Realising he wasn’t that far from the Redlich address, he decided to get it over with.
Paul had run into fourteen year-old Werner Redlich and his Hitlerjugend unit during the final days of the war. Having already lost his father in the North African campaign, the boy fretted about his mother and sister back in Berlin. When a decent Wehrmacht officer discovered how young he was, and suggested that he return home, Werner had offered only token resistance. And then the boy had walked into an SS patrol, which promptly hanged him as a deserter.
Paul had written it all down. He had thought of saying that Werner had died in battle, thereby saving mother and daughter anguish, but if by some chance the body had been returned to them, then the rope burn on the throat would have undermined everything else he said. And he wanted them to know how brave their son and brother had been, and how much the boy had cared for them.
But as Russell now discovered, it was all beside the point. The address was no longer there.
He found a neighbour who had known the family. According to her, Frau Redlich and her daughter had been buried in their basement when a bomb collapsed their building. The son, she added, had not come home.
‘He was killed,’ Russell told her.
‘Maybe a blessing,’ the woman murmured.
No, Russell thought as he walked away. A family wiped out could never be that.
Back at the house on Vogelsangstrasse, he found the kitchen occupied by the Fermaiers and Niebels. The old couple were busy preparing a meagre-looking dinner, and Frau Fermaier gave Russell what felt like a warning look, as if she feared his asking to share. Frau Niebel and her daughter were sitting at the table, their rations neatly piled in front of them, waiting their turn at the stove. The mother wished Russell a curt good evening before turning her face away, and the daughter gave him a blank look, as if she’d never seen him before.
The rest of the house seemed empty. He took up residence in Thomas’s study, and thought about a stroll to the Press Club for beer and conversation. He was writing a note to leave behind when Thomas came in through the door with — miracle of miracles — three bottles of beer in his briefcase.
‘A gift from a Russian major,’ his friend announced proudly. He opened two of the bottles with his Swiss Army knife.
‘A successful day then,’ Russell suggested.
‘You could say that. The Soviets have given me a huge job, printing the new schoolbooks for Berlin’s lucky children. According to my major the German comrades in Moscow have been hammering out the texts since Stalingrad, and the approved versions have finally arrived.’
Russell was interested. ‘What are they like?’
‘Oh, what you’d expect. The world through Stalin’s eyes. I haven’t had time to look them over properly, but the history books are a hoot. Guess how they deal with the Nazi-Soviet Pact?’
‘A regrettable necessity?’
‘You’re joking.’
‘You’re right — I wasn’t thinking. They don’t do regrets, do they?’
‘They don’t. And the Pact, it turns out, was a figment of our imagination. It’s not even mentioned. The Germans didn’t attack the Soviets in 1939 because the Soviets — all thanks to Comrade Stalin — were much too strong.’
‘And 1941?’
‘Hitler was desperate, Stalin was ready, but the Generals let him down.’
‘Amazing.’
‘And deeply depressing. The Nazis feed our children with one set of lies for twelve years, and now the Soviets come along with another set.’
‘Wait for the American text books.’
‘Oh, don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’ Effi said, coming in through the door. She gave them both a kiss and sat down. She looked tired out, Russell thought, but her eyes lit up when Thomas offered her a bottle of beer.
Russell explained about the text books.
‘Don’t talk to me about Americans,’ she said. She reached in her bag for the sheaf of papers. ‘This is what they’re calling a Fragebogen. And I have to fill the whole thing in before they’ll even consider letting me work.’ She passed it across to Russell, who slowly thumbed through the pages. ‘“Question 21”,’ he read out loud. ‘“Have you ever severed your connection with any church, officially or unofficially? 22: if so, give particulars and reasons.”’ He looked up. ‘Why on earth would they need to know that?’ He read on. ‘There’s a long list of organisations here, everything from the Nazi Party to the German Red Cross. The Teacher’s League, the Nurses’ League, all the arts bodies. The America Institute! There are almost sixty organisations here — there can’t be many Germans who didn’t belong to at least one of them. Ah, and that’s not all. “Question 101: Have you any relatives who have held office, rank or post of authority in any of the organisations listed?” That should cover just about everybody.’
