The Berlin Escape

by Warren Court

  “Ja?”

  Aubrey asked after Lydia.

  “She’s not here. At work.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “The bakery. Where else. Who are you?” Aubrey noticed milky-white cataracts on both of the woman’s eyes.

  “A friend of a friend.”

  “You’re not German.”

  “No, American.”

  That made no impression on the woman.

  “What time will she be home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where is the bakery?”

  The woman huffed and slammed the door as hard as her frail body could manage. Aubrey stood there, her ears ringing. Two door slams in less than an hour. She descended to the street and looked around. Farther down, she saw a middle-aged Hassidic Jew in a straight-rimmed black hat. The long tendrils of his payot hung down on either side of his face, and the rope-like tzitzit dangled from under his black coat.

  She approached him. He had his nose buried in a book of prayer as he walked, but became aware of her and backed up.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “I’m looking for a bakery in this area of the city. Is there one nearby?”

  The man stepped out into the street to avoid her, holding up the book of prayer to fend her off.

  “I don’t mean to frighten you. I just want to know where the bakery is. I’m looking for someone.”

  The man hurried off, skirting far into the street to get around her.

  “There is one farther up the street,” someone called. She turned to look.

  The man was young, younger than Aubrey, but he was confident, cocky. He was leaning up against the lamppost across the street. He hadn’t been there a second ago.

  “This way, you said?” she asked, pointing in the direction she’d been walking.

  “Yes.” He spoke English. “What’s a foreigner doing in this place?”

  She crossed the street to him. “I’m a journalist.”

  “Come to witness the end?”

  “No, I—what?”

  “It’s dangerous here for you,” he said.

  Just then there was the sound of a drum from farther up the street, and a squad of men in those same brown shirts and dark pants rounded the corner four abreast. They were marching, swastika flags held in front of them. One was pounding on a bass drum.

  “Come on, you must get off the street,” the young man said urgently. “They are SA men—the Sturmabteilung.”

  “But—” Aubrey said.

  The man grabbed her hand and hauled her into a vacant yard, bordered on three sides with a wooden fence. There was a gate, almost invisible until the young man wrenched it open.

  “Quick—in here.”

  Aubrey stepped through. The squad of brownshirts passed, their voices raised angrily in song.

  “Why are you looking for Jewish pastry in this part of Berlin, American journalist?” the young man said.

  “Do you know this girl?” She showed him the photograph. The man showed no recognition. “The bakery is just down the street, you said. I was told she works there.”

  “Leave this area of Berlin, miss. It is too dangerous.”

  “Thank you, but not until I speak to her. I made a promise of sorts.”

  The man peered out the gate and was satisfied the brownshirts had gone away. Then he was through the makeshift gate and gone, back the way the SA squad had come from. He made no indication that Aubrey was to follow him. Besides, he was too fast for her. He probably had to be, given all that was going on here.

  “Nice talking to you, Aubrey,” she said to herself. “Yeah, real helpful.”

  She walked along the street in the direction the young man had indicated, and soon found herself in a row of shops. Aubrey strolled along, looking in the windows at the goods for sale. She first smelled then saw the bakery. It was open and had a line out the door; most of the men were dressed like the Hassidic Jew she’d encountered.

  She passed by the bakery and made a concerted effort to look in the other shops. Many of them had crudely painted six-point stars on the windows. Some windows were boarded up, and there were glittering shards of glass here and there on the pavement. When she looked in the Jewish shops, she could see store owners behind their counters, their faces masks of despair. One or two saw her, smiled and nodded. She nodded back, although right now her window shopping was not just a show of support for the oppressed Jewish community.

  As Purnsley had taught her in their brief time together, she was using the windows to spot a tail. And spot one she did. The young man she’d spoken to a few minutes earlier was behind her. He wasn’t as good as the seasoned man from British Intelligence.

  She saw a break in the traffic and dashed across the street—not running away, just trying to avoid being hit by a truck or car or one of the constantly passing trams. She headed back in the direction of the bakery. Again she slowed, pausing at a store front. He was still there, behind her, hands in his pockets, pausing when she did, resuming when she started moving again. She saw him give a quick shake of his head to someone unseen. He put his hand out and waved it down at the sidewalk in a dismissive gesture. A tram came by, its bell clanging, letting out a moan as it slowed to let a lorry with canvas sides clear the tracks.

  An open-sided truck filled with brown-shirted thugs weaved its way down the street, deliberately sliding out into the opposing traffic, causing everything to come to a stop as it came chugging by. She heard horns honking and trumpets blaring; the men in the truck were singing, all waving that hideous flag.

