by David John
‘Aren’t lost causes the ones worth fighting for?’ she said quietly.
They embraced again, her warm cheek resting on his neck, and stood still for a few moments, rocking very gently, when she gave a sharp cry and jumped away, sending Denham’s heart into his mouth.
The shriek echoed off the dark buildings. Her eyes were locked on a point over his shoulder.
‘What?’
‘Goddamn it, he’s there,’ she said, pointing to the darkness beneath the trees.
Denham could see nothing.
Then from out of the shadows the figure in the black trilby came quickly towards them.
‘Who are you?’ Denham shouted in German.
‘Please . . . ,’ said a young man’s voice. ‘Don’t run again.’
He stepped into the light of a streetlamp, took off his hat, and Denham recognised him. The mutilated eye and stitched-up cheek glistened.
‘I want to talk to you . . .’ The young man’s voice was quick and rattled. ‘My name is Roland Liebermann. I’m—’
‘I know who you are,’ said Denham. ‘Relax, son, it’s all right. You gave us a fright, that’s all. How did you find us?’
‘Hannah told me about you while you were in the changing room with that official,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘She asked me to follow you, but I couldn’t risk approaching you in public . . . if they’d seen me talking to you, well . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I found you again as you left the stadium and, lucky for me, you took a taxi. I jumped in one and followed you home. Taxis are safe for me.’
‘Walk with us awhile,’ said Denham.
Roland Liebermann glanced down the still street. A light had come on in a nearby window, and now there was movement behind a curtain.
‘There will be a Portierfrau with a telephone in every building along here,’ he said. ‘It’s too dangerous. I must go. My sister said we could trust you, and, if I found you, to ask if you will come to us—tomorrow.’
‘I’ll come,’ said Denham.
‘We live at Winklerstrasse 80, in Grunewald. Will you remember that?’
‘Winklerstrasse 80.’
‘Gnädiges Fräulein,’ Roland continued, turning to Eleanor but still speaking in German. ‘I’m sorry I scared you. Tomorrow then,’ he said to them both. ‘But please, don’t let anyone see you approach our house.’
Denham extended his hand to Roland. He hesitated, but then shook it firmly, before pulling the brim of his hat down and turning away. They watched him disappear up the street, darting through the shadows under the trees.
‘I understood enough of that to know you’re going to see Liebermann,’ Eleanor said. ‘And this time I’m coming with you. No arguments. What’s the matter?’
Denham was looking down at the hand he’d just shaken with Roland Liebermann.
‘He had no index or middle finger.’
The hallway in Kopischstrasse was in darkness when Denham got home. Inside Frau Stumpf’s apartment a clock chimed twice. Exhausted, he climbed the stairs, intending to fall straight into bed. He opened the door warily but found no sign of another forced entry. On the floor in front of him, though, was a telegram, which Frau Stumpf must have slipped under the door.
It was from Anna, asking him to call immediately.
A bud of anxiety popped into his stomach. He had a cordial friendship with his former wife, but they both knew that Tom was the only reason they kept in touch. Had something happened to him?
He picked up the telephone before his imagination ran riot, got through to the exchange at Charlottenburg, and placed an urgent long-distance call. Within seconds the operator called him back with the connection.
‘Richard?’ Her voice sounded strained. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you since early this morning. There’s been no answer . . .’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Tom . . .’ Anna’s voice wobbled. Behind the hiss and crackle on the line he heard her crying. ‘He’s disappeared.’
Chapter Sixteen
Denham pictured his former wife as he usually did: lying under a quilt, clutching the handset of the bedside telephone. She was prone to tension headaches and retreated to her bed when vexed, her face pallid beneath her dark hair. Denham waited for her to stop crying, and then asked her to explain.
‘You see, on Monday evening I had some important news for Tom. Walter, the friend I’m sure I’ve told you about, has asked me to marry him—yes—and I thought Tom would be pleased. He’s so good to him, Walter is, but anyway I’m afraid Tom took the news rather badly.’
‘Oh.’
‘I asked him to shake hands with Walter in the drawing room, but he was beastly about it, so I told him to apologise and he wouldn’t, so I sent him straight to bed, and—’ She broke off and began crying again. ‘And now he’s gone,’ she wailed.
‘Anna, try to keep calm. Any idea where he’s gone?’
Denham was standing now, wishing he could pace, but the telephone cord wasn’t long enough, so he had to settle for scratching his head.
But as she continued her account, he felt himself relax. The motive for Tom’s little adventure seemed plain enough, and he’d almost certainly come home when his bread and corned beef ran out, his protest made and his tail between his legs. All the same, where could he be hiding this time?
‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,’ Denham said. ‘Remember when he planned a long-haul expedition from the potting shed and you wondered where all the candles and Banbury cakes had gone? Or that time he spent the night in the Prendergast kid’s garage with my army knapsack?’
Anna said nothing, which Denham knew better than to take as a sign of mollification. The line whistled and buzzed. ‘I’ll telephone again tomorrow,’ he said, ‘to see if there’s any news.’