‘If it does, it’ll take them years,’ Thomas suggested gloomily. ‘But maybe we shouldn’t complain. We do want them to weed out the real Nazis.’
‘But this won’t do that,’ Russell protested. ‘This will just tar every German with the Nazi brush.’
‘Okay, they’ve gone overboard, and they’ll probably realise as much in a few months. It’ll make them more unpopular than the Russians, and they won’t like that.’
‘I don’t have a few months,’ Effi said.
‘No, of course not. I’m sorry…’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Yes?’ Thomas answered.
It was Esther Rosenfeld, whom Russell hadn’t seen since the summer of 1939. She had aged a lot, which was hardly surprising, but the smile when she saw him seemed full of genuine warmth. Leon was no better, she said, but no worse either. She wondered if Russell and Effi would like to see him one evening.
‘Tomorrow?’ Russell asked, looking to Effi for confirmation.
‘I’d love to,’ she agreed. ‘I left a lot of messages this afternoon,’ she added. ‘And several Jewish friends have promised to spread the word.’
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Esther said. ‘All of you. And Leon thanks you too. He will tell you himself tomorrow.’
After she’d gone they all looked at each other. ‘I sometimes think we should make something up,’ Russell said quietly, ‘just to give them some peace of mind. Miriam must be dead — six years without a single trace — she has to be.’
‘Probably,’ Thomas agreed, ‘but we’ve only just started looking again. Give it a few more days at least.’
‘Of course. It’s just…’ He left the thought unspoken.
‘How was the meeting with your Russian friend?’ Effi asked him.
Russell grunted. ‘I’d almost forgotten about that.’ He told them about Shchepkin’s list of comrades for vetting. ‘And there are two for you,’ he informed Effi, expecting an explosion. ‘Ernst Dufring and Harald Koll.’
She took the news calmly, as if she’d half-expected it. ‘Dufring’s loyal to a fault,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’ve even spoken to Harald Koll, but he looks innocent enough. What?’ she asked, noticing Russell’s expression. ‘Am I missing something?’
‘What if he isn’t? What if he thinks that the Soviets are the KPD’s biggest problem?’
‘Then I lie to protect him.’
‘And later, when they find out what he really thinks.’
‘I can always say he lied to me. How could they prove otherwise?’
Russell shook his head. ‘They won’t even bother to try. This is the Soviets we’re talking about. They’ll just assume you lied to them, and take whatever action seems appropriate at the time. Darker threats, if they still think you might be useful. A cautionary death if they decide you’re too much trouble.’
‘Do you have a better idea?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I’m going to tell Strohm, but the others… I don’t owe them anything. I think I’m just going to pass on whatever they say. I mean, they must know that holding a high position in the KPD involves a level of
risk. If they choose to incriminate themselves, then they have to take their chances. I’m not sacrificing myself for a few apparatchiks.’
‘What exactly are you going to tell Strohm?’ Effi wanted to know.
‘Everything. He can write the report on himself if he wants.’
It was Effi’s turn to shake her head. ‘You’ll be putting him in an impossible position.’
‘How?’
‘Once you tell him that the Soviets have forced you into this, he’ll know that you’re talking to other German comrades. And some of them will be his friends. But what can he do? If he warns them, he’s betraying you; if he doesn’t, he’s betraying them.’
She was right, Russell realised. They both were.
David Downing
Lehrter Station
Rapists and profiteers
A light drizzle was falling on Thursday morning, washing the air clear of brick dust and reminding Effi of London. Looking out the window of Thomas’ study, she imagined Zarah and Rosa walking round the foot of Parliament Hill on their way to the school, and realised she’d forgotten about Jens. Something else to do.