  The intimidation was palpable as they passed. Then, after it had rounded a corner, the citizens quietly resumed what they had been doing. Up ahead, Aubrey saw a tram that was just pulling away from a station. She broke into a jog and caught the rear door. A man held out his hand and helped her up. She could come back to the bakery later, maybe spot Lydia and catch up with her on her way home from work. Right now, though, she had to lose this tail.

  The attendant was in the front section of the articulated tram and she fumbled for the ten-Reichsmark coin to put into his can. She glanced back at the road; the young man who had been following her was nowhere to be seen.

  A kind gentleman offered her a seat, and she was able to watch the shops, buildings and cathedrals roll by. She spotted more brownshirts on foot or in trucks. Several of them got on board the tram and talked excitedly amongst themselves while the other passengers kept quiet and avoided eye contact.

  Aubrey realized she was heading away from her hotel, out of the city, so after five stops she got off with the intention of getting a taxicab back to the Jewish quarter. There were none in sight; they usually had stands out in front of hotels, and she could see some taller buildings in the distance. One of them might be a hotel.

  She turned a corner and came face to face with the man who had first saved her from the brownshirt marching squad and then tailed her around the quarter. How the devil? He came at her fast. She turned. There was a car pulling up alongside of her, exhaust puffing out of the tailpipe. Its door opened, and a second man got out and came up behind her; she’d spotted him getting on the tram earlier. They were together, the two of them.

  She tightened her grip on her purse. She could swing it at the lead one, maybe punch the other. She’d thrown a punch or two in her time. Suddenly she realized how quiet the street was, how secluded.

  “What do you want?” she asked the first man.

  “Get in the car.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “You want to see Lydia? We’ll take you to her.”

  Aubrey looked at both men. At least they didn’t look like Nazis. The one behind her was definitely Jewish; he reminded her somehow of a girl she’d gone to school with in Rockingham. Dorothy Bass. He had the same features.

  She dropped her shoulders and got into the rear seat of the car. The two men got in up front; the first man drove now. If only she’d had her father’s gun with her, she thought unhapp
ily, she would show them a thing or two. It would be worth it just to see the looks on their faces when she pressed the tip of the barrel to the driver’s ear.

  The car smelled of mould, and a spring in the seat poked her in the thigh. The young man drove fast, swerving in and out of the tram lines and around corners at a blistering clip. The other one looked out the back window continuously. Aubrey did not sense danger from these men but knew if they were caught together by the German authorities, it would go badly for her. For all of them.

  Eventually, with a hard turn they drove up to a workshop in an industrial area of East Berlin. The car roared into a disused warehouse, the metal door was closed behind them and the car was engulfed in darkness.

  Aubrey and the two men got out of the car. Someone switched on the overhead lights, revealing a grimy workshop of lathes and drill presses. The floor was covered in sawdust, and the air was thick with the smell of industrial lubricants. A half dozen people appeared at the edges of the darkness, afraid to reveal themselves.

  “Nice place,” Aubrey said to the man who’d tailed her. “Why have I been kidnapped?”

  “You haven’t been kidnaped. You’ve merely accompanied us. Why are you making enquiries about a girl you clearly don’t know?”

  “How do you know I don’t know her?”

  “Because I don’t know you,” a female voice called from the darkness. One of the shapes on the periphery emerged. It was Lydia from the photograph. Aubrey didn’t need to look at it to confirm it.

  “I’ve never met you in my life,” Lydia said.

  “Nor I you. I was given this.” Aubrey held up the picture. The girl came closer and took it. Like the driver of the car, she was both young and old at the same time. It fascinated Aubrey, and saddened her. Before all this, she’d thought of herself as worldly, having seen more of life and death than all the pupils of Rockingham Girls’ Collegiate put together.

  Lydia studied the photo, then turned it over and read the back.

  “How did you get this?”

  “A man I met in Belgium gave it to me. He said to tell you, Lydia, that he died a free man.”

  Lydia looked at her in surprise. “Leave us,” she said to the others.

  “But Lydia...” The driver spoke in German to her, and they had a lightning-fast exchange; Aubrey could not follow it. She caught only two words: “Gestapo” and “traitor.”

  Finally, the two men who’d brought Aubrey to the warehouse went reluctantly off into the darkness with the others. Aubrey and Lydia stood there in the cone of light from the weak bulb hanging overhead.

  The young German girl tucked the photo into her own pocket. Aubrey did not mind; it had served its purpose.

  “Tell me about him,” Lydia said.

  “Not much I can say. He died.”

