Flight from Berlin

by David John

  Once they’d been served martinis they gathered along the window. The ocean had calmed, and its dark surface sparkled with gold. A cargo ship whose wake they’d followed for miles sounded its horn and its crew waved from the deck as the leviathan droned overhead.

  Jakob was in good spirits. Probably never in his life had he been beholden to the mercies of strangers, Eleanor thought, as he raised his glass.

  They raised theirs in return.

  The old man was about to speak. But then his smile wavered and began to fade, first in his eyes, and then around his jowls and lips.

  He was staring into the gathering of passengers.

  ‘What’s the matter Jaku, dear?’ said Ilse.

  They turned to look at what Jakob was seeing. Several knots of people chatting with drinks. But among them were two men together, in black tie, glaring at them. One with a white moustache twisted into two pins, a pince-nez, and hair swept back like a professor’s; the other tall and potbellied, with fleshy lips and a mane of thick, grey hair. He wore a Party pin in his lapel. His eyes landed on Eleanor: they were the grey-beige colour of dishwater. And that’s when she recognised him.

  ‘Father,’ Hannah said, ‘aren’t those the men . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jakob.

  ‘The men who were leaving the morning we visited your home . . . ,’ said Eleanor. ‘The ones who took your art collection.’

  The tall man turned away from them, a look of repugnance on his face, as though he’d dressed for a society wedding only to find that the street drinkers had been invited. He leaned down to whisper to his colleague. Then they both turned and walked quickly out of the promenade deck.

  ‘They’re probably going to complain to Pruss,’ said Jakob. ‘Ah well. I take comfort from knowing that I’ve spoilt their dinner as much as they’ve spoilt mine.’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘If our collection turns up for sale in New York they know I can kick up a stink . . . which raises an intriguing possibility . . .’

  Jakob met his wife’s eyes, and they seemed to be reading each other’s minds.

  The hors d’oeuvre was an Indian swallow nest soup served with a superb Piesporter ’34. When the sun fell behind the horizon trailing ragged scraps of glory, the dining room’s lights came on.

  Lehmann approached their table and leaned over to whisper into Jakob’s ear. He left without greeting the others.

  ‘Our friend tells me those men are in the radio room talking to Berlin . . .’

  Denham said, ‘We should move the dossier from the cabin and hide it elsewhere in the ship.’

  After coffee, Denham and Jakob went down to the smoking room on B deck, which was deserted but for the barman.

  Jakob ordered two glasses of Delamain cognac and two cigars.

  ‘San Cristobal de la Habana,’ Denham said with appreciation, running his nose along the leaf.

  The old man leaned back, and for a few minutes they savoured the taste of the cigars, at peace with the world. The hum of the engines was quieter in this aft section of the ship.

  The door from the pressurised air lock into the smoking room opened with a sharp suck, and the art dealer and his Nazi colleague entered. Without waiting for an invitation they seated themselves opposite Denham and Jakob. The barman came to attend to them, but the tall man with the dishwater eyes waved him away.

  ‘We want to talk,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I thought you might,’ Jakob said. ‘Two more, please, barman.’

  ‘We don’t want a drink.’

  ‘They’re not for you,’ Jakob said with a chuckle.

  ‘And you can show some courtesy here,’ Denham said. ‘You’re not in a Bierkeller now.’

  The man turned to Denham for the first time, and exposed a set of khaki-coloured teeth.

  ‘Your face is familiar,’ he said.

  ‘My name’s Denham, I’m a reporter. Who are you?’

  The man pulled an impatient face. ‘I am Lothar Koch,’ he said with emphasis. ‘I am the Director of the Reich Chamber of the Visual Arts.’

  ‘Permit me . . . ,’ said the other man, the art dealer with the twirled white moustache, in a manner more civil than his colleague’s. He was offering his card. Denham remembered seeing it on the table that morning they visited the Liebermanns.

  ‘Ah yes. “Gallerie Haberstock—German Dealership.”’

  ‘I am Karl Haberstock . . . ,’ he said, ‘and our business is with Herr Liebermann.’ He gave a small, sour smile. His sagging cheeks drew up to the corners of his mouth like old theatre curtains.

