Albert climbed out and, without a backward look, headed towards the entrance. There was nothing furtive about his stride – if anything it was too upright. He leapt up the two steps and in through the doorway.
Start driving, Russell told himself, but he didn’t. He sat there watching as the minutes passed. Two men in SA uniform emerged, laughing at something. A man ran in, presumably late for a train. Only seconds later a spasm of chuffs settled into the accelerating rhythm of a departing engine.
He imagined Albert sitting there, and wondered whether he’d tried to buy a coffee. If he had, he might have been refused; if he hadn’t, some power-mad waiter might have tried to move him on. He imagined a challenge, the gun pulled out, the sound of shots and a frantic Albert flying out through the doorway. Russell wondered what would he do. Pick him up? Race out of Görlitz with the police in hot pursuit? What else could he do? His mouth seemed suddenly dry.
And then Albert did come out. There was another man with him, a shortish man in his forties with greying hair and a very red nose, who shifted his head from side to side like an animal sniffing for danger. The two of them walked across to the small open lorry with a timber load which Russell had already noticed, and swung themselves up into their respective cab seats. The engine burst into life and the lorry set off down the street, leaving a bright tail of exhaust hanging in the cold evening air.
Left luggage
After leaving Görlitz, Russell took the next available chance to telephone Effi. A brass band was practising in the first bar he tried, but with receiver and hand clamped tight against his ears he could just about hear the relief in her voice. ‘I’ll be waiting,’ she said.
He chose the autobahn north from Kottbus, hoping to speed the journey, but an overturned vehicle in a military convoy had the opposite effect. By the time he reached Friedrichshain it was almost nine o’clock. Frau Wiesner could hardly have opened the door any faster if she’d been waiting with her hand on the knob.
‘He was collected,’ Russell said, and her lips formed a defiant little smile.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ she said, eyes shining. ‘I must just tell the girls.’
Russell did as he was told, noticing the bags of clothing piled against one wall. To be given away, he supposed – there was no way they would be allowed to take that much with them. He wondered if the Wiesners had any more valuables to take out, or whether the bulk of the family assets had been concealed behind the stickers in Achievements of the Third Reich. It occurred to him that Germany’s Jews had several years’ experience in the art of slipping things across the German border.
‘And my visa has arrived,’ Frau Wiesner said, coming back into the room. ‘By special courier from the British Embassy this afternoon. You must have some influential friends.’
‘I think you do,’ Russell told her. ‘I’m sure Doug Conway had a hand in it,’ he explained, somewhat untruthfully. There seemed no reason for her to know about his deals with Irina Borskaya and Trelawney-Smythe. ‘But there is something you might be able to do for me,’ he added, and told her what he wanted. She said she would ask around.
He left her with a promise of driving over the moment Albert phoned, and a plea not to worry if the wait lasted more than a day. If they still hadn’t heard anything by Thursday he knew she’d be reluctant to leave, even though they both knew that in this context no news was almost certain to be bad news.
On the other side of the city, Effi welcomed him with an intense embrace, and insisted on hearing every detail. Later, as they were going to bed, Russell noticed a new film script on the dressing table and asked her about it. It was a comedy, she told him. ‘Twenty three lines, four come-on smiles, and no jokes. The men got those.’ But at least it was pointless, a quality which Mother had taught her to admire.
Next morning, Russell left her propped up in bed happily declaiming her lines to an empty room, and drove home to Neuenburgerstrasse. There was no sign of Frau Heidegger, and no messages on the board, from either Albert or the Gestapo. He went up to his room and read the newspaper, his door propped open in case the phone rang. The paper revealed that Jews had been forbidden to use either sleeping or restaurant cars on the Reichsbahn, on the grounds, no doubt, that they would appreciate their hunger more if they were kept awake.
He heard Frau Heidegger come in, and the clink of bottles as she set them beside her door. It was Tuesday, Russell realised – skat night. With Effi not working, and his own weekends given over to espionage, he was beginning to lose track of the days. He went down to warn her about his expected call, and paid the price in coffee.
