Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  Ten minutes later the secretary showed him into the Director’s office. The Director was sitting behind his desk, busily reading some papers.

  ‘Do be seated, please.’

  David noticed that he didn’t look up.

  Eventually the Director shuffled the papers into an untidy pile and glanced quickly at David. ‘Herr Freymann—’ He looked out of the window, then down at the desk. ‘I regret to tell you that due to a major policy decision all long-term research is to be cancelled. This has come from the highest level, you understand. It is out of my hands. In fact –’ he met David’s eyes ‘– the order came from the Fuehrer himself.’

  ‘So the Valve Project is to go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  David wasn’t entirely surprised. The project was, after all, a shot in the dark as far as Gema were concerned. Back in 1936 Schmidt had produced a document which ‘proved’ that short-wave radar was not only impossible to develop but not worth developing anyway. By supporting David for the last two years – albeit secretly – the Director had gone out on a limb. He couldn’t be blamed for backing out now.

  The Director cleared his throat. ‘It’s not as if you had achieved concrete results. I mean, the valve does not produce the required power, does it?’

  David looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘No, I’m afraid it appears not to.’

  The other man nodded, relieved. ‘Well, there we are then.’ He picked up a paperweight and moved it nervously from hand to hand. ‘There is also another problem and that is – this special scientific status. It appears that this special status is to go and … there is to be no widespread immunity from the draft.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Only those involved in work vital to our present needs are to be kept on.’

  ‘You mean—’ David frowned. He didn’t understand.

  The Director spoke rapidly. ‘I mean that only those essential to the development of existing systems like the Freya and the Wassermann are to stay. All others are to go. Your work on the development of new systems is too futuristic and … and your contract is not to be renewed.’

  ‘But it has two years to run. I can continue to work on something.’

  The Director looked uncomfortable. ‘No, it has been decided to let you go. Immediately.’

  David stared at him and felt a tremor of fear. ‘I am to go?’

  ‘Yes, I am sorry, but these are my instructions. It is out of my hands. I have been told, you understand.’

  David’s throat was dry and he swallowed repeatedly. He was trying to understand, he wanted to understand … But all he could see was a great hole opening up in front of him. Without his scientific status, without protection, he would be completely vulnerable … open to dispossession and God only knew what else. He felt as if his feet were being knocked from under him.

  The Director was examining the paperweight and looking unhappy. David said, ‘Herr Director, we have known each other for a long time. You realise what this means for me? You know that without special status I am – I have no protection.’

  ‘I am sorry. There is nothing I can do. I myself am most upset about this treatment we are getting. Science is obviously not very highly rated by those in authority. It is most unfair! Most unfair! Really – there is nothing I can do. I am sorry.’

  The man was avoiding his eyes and David stared disbelievingly. The decision itself was bad enough, but this – this cold impersonal expression of regret, it was terrible. This man had been his colleague, his workmate …

  ‘Herr Director, I realise that perhaps you cannot help me directly – work here – but you can help me in other ways—’

  David thought rapidly. Without protection he and Ellen and Cecile would have to leave. There was no other choice, not if one wanted to work and live freely. What would he need? His passport was in order, thank God, complete with its red ‘J’; Cecile was on Ellen’s passport, so that was all right; but they would need emigration papers. Or what did they call them now? Deportation papers, that was it, deportation papers … David asked, ‘Could you help me to get deportation papers? If I can’t continue with my work it would be best to leave. I hear that one needs help to get these papers. Would you? Help, I mean?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I really don’t think I can help. If I could, believe me, I would. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

  David sat frozen in the chair. He could hardly believe his ears. Perhaps the Director had not understood. It would only take a word from him, a telephone call, that was all.

  ‘Please, all I ask is your backing. Just to leave. That’s all I want to do. Really, it won’t be much trouble.’

  ‘Herr Freymann, I cannot help. It would not be right of me to interfere. It would not be appropriate, you understand. I try to keep out of politics – and such matters.’ He stood up. ‘I am sorry.’

  David got unsteadily to his feet and opened the door.

  ‘Oh, and—’ There was a note of embarrassment in the Director’s voice. ‘I will need all your confidential papers. I will send my secretary to collect them shortly.’

  David nodded and made his way back to his office. He walked again, but this time because he needed to be alone. He was stunned; he felt like a child who was being punished for something he hadn’t done. Not only had he done nothing to be ashamed of, he had worked hard and with brilliant results. He couldn’t believe that such achievements could be overlooked and ignored. It was incredible. He thought: How can they do this? How can they do this?

  But even as he thought it, he knew they could – they had!

  He felt tremendous anger, but not at them: at himself for being so ostrich-like. He had hidden behind his scientific status; he had believed he was important enough to escape this persecution. He shook his head. What a fool he had been, what a fool. He had made the mistake of thinking he was different. The sin of pride!

  He closed the door of his office and sat heavily on his chair. Almost immediately there was a knock on the door and Hans came in.