  ‘I know the collection is on board,’ Jakob said. ‘And I have to tell you that I’m claiming it back in New York.’

  ‘That might be difficult,’ said Haberstock without blinking. ‘There’s the matter of the assignment of title to us, which you willingly entered into.’

  Jakob said, ‘The assignment is a contract I was compelled to make with the National Socialist government. I’m certain any New York district judge would consider it void.’

  Koch uncrossed his legs suddenly so that his potbelly rolled over his belt. ‘Listen to me, you kike, you can have your hideous collection—’

  ‘Ah, what Reichsleiter Koch wishes to say, Herr Liebermann,’ said Haberstock placing his hand on Koch’s shoulder, ‘is that there may be an arrangement we could make that would resolve the situation to everyone’s satisfaction.’

  ‘Really,’ said Jakob.

  Denham folded his arms. Here it comes.

  ‘You have in your possession something which is of no value outside Germany. We’ve been authorised by Berlin to offer you a simple swap . . . If you give it to us, your art collection will be restored to you forthwith without the inconvenience of lawyers and proceedings. I hope you’ll agree that’s a fair offer.’

  Jakob knocked back his second glass of cognac and stood up. ‘Gentlemen. Thank you for your proposal. I assure you I’ll give it my fullest consideration.’

  ‘We need an answer right now,’ said Koch.

  ‘I’m not given to making snap decisions in business. You may have my answer over breakfast. Good night,’ he said, smiling at them both, and left the smoking room.

  Koch’s neck and face began to blotch with shades of mushroom and puce.

  ‘I’m curious,’ Denham said to them. ‘Did Berlin tell you anything of the nature of this item we have in our possession? I mean, its content . . . ?’

  Hannah explained again to Captain Lehmann why they didn’t trust those two men. She told him she believed they would use force to recover some valuables from her, which they insisted should have remained in Germany.

  ‘Do you mean they’ll break into your cabin?’ Lehmann said, taken aback.

  ‘If they’ve got orders from Berlin, yes,’ said Eleanor.

  He nodded, his lips pursed.

  ‘Does it need to be hidden now?’ he asked. He looked weary after a long day on the bridge.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Hannah, gently taking his elbow, ‘would you mind very much?’

  The captain blushed slightly.

  ‘Very well,’ he said to them. ‘I know the perfect place. But you’ll need warm coats.’

  The air was biting cold in the long keel corridor that led to the cargo area.

  Lehmann glanced only once at the strange package under Eleanor’s arm. She’d wrapped the filthy old dossier in sheets of tissue paper and tied the whole thing up with the only practical item to hand: a pink ribbon.

  ‘Poor Captain Lehmann,’ she said to Hannah in a low voice. ‘He’ll probably think these two crazy dames fear for the safety of their shopping . . .’

  They reached a ladder at the foot of an air duct and began climbing.

  ‘This leads to the central axis corridor,’ he called down, ‘the spine that runs all the way from fins to nose.’ An occasional electric lig
ht, but otherwise the arduous ascent was in near darkness, with the temperature falling.

  ‘I can see my breath,’ Hannah said.

  ‘The southern tip of Greenland is down there,’ Lehmann shouted. His voice was indistinct, like a voice calling in a rock cavern.

  Bracing wires creaked with the drone and movement of the ship, giving a sense of its surrounding vastness. Eventually they came to the horizontal axial corridor Lehmann had mentioned, and they followed him along it towards the stern.

  Eleanor stopped and looked in amazement along the corridor’s length. Lit by widely spaced electric lights it seemed to reach into infinity, with far-distant stars twinkling on the aluminium struts.

  On either side of them the towering gas cells vibrated. Eleanor put her hand on the trembling sac and felt a prickle of apprehension. She was surrounded by acres of hydrogen, in every direction. If there were some accident while she was standing here . . . She put the thought out of her head. Miss Mather’s nerves had spooked her.

  ‘Do they ever leak?’ she asked.

