Lehrter Station

by David Downing

  Russell did. ‘Could you find out his age?’

  ‘Yes, I forgot. He was born in 1914, in Berlin. His documents claimed he was single, but many applicants lied about that. As much to themselves as to us.’

  Russell grunted his agreement. If this was Rosa’s father – and the age seemed about right – then a guilty lie was possible. But the chances of tracking him down seemed almost non-existent – if this Otto wasn’t buried in an unmarked grave somewhere in western Russia, he could be more or less anywhere. If the man ever came back in search of his family, then he might well find them, but as things stood they would never find him. ‘Thanks for that,’ he told Shchepkin. As they got up to leave he remembered his original purpose. ‘So why was Haferkamp killed?’ he asked.

  Shchepkin looked at him for a moment, then managed a wry smile. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Rumour says it was an accident – that some young idiot hit him once too often, and his superiors decided that a suicide was less likely to upset the German comrades. Then again, maybe someone thought they needed upsetting, and had him killed for that reason. I don’t know.’

  ‘So it wasn’t just my report.’

  ‘No,’ Shchepkin said tiredly, as if he found Russell’s concern to apportion personal responsibility more than a little exasperating. ‘Your report didn’t tell them anything new. Not about Haferkamp anyway. Now I must be off. If all goes well, we’ll meet again in a fortnight.’

  He strode off, briefly raising one arm in farewell. ‘If all goes well,’ Russell murmured to himself. He could imagine the riposte on his gravestone: ‘If all had gone well, he wouldn’t be here.’

  But Friday was a long way off, and the Soviets far from his only problem. He had to come up with a plan for dealing with Geruschke, look out for Torsten and the children, and get his story off to Solly. He still hadn’t fixed on an angle for the latter, and talking to Isendahl might jolt his thoughts into some sort of order. He could then find a café to write in, prior to joining Effi at Ali’s.

  He spent the long walk to Friedrichshain marshalling his thoughts, and was pleased to find Isendahl at home. His German friend was eager to hear how Russell had fared with the Haganah, and they ended up talking for over two hours about the options open to Europe’s Jewish survivors, and the seriously mixed blessings that each seemed to offer. Neither man took to the idea of Israel, but both saw the need, and thought it inevitable. So what mattered was what kind of Israel – a racially exclusive state run by soldiers and rabbis, or an heir to European Jewry’s socialist traditions that might, one day, share the land with the Arabs on more or less equal terms. Isendahl of course favoured the latter, but he wasn’t hopeful.

  ‘I was thinking about those options you listed,’ he told Russell. ‘And I asked myself: where would I – a German-Jewish socialist – feel most at home? And guess what answer I came up with? Not a Soviet-run Germany, not a Jewish Palestine, not the United States. It’s almost the ultimate paradox – the place I know I’ll feel most at home is a born-again bourgeois Germany. The same one that took such pleasure in murdering both socialists and Jews.’

  Russell smiled, and found himself thinking of Albert Wiesner. He claimed to be a socialist, but his socialism didn’t stretch to accommodating Arabs within the new state’s borders. And when forced to choose between socialism and Israel, Russell had no doubt which way Albert would jump. The Nazis had given him his politics, and he would pass them on. There was still a price to pay.

  But what was the alternative? Back in 1918 Russell had looked forward to a world in which anti-Semitism and other equally obnoxious prejudices would become increasingly unsustainable, but the Nazis had put paid to that dream, probably for at least another century. The old Jewish life in Germany and eastern Europe was gone for ever, and with it the hopes of a secular assimilation. It was Israel or the States, and Russell was inclined to favour the latter. It seemed better that the Americans profit from Europe’s failings, than that the Arabs pay for them.

  Not that it mattered what he thought. And he would not condemn those, like Albert, who thought differently. Or at least not yet.

  Russell remembered something that Albert had said about the Nokmim, that he didn’t agree with what they were doing, but would probably applaud their successes. He asked Isendahl whether they or the Ghosts of Treblinka had made the news in his absence.

