Lehrter Station (27 page)

Russell stood there for several minutes, stray thoughts hopping in and out of his mind, then turned abruptly on his heels and started back towards the city centre.

Once in his hotel room, he spent a couple of hours sorting through notes and ideas, then closed his eyes for a nap. Awoken by coughing heatpipes, he was thrilled to find the water running hot, and was only slightly deflated by the absence of soap. A long soak in a full bath might be a luxury in much of post-war Europe, but it still felt like a human necessity. Feeling suitably restored, he sallied out in search of alcohol and food.

There would be an American Press Club, he realised – it was just a question of finding it. The hotel desk clerk thought it was on Josefstädterstrasse, which was only a five-minute walk away. Once there, a convenient passer-by directed him, with rather an envious look, towards a nearby side-street. The Press Club was open, well-lit and warm. As an added bonus, his old friend Jack Slaney was propping up one end of the bar, one hand wrapped round a half-empty stein.

Slaney had come to Berlin for the 1936 Olympics, and stayed on as the resident correspondent of the
Chicago Post
for almost five years. He had sailed pretty close to Goebbels’ wind on several occasions, and had finally been asked to leave in the early summer of 1941, allegedly for calling
Barbarossa
an overgrown version of the Charge of the Light Brigade. He and Russell had spent many a happy hour trying to out-cynicise each other in the Adlon Bar, contests which Slaney had usually won. Russell hadn’t seen him since the summer, when the American had spent a few days in London
en route
to the Potsdam Conference.

‘So what are you doing here?’ Russell asked, sliding himself onto the neighbouring bar stool and signalling for two more drinks.

‘The bar or the country?’

‘The continent.’

Slaney considered. ‘A valedictory tour, I suspect. A sort of “now that they’re gone, was it all worth it?” What brings you to Vienna?’

Russell told him about the illegal Jewish exodus to Palestine, and how he’d been asked to tell the story.

Slaney nodded his appreciation. ‘If I wasn’t leaving tomorrow, I might follow along at a respectable distance. Not that I have the knees for mountain-climbing anymore.’

‘Neither do I. I’m assuming trucks – it must be too late in the year for walking.’

The beers arrived, and tasted as they should.

‘Your government won’t be too pleased at your dallying with the enemy,’ Slaney observed.

‘The British Government? No, I don’t suppose it will.’ This should have occurred to him, with half his family living in London at His Majesty’s discretion.

‘I can see their point of view,’ Slaney went on. ‘About the Jews and Palestine, I mean. It was bad enough before the war, when the Jews were a small minority. If they let in every Jew that wants to go they’ll have all the Arabs gunning for them.’

‘I can’t see that worrying anyone else.’

‘No, it won’t – the Jews will win the propaganda war. They have the two things that matter – lots of money and the biggest sob story in history. They’ll get their homeland all right. Though I doubt it’ll be the paradise they’re hoping for.’

‘After the last few years I expect they’ll settle for somewhere safe.’

Slaney snorted his disbelief. ‘In the middle of an Arab sea?’

Russell sighed. ‘Point taken.’

‘They’ve been giving out chunks of Germany to all and sundry – why not give the Jews a piece, make the criminal pay for the crime?’

‘Because “Next year in Düsseldorf ” doesn’t have the same ring to it?’

It was Slaney’s turn to sigh. ‘I guess.’

‘So, “now that they’re gone, was it all worth it?” Was it?’

Slaney took a first sip from the new stein and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. ‘I really don’t know. A year ago I had no doubts. And sometimes I still get that feeling – like the other day, when I was reading that testimony from Nuremberg about camp commandants using Jewish heads as paperweights. You think to yourself, we just had to get rid of those bastards, whatever it took.’

‘And yet,’ Russell prompted.

‘Yeah. And yet. What we did to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, what you limeys did to Dresden. And God only knows what good old Uncle Joe has been getting up to – the Poles are already accusing him of wiping out their entire officer corps.’

‘The same Poles who are now persecuting their returning Jews.’

‘Exactly. You end up asking yourself – how much better off are we? Enough to justify fifty million dead?’

Russell grunted his agreement. ‘And you missed out the French,’ he added. ‘Last week one of their journalists told me that they murdered around ten thousand Arabs in Algeria. Last spring, a little place called Sétif.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘You wouldn’t have – nothing appeared in the French papers. You know, there’s one thing that really upsets me. Every last idiot in thrall to violence, every last government hoping for some glory that rubs off – they’ll be trotting out the Nazi precedent for another hundred years. And even if the war against the bastards actually was worth fighting, I can’t help thinking they were the exception that proved the rule.’

‘The rule being?’

‘That wars sow only death and grief. I thought we’d learned that in 1918, but apparently not.’

Slaney grimaced. ‘You know, until I ran into you, I didn’t think I could feel any more depressed.’

Having arranged to meet Annaliese for some sort of supper on Tuesday evening, Effi asked the Russian bus driver to drop her off at the Dahlem-Dorf U-Bahn station. The train that arrived reeked to high heaven, but was mercifully almost empty. Exhausted, she sat with her eyes closed, drifting in and out of sleep, and almost missed her change at Wittenbergplatz.

