that all the information in the passports would have to be proper and correct. The only exception was that their names would be modified to the extent that they appeared to be Finnish. They would travel by train as couples to Travemünde on the Baltic, and board a Finnish steamer there for Helsinki with tickets he would secure and provide.
“Begin thinking of yourselves as tourists from Finland who have come for a short visit to Germany. Because that is what you will say to the officials in Travemünde. And, better start trying to imitate my German spoken with the obvious Finnish accent. You’re Finnish tourists, right?”
Once safely on Finnish soil, they could choose to remain and rebuild their lives there. Or as he learned, some of them desired to try to continue their journey from Finland to Britain, or even the United States.
“Hyvää matkaa. Good travels,” Niska told them cheerfully a week later when he handed them their passports. “On the other side of the Baltic, life is worth living again. The freedom in the air there is intoxicating.”
On his walk to his flat, Niska appeared totally relaxed and in a light mood. But he had entered his high stakes game. He had laid down more chips on the table than ever before. When does a gambler not fret?
~~~
A week later one of Niska’s contacts in Helsinki wired to inform him that nine of the refugees had arrived safely and passed through customs and immigration with no problems. But where was the tenth, Niska wondered. He had given out ten passports.
Through a friendly informant in the customs house in Travemünde, Niska learned that one of the ten for whom he had helped secure passports had been overzealous in observing the immigration agents and had become paranoid that the SS or Gestapo were observing him. He sold his precious passport to freedom to another Jew. He had tried to be discreet and secretive when making the deal. But he was plainly just an amateur in undercover activities. Who knew who might have observed and taken note of the transaction? Certainly, the SS or Gestapo. But who else?
Accidental Saviors Page 8