  ‘Only indirectly,’ Wilhelm told him. He rummaged round for a newspaper, and pointed out an article. A man had been found dead in Neukölln, soon after a Jew identified him as an Auschwitz guard.

  ‘Why wasn’t he arrested?’ Russell asked.

  ‘Who knows? The Soviets may have had a use for him.’

  ‘You think it was the Ghosts?’

  ‘They left their mark on him. A Star of David cut into his forearm, where the Nazis used to tattoo their Jewish prisoners.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Russell said drily.

  ‘It is in a way. And dreadful too. Do you know that line by Yeats: “a terrible beauty is born”?’

  ‘Uh-huh. High drama’s addictive stuff, but right now I’d settle for a few years of peace and contrition.’

  ‘Wrong place, wrong time.’

  ‘Probably.’

  Isendahl was improving with age, Russell thought, as he walked back down Neue Königstrasse in search of a café. He’d noticed a letter with US Army postal markings on the man’s desk, so maybe Freya was in touch, or even coming back.

  He eventually found a bar off Alexanderplatz, and spent a couple of hours sketching out a series of articles on ‘The Jews after Hitler’. He reached the corner of Hufelandstrasse just in time to see Effi step down from the Soviet bus, and stopped her in mid stride with a long whistle. She hurried towards him, eager to hear the news from Shchepkin.

  ‘It might have been Rosa’s dad,’ Russell told her, ‘but we’ll probably never know.’ He explained the circumstances of Otto 2’s disappearance.

  Effi made a face. ‘What more can we do?’

  ‘Nothing more,’ Russell told her, ‘at least for the moment. I think we have to assume that Rosa’s an orphan, and act accordingly.’

  She took his arm as they walked back down to Ali’s building. ‘There’s not much else we can do, is there? But she so needs to know, one way or another. She never says so, but I know that she does.’

  And so do you, Russell thought.

  They walked on up to the apartment, where another delicious-smelling meal was in preparation. Neither Ali nor Fritz had ever celebrated Christmas, but both confessed to a childhood fascination with the Christian festival and its rituals, particularly the one which involved taking a tree indoors and smothering it in trinkets. Fritz had been gifted a bottle of wine by a friend in the US forces, and they all drank a toast to the future.

  ‘While I remember,’ Effi said, ‘the photographer I told you about has taken some pictures.’ She took the sheaf from her bag and placed it on the table. ‘If you could show these around. The more people get to see them, the more we’ll identify.’

  Ali leafed her way through them, Fritz looking over her shoulder. ‘The stuff of nightmares,’ he murmured. ‘If you do get them identified, what then?’

  ‘I’ll take the names to someone in the US records office.’ Russell replied. Luders had given him one contact, and there were bound to be others. ‘From there – I don’t know.’ He knew he should talk to Dallin before taking the matter any further, but he didn’t really want to.

  ‘Like mopping up after a battle,’ Fritz murmured.

  Or clearing the decks for the next one, Russell thought sourly. He told himself to cheer the hell up. 1946 was bound to be better.

  The women had gone into the kitchen, and he could see Effi leaning back against the wall, smiling at something. The world might be going even further to the dogs, but she was as wonderful as ever. How lucky was he?

  It was a pre-war sort of evening, with good food and conversation, a wine that wasn’t an insult, an enjoyable game of cards. It was sno
wing again when they left, large flakes floating out of the darkness and clinging to the riven walls. There weren’t many roofs for Santa to land on, but several hopeful chimneys rose out of the empty shells.

  It was, Effi decided, ‘almost like a real Christmas’.

  * * *

  Christmas morning drew them to the Ku’damm, in hope of reprising their own pre-war ritual of coffee, cakes and a stroll in the wintry park. Rather to Russell’s surprise, they did find an open café, its tables set out on the snowy sidewalk, the smell of real coffee strong in the air. The price was black-market steep, but the coffee seemed more than worth it, a suitable present for each to be giving the other. They sat outside and took their time, smiling at passers-by and imagining the boulevard re-built. When a British jeep drove by garlanded in silver tinsel the patrons all clapped, causing the corporal next to the driver to stand up and bow.

