—Shut up, keep quiet, he says.
—Leave me alone, cries Rosa, get your hands away.
—Calm down, he replies, I am a friend.
Rosa stops struggling and looks up into the man’s face; there, beneath the low patent peak, above the high trench-coat collar, nestles the bony white face of Wilhelm Krützfeld. The policeman relaxes his grip.
—What are you doing, says Rosa, what have you done to Papa and Heinrich? What have you done?
—There was nothing I could do for them, says Krützfeld, passing his hand over his eyes. I came back to try again, but it was too late. What are you doing here? Why are you not at my house, in my shed? You would be safe there.
—What will happen to them?
—They are being interned. I promise you, I will do my best to get them freed. But for now we must make sure you are safe.
—Safe? How can I be safe? How can any of us be safe? Nowhere in the entire city is safe.
—Get into the motorcar, says Krützfeld.
—What?
—I will take you to my police station. You will be safe there. Quickly now. Lie on the back seat and don’t make a sound.
Krützfeld swings the car door open with the manner of a man who expects to be obeyed.
—I will go and find Mama and Hedi.
Krützfeld rolls his eyes impatiently.
—They are still in the railway station. They are safe. I looked in on them only half an hour ago, he says, hoping the girl will believe him. Now hurry up, into the car.
—Then I will go to the railway station and join them, says Rosa boldly.
—You will attract unnecessary attention, says Krützfeld sharply, it will endanger you all. Look, come with me. Tomorrow we will find your mother.
—But she has been outside all night. It is not safe, especially with my little sister.
—Very well, says Krützfeld, I will see you safely to the police station and then I will go and find them. All right? Now get in the motorcar.
—You will bring them to the police station as well?
—Yes.
The motorcar sinks under Krützfeld’s weight as he collapses into the seat, adjusting his gun, and slams the door; the engine clanks into life and the car moves off. As it heads towards the heart of Berlin, nothing can be seen on the back seat but Krützfeld’s blue-grey trench coat, shadows passing across its velvet collar and epaulettes, light glinting on its parallel lines of metal buttons; an observer might wonder why the Polizeiobermeister is not wearing it, the night is certainly cold enough. But when spread out flat it is larger than it looks, and just adequate to conceal the frightened girl who hides beneath it.
8
For a long time the motorcar winds through the backstreets of the city, streetlights reflecting in its black bonnet, its round headlamps shining in the half-light. Krützfeld drives without speaking, grinding the gears and rubbing his temples, his jaw set. After a time he lights a cigarette, breathes the smoke in deeply, his brow furrowed, smoke collecting in wisps against the roof. A group of Hitlerjugend boys are walking in the middle of the street. They see the police car and hasten back onto the pavement; Krützfeld glares at them and steers the car towards the Scheunenviertel, past rows of shops with Hebrew nameplates, and glass spreading into the street, and wares hanging out like fish guts.
As they approach the Oranienburger Straße, the sound of chanting and breaking glass swells beneath the noise of the engine, and the smell of burning fills the air. Under the suffocating trench coat Rosa tenses. She forces herself to remain still, straining her ears, listening for clues, wondering where they are, what is happening outside. The motorcar slows down, weaving round obstacles in the road, the din is getting louder, the stench more acrid. Rosa feels as if the sides of the car are paper-thin; at any moment they will be ripped open and she will be snatched, dragged away, thrown into the fire. Suddenly it lurches to the right, bumps over the kerb and grinds to a halt; there is the creak of the handbrake being applied, and the sound of the door opening. The car rises as the Polizeiobermeister, grunting, climbs out, slamming the door behind him.
Rosa dares not move. She tells herself Krützfeld will return, but the seconds pass and there is no sign; he has gone, he has deserted her. The noise of the crowd becomes louder, more agitated. Something hits the roof of the car. Rosa slides along the seat, pushes herself up on her elbows, edging out from the trench coat like a tortoise. She lifts her eyes to the window and at once she knows where she is: before her towers the magnificent Neue Synagogue, Mama’s favourite place in Berlin, dignified like an elder statesman, its golden dome sitting like a crown upon its head. Around its walls a seething crowd has amassed, hurling stones and bottles and bricks, swarming about the great stone entrance. From one side of the synagogue, where the weekday prayer room is located, a pillar of smoke rises and flames can be seen at the windows. Across the street fire engines are parked, the crews sitting casually on their vehicles, ready to act should the fire threaten Aryan properties. And in front of it all, on the pavement, stands the imposing figure of Krützfeld.