  ‘David, David. What can I say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Oh, try to get out, I suppose. Except that it’s probably too late for that.’ He laughed bitterly.

  ‘And your special research?’

  David shook his head. ‘Ended. I go, it goes. All for nothing.’

  ‘But it was going well?’

  There was a pause. David looked into Hans’ eyes. ‘Don’t ask me, just don’t ask me. It’s better that way.’

  There was a sound from the door and David jumped slightly. It was the Director’s secretary. She was already in the room.

  He thought: Now they’re not even knocking before they come in. Without a word, he got up and unlocked his filing cabinet. He took out the batch of files marked with a red star and handed them to her. She nodded and left the room.

  Hans asked, ‘Your results?’

  ‘Yes, everything.’

  Hans sat down and put his head in his hands. ‘Is there no end to their stupidity? Have you heard? Singers and entertainers are to escape conscription – apparently they are indispensable – but not scientists. Hitler has no idea, no idea!’

  ‘No.’

  Hans looked up. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do. I imagine they will confiscate my identity card and issue me with a new one – with the name Israel, just like everyone else. I mean,’ he smiled ruefully, ‘just like other Jews.’

  And there’d be more, David knew: there’d be the star on his clothes, the declaration of his wealth and, shortly afterwards, the confiscation of all his belongings.

  ‘Haven’t you protected yourself?’

  ‘Oh the house is in Ellen’s name, and some of our savings. But I couldn’t transfer everything. They stopped all that.’

  ‘But Ellen. Your marriage is privileged, isn’t it? I mean she’s not Jewish, is she?’

  ‘The special status of mixed marriages ended some time ago.’

  ‘Oh, I
didn’t realise.’

  ‘Nothing can save me, Hans. I have been a fool, a fool.’ He felt himself near to tears, and turned his head away.

  Hans said anxiously, ‘I wish I could help.’

  David shook his head. ‘No, my friend, I don’t think you can. My only hope is to buy some deportation papers. I hear they’re very expensive, but … I might have enough money.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do …’

  For a moment David felt a glimmer of hope. ‘Not unless you know an official? Someone with influence?’

  Hans frowned. ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  Everyone seemed to be saying they were sorry today. Sorry but unable to help. At least Hans meant what he said; he was a good sort. But David made him leave: he couldn’t bear to be pitied any more. Besides, he wanted to be alone. Hans said he would look in again before the end of the day. But he didn’t: they both knew there wasn’t any point.

  David sat in the chair for a long time, staring out of the window. No-one came to see him and eventually he heard people leaving for home. Finally everything was quiet. At seven he heard the night watchman closing doors and checking windows. He put on his reading light and spread some papers on his desk. When the watchman put his head round the door David was engrossed in his work.

  The watchman wanted to know how long David expected to stay in the building. David replied that he would be gone by ten, and the watchman nodded and left.

  As soon as he had gone, David got up and went to the door. He listened and, satisfied that the building was empty, walked quietly down the corridor to the first laboratory. He went straight to a small cabinet and tried the door. It was locked. He crossed to a desk and feeling behind a drawer found the spare set of keys the technicians kept there.

  The key which fitted the cabinet was smaller than the rest and David found it immediately. He opened the door of the cabinet and took out the camera and rolls of film which he knew he would find there.

  David went back to his office and opened the filing cabinet. His mouth was dry with excitement. The file he wanted was marked ‘Corporate Structure’. The papers it normally contained were unclassified and uninteresting; it was a file people hardly ever bothered to look at, which was why David had chosen it.

  He took out the file and laid the papers on the desk. He loaded the camera, checked the exposure and, putting the first page under the light, pressed the shutter.

  At first he couldn’t keep the camera still and realised it was because his hands were shaking. He sat down for a moment and tried to calm down. It was vital to get good pictures; it was the only hope.

  He stood up again and this time he could see the page clearly through the viewfinder. The job took over an hour, because he took two pictures of each of the ten pages and checked the exposure every time.

  He wound the film on to the take-up spool and took it out of the camera. He replaced the camera in the laboratory cabinet and then returned to his office. He picked up all the papers that he had photographed and, putting them in the waste paper basket, set fire to them.

  It gave him a curious feeling, to watch the beautiful drawings and the results of the last two years’ work crinkle up and blacken in front of his eyes. So much work! So much love! He felt a stab of uncertainty. It was such a final act, this burning. It meant there was no going back. But then there had been no going back the moment he had lied to the Director about the Valve Project. The Director had asked him if the valve was producing the necessary power and David had said it wasn’t. There had been no point in telling the truth. The decision to cancel long-term research had been taken at the highest level. The truth wouldn’t have saved his project – or himself.

