The driver advanced a pace, close enough for Russell to smell the cabbage on his breath. 'So she's missing. What the hell is that to you?'
'Just another Jew-lover,' the other Brownshirt volunteered.
'Right,' Russell said sarcastically. 'When I could be admiring an aryan like you.'
He had time to move his head a fraction, saving his nose and teeth at his cheek's expense, but the power of the blow put him on his back. He shook his head, looked up at the four silhouettes gathered above him, and felt more than a little afraid.
'There's a good tree over there,' a voice said, compounding the effect.
'I'm an American journalist,' he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. 'And I also work for the Sicherheitsdienst in Berlin.'
'The what?'
'It's part of the Gestapo,' Russell said, somewhat inaccurately. 'Look at my papers,' he added, 'they're in my jacket.'
The driver picked up the jacket, rifled through the pockets, and examined Russell's journalistic accreditation. 'This says nothing about the Gestapo or the...Sicher-whatever-it-was.'
Russell decided it was time to get to his feet. 'You can ring their HQ at 102 Wilhelmstrasse,' he said, as he rose. 'Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth. He'll tell you.'
'Why would a Gestapo agent be visiting Jews?'
'Why do you think? Their daughter may be mixed up with enemies of the Reich...'
'Miriam Rosenfeld?!?'
'You know a lot about the Jewish opposition groups, do you?' Russell asked scathingly, risking another assault. 'It's very unlikely,' he admitted in a kinder tone. 'But we have to be vigilant.'
The driver still looked unconvinced. 'Get up on the lorry,' he said. 'You are coming with us.'
Those five words had never sounded sweeter. Wherever they were going, it had to be an improvement on a dirt track between open fields, with a 'good tree' close by. The police station or the local Party House?
It was the latter. They turned right at the crossroads and drove into Wartha, along a surprisingly deserted street lined with neat, well-kept houses. The Party House was just beyond the town square, a two-storey building with the usual oversized flag. There were two main rooms on the ground floor, the common room at the front for drinking, the office at the back for keeping tabs on the citizenry.
The local leader, a bespectacled man of around thirty-five with closely-cropped black hair, was in the latter. He was wearing full SA uniform, with every belt, buckle and button polished to perfection. Like most small-time Nazis of Russell's acquaintance, he looked like a puffed-up shopkeeper. Err on the side of flattery, Russell told himself, and for God's sake don't talk down to him.
The driver told his story. He and his friends had received a tip-off that an outsider was staying with the Jews, and they had stopped him before he could reach the station. 'He admitted it,' he added, passing over Russell's papers. 'He says he's a journalist and that he works for the Gestapo,' he added grudgingly.
'The Sicherheitsdienst,' Russell corrected him. 'The SD,' he added helpfully.
The man was examining his papers. 'I know what the Sicherheitsdienst is,' he said curtly, without looking up.
'May I know your name, Sturmbannfuhrer?' Russell asked politely.
'Lempfert. Wilhelm Lempfert.'
'The headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst is at 102 Wilhelmstrasse, Sturm-bannfuhrer Lempfert. Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth will vouch for me.'
'Not Gruppenfuhrer Heydrich in person?' Lempfert asked sarcastically.
'I have never had the honour of meeting the Gruppenfuhrer.'
Lempfert gazed at Russell for a few moments, as if wondering whether his sarcasm was being returned. 'I will check your story,' he said. 'Take him through,' he told the driver.
Russell was hustled into the common room, and his others captors looked up expectantly, still hopeful of a lynching. The driver shoved him towards an upright chair by the near wall and joined his companions in the circle of beaten-up armchairs by the window.
Minutes went by, rather more of them than Russell was hoping for. What would Lempfert do if Hirth wasn't there? And what would Hirth say when he heard about the Rosenfelds? The false papers for the Soviets should be waiting for him at Neuenburger Strasse by now. Surely Hirth wouldn't let a little race hatred cost him a good agent?
Almost an hour had gone by when Sturmbannfuhrer Lempfert emerged from the office. 'The Hauptsturmfuhrer wishes to speak to you,' he said shortly, gesturing Russell into his office. Much to the latter's surprise, the door closed behind him. Hirth must have asked for a private conversation.