With half the cast filling out American forms, that morning’s rehearsal had been cancelled. Effi devoted several hours to the Fragebogen, read through her answers, and corrected those that might be considered sarcastic. Her original response to Question 115 — ‘have you ever been imprisoned on account or active or passive resistance?’ — was brief and truthful — ‘I was never caught.’ But would the Americans think she was just being cute? She added an explanatory paragraph just in case.
Was it enough? She had no idea, and was tired of second-guessing a bunch of foreign idiots. She forced the papers into her bag and set off for Schluterstrasse.
Kuhnert wasn’t in his office when she arrived, but a secretary she hadn’t met before promised to pass on the completed Fragebogen. Visiting the cafeteria for tea, she found a message from Ellen Grynszpan on the notice board: ‘Something to tell you, come down and see me.’
She reached the basement to find Ellen escorting an American colonel and his wife around the paintings. Ellen gestured for Effi to wait, and two minutes later was wishing her visitors goodbye. ‘Her brother was a painter,’ she explained. ‘He lived in Berlin until 1942. They think he died at Treblinka.’
‘Did he paint any of these?’ Effi asked, looking round.
‘No, all his paintings were burnt by the Nazis.’
Effi sighed. ‘I should have guessed.’
‘Anyway,’ Ellen said, breaking the spell, ‘I have news for you. A friend’s friend knew an Otto Pappenheim back in early 1941. Otto’s brother lived across the street from them, and both men were trying to get to Shanghai, like a lot of other Jews before the Russian war — by that time no one else was letting us in. My friend’s friend thinks they succeeded in getting Soviet travel permits. She didn’t see him or his brother after that time, so she always assumed they’d gone.’
‘Where was this? Where did your friend’s friend live?’
‘In Friedrichshain.’
‘And how old were these brothers?’
‘In their late twenties, early thirties. Around that.’
‘Did she say anything else?’
‘I can’t remember anything else. Would you like to talk to her? I’ll give you her name and address.’
Effi took them down. ‘Have any of the Jews come back from Shanghai?’ she asked. ‘None that I know of.’
Effi gave Ellen a hug. ‘Thank you for this,’ she said.
On her way home she found herself wondering about this new Otto. Why had he gone to Shanghai? Had he gone ahead, hoping to send for his wife and daughter? If it was only him the Gestapo were looking for, had his wife insisted he leave to save himself, as Effi had done with Russell? Or had nothing more noble than fear led him to abandon them?
Uwe Kuzorra’s old apartment building on Demminer Strasse was scorched and scarred but still in one piece. But no one answered Russell’s knock, and the dust outside the door seemed undisturbed. He tried the neighbours to no avail, but a young boy downstairs said his mother was next door. Russell found her hanging clothes in what had once been someone’s parlour, and which now seemed to function as a neighbourhood drying room. Several lengths of rope were strung between jutting bricks across the barely covered space.
‘He still lives here,’ she said in answer to Russell’s query. ‘Or he did. They took him away about ten days ago.’
‘Who did?’
‘French soldiers. We’re in their zone.’
‘Do you know where they took him? Where’s their HQ?’
She shook her head. ‘Not a clue.’
Russell thanked her and walked back to the busy Brunnenstrasse, where his chances of meeting a German policeman or French patrol seemed better. He walked north past Voltastrasse U-Bahn station without seeing either, turning west between what was left of the AEG factory complex and Humboldthain Park, where the apparently indestructible flak tower still exuded useless defiance. There were children playing football in the park, their hair slicked back by the drizzle. The schools were open again, but according to Thomas a huge number of parentless children were living almost feral existences in the ruins, playing games by day and working the black market by night.
On Mullerstrasse he found what he was looking for. The French HQ, a shopkeeper told him, was just up the street, in part of the old Wedding Police Station. In Nazi days the building had functioned as a fort, its Gestapo occupants mounting armed forays out into the local streets, where hammers and sickles still plastered the walls. Now the tricolour flew from the battlements, and basement beatings were hopefully a thing of the past.