‘You’re not coming over?’
‘Of course, but I’ll be very surprised if the boy isn’t back for breakfast. I’ll call in the morning. There’s a story here I’m investigating—’
‘A story?’ Her tone was sharp and accusing.
‘It’s a very big story, about a Jewish athlete who’s—’
There was a rattle as she hung up.
Denham had blamed himself for the breakup of his marriage, although hearing Anna’s reproachful tone made him doubt that things could have been different. He remembered her face when he told her he was leaving on a long trip to Brazil. Tom was only two, and she was right to be angry. But Germany was the last straw. He’d taken an assignment in Berlin—and when most foreigners began deserting it, had decided to stay. Anna had finally realised that he preferred to be alone and had cast him out. She couldn’t understand him. But he had a sense that Tom did. Tom had a child’s insight into his old man. He understood that his dad had to be by himself and that it wasn’t anyone’s fault.
In the morning he tried calling again but was told by the operator that he’d have to book his call for later. With so many foreigners in Berlin the lines were jammed. He didn’t want to antagonise Anna by failing to make contact, so he popped into the post office on the Bergmannstrasse and sent a telegram asking her to cable him with any news.
At the kiosk outside the station he spotted a five-day-old copy of the Daily Express. He jumped onto the U-Bahn and read the paper’s coverage of the Olympic opening ceremony. Gushing descriptions of Berlin en fête filled the columns, with no mention of the brutalities that had been swept out of sight. But it
was the lead article that dismayed him the most. It was of the view that the British athletes had let the side down by not giving the Hitler salute. ‘It would not have done the British any harm if they had made a gesture to the country housing the Games by following the unexpected example of the French . . .’ He would have to tease Pat Murphy about that.
Eleanor was waiting for him as arranged: next to the flower stall of Berlin Zoo Station. He saw her first and smiled to himself. She wore a light raincoat and a black beret—an attempt, he supposed, at looking incognito—but coupled with her red lipstick, heels, and round sunglasses with white frames, the drab coat and hat only seemed to heighten her glamour.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, and explained about Tom. Eleanor looked concerned.
‘Aren’t you worried?’
‘I’ll take the evening flight from Tempelhof if he doesn’t show up today, but the odds are he’s already come home for his toast and eggs, with dirt behind his ears.’
The morning sun streamed into the station, casting dusty shafts of light onto the tiled floor and long shadows among the scurrying rush-hour commuters. Denham led Eleanor up the steps to the platform. Trains disgorged passengers in a disorderly bustle; the station echoed with announcements. He and Eleanor were the only people embarking, and a minute later their deserted carriage was juddering out of the station and heading southwest to the suburbs.
‘We’re going to a smart address,’ Denham said. ‘Grunewald is the playground of Berlin’s filthy rich.’
‘Well, that figures. He’s head of an international bank, apparently, but discreet, you know? Not like Rothschild with foundations and charities, splashing his money all over town . . .’
‘Who is?’ said Denham.
Eleanor took off her sunglasses and looked at him with exasperated amusement. ‘Don’t you research your victims, Mr Reporter? Jakob Liebermann is who. He’s a multimillionaire, so no wonder he lives in a swell neighbourhood. Over breakfast I asked Ambassador Dodd all about it. Hannah’s dad is some secretive art collector and head of this Jewish private bank with interests all over the place. The US would welcome him with open arms, but he’s been denied an exit visa. Martha says that’s because the Nazis want to strip his wealth from him before they let him out, and there’s nothing the State Department or anyone else can do about it . . .’
The carriage door slid open and the beat of the rails came loudly in.
‘Ihre Fahrkarten bitte.’ They presented their tickets. ‘Danke. Heil Hitler!’
Eleanor inspected her lipstick in her compact mirror. ‘Okay, now it’s your turn. What exactly is the story here?’
‘Hannah’s family has been threatened. She’s being forced to compete.’ Denham turned to watch the city roll past the window. ‘The trouble began when she told them no—to representing Germany in the Olympics, I mean. If it became public that she’d refused the invitation in protest over the Nazis’ hate laws against the Jews, it could have finished these Games. Dozens of wavering nations might have pulled out, with a tremendous blow to German prestige. That could not be allowed to happen. So they had to act quickly, and resorted to the methods they know best.’
‘Roland . . . ?’
Denham shrugged. ‘My guess is that the Gestapo took her brother into “protective custody,” worked him over, and kept some of his fingers as souvenirs. After that Hannah was on the next ship home to Germany.’
‘And they made old Jakob’s exit visa conditional on his daughter’s good behaviour . . . ?’
‘Most likely. And if they ever do let him out, like you say, they’ll denude him first of every penny he’s ever earned. Jews lucky enough to leave can take only a few marks in their pocket. It’s the law.’
After a minute of silence Eleanor said, ‘Jesus Christ.’ She was staring at the trees and chimneys passing but didn’t seem to be seeing anything. ‘They torture people,’ she mumbled. ‘They rob them. . .’ She looked at Richard. ‘But it’s too late to make any difference. The Games are taking place.’