  ‘If they did, your nose would tell you,’ Lehmann said. ‘The gas is odorised with garlic to give it a distinct smell.’

  A rigger coming from the fins passed them in the corridor, giving Lehmann a nod. It was Ralf, wearing a head-to-toe asbestos suit. An inhabitant of the hidden city.

  Eventually Lehmann stopped at a small utility platform at the cross section with another vertical air duct. They were almost in the stern of the ship, near the great fins. The platform was surrounded by a rail, with gas cells to the left and right. Next to a stool for the duty rigger, a large metal chest was screwed to the floor. He opened it. Inside were yards of folded canvas covered in a silver doping agent.

  ‘This is spare sheathing. If we get a rip the sailmaker has to venture out and patch it,’ he said. ‘I promise you no one at all will look in here before we land. Those men whose faces you don’t like will never know . . .’

  They lifted up several folds of the canvas and tucked the package with the dossier into one of them, then replaced the folds and closed the lid tight.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Passengers gathering for breakfast on the second day, some in their dressing gowns and pyjamas, were let down again by the weather. The ship had entered a bank of white fog off the Labrador Coast, and the view from the promenade windows was a swirling fug of cloud and vapour.

  Denham had lain awake much of the night, thinking of Rex.

  Why had he done it? Out of resentment? Maybe. It was the only explanation that made sense. Resentment towards an English establishment that had never much liked him or valued him, the bright, upstart grammar-school boy gnawed by a sense of his own inferiority.

  He’d finally fallen asleep, telling himself he’d awake with a clear head and surer of everything, but the morning’s fog seemed an ill omen.

  With America so close, Jakob, Ilse, and Hannah were in a buoyant mood at breakfast, though Denham took only coffee. The old man picked the shell off his hard-boiled egg with his fingertips, his movements neat and fastidious, humming to himself, as if his mind was settled and he was not going to let anything trouble him.

  ‘Here come Dr Frankenstein and Igor,’ said Eleanor, her mouth full of bread roll and jam. Haberstock and Koch were approaching, walking in single file among the tables.

  Koch’s eyes were puffy with grey pouches, Denham noticed, and the fat lips were chapped.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Jakob.

  Haberstock gave a small bow.

  ‘Could we talk somewhere?’ he asked.

  ‘We can talk here,’ said Jakob, without looking at them. Haberstock glanced uneasily at the eager audience around the table.

  ‘Berlin awaits your answer, Herr Liebermann. I trust you’ve considered the benefits of our offer.’ His tone was just a shade short of civil. ‘Do we have an agreement?’

  Jakob did not invite the men to sit but buttered another piece of toast, taking his time as the art dealer stood waiting, and his colleague huffed, growing red in the face. Eventually Jakob said, ‘I fear my answer’s no, gentlemen. I hold the List Dossier legitimately, on trust for others, and I’ve no intention of disposing of it, whether by sale or exchange. The art collection, in any event, is not yours to bargain with.’

  Haberstock’s lips quivered, as if he’d bitten on a piece of glass.

  ‘Kikes,’ muttered Koch in a thick voice. He’d clearly been drinking already.

  ‘Herr Liebermann, please be reasonable,’ said Haberstock. ‘That surely isn’t your last word on the matter?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is.’

  ‘In that case’—he cleared his throat—‘I am authorised by Berlin to offer you the sum of fifty thousand reichsmarks for the dossier.’

  Friedl gave a low whistle.

  ‘Good day, gentlemen,’ said Jakob.

  Throughout this exchange Jakob had not looked at the two men even once. Denham was struck by how neither he nor his wife and daughter even flinched at Koch’s abuse. It wasn’t that they were used to such a thing, he thought—who could be?—but that they were better people, and they knew it.

  At around midday the city of Boston appeared through a gap in the fog. Not long after that the ghostly whiteness vanished altogether, and the Hindenburg glided down Long Island Sound in fine weather, with the passengers standing along the promenade windows, chatting loudly in English or German, pointing out people, landscape features, and buildings, and returning the universal waved greeting.