The Hauptsturmfuhrer was displeased. 'What is this about? Who are these Jews?'
Russell explained about their daughter's disappearance. 'This is a journalistic matter,' he added, not wishing to involve Thomas.
'Can't you find anything more useful to write about?'
'If I stopped criticising the regime the Soviets would smell a rat.'
Hirth grunted his disapproval. 'So why did you mention this department?'
'Because I feared for my life, and I assumed you would want to save it.'
A lengthy silence followed. 'A big assumption,' Hirth said dryly. 'As it happens, you will find something waiting for you when you reach home. Something in need of your urgent attention. You are coming back to Berlin today?'
'I am.'
'Very well. Put the Sturmbannfuhrer back on.'
Russell fetched Lempfert, and watched as he listened to Hirth. 'It will be as you suggest,' Lempfert said finally. 'Thank you for your time, Hauptsturmfuhrer.' He replaced the telephone and looked up. 'You are free to go, Herr Russell. But next time, perhaps you would do us the courtesy of informing us of your plans in advance. It is we who are responsible for enforcing the race laws.'
'Of course. I apologise for not doing so.' He offered his hand across the desk. 'Thank you again.'
Out front, his original captors watched him leave with new expressions on their faces. A simple enemy had turned into something of a mystery - a foreigner who worked for the famous Heydrich, and who made enormous sacrifices for Reich and Fuhrer, like sleeping in a Jewish bed. Russell went across to the driver and offered his hand. The man seemed somewhat surprised, but accepted it.
'Can we drive you to the station?' he asked.
'Thank you, but no,' Russell said, keen to put the Wartha SA behind him. 'I need the exercise.'
It was a refusal he regretted ten minutes later, when the smoke rising above the station told him he had just missed his train. The next one, as he soon discovered, was not for another two hours. He spent them in the shade of the platform awning, sitting on the only bench and staring out across the sun-drenched grain. Hundreds of birds chattered in the copse of beeches beyond the empty siding, and every now and then a party of them would fly off towards the red-roofed farm in the far distance. It was an idyllic scene.
Russell remembered reading Wilde's Picture of Dorian Grey in the trenches, and idly wondered whether the Silesian countryside had made a similar pact with the devil. He imagined a landscape painting in Sturmbannfuhrer Lempfert's attic, fields of rotting crops under a red sky, an SA lynch party driving away from a burning farm.
It wasn't until he was settled in his compartment seat, and the train was pulling out of Wartha, that his hands began to shake. He sat there watching them, remembering the same reaction over twenty years before, some hours after a much-dreaded assault across no man's land had been cancelled.
His train reached Breslau just before three, saving him the choice between interviewing Torsten and catching the same service that Miriam had caught. The next Berlin train was not until nearly six, which gave him plenty of time to find the department store where the boy worked and collect his suitcase from the hotel.
He tried to telephone Effi from the Monopol but there was no answer. The receptionist took one long look at his battered cheek but said nothing. She told him the only modern-looking store in Breslau was the Petersdorff, and agreed to keep his suitcase behind her de
sk while he visited it. Following her directions, Russell walked up Schweidnitzer Strasse and turned right opposite the Rathaus. The Petersdorff store was on a corner one block down, a futuristic oasis in a sea of German tradition. The windows of the main frontage stretched the length of the building, and were rolled around in a semi-circle at one corner, like a six storey-lighthouse. The overall impression was of six trams piled on top of each other, speeding into the future. It looked like it had been left behind by aliens.
In a way it had. It reminded Russell of the Universum, and he was not surprised to find that Erich Mendelssohn had designed it. He was, however, surprised to find that fact still acknowledged on a plaque by the main entrance - Mendelssohn's name had long since disappeared from the Universum.
Inside he asked for the manager's office, and was directed to a suite of rooms on the second floor. The manager was a youngish man with a Pomeranian accent and an obvious desire to please. He confirmed that Torsten Resch worked there, and obligingly agreed to Russell's request for a short private chat without asking for details of the 'family matter' in question. Torsten arrived a few minutes later, a gangly youth with a shock of fair hair. He looked suitably bewildered.