Back upstairs, the hours ticked by with agonising slowness, and the only calls were for Dagmar, the plump little waitress from Pomerania who had taken McKinley’s room. She, not unusually, was out. According to Frau Heidegger she sometimes came in at three in the morning with beer on her breath.
Russell nipped out to buy some eggs while Frau Heidegger kept guard, and cooked himself an omelette for dinner. Most of the other tenants returned home from work, and the concierges arrived, one by one, bottles in hand, to play skat. The waves of merriment reached higher up the stairs as the evening went on, but the telephone refused to ring, and Russell felt his anxiety grow. Where was Albert? Sitting in some border lock-up waiting to be picked by the Gestapo? Or lying dead in some frozen mountain meadow? If so, he hoped the boy had managed to take some of the bastards with him.
The skat party broke up soon after ten-thirty, and once the other concierges had passed noisily into the street Frau Heidegger took the phone off the hook. Russell went to bed and started reading the John Kling novel which Paul had leant him. Next thing he knew, it was morning. He walked briskly down to Hallesches Tor for a paper, skipping through it on the way back for news of spies or criminals apprehended on the border. As he replaced the phone a red-eyed Frau Heidegger emerged with an invitation to coffee, and they both listened to the morning news on her People’s Radio. The Führer had recovered from the slight illness which had caused the cancellation of several school visits on the previous day, but no young Jews named Albert had been picked up trying to cross into Czechoslovakia.
The morning passed at a snail’s pace, bringing two more calls for Dagmar and one from Effi, wanting to know what was happening. Russell had no sooner put the phone down on her than it rung again. ‘Forgot something?’ he asked, but it was Albert’s voice, indistinct but unmistakably triumphant, which came over the line. ‘I’m in Prague,’ it said, as if the Czech capital was as close to heaven as its owner had ever been.
‘Thank God,’ Russell shouted back. ‘What took you so long?’
‘We only came across last night. You’ll tell my mother?’
‘I’m on my way. And they’ll be on the train tomorrow.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. And good luck.’
Russell hung up the phone and stood beside it, blissfully conscious of the relief spreading out through his limbs. One down, three to go. He called Effi back with the good news and then set off for the Wiesners.
Frau Wiesner looked as if she hadn’t slept since he left her on Monday, and when Russell told her Albert was in Prague she burst into tears. The two girls rushed to embrace her and started crying too.
After a minute or so she wiped her eyes and embraced Russell. ‘A last coffee in Berlin,’ she said, and sent the two girls out to buy cakes at a small shop on a nearby street which still sold to Jews. Once they were out of the door, she told Russell she had one last favour to ask. Disappearing into the other room, she re-emerged with a large framed photograph of her husband and a small suitcase. ‘Would you keep this for me?’ she asked, handing him the photograph. ‘It is the best one I have, and I’m afraid they will take it away from me at the border. Next time you come to England…’
‘Of course. Where is he, your husband? Did they bury him at Sachsenhausen?’
‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘I did not tell you this, but on Monday, after the vi
sa came, I gathered my courage, and I went to the Gestapo building on Prinz Albrechtstrasse. I asked if his body could be returned to me, or if they could just tell me where he is buried. A man was called for, and he came down to see me. He said that my son could claim my husband’s body, but I could not. He said that was the legal position, but I knew he was lying. They were using my husband’s body as bait to catch my son.’
Sometimes the Nazis could still take your breath away.
‘And this,’ she continued, picking up the suitcase, ‘is what you asked for on Monday.’ She put it on the table, clicked it open, and clicked again, revealing the false bottom. ‘Before the Nazis, the man who made this was a famous leather craftsman in Wilmersdorf, and he has made over a hundred of these since coming to Friedrichshain.’
‘And none have been detected?’
‘He doesn’t know. Once Jews have left they don’t come back. A few have written to say that everything went well, but if it hadn’t…’
‘They would be in no position to write.’
‘Exactly.’