  The sound of a tram squealing its way round the truncated Memorial Church reminded Effi of what they had planned. ‘So, Schulstrasse?’ she asked.

  ‘I suppose so. It doesn’t feel very Christmassy.’

  ‘Neither does sitting at home with no heat.’

  ‘True. Well, let’s hope we can get there.’

  They walked down to Zoo Station, where both the Stadtbahn and U-Bahn were running some sort of service. The outdoor option seemed preferable, and not just to them – the high-level platforms were crowded with families, most of whom seemed in high spirits. A lot got off when they did, probably bound for the funfair in the Lustgarten. They walked down to the U-Bahn platform, where a train stood waiting to carry them northward. ‘It’s always like this for royalty,’ Russell noted.

  They reached the Jewish Hospital around one o’clock, and the crowded canteen seemed like a good place to start. With only the one set of photographs, they worked their way from table to table, trying to disarm what suspicions they encountered, as prepared as they could be for signs of anguish.

  Effi’s Gestapo officer was recognised almost straight away, first by one young man, and then by several women. All agreed his surname was Mechnig, and one of the women thought his first name was Ulrich. He had worked at the Columbiahaus ‘wild concentration camp’ before the war, and later at the Alex. He had no particular reputation as a sadist, but then the competition had been fierce.

  An hour or so later, five other faces had been recognised. Russell noted the names on the backs of the photographs, along with the details of witnesses willing to testify.

  Which was good, but less than they’d hoped for, and as they made their way out Effi insisted on interrupting a football kick-about in the ambulance bay. It was the third boy – a wary-eyed lad of around sixteen – who lingered over the picture of Geruschke. It is him,’ he whispered eventually, and Effi thought for a moment that the boy was going to cry. But instead the eyes turned to stone. ‘Standartenführer Fehse,’ he said, and abruptly handed that picture back.

  ‘Are you certain?’ Effi asked, and received a pitying look. ‘Where do you know him from?’

  ‘He was in charge of the detention centre in Leipzig. He sent us to Auschwitz.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My mother, my father, my sisters. They all died.’

  ‘How did you survive?’ Effi asked.

  The boy shrugged. ‘I was a good worker.’

  ‘What can you tell us about Fehse?’

  ‘He was one of the worst. In Leipzig he took bribes to let people go – money, daughters, whatever they had – but later we found out that he’d just moved the girls to another building. They still ended up on the train.’ The boy resumed his perusal of the pictures. ‘And Fehse enjoyed watching beatings,’ he added as an afterthought.

  Two more men were picked out. The first he thought was named Schönhöft, the second he couldn’t remember. Both had been jailers in Leipzig.

  ‘Would you testify against these people?’ Russell asked.

  ‘Not in a German court.’

  ‘An American one?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Russell asked the boy for his name.

  ‘Daniel Eisenberg. But you’d better hurry – I plan to be in Palestine soon. We all do.’

  * * *

  ‘Did you mean it – about going to the Americans with what we’ve found out?’ Effi asked Russell as they walked up Vogelsangstrasse. ‘They’ve already warned us both to leave the man alone. Or are you hoping they don’t know who he really is?’

  ‘I’d be amazed if they didn’t. And to answer your question, I really don’t know. We have to tell someone, and maybe we can find some Americans who do want to listen. But first I think we might pay your Gestapo man a visit. We need more information, and we have his address. If we offer Herr Mechnig some money and a head start, he might tell us more about Geruschke’s – Fehse’s – operation. And particularly about the American that young Horst took the picture of. I’d like to know more about him before I go to Dallin. Or whoever it is we go to.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of letting Mechnig go,’ Effi protested. She could still see the boy on the U-Bahn platform.

  ‘We won’t,’ Russell said. ‘We’ll take a leaf out of Fehse’s book, and promise him something we have no intention of delivering.’

  Effi thought about that. ‘Okay,’ she said eventually. ‘He lives not far from Jens – we could walk over there this evening.’