‘There’s more than a week still to go. Plenty of time to get the story out there and ruin the show for them.’
‘Isn’t she taking a big risk seeing you?’
The train began to slow, emitting a great hiss of steam.
‘We’re all taking a big risk.’
Winklerstrasse was in the heart of what seemed like a social housing development for the overprivileged. Huge, polished cobblestones, mature horse chestnuts lining the avenues, and set back from the road, the great houses in their grounds, shuttered against the heat of the day and secluded by pines and magnolia in bloom. A green light filtered through the leaves. The place was in a deep hush, exuding an air of privacy and wealth; the only sounds were of birds calling among gardens.
As they walked Denham kept glancing back to see if they’d picked up a shadow. But he knew it was impossible to be sure. Heydrich, the head of the SD, the Nazi intelligence agency, had turned the whole country into an espionage state. Who was watching? Who was following? That gardener? The elderly couple walking a dog? The woman sitting in the parked car? Millions of willing informers.
They reached the high gates of number 80, fashioned in a design of wrought iron leaves, flowers, and ribbons. On either side two tall stone gateposts held iron carriage lamps in yellow glass.
‘Think we should ring the bell?’ Eleanor said.
Peering through the bars, they saw a gravel driveway that curved out of sight behind rhododendron bushes, over which a fairy-tale turret could be glimpsed.
‘The gate’s open,’ said Denham. It yielded with a deep, ferrous groan, and they entered the grounds. Behind the foliage stood a tall house of glazed yellow bricks, with a pointed roof, arched Gothic windows, and two towers, one cylindrical, the other crenellated like a medieval keep. Beyond the building were mown lawns and a pier giving onto a boating lake.
Eleanor made a low whistle. ‘A castle for a princess.’
On a curve in the driveway was parked a gleaming black Opel, its engine humming. The driver stood on the other side of it, smoking and watching them approach. It was several seconds before they noticed, through the glass of the car windows, the blood-red armband on his uniform.
‘Now what?’ Eleanor muttered as they crunched towards the porch. ‘He’s seen us. We can’t just turn around.’
The front door of the house opened. Raised voices came from inside the hall, and two men emerged onto the steps, one of them saying, ‘You’ll hear from us,’ to whoever was seeing them out.
The first man wore a fedora, a tailored suit, and cotton gloves. He had a white moustache twirled into pins, and a pince-nez, through which he cast them a curious look as he approached the car. Under his arm, Denham noticed, was a copy of Die Kunst im Dritten Reich, the Nazi art periodical. His companion, who’d made the abrupt farewell at the door, swaggered out in polished boots, a brown uniform with a gold-trimmed swastika armband and a collection of decorations glinting on his breast—a golden pheasant in full plumage. He was tall, with a florid face, fat lips, and a head of thick grey hair that clashed oddly with the brown garb.
Denham felt the pheasant’s gaze fall upon him, before moving to Eleanor, whom he looked up and down. Eyes the colour of dishwater.
‘You have business here?’ he asked.
‘We’re calling from the Lutheran Church,’ Denham said, in his best Berliner accent.
‘Niemöller’s lot?’
‘Not us.’
>
The dishwater eyes sharpened for a moment, as if committing their faces to memory. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ he said, getting into the car. ‘They’re Jews.’
‘Ah. Thank you.’
The Opel’s engine moved into gear, and the car sped off over the gravel and out of sight around the curve in the drive.
‘We’re not from the church,’ Denham said to the maid standing by the open door at the top of the steps. ‘We’re friends of Roland and Hannah Liebermann’s.’
‘Who is it now, Lore?’ came a deep voice from inside the hall. Denham gave the maid their names, and they were asked to wait. She returned a moment later and showed them into a large, brightly upholstered sitting room with a ceiling higher than a double-decker bus, where tasselled velvet curtains were half drawn against the bleaching power of sunlight. Denham could see why. Almost every inch of wall was hung with canvases—some small, others the size of billiard tables. Colourful, dynamic, modern works; some were even familiar to him, or rather the artist’s style was familiar. His eyes were drawn to a large, dreamlike piece from the Blue Rider School, above the oversized stone fireplace.
‘Beautiful . . . ,’ Eleanor said.
Dozens of horses galloped towards the viewer, one over the other, moving in a great purple-blue wave.
‘Franz Marc, the artist,’ said a deep voice, ‘was a friend of mine.’
They had not noticed the man standing at a walnut drinks cabinet next to the mantelpiece, pouring himself a glass of cognac, which he knocked back in one gulp. He was about sixty-five, bald, with a trimmed grey beard, a long nose, and pale, weary eyes. A port-wine mark covered part of his left cheek like a thumbprint. His dark suit and waistcoat cut a sombre presence amid such colour.
‘My children told me to expect you,’ he said in English, beckoning for them to sit. There was a strong Yiddish clip to his voice and he spoke ponderously, as though there was nothing left to hurry for. ‘They said you are journalists taking a great risk to see Hannah, and for that you are welcome. In times like these courageous people are few. I am Jakob Liebermann.’