Once inside, Russell was passed around like an unwelcome parcel, his journey finally ending at the desk of a middle-aged civilian in a beautifully cut suit. He let Russell struggle with his French, and had obvious difficulty containing his lack of interest. ‘We don’t give out the names of those in our custody,’ he eventually replied in perfect English. ‘Not to American journalists, in any case,’ he added, with something close to a sniff.
Russell wondered whether exceptions were made for scribes of Mongolian or Paraguayan descent. ‘I’m not asking as a journalist. I’m here as a friend of the man you arrested.’
‘Are you a relative?’
‘No…’ Russell began, realising his mistake too late. He should have said Kuzorra was a cousin. Or something.
‘Then I cannot help you.’
‘Can you tell me who can?’
‘You could apply to our headquarters at Baden-Baden.’
‘That’s four hundred miles away.’
The man shrugged. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sounding anything but.
Russell shook his head, walked out, and stomped angrily downstairs to the lobby. He was still seething when a hand slapped him on the shoulder, and a much friendlier French face appeared in front of his own. ‘John Russell! What are you doing here? You look like someone just slept with your girlfriend.’
It was Miguel Robier, a French journalist whom he’d met the previous winter, when both were commuting between Eisenhower’s Rheims HQ and the Allied front lines. They had enjoyed each other’s company, sharing tastes in wine and political cynicism.
Russell explained about Kuzorra, and the interview he’d just had.
‘Ah, Jacques Laval. He doesn’t like Americans. Or anyone, for that matter. Do you have a few minutes? Let me see what I can do.’
Russell waited and hoped, hugging himself for warmth and watching drizzle drift past the open doorway.
Ten minutes later Robier was back, looking triumphant. ‘I have the story. Not from Laval — I know someone in military liaison. He says your friend Kuzorra was arrested for being a member of the SS — is that possible?’
Russell shook his head. ‘Anything’s possible. In fact I seem to remember that all senior police officers had SS ranks by the end of the war. But that’s…’
‘It gets mor
e interesting,’ Robier interrupted him. ‘Our people arrested him at the request of the Americans — which, by the way, might be why Laval was even less helpful than usual. Anyway, it’s almost two weeks now, and the Americans still haven’t sent anyone to interview him. Our people have already sent them two reminders.’
‘Is he here?’ Russell asked.
‘No. He’s out at Camp Cyclop.’
‘Where?’
‘It’s our military base. Out in Wittenau.’
‘Okay, thanks. So, how are your family?’
They shared personal news and contact details, and agreed to meet up for a drink before Miguel’s return to France. They probably wouldn’t, Russell thought, as he headed on up Mullerstrasse to the Ringbahn station, but it wouldn’t really matter — their paths were bound to cross again. He had long ago lost count of his chance encounters with other journalists.
One thing seemed clearer with each passing day — who was in charge of western Berlin. The Americans were deciding not only who could work in the British zone, but who should be arrested in the French. And no one seemed to find this strange, let alone feel impelled to protest, unless the sulking of men like Laval was counted as such. The war had only been over six months, but the British and the French were already irrelevant — there were only two real powers in the city, or in the wider continent. And as luck would have it, he was working for both.
If the Americans had arranged Kuzorra’s arrest, they could just as easily arrange his release. A meeting with Scott Dallin seemed indicated.
By the time Russell reached the American HQ on Kronprinzenallee, the drizzle had stopped, and there were hints of sunlight in the western sky. After asking for Colonel Dallin he settled down for a long wait, but was only halfway through the lead story in the Allgemeine Zeitung when a corporal came to collect him.
Dallin’s office was high at the back, with a distant view of the Grunewald. The Californian had grown a moustache since Russell had last seen him, and the golden-brown hair was long enough to flaunt its waves. The visual effect was Gatsby-ish, but this son of privilege had none of that character’s easy charm. ‘Where have you been?’ was his first irritated question.
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