  ‘And wish him a Happy Christmas,’ Russell added, as he opened Thomas’s front gate.

  In the event, Herr Mechnig had to wait. One of the residents had left a short note by the telephone: ‘Message from Lucie – they’ve arrived.’

  ‘Yes!’ Russell exclaimed, clenching a fist in celebration. He re-read the message just to make sure. The ‘they’ was encouraging, though hardly definitive.

  Effi already had the front door open. It was dark when they reached Kronprinzenallee again, and the buses had vanished with the light. After waiting almost an hour, Russell remembered the lot full of Press Club jeeps on nearby Argentinischeallee. They were used for taking visiting journalists on tours of the Berlin ruins, but such jaunts seemed unlikely on Christmas evening. And surely no one could object to one being used for the odd rescue mission.

  The sergeant in charge was unimpressed by this argument, but proved susceptible to others – Effi’s smile, an extortionate hire price in cigarettes, and Russell’s surrender of his press accreditation as security. The deal done, he insisted on loaning Russell a US Army greatcoat and cap, ‘just in case’.

  Effi wanted to drive, but had to admit that might look suspicious, and once Russell got the hang of the gear-shift they made good progress through the dark and mostly empty streets. After all the frustrations of the last fortnight, moving through Berlin at this sort of speed seemed nothing short of miraculous. There were lights through windows and shell-holes, and the occasional sounds of Christmas revelry in the distance. As they drove past a roofless church in Moabit the bells began to toll, adding their own mournful commentary to the sea of broken homes.

  The area around Lehrter Station was as crowded as the city was empty. Russell pulled the jeep up alongside others bearing the UNRRA initials, and was careful to take the key. Several trains stood in the station, and all seemed recent arrivals – the platforms were swarming with people, most turning this way and that for some notion of where to go. Other, earlier arrivals had given up wondering, and transformed the concourse into a field of small encampments, groups of prone bodies surrounded by suitcase perimeters. In one cordoned-off area stretchers were laid out in rows, some bodies twitching, others worryingly still. The strong smell of human waste hung in the air, and one line of cattle cars was being rinsed out by a chain of bucket carriers.

  The only thing missing was noise. Apart from the tired hiss of engines and the odd cry of alarm, the crowd seemed subdued to the point of submission. They had reached Berlin and the safety of the newly shrunken Fatherland, but at the cost of their homes and most of their possessions. And now their lives had shrunk
to this – a few square metres of concrete under a bomb-mangled roof.

  They found Lucie bandaging a young boy’s leg. ‘They’re in one of the offices,’ she told them. ‘Wait a few seconds and I’ll take you.’

  She tore and knotted the ends, smiled at the child and got to her feet. The child gazed back with empty eyes, then threw both arms around his mother’s neck and tried to hide his face.

  They worked their way along the crowded platform to an office near the end. Opening the door, Russell saw Torsten sitting on the opposite bench, his one arm securing the baby girl on his lap. He looked twenty years older than the young man Russell had met in 1939.

  The girl had fair hair and Torsten’s mouth and nose. The boy beside them had dark hair and the eyes from Miriam’s photograph. He was about five, and looked like he hadn’t slept for a week.

  ‘Herr Russell,’ Torsten said tiredly. It was almost a question.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ Russell asked.

  ‘Of course.’ He took a deep breath, as if trawling for energy. ‘You came to Breslau looking for Miriam.’

  Russell introduced Effi.

  ‘And these must be Leon and Esther,’ she said.

  Torsten looked confused. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I saw Frau Höschle in Breslau,’ Russell told him. ‘She told me you where you’d gone.’

  ‘Why? Why were you looking for me?’

  ‘That’s a long story, and I think you need rest and food first. Effi and I are living in the same house as Miriam’s mother…’

  ‘She’s alive?’ he asked, clearly astonished.

  ‘And her father too, though he’s in hospital. We’d like to take you home to Esther.’

  ‘That’s her name,’ the boy said, pointing at his sister.

  Torsten managed the faintest of smiles. ‘That sounds like heaven.’