The manager left them to it.
'What is this about?' the boy asked. 'Has something happened at home?'
'Nothing. I'm here about Miriam Rosenfeld.'
The boy's features seemed to soften. 'You have a message for me?'
'She has disappeared,' Russell said bluntly.
'What?'
'She travelled to Berlin, but no one has seen her since she arrived.'
'But that was weeks ago. And her uncle was supposed to meet her.'
'He was beaten up on his way to the station. He died a few days later. You saw her onto the train, right?'
'Yes, we had lunch together. She said I could write to her, but she hasn't sent me her address...'
'She didn't say anything about what she intended to do in Berlin?'
'I told you. She was going to meet her uncle. He had arranged a job for her.'
'She didn't know anyone else there?'
'No, I'm sure she didn't. How could she?'
He seemed genuinely distressed. 'All right,' Russell said. 'Thank you for talking to me.'
Torsten got up slowly. 'If you...' he began. 'If you find out what has happened, will you let me know? I like Miriam,' he said simply. 'I know she's Jewish, but...' He shrugged away his inability to change that fact. 'I've always liked her,' he added, as if it was a shameful secret he had to share.
'I'll let you know,' Russell promised.
The Berlin train left on time, and much to Russell's relief suffered only a few minor delays. It pulled into Silesian Station a few minutes short of midnight, and he stopped at the first public telephone to call Effi . She answered immediately, sounding excited. 'What's happened?' he asked.
'I'll tell you when you get here.'
A Stadtbahn train arrived within minutes. It was full of citizens ignoring the government's ongoing anti-alcohol campaign, one of whom held the train up for five minutes at Friedrichstrasse by jumping in and out of the door like a demented rabbit. The train eventually reached Zoo Station, where an even rowdier Friday night crowd was waiting to get on. Russell alighted with some relief, and walked down the steps to street level. In the space in front of the station, two uniformed cops were asking a boy of about four where his mother was. He looked around as if searching for her, then screamed a simple 'I don't know!' at his questioners.
Russell walked under the Hardenberg Strasse bridge and crossed the road. Three minutes later he was approaching the flat. There were no suspiciously loitering cars, no leather coats clogging up the entrance.
Effi was in her dressing-gown. Her excitement turned to horror when she saw his face.
'It's much worse than it looks,' he said.
'But how....'
'One of the local lads in Wartha didn't like my attitude. Don't worry about it.'
They hugged and kissed until Russell reached for the cord.
'No, no, no,' she said. 'First we must talk.'
He grinned. 'Okay. How did your meeting go?'
'Oh that.' She dismissed it with a wave of a hand. 'I went to the station to meet you,' she said. 'I thought you'd be on Miriam's train, and....'
'I missed it.'
'I know. But I saw him. The man with the dark eyebrows. And he tried to pick up a young girl.'
The Wave of the Past
'Tell me,' Russell said, somewhat unnecessarily.
'He was just the way your detective described him. A dark blue uniform with a peaked cap, and when he took it off I saw his grey hair. And the eyebrows, much darker, black I think. A slight beer belly, but not really overweight. He just stood there watching the bottom of the staircase. You know the smoker's kiosk? He was standing right next to it.'
She paced to and fro. 'I watched him, but not all the time. You know they say that people have a sixth sense that they're being watched, and I didn't want him to notice me. And of course I was also watching for you, so I had to take my eyes off him every now and then. Anyway the train arrived and the people started coming down the steps - quite a few of them, but not really a crowd - you could see each person. And he was looking at this one girl. She looked about twenty, and she was quite smartly dressed. Dark hair and one of those little felt hats that were fashionable about three years ago. She put her suitcase down and she was digging around in her bag for something. A little book - an address book perhaps. And he walked towards her, a big smile on his face. He said something to her, and she looked relieved. He went to pick up her suitcase, but at that moment she caught sight of someone she knew over his shoulder - a young man in a Wehrmacht uniform. She said something to Eyebrows and he smiled back at her, but the moment her back was turned his face seemed to curdle. He was really angry. He walked back to his place by the kiosk and watched the last few people come down the stairs, but he didn't approach anyone else. There were other single women, but they all looked like they knew where they were going.'