  At 3:30 p.m. lower Manhattan came into sight, its towers glowing in a brief interval of afternoon sun. But beyond the tall buildings the clouds were black and anvil shaped; a thunderstorm was approaching the city from the southwest, and far up the Hudson River the horizon flashed with lightning. Denham slipped his arm around Eleanor, who had said little since they’d passed Newfoundland. She seemed preoccupied, unmoved by the skyscrapers, the welcoming flotillas, or the Statue of Liberty pointing up at them, as small as a jade figurine.

  ‘When I left New York I said I’d return in shame or glory,’ she said, looking straight ahead.

  ‘And which is it?’

  She shrugged. ‘I left as a girl; I’ve returned as a woman.’

  The ship slowed as it sailed over the shadowed chasms and high formations of Fifth Avenue, bristling with spires, gables, and masts. Over the Empire State Building they flew low enough to see the faces of the tourists taking photographs on the observation deck, of parents holding up small children.

  An hour later, when they were over the flat scrub oaks and pinewoods of New Jersey, the passengers began returning to their cabins to pack. Denham stayed to watch the approach to landing and noticed the ragged, fast-moving clouds. He opened the window and put his head out. A fine drizzle brushed his face, and there was a sultry, electrical smell in the air.

  ‘Look,’ said Eleanor.

  Haberstock was approaching Jakob, who listened to him with obvious impatience, then shook his head.

  ‘The man’s trying one more time,’ said Denham.

  ‘We need to get the dossier,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘We won’t be landing anytime soon.’

  A red warning light was flashing on the hangar of the Naval Air Station, a huge building rising from the sandy soil of Lakehurst. Tiny figures of spectators and reporters held on to their hats, their coats whipped by the wind, but the field itself was deserted. The mooring mast on rails—like a miniature Eiffel Tower—was unmanned.

  ‘The ground crew isn’t there yet. It’s too dangerous to attempt a mooring in weather like this . . .’

  ‘What was that?’ Eleanor shouted. She turned to Denham. ‘Did you see that?’

  What seemed like a dim blue flame had darted along the length of the promenade sill, flickering over the metal fittings of the windows before it vanished. There it was again, to shrieks
of surprise from other passengers.

  ‘I saw it,’ said Denham. ‘It was like a will-o’-the-wisp.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, don’t be alarmed,’ said Lehmann calling from the stern end of the promenade. ‘That was a display of the gas known as St Elmo’s fire, caused by a buildup of static electricity during a storm. Quite harmless. There is, as you’ve seen, too much electricity in the air at the moment. Captain Pruss is going to turn the ship away and wait for the storm front to pass. I’m afraid this will result in a further delay . . .’

  Slowly the hangar moved out of view below as the ship tilted and turned southeastwards and away from Lakehurst.

  Jakob and Hannah came over to them. ‘Haberstock is now offering me a hundred thousand reichsmarks for the dossier,’ said Jakob. ‘I could acquire a Vermeer for that.’

  Denham laughed. ‘If he goes any higher, I’ll say yes on your behalf . . .’

  ‘I am starting to feel sorry for him. He seemed distinctly nervous when I turned him down this time.’

  The ship looped away from Lakehurst, over the Toms River and along the deserted yellow beaches of New Jersey, where seaside houses were still boarded up from winter, their pastel colours faded and peeled. From behind the clouds, sharp rays made fields of sunlight on the dark sea.

  Half an hour passed as they watched the ocean; then the ship turned again and began to head back.

  ‘We’ve had the clearance,’ Lehmann announced. ‘The weather’s calmer. Herr Denham, would you like to view the landing from the bridge?’

  Eleanor followed Hannah along the keel corridor into the draughty hull of the ship, buzzing with engine noise, and when they reached the ladder at the foot of the air duct, they climbed, retracing their steps from the night before. This time, however, there were dozens of crew running between stern and prow as the ship prepared to land. One of them asked if they knew where they were going. Eleanor flashed him her best smile, explaining that they had the purser’s permission, and would only be five minutes. When they reached the metal chest at the intersection with the axial corridor they heard a series of deep blasts from a klaxon.