Russell sighed. ‘Well, thank you anyway,’ he said, just as the girls came back with a box of assorted cream cakes. They insisted on Russell having the first pick, then sat round the table happily licking the excess cream from their lips. When he suggested driving them to the station the next day, he could see how relieved Frau Wiesner was, and cursed himself for not putting her mind at rest sooner. How else could they have got there? Jews were not allowed to drive, and most cab-drivers wouldn’t carry them. Which left public transport, and a fair likelihood of public abuse from their fellow passengers. Not the nicest way to say goodbye.
The train, she said, was at eleven, so he was back the next morning at nine-thirty. The girls squeezed into the back with their small bags, Frau Wiesner in the front with a suitcase on her lap, and as they drove down Neue Konigstrasse towards the city centre Russell watched the three of them craning their necks and filling their memories with the sights of their disappearing home.
Effi was waiting at the Zoo Station entrance, and all five of them walked up to the westbound express platform. A pale sun was shining, and they stood in a little knot waiting for the train to arrive.
‘You didn’t tell me Albert was going to Palestine,’ Russell said to Eva Wiesner.
‘I should have,’ she admitted. ‘Distrust becomes a habit, I’m afraid.’
‘And you?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. The girls prefer England. The clothes are better. And the movie stars.’
‘You come see us in England?’ Marthe asked him in English.
‘I certainly will.’
‘And you as well,’ Marthe told Effi in German.
‘I’d love to.’
The Hook of Holland train steamed in, hissing and squealing its way to a stop on the crowded platform. Russell carried Eva Wiesner’s suitcase onto the train, and found their assigned seats. Much to his relief, there were no Stars of David scrawled on the girls’ seatbacks. Once the three of them were settled he went in search of the car attendant, and found him in the vestibule. ‘Look after those three,’ he said, pointing them out and wedging a five hundred Reichsmark note in the man’s outside pocket.
The attendant looked at the Wiesners again, probably to reassure himself that they weren’t Jews. Fortunately, Eva Wiesner looked as aryan as anyone on the train.
Russell rejoined Effi on the platform. The signals were off, the train almost ready to go. A piercing shriek from the locomotive’s whistle brought an answering scream from an animal in the adjoining Zoo, and the train jerked into motion. The girls waved, Eva Wiesner smiled, and they were gone. Russell and Effi stood arm in arm, watching the long train as it rumbled across the iron bridge and leant into the long curve beyond. Remember this moment, Russell told himself. This was what it was for.
After a quick lunch with Effi in the Uhlandeck Café he set off for Kiel. The Berlin-Hamburg autobahn was still under construction, which left him with the old road through Schwerin and Lübeck, around 350 kilometres of two-lane highway across the gently undulating landscape of the North German plain. After three hours of this he began to wonder whether the train would have been better. The car had seemed a safer bet, but only, he realised, because he had fallen for the juvenile notion that it made escape seem more feasible. In reality, he had about as much chance of outrunning the Gestapo in the Hanomag as an aryan sprinter had of outrunning Jesse Owens.
He arrived in Kiel soon after dark, stopped at the railway station to buy a town guide at one of the kiosks, and studied it over a beer in the station buffet. Kiel itself stretched north along the western shore of a widening bay which eventually opened into the Baltic. Gaarden was on the other side of the bay, accessible by steam ferry or a tram ride around its southern end.
Russell decided on a hotel near the station – nothing too posh, nothing too seedy, and full of single businessmen leading relatively innocent lives. The Europaischer Hof, on the road which ran alongside the station, met the first two requirements, and on a busy day might have met the third. As it was, several lines of hopeful keys suggested the hotel was half empty, and when Russell asked for a room the receptionist seemed almost bemused by the scope for choice. They settled on a second floor room at the front, which looked out across the glass roof of the station, and the seagull colony which had been founded on it.
The hotel restaurant showed no signs of opening, so Russell walked north down the impressive Holstenstrasse and found an establishment with a decent selection of seafood. After eating he walked east in the general direction of the harbour, and found himself at the embarkation point for the Gaarden ferry. The ferry itself had left a few seconds earlier and was churning across the dark waters towards the line of lights on the far side, some half a kilometre away. Looking left, up the rapidly widening bay, Russell saw what looked like a large warship anchored in midstream.