She paused for breath. 'When everyone had come through he lit a cigarette and walked out through the main entrance. I followed him - don't worry, I kept a good distance and there were lots of people around and he never looked back. His car was parked at the end of the cab rank, and there were cops around - you'd have thought they'd have had a word with him...'
'It says something that he still has use of a car,' Russell added.
'I suppose it does. It was a Mercedes Cabriolet, by the way - my father used to have one.'
'Did you get the number?'
'I memorized it as I walked past,' she said. 'I ran for the cab at the head of the line, almost knocking over a pair of old ladies in the process, and jumped in the back. I asked the driver for a pencil, but he didn't have one, and then I realized I'd forgotten the number. I looked round just as he drove past us and what do you think I said?'
'Follow that cab?'
'More or less.'
'The cabbie was a Bavarian, so I had to say it twice, but we caught him up at the Michael Kirche-Strasse lights.' Effi lifted the hem of her dressing-gown halfway up her right thigh to reveal a red scrawl. 'I wrote the number down with my lipstick.'
'That must have made the cabbie's evening,' Russell said, noticing the two threes which ended the registration number.
'He was watching the lights. I told him to hang back a bit in case Eyebrows noticed he was being followed, and we sort of played hide and seek behind a Wehrmacht lorry all the way to Alexanderplatz. We all followed the Stadtbahn for a couple of blocks and then he turned up towards Schonhauser Platz and stopped outside that line of shops at the bottom of Dragoner-Strasse. We stopped about fifty metres short of him but the traffic had thinned right out, and when he came out of the shop with his bag of groceries he looked right at us. He got back in his car and moved off, and I told myself I had his number and it would be better if he didn't know he'd been followed. I told the cabbie to
let him go, and was still wondering whether I'd done the right thing when he turned off the street about two hundred metres further up. We gave him a couple of minutes and drove slowly by. His car was parked beside an apartment block - one of those old three-storey ones at the top of the street. There was no sign of him.
'I was just about to tell the cabbie to take me home when I thought - oh my God, what if Eyebrows got the taxi number and tracks down the driver and asks him where he took me. So I got him to drop me at Friedrichstrasse Station, and took the Stadtbahn home. And there I was, basking in my untrackability when two young soldiers came up and loudly asked me for my autograph. The whole carriage watched me get off at Zoo Station.'
Russell smiled, but Effi's story had left him feeling more than a little anxious. He wondered why. She might have been a byword for recklessness in the past, but in this instance she seemed to have acted with commendable caution. Was he underestimating her again?
'Well?' she asked.
'You did brilliantly,' he said.
'I thought so.'
'I could do with a drink,' Russell said.
She poured them both one.
'The girl he approached,' Russell asked. 'Did she look Jewish?'
'She was dark, and she looked sort of lost - haunted even - at first. But you don't see many Jews smiling the way she did when her soldier boy appeared. Not in public anyway.'
'But she looked distressed enough to be Jewish before that,' Russell said dryly.
'Yes.' Effi sat down beside him on the sofa. 'Do you think it's possible he's holding Miriam prisoner in his apartment?'
'If so, he doesn't seem satisfied with just her,' Russell said. Unless, he thought, the man was abducting girls to rape and kill them. Or eat them, like Kuzorra's famous cannibal, whose name he'd already forgotten.
'So what are we going to do?' Effi asked, putting her head on his shoulder.
'I'm damned if I know,' Russell said. 'There's no point in going to the police - it might even be dangerous. We have to find out more about Eyebrows, I suppose. Watch his apartment, see where he goes. Talk to his neighbours, if we can do it without giving ourselves away. Hope he leads us to Miriam.' He found himself yawning and looked at his watch - it was almost two o'clock. 'We can draw up a plan of action over coffee in the park.'
Silesian Station (2008) Page 22
