Lehrter Station (26 page)

She knocked and a familiar voice said ‘Come in.’

The expression on Jens’s face passed through astonishment and pleasure before settling on apprehension. ‘Effi!’ he said, scrambling out of his chair and advancing for a familial embrace.

She allowed him one kiss on the cheek before shooing him back to his chair. He was wearing a remarkably shabby suit, a far cry from the Nazi uniform which Zarah had ironed about ten times a day. But he looked in better health than most Berliners, and several kilos fatter than when she’d last seen him four years before.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘I work here.’

Why haven’t you been arrested, she wanted to ask.

‘Lothar, is he alive?’ There was a quiver in his voice, as if he feared the answer. ‘And Zarah, of course.’

‘They’re both in London.’

‘London!?’

‘It’s a long story. We’ve all been living there. John and I only came back last week.’

‘London,’ Jens repeated. ‘I spent months looking for them. I never dreamed… Are they coming back too?’

‘I expect so. Eventually.’

‘How is Lothar? Does he ask about me? And Zarah… why hasn’t she…?’

‘She assumed you were dead. Or in prison. We all did.’

‘Why would I be in prison?’

‘Your past allegiances,’ she suggested.

He looked a trifle shamefaced, but the justification was clearly well-honed. ‘I was in the Party, true, but so were millions of others. I was a civil servant, after all, working for the state, so loyalty was expected. But we civil servants were not responsible for framing policies – we just did what we were told to do.’

Effi shook her head in disbelief, but he didn’t seem to notice.

‘Will you give me their address in London?’

‘No, but I’ll give her yours. And I’m sure she will write to you, for Lothar’s sake. And I know he will.’

‘I’m still at the old house on Taunusstrasse. In the basement, that is – there are families on the other two floors. It is good to see you,’ he said, as if vaguely surprised by the fact.

Effi smiled, and wished she could say the same. She told herself she was being mean. Lothar, at least, would he happy to hear that his father was alive. Not to mention free as a bird.

After finding and drinking a better than expected coffee in a café just off the Stephansplatz, Russell set off with his ancient Baedeker in search of the Rothschild Hospital. Beyond Vienna’s inner ring road the war damage was less extensive, and several streets seemed almost pristine. There was an obvious dearth of motor traffic – even the jeeps of the occupying forces seemed thin on the ground – and some vistas seemed more redolent of the Habsburg Empire than 1945.

The pavements outside the Rothschild Hospital were crowded with Jews. They were not, as one told Russell, intent on getting in, but were waiting for friends or relatives who might soon arrive from the east. The hospital itself had suffered some damage, but most of it seemed in use. After queuing at one of several reception desks in the old emergency room he was given directions to the Haganah office.

It was in the basement, at the other end of the long building. The corridors were jammed with people, and the rooms on either side offered a wonderful kaleidoscope of activities, from shoe repair through
kindergarten lessons to full medical examinations. By the time Russell reached the Haganah office he felt as if he’d travelled through a small country.

The office was not much larger than a cupboard, but its contents seemed admirably organised. The man squeezed behind the desk introduced himself as Yoshi Mizrachi. He was obviously not surprised by Russell’s appearance, which was something of a relief. He spoke English with a London accent, and opened proceedings by stressing the restrictions on Russell’s reporting – he must not mention real names, of either people or places, if such exposure might compromise the
Aliyah Beth
.

Russell raised an eyebrow at the last phrase.

‘It is what we call this emigration.
Aliyah
has no direct English translation, but “moving to a better, or a higher, place” is as close as I can tell you.
Beth
means second – the first emigration is the one allowed by the British – only a few hundred per year.’

Russell wrote it down. ‘No names,’ he agreed.

Mizrachi passed a folded piece of paper across the desk. ‘This says that you are a journalist sympathetic to our cause, one that our people can trust. In some places you may be asked to produce it.’

Russell assumed the writing was in Hebrew. He wasn’t so sure about the sympathy – Zionism seemed a pretty mixed bag when it came to rights and wrongs – but Mizrachi’s
imprimatur
could hardly hurt. The journalist inside him bristled a little at having to prove his trustworthiness. ‘Is this necessary?’ he asked mildly.