He stood there for several minutes enjoying the view, until the icy wind became too much for his coat to cope with. Back at the hotel he had a nightcap in an otherwise deserted bar, went to bed, and fell asleep with surprising ease.
He woke early, though, and found that the Europaischer Hof considered breakfast an unnecessary luxury. There were, however, plenty of workingmen’s cafés selling hot rolls and coffee around the station. By eight he was driving through the town centre, heading for the northern suburb of Wik, where the main harbour for merchant ships was situated. He had already finished his article on German sailors, but the Gestapo weren’t to know that, and he needed an honest reason for being in Kiel. Over the next couple of hours he talked to sailors in the cafés on the Wik waterfront, before moving on to the eastern end of the Kiel Canal, which lay just beyond. There he watched a Swedish freighter pass through the double locks which protected the canal from tidal changes, chatting all the while with an old man who used to work there, and who still came to watch. Driving back along the western shore of the haven Russell got a better view of the warship he’d seen the night before. It was the recently commissioned Scharnhorst, and its guns were lowered towards the deck, as if apologising for their existence. Two U-boats were tied up alongside.
He wasn’t hungry but had lunch anyway, along with a couple of beers to calm his nerves, before following the tracks of the Wellingdorf tram through Gaarden. The Germania Bar wasn’t hard to spot – as Gert had said, it was almost opposite the main gate of the Deutsch Werke shipyard – and there was no shortage of places to leave the car. The bar itself was on the ground floor of a four-storey building, and seemed remarkably quiet for a lunch hour. He drove another few hundred metres towards Wellingdorf before turning and retracing the route back to Kiel.
With Paul’s birthday in mind, he spent the rest of the afternoon looking round the shops in the town centre. The two toy emporiums he found were uninspiring, and he’d almost given up when he came across a small nautical shop in one of the narrower side streets. Pride of place in the window display had been given to a model of t
he Preussen which, as Paul had once told him, was the only sailing ship ever built with square sails on five masts. The price made him wince, but the model, on closer inspection, looked even better than it had in the window. Paul would love it.
Russell carefully carried the glass case back to the car, did his best to immobilise it in the back, and covered it with the small rug he’d bought for Effi’s use on Rugen Island. He checked his watch – another five hours until his appointment at the Germania Bar – and went back to the Europaischer Hof, hoping to wile the time away with a nap. Despite the unexpected bonus of a hot bath, he found sleep impossible, and just lay on the bed watching the room grow darker. Around five o’clock he turned on the lights and expanded the notes he’d made that morning.
At seven he walked across to the station for something to eat and another beer, eschewing a second with some difficulty. The concourse was full of boisterous sailors in Scharnhorst caps, presumably going on leave.
Back at the hotel, he collected his suitcase, handed in his key, and walked out to the Hanomag. As he headed for Gaarden the road seemed empty, but Gaarden itself was getting ready for Friday night, the open doorways of numerous bars and restaurants spilling light across the cobbled streets and tramlines. There were a lot of sailors in evidence, a lot of women awaiting their pleasure, but no sign of the police.
He parked up against the shipyard wall and sat for a minute, examining the Germania Bar. Conversation and laughter drifted out through the open door, along with a smell of fried onions. Light edged the closed curtains in all but one of the upstairs windows; in the darkened exception a man could be seen leaning out, a cigarette bobbing between his lips. It was a brothel, Russell realised. And it was three minutes to eight.
He could feel his heart beating as he climbed out of the Hanomag, checked it was locked, and waited for a tram to pass before crossing the road. The bar was bigger inside than the outside suggested, with two walls of booths, a few tables and a small area for dancing should anyone feel the need. It was plusher than he’d expected, and cleaner. The booths were bound in leather, the bar itself highly polished. There were several young sailors to be seen, but most of the men, like Russell, were either entering or enjoying middle age inside their respectable overcoats. He took his off, seated himself in one of the two remaining empty booths, and laid Martin Chuzzlewit face up on the table.
Zoo Station Page 27