  There was a sigh from the girl. She looked at the floor and then back at Aubrey.

  “But he made it out. At least that’s something.”

  “I was with him when he died. He gave me that picture. I kind of made a promise to him.”

  “To find me, to return it?”

  “No. He mentioned a man named Lazarus. Said that he should be gotten out as well.”

  Lydia nodded, her face carefully blank.

  “What was the real name of the man who died? He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Eckhart. We were lovers. We were to be married. My father did not approve.”

  “Why did Eckhart have to flee the country?”

  “He is—was—part of a group who are trying to change things. I am part of that same group. And the others.” She gestured at the shadowy figures. “They alerted me that someone was trying to find me. We have to be careful; the Gestapo are not averse to using women to track us down. We resist the ruling party. They want to crush us for it.”

  “Resist how?”

  “There are some of my people who want to try and seek out an accommodation with the state.” Lydia shook her head. “They are fools. As the noose tightens around our necks, it tightens around theirs, too. They’re just too stupid to realize it.”

  “But not you?”

  “We resist. We fight back.”

  “How can you? The Nazis are so powerful.”

  “What choice do we have?”

  “Get out, like Eckhart did.”

  “Tell me, are you a spy? I know Eckhart was working with the British.”

  “I’m an American.”

  “But are you a spy?”

  “I suppose so.” She paused, watching for Lydia’s reaction. “Now there’s a little secret in exchange for yours.”

  That brought a smile to the girl’s face for the first time. “You are playing a dangerous game. You have no idea what the state is capable of if they catch you.”

  “They’ll send me to Dachau?”

  Lydia stared at her. “How do you know of that?”

  “I’ve heard of it. It sounds horrific.”

  “It is. It’s one of a series of camps the SS set up after Hitler was elected. The state refers to them euphemistically as protective custody. We may all wind up there, if they don’t gun us down first. Tell me, though, what are you doing here? Why did you need to find me? To return a photograph?”

  “I’m here because of Lazarus.”

  “What of him?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “He is my father. They have him in a camp not far from here.”

  “What did your father do? Was he a politician opposed to the Nazis?”

  “My father is Dr. Tomei Lazarus Frick. Everyone calls him by his middle name. He is a scientist. A brilliant man—theoretical physics.”

  “Ah, yes. Your fiancé mentioned that.”

  “He was working at the Berlin university when Hitler came to power. Lost his position almost overnight. Good friends and colleagues, all refused to speak up for him. He started making speeches, working with the Jewish organizations. One by one, these organizations have been obliterated, and the Nazis came for my father a year ago. Dragged him from our home. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “All attempts to find out what has happened to him are met with blank stares or, worse, threats. We only know the camp he’s in. We received a letter, not in his handwriting, telling us everything was fine, that he was getting a better understanding of what it means to be a good German. That’s when I started to resist, joined the movement.” She paused. “You’ve done your duty to Eckhart, Miss...”

  “Endeavours. Aubrey Endeavours.”

  “You shouldn’t have told me that.”

  Aubrey shrugged.

  “You can go now,” Lydia said. “One of my friends will drive you to a tram that will take you back to your hotel. Just tell him where you are staying.”

  “No, wait—please. I made a promise to Eckhart when he was dying. He said that Lazarus must be set free. Maybe I can help.”

  “I don’t see how you can help. None of us can do anything for him. He’s as good as dead.”

  “That’s a hell of a way to speak about your own father.”

  “It’s our reality. This is my world now.” She waved her hands around at the darkness. “Here, I am safe, like a rat. At least for the time being. Go back to America, Miss Endeavours. Tell them what you saw in Berlin. Not that anyone will give a damn.”

  15

  Richard Fuchs was propping up the short zinc bar in the hotel’s lobby. He was sipping steaming tea out of a silver podstakannik cup holder.

  “That looks perfect. I wouldn’t mind one,” Aubrey said. “How long have you been here?”

  “Two cups of tea.”

  “Don’t you want anything stronger?”

  “No, not me, I’m afraid. I don’t take it well. It’s genetic.” He looked around the lobby. “This is a charming hotel. I come here often. Shall we get a bite to eat? I know an equally charming restaurant nearby.”

  Aubrey didn’t respond. She was distracted by the sleek shape of Count von Villiez’s Mercedes Benz pulling up in front of the h
otel. Fuchs turned to see what had caught her eye just as Helmut entered the hotel. The count studied the lobby; his long grey trench coat was thrown over his shoulder like a cape. His chin thrust out at a commanding attitude. He spied Aubrey at the bar and waved a leather-gloved hand at her.