‘It might be. Forgive my bluntness, Mr Russell, but there are many Jews on this road who would be only too happy if they never saw a
goy
again, and they will treat you as an enemy. This letter will persuade at least some of them to give you the benefit of the doubt.’

‘That makes sense,’ Russell admitted. He asked Mizrachi what his official position was.

‘I don’t have one. I’m a
sheliakh
, an emissary. There are many of us in Europe now. In all the countries where Jews are living and travelling.’

‘Was it the Haganah who got it all started? The
Aliyah Beth
, I mean?’

‘Not in Europe, no. It was young men and women from Poland and Lithuania – partisan fighters, most of them. They began establishing routes before the war was even over. They sent the first people south to Romania and the Black Sea, and then others through Hungary and Yugoslavia. Once the war was over it became possible to move people westwards, into the American zones in Germany and Austria.’

‘How did the Haganah get involved?’

‘We’ve always been involved in bringing Jews to Palestine – we have a special section called Mossad which is responsible for this. When the war ended the British Jewish Brigade was billeted in north-east Italy, outside Tarvisio. The Mossad people visited the camps in Germany and Austria, and talked to the Jewish DPs about Palestine. Those that expressed an interest were told where to go.’

‘So you are running things now?’

‘Yes and no. We provide documents – mostly forged, of course. We arrange routes and transport. We negotiate border crossings, usually with bribes. We’ve created reception areas along the way, with food and shelter for large groups. But we do have a lot of help. The organisations themselves can’t openly support us, but there are many individuals in the US Army, UNRRA, the Red Cross, the Italian police – even the Vatican, believe it or not – who do their best to smooth our way. This place is run by UNRRA, the US Army’s DP division, the city’s Jewish Committee and the DPs themselves. It’s often chaotic, but most of the time we all seem to be on the same page.’

‘So what’s the official position of the occupying powers? The British are obviously hostile, so I don’t suppose the Americans can be openly helpful. And what about the Soviets?’

‘The Russians don’t seem to care. The Americans… well, like you said, they’re stuck in the middle. A few weeks ago they intercepted three of our trains at Linz, and sent them straight back here. We organised demonstrations, got publicity in the American press, and they agreed to organise transit camps if we restricted the flow to 5,000 a month, which is more than it’s ever been. They want to help us.’

‘And the Italian authorities?’

‘Much the same. In fact, we had an almost identical situation with them – a trainload of refugees which the British wanted sent back. They forced the Italian police to put our people back on board, which took them half a day and really ticked them off. Ever since then the Italians have turned a blind eye whenever they could.’

‘Are there lots of different routes?’

‘Usually one or two. They change – one gets closed and another opens up.’

‘Does everyone end up in Italy?’

‘No, some go to France. We had a boat leave Marseilles not long ago.’

Russell leant back in the chair. ‘Why do they want to go to Palestine, rather than America?’

Mizrachi smiled. ‘You’ll have to ask them that.’

‘But how do you feel about the ones who want to go to America? Or the ones who want to stay in Germany? Do you think of them as traitors?’

‘Traitors, no.’ He shrugged. ‘The ones who want to stay in Europe… it’s their choice, but I don’t believe it’s a tenable one, not in the long run. Have you heard what’s happening in Poland?’

‘What, lately?’

‘A lot of Polish Jews thought they’d go home after the war, but they soon discovered what a bad idea that was. There have been anti-Jewish riots in Cracow, Nowy Sącz, Sosnowice… there was one a few weeks ago in Lublin. The murderers may be different, but Polish Jews are still being killed.’

Russell just shook his head – sometimes there seemed no hope for humanity. ‘So, what are the arrangements?’ he asked after a moment.

‘I’m waiting to hear when the next party is crossing the border. If it’s soon, you should take the train to Villach – it’s the quickest way. If they’re waiting for another group from here, then you can travel with that, by the usual route.’

‘Which is what?’

‘The train to St Valentin, then across the Ems River by boat – the river’s the border between the Russian and American zones. Then south to Villach and the Italian frontier. That takes two or three days.’