  Why had he concealed the truth all this time? He still wasn’t sure. It was partly caution – he wanted to announce his results only when they were fully proven so that Schmidt couldn’t tear them to ribbons. And it was partly – what? Foreboding, an uneasy feeling that he might after all be vulnerable to the Nazi campaign? Yes, that too. But also – and he was ashamed to admit it – also pride. He wanted to keep the glory for himself, to show them that they were wrong and that he had been right all along, and show them in a dramatic way, by demonstrating a shortwave radar itself. That was still a good way off yet, and he would have needed more resources and at least ten assistants. It would have been difficult to keep it quiet much longer …

  Over the last few months he’d been falsifying the test results, only a little – but just enough to make the Director think the valve was not going to be a success. Only his assistant had seen the results, but he was young and easily persuaded that there were still immense problems to be solved.

  But there were no immense problems. Once he had discovered the best way of combining the two types of valve, he was there. Within a few months he’d produced a valve which generated 500 watts on the very high frequency of 3,000 megacycles. Despite its immense power the valve could be made very small, just as he had predicted. The radar that could be developed from the valve would be very small too. And he had predicted that too.

  He felt a glow of pride. He had been right and Schmidt wrong.

  It was a pity Schmidt would never know.

  He tucked the spool into an inside pocket of his jacket and, wiping the sweat from his forehead, took a last look round the office.

  This had been his second home, the place where he had come to do the work he loved, the place he associated with contentment and security and achievement. And he would never see it again.

  Oh dear Lord. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and, closing the door behind him, walked down the passage.

  As he approached the main entrance he felt a stab of pain in his stomach. Heartburn, probably. He always got it when he was late for a meal. Then, as he emerged into the darkness, it occurred to him that it was not heartburn at all, but fear.

  He looked over his shoulder and, pulling his hat down over his face, walked rapidly into the night.

  The room was hot and stuffy and David found it difficult to stay awake. At about four he nodded off. A loud voice announced ‘Next!’ and David woke with a start. He looked rapidly around him. There were three people ahead of him and about fifty behind – there would be many more, perhaps a hundred, in the street. With a bit of luck he might get in today. Otherwise he would have to wait outside in the street all night until they reopened the office in the morning. He’d already been waiting three days.

  He looked at the man ahead of him. He was well dressed and prosperous-looking; he’d probably been a jeweller or a clothing manufacturer before the crack-down. They would have confiscated his business by now. Looking at him, David guessed he’d been clever and hidden plenty of money and valuables. Otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered to come here. Yes, he looked the clever sort. Not like me, David thought, with no money and no influence.

  It was stupid to come here really. But he was doing it out of duty to Ellen and Cecile. He had to try to get the papers, he owed them that much at least.

  It was five when he finally got into the Gauleiter’s office; David was the last before they closed for the day. A young man looked at his papers and asked, ‘What are your means?’

  David thought rapidly. Did they want to know what he was supposed to have or what he actually had? After confiscation you weren’t meant to have much left.

  He answered, ‘Enough’.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The young man gave him a hard stare and waved him through to the next room. It was a long palatial office at the end of which was a large desk. Behind it sat a gross figure smoking a Bavarian pipe, and beside him a male assistant with a red ledger in front of him.

  David stood in front of the desk. The large man was reading a newspaper. He took no notice of David.

  Without looking up the assistant said, ‘Deportation papers will cost you 250,000 marks. How do you intend to pay?’

  David gulped. When he’d last heard they had been priced at 150,000
marks which he might have been able to borrow from Ellen’s father. But this!

  ‘Well?’ The assistant was impatient. It had been a long day and he wanted to get home.

  David thought: I must say something – anything – just in case. He said, ‘I’ll pay in cash – but it’ll take a week.’

  The assistant looked at the fat man. ‘Herr Deputy Gauleiter, he wants a week to pay.’

  ‘What?’ The fat man looked irritated at being disturbed. ‘No, no, no! Get him out! No money, no papers.’

  It was all happening so fast. David tried to think. He said, ‘Tomorrow then! Tomorrow!’

  The assistant stared at him, then nodded briefly. He scribbled on a card and handed it across the desk. ‘This will get you straight in here tomorrow. But if you do not have the money you will be arrested for wasting the Deputy Gauleiter’s time.’

  David went out into the street and leant against the wall. He was tired, so tired. He looked at the long line of waiting people, each wearing a star, each with a look of resignation on his face. Probably one in fifty could raise 250,000 marks. For some people it amounted to a lifetime’s pay. For David it was about ten year’s salary.

  There was only one source he could get the money from: Ellen’s father. But it would represent a vast amount of money to him, more than his life savings. David shook his head and began to walk. How much was he worth to his father-in-law? Not that much, never that much.

  Why then had he bothered to go through that playacting back there? It was a waste of time: he’d known it was no use the moment he’d heard the amount they wanted.

  There was no point in going back, tomorrow or ever.

  Suddenly David made up his mind and walked briskly away. He’d given them their chance; he’d tried to do things their way. Now they left him no choice.

  He took a tram to the Tiergarten. On the south side of the park were some of the principal embassies in Berlin. He hadn’t thought which embassy he would try first: perhaps the British, then the French. If he had no luck there he would try the Americans or one of the Scandinavian countries.