The Polizeiobermeister, leaving the car parked hastily at an angle, fixes his cap on his head with a flourish and surveys the baying crowd. It is a large crowd, and a violent one, comprising mainly the Hitlerjugend and stormtroopers from the SA. The Polizeiobermeister knows how to deal with crowds. He takes in a deep draught of smoky city air; this is his district, the synagogue is in his jurisdiction, and now that he is on his feet, with the wind on his face and his cap pulled low, he has not the slightest pang of fear, despite being an old man, so vastly outnumbered. Deep within him a fury is smouldering, an anger that leaves no room for cowardice. He looks at his reflection in the car window, sees Rosa, glares at her sternly; she shrinks out of sight and lies still. Krützfeld straightens his back, opens the latch on his holster and pushes his way into the crowd – suddenly he is back at war, back at Arras, shoving his way through the German trenches, past the dead and the dying, the shell-shocked men convulsing, the troops going over the top, and his feet fall firm on the pavement. Above his head, and above the heads of the crowd, the golden dome of the synagogue shines into the sky as night gives way to the dull strains of morning; beside it is the thickening column of smoke. Krützfeld pushes roughly past layer after layer of hollering Berliners; many start to object but fall silent when they see his uniform and the expression on his face.
Rosa lies back on the seat beneath the trench coat, wondering what is going on. Then, without warning, the noise from the crowd comes to an abrupt end. Rosa raises herself on her elbow. From the car she hears nothing but a lone voice bellowing and the sound of muted panic; she strains her ears but cannot make out the words. She pushes herself up, peels back the trench coat and looks out of the window. At the top of the steps, framed by the magnificent doorway, stands Krützfeld, his gun in his hand, jutting it at the people below him like a sabre. With every movement of the gun the crowd surges backwards, revealing first the steps, then patches of the pavement; then the people begin to scatter. Krützfeld descends the steps to chase them, clearing the street in rings around him, dispersing the mob, jabbing with his gun, a Moses splitting the sea. As he comes closer Rosa can finally make out what he is shouting: this is a landmark, a protected municipal building, opened by Otto von Bismarck himself! Anyone who touches it will be shot! Get out of here, get out! Get out!
As a group of Hitlerjugend boys flee, they drop a burning torch on the pavement. Krützfeld sets about it furiously with his boots, stamping and scuffing, burning embers flurrying into the air around him, momentarily he is transformed into a mythological creature, illuminated by amber flashes, surrounded by flame; then the torch is extinguished and he kicks it aside, strides up and down the road, chasing away the last pockets of people. The fire crews have not departed, they sit perched on their vehicles wearing expressions of bemusement – Krützfeld turns his wrath on them, bellowing from below and striking their vehicles with the barrel of his gun
. Their bemusement turns to fear; upon his order they unfurl their heavy hoses and train them on the synagogue, arcing ropes of water into the smoke. The fire has not yet fully taken hold of the building, it does not take long to extinguish; Krützfeld waits until the job is done then waves the fire crews on. They reel in their hoses, start their engines and rumble hastily away. The Polizeiobermeister glances up and down the empty street like a huntsman. Then, looking up at the synagogue, he fixes his gun back in his holster and fastens the latch. A minute passes, then another, as he stands alone on the pavement, dwarfed by the elaborate building. The smell of smoke begins to disperse, gradually replaced by the fresh dewy scent of morning. Water runs onto the pavement from the blackened and sodden weekday prayer room; it runs like tears along the Oranienburger Straße, pools around Krützfeld’s boots, trickles gently into the gutter. Finally the Polizeiobermeister turns on his heel and returns to the car.
For a while longer he sits with the engine running, keeping a watch on the synagogue as dawn begins its final approach. Finally, satisfied, he steers the car slowly back onto the road and motors the short distance to the Hackescher Markt police station, lighting another cigarette.