‘Okay,’ Russell agreed reluctantly. He told Mizrachi the name of his hotel, and the Haganah man promised to be in touch the moment he heard anything. ‘There is one other thing,’ Russell added. ‘I’m looking for two people, a man and a woman. For personal reasons. And I know a man with the right name was travelling this way from Silesia. Is there anyone here keeping records of the people who pass through?’

Mizrachi smiled. ‘Indeed there is. And he’s very proud of them. Let me take you to him.’

They walked back through the basement, and up to the reception area, where a door behind the desks led through to several offices. In the last of these a middle-aged man in a yarmulke was bent over a ledger. ‘This is Mordechai Landau,’ Mizrachi said. He explained what Russell wanted, and left the two of them to it.

Once apprised of the names, Landau began searching the filing cabinets that lined two walls. ‘The records are all alphabetised,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘We have Jews from sixteen countries here,’ he added proudly. ‘8,661 of them since July.’

An indictment in itself, Russell thought.

‘Ah, I have an Otto Pappenheim. And you’ve just missed him – he left for the American zone a week ago.’

‘Do you know when he arrived here?’

‘A week before that,’ Landau said triumphantly.

The date fitted, Russell thought. This had to be Isendahl’s Otto. A week ahead of him.

‘You don’t have any more details?’

‘See for yourself,’ Landau said, handing him the paper.

He skimmed through it, and found nothing to rule the man in or out.

‘But no Miriam,’ Landau reluctantly concluded. ‘Four Rosenfelds, but no Miriam.’

Not for the first time, Russell wondered if she’d changed her name. If she had, they’d never find her.

He thanked Landau and walked back out to the crowded pavement. Above the broken skyline to the south the sun was trying to break through, but it seemed, if anything, colder than before. He put up the collar of his coat, tied the scarf a little higher round his throat, and started back towards the city centre at a hopefully warming pace. It wasn’t yet noon, but he already felt hungry, and when an open restaurant presented itself on Währingerstrasse he took the opportunity to grab some lunch. The proprietor seemed pleased to see his dollars, and he was pleased to see the food, which seemed better than anything Berlin had to offer.

It seemed the Austrians were getting off lightly, which Russell found less than fair. He remembered the scenes after the
Anschluss
, the Viennese Jews forced to clean unflushed toilets by their laughing tormentors. And those had been the lucky ones. No one had filmed the Jewish pensioners’ involuntary high-speed ride on the city’s scenic railway – an experience that had given several of them fatal heart attacks.

The Austrians were hardly innocents.

But then who were?

He decided he would walk to the Danube. He had always liked big rivers, ever since seeing the Thames as a boy. And the Spree’s lack of real width had always seemed a major shortcoming. Though it would make the bombed-out bridges cheaper to replace.

Once a convenient tram had carried him back to the Stephansplatz, he walked north to the Danube Canal, whose crossings seemed mostly intact. He was now moving into the Russian sector, but there were no signs to tell him so, and no obvious military presence on the streets. Praterstrasse offered the straightest route to the river, and he headed on up past the entrance to Prater Park, where the famous Ferris wheel was in the early stages of post-war reconstruction. Russell had written about it once, in an article on European funfairs that some American magazine had commissioned, and he could even remember some of its history. It had been built to celebrate the Habsburg Emperor Franz-Josef’s Golden
Jubilee in 1897, and the following year one of his subjects had summed up Franz-Josef’s reign in spectacular fashion – hanging by her teeth from a gondola to protest against the treatment of the Empire’s poor. Twenty years later another woman had gone full circle while seated on a horse, the latter standing, no doubt nervously, on a gondola roof. That stunt had been staged for an early silent film, and Hollywood had been back on several further occasions. Everyone loved the Vienna Wheel.

Ten minutes later, he was gazing out across the wide Danube. There was nothing blue about it, and no sign of the once busy traffic – the wharves away to his left stood empty and apparently abandoned. The dark, heavy current rolled remorselessly past, like a conveyor belt with nothing on it. Over on the northern shore the hulk of a burnt-out Panzer had its gun barrel dipped in the water, and looked like an animal taking a drink.