9
On the outskirts of Berlin there is a place called Sachsenhausen. Beneath the blank sky you are marched down the main road with the camp on your left, watchtowers protruding like buttresses from the perimeter wall. Eventually you arrive at the mouth of the camp, outside which lies the SS casino, a large green building that the prisoners have nicknamed das grüne Ungeheuer, the Green Monster. You pass through the perimeter wall and are lined up facing a squat, white building crowned with a clock tower. In the middle of the building is a tunnel accessed by a wrought-iron gate bearing the legend Arbeit Macht Frei. On your left is the luxury bungalow belonging to the camp commandant. Your head is shaved, and you are given new clothes. After a time you are herded through the gate, past the window behind which an SS officer observes you, along the tunnel, and out into the open again. Then you are in the camp proper. Lethargic black birds hop heavily about; several of them have skin diseases and the feathers on their bodies have dropped out. Before you is the roll-call square, the Appelplatz, around which is a semicircular track. The surface of the track is a patchwork made up of many different surfaces, tarmac, slate, gravel, mud; this is where they test the army boots, they run the prisoners round the track and see how long it takes for the boots to wear thin. In the centre of the Appelplatz is the gallows, which once a year is exchanged for a Christmas tree. You see a line of prisoners squatting in the Sachsenhausen salute. All around the perimeter wall stand thick beautiful trees, bunched behind the watchtowers outside the camp. To your right, the dungeon block, with its three poles on which prisoners are hung by the wrists. To your left, the sanatorium and morgue. On the far side, the execution trench. And fanning out from the centre, in great semicircular rows, cabin after cabin, triple bunks, hard slats, draughty, leaking, lice-ridden, to which a twilight army of prisoners retreat, exhausted, each night.
All the way to Sachsenhausen, as Heinrich holds his hand like a child, and the other Jews speculate with each other as to their fate, Klein curses Wilhelm Krützfeld under his breath.
10
The police station is deserted. Krützfeld leads Rosa quietly through the rear entrance, along dismal corridors with narrow wooden floorboards and grey, scarred walls, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke in their wake. Faint sunlight filters through the windows, filling the building with an eerie glow; down corridor after corridor they walk, their footsteps resounding louder than usual. Finally he ushers Rosa into his office, closes all the blinds and locks the door behind them. Then he collapses heavily into the cracked leather seat behind his desk, rubbing his eyes between thumb and forefinger.
—Herr Krützfeld, says Rosa.
—Don’t say anything, says Krützfeld, just keep quiet. I need to make a telephone call. Please take a seat.
He picks up the receiver and dials a number, reading it from a notebook on his desk.
—Frau Warschaur? Wilhelm Krützfeld speaking. I’m sorry to call at such an hour. Yes. I trust you are … good. Now, did your husband receive my message in time? The night train? Very good. Ah, to England, excellent. Let us hope that his journey is without incident. Not at all, I wish you all the best. Goodbye.
Replacing the receiver, the Polizeiobermeister looks at Rosa as if for the first time.
—Now, Klein, Rosa Klein, yes. Give me a moment to gather my thoughts. Then I will go to the railway station to find your mother and sister.
He crosses to the drinks cabinet, pours himself some brandy and tilts it down his throat, his shadow falling across the large-scale map of his precinct that hangs on the wall behind his desk. Then he takes a wine bottle from the drinks cabinet and holds it up to the light; it is filled not with wine but with water. Meditatively, the Polizeiobermeister walks around the room, pouring water into the scores of plant pots that clutter the room, on the desk, in the corners, on the filing cabinet, on the shelves. Then he replaces the bottle carefully in the drinks cabinet, hangs his trench coat over his shoulders like a cape, and without a word leaves the office, locking the door quietly behind him.
Some time later the key turns in the lock again, this time awakening Rosa from a slumber. For a moment she does not know where she is. She is still in Krützfeld’s office, but the light coming through the blind on the window is brighter now, and birds can be heard outside, and the occasional sound of traffic. The Polizeiobermeister enters the room and closes the door behind him. In the daylight he looks older than his years; his hair seems whiter than before, deep lines score his forehead, and his trench coat is badly creased.
—I’m sorry, he says, I couldn’t find them. It doesn’t mean anything, you understand.
He crosses the room and, without taking off his trench coat, sits heavily behind his desk. The leather chair creaks, and all is quiet.
—Did you truly search everywhere? says Rosa, surprised at how tiny her voice sounds.
The Polizeiobermeister shrugs and rests his head in his hands. Once again a discomfort, like an illness, spreads through Rosa’s body.
—I must go, she says weakly.
The Polizeiobermeister is about to reply when the telephone rings, startling them both. He clears his throat and answers.
—Polizeiobermeister Krützfeld … Oh, good morning, Herr Graf von Helldorf … yes sir … Well, it is a protected building, so I … ah, so. Very well, one hour.
He replaces the receiver, his eyes fixed vacantly on the telephone.
—I’m afraid I shall have to motor you home, he says. I have a meeting in an hour.
—Can you leave me at the railway station?
—I will take you to your apartment. If you want to go to the railway station later, that is up to you. I’m sorry I cannot do any more. But I will do everything in my power to return your family to you.
—Thank you, Herr Krützfeld, says Rosa, the words catching in her throat.
—Yes, yes, follow me.
The Polizeiobermeister leads Rosa out of the office and along the corridors of the police station. It is busy now, and many heads turn as they pass, watching darkly, saying nothing. When they reach the car Krützfeld tells Rosa to sit up straight, for concealment is no longer necessary. From that moment on he says nothing more; for the remainder of the journey they sit in silence, Krützfeld smoking cigarette after cigarette as he guides the car north, to the Arbeiterviertel.
Finally they arrive at the Beeskower Straße and the Polizeiobermeister draws the car to a halt. It is a morning like any other and the street looks exactly the same as usual. Rosa opens the door and climbs out.
—You will keep in contact? she says.
The Polizeiobermeister nods and swings the car round; it grinds away down the street, disappearing round a corner, and Rosa is left standing in front of the tenements, small and helpless and alone.
Steeling herself, she passes through the
double doors and walks across the flagstones of the courtyard. Now there is evidence of the events of the night before: the door of the Lichtensteins’ apartment is hanging on its hinges, there are jagged holes in several of the windows, and amidst a scattering of shattered glass an almost black stain has marked indelibly the flagstones. As Rosa approaches her stairwell she can smell fresh bread; Frau Brandt at number two must be baking. Amid the sound of birdsong she climbs the stairs, as quietly as she can, her hand brushing lightly the banister, her breathing loud in her ears.
Finally she arrives at her apartment. The door hangs open like a flap of skin, surrounded by a corona of splinters. In a neighbouring apartment somebody turns on a wireless, sings the first line of a song. She slips inside without touching the door, her feet creaking on the floorboards.
Inside lies a scene of devastation. Broken furniture is intertwined with laundry, the tables and cupboards have been overturned, windows and mirrors are smashed, picture-frames hang at crazy angles. It is as if her apartment has been removed, replaced with a scene from an earthquake or a hurricane, and as she moves from room to room, gazing in disbelief at the ruins of her life, she is struck by the childish thought that she might stumble upon a fairytale door leading to her proper apartment, the one she left only hours ago, still intact and neat and familiar as ever, with her parents, her brother and sister, still there.
As she nears her parents’ bedroom, she hears a noise – only a slight noise, but one that doesn’t fit. Heart pounding, she approaches the battered bedroom door and pushes it nervously open. The morning sun streams through the broken window, illuminating another ransacked room; wardrobes lie face down on the floor, drawers gape open, twisted clothes are everywhere, the bed has been upended and thrown against the wall. She gasps and her hands fly to her temples, for there in the centre of the room, kneeling on the floor, tired and pale but otherwise unscathed, is her mama, clutching an exhausted Hedi in her arms, the contours of their bodies traced by sunlight from the broken window. Inga’s mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out; Rosa rushes to her, and they clasp each other close for a long time in the morning sunlight.
The English German Girl Page 11