It was dark when she finally emerged, and some desultory flakes of snow were visible in the dim glow of the few working streetlights. When she reached the Elisabeth there were twenty minutes remaining of Annaliese’s shift, so she took the opportunity to look in on the Rosenfelds. Esther had reported an improvement in her husband’s condition since the latest news of Miriam and the baby, and Effi was delighted to find him sitting up in bed. He still looked dreadfully weak, but his breathing seemed more regular and the flatness had gone from his eyes. He even looked interested when she told him the story behind Russell’s trip to Vienna.

Annaliese looked even tireder than Effi felt, but still insisted on their going out to eat. A new place had opened on nearby Lützowstrasse, and several of the nurses had been astonished by the variety of food on offer.

Word had spread, and they had to queue for a table, but the aromas wafting past them seemed well worth the wait. ‘Chicken!’ Annaliese almost cried out when they finally got to see the menu. ‘Fish!’ Effi replied in equal amazement. ‘My treat,’ she added, pulling out her leading-actor-grade ration coupons. Looking around, she became suddenly aware of the clash between decor and clientele – a café used to serving workers was playing host to Berlin’s new rich. ‘Someone’s making a lot of money,’ she noted.

‘
Grosschieber
bastards,’ Annaliese observed almost cheerfully.

The meal cost the best part of a week’s coupons, but was worth it. There was even wine – nothing wonderful of course, but better than either of them expected. As they sat there nursing the last few drops, Annaliese leaned forward in her chair. ‘I’ve got something to ask you,’ she said softly. ‘I feel guilty about asking, so please, please, don’t feel guilty about saying no.’

‘All right,’ Effi agreed, wondering what was coming. ‘I learned to say no in the war,’ she added, then laughed. ‘That doesn’t sound right, does it?’

‘No. But here it is. The works committee that runs the hospital has negotiated a deal with a certain supplier for a bulk load of medicines. But the doctor who arranged it has come down with pneumonia, and now he needs the drugs as much as the patients do. No one was willing to take his place – they’re all too spooked by what happened to his friend, the one who went looking for insulin.’ Annaliese sighed. ‘So, like an idiot, I volunteered.’

‘Aren’t you spooked?’

‘Well, yes and no. I mean I know these are not nice people, but the deal has been agreed. The other time was different – that doctor was trying to find a legal source of insulin.’

‘Threatening their business.’

‘Exactly. This deal
is
their business. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d come along for the ride. Like old times.’

Effi smiled. The memory of their night drive across Berlin the previous April was one of her fondest. Not least because it had ended with her finding Russell half-asleep in her armchair – the first time they’d seen each other for more than three years. ‘Where would we be going?’ she asked. ‘And when?’

‘Tomorrow evening. The meeting’s scheduled for nine o’clock, out in Teltow. We bring the money, they bring the medicines. Will you come?’

‘How could I resist?’ She wouldn’t get much sleep that night, but her character was supposed to look wasted – she would save the make-up
people some work. And, if she was being honest with herself, the prospect excited her. Her work in the war had occasionally been terrifying, but it had thrilled her in ways that acting never could. She had assumed
that
life was over, but maybe it wasn’t. She dreaded to think what John would say, but there it was. As long as she remembered to think before she leapt.

One thought occurred straight away. ‘How will we get there?’

‘A jeep. The British gave four to the hospital.’

Effi grimaced – after Russell’s experience in a jeep she would have preferred something a little more bullet-proof. Then again, they would be doing all their driving in the American sector, and would happily stop if so requested. ‘What if they try and rob us?’ she asked Annaliese.

‘Why should they? The
Grosschieber
want regular customers, and the men we meet won’t dare cross their bosses.’

That sounded like sense. ‘Where does the money come from?’ she asked out of curiosity.

Annaliese shrugged. ‘The committee gets money from the Occupation authorities and our local administration, and quite a few of us have dipped into our own pockets – doctors, nurses, families of patients who need the medicines.’

‘Do the Allies know what their money’s being spent on?’

‘Of course. They pretend not to, but that’s just a joke. They could bring us supplies from the outside, destroy the black market in medicines overnight if they really wanted to.’

‘Why don’t they?’

‘Remember what you said about that camp I was in? It’s the same two things. They still think we need to be punished, and more than a few of them are making small fortunes selling official supplies on the black market.’

‘I suppose that’s it,’ Effi agreed. There were free tables now; it was getting late, and she had another six o’clock start. ‘I must get home,’ she told Annaliese, ‘but I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time at the hospital?’

‘Okay. And thank you,’ she added, giving Effi a hug. ‘You know, I’ve almost forgotten what a normal life looks like.’

That said, it couldn’t hurt to take precautions. The gun that the dead American had given to Russell was still in the bedside table, and taking it with her would provide some insurance.

Russell’s train left the Südbahnhof at ten past eight on Wednesday morning, and was soon rattling out through the Viennese suburbs. There had been no message waiting for him when he returned, somewhat the worse for wear, from his evening with Slaney, and none when he woke up, feeling very little better, on the following day. He had spent Tuesday morning vainly checking Vienna’s DP camps and Red Cross offices for any trace of Otto or Miriam, the afternoon sauntering around the city, wondering how long he’d be stuck there. It might be a great story, but he wouldn’t be back before Christmas at this rate, and no matter how often he reminded himself that Effi was well capable of looking after herself, the anxiety persisted. The trip in the Mercedes boot was still fresh in his mind.

Then a message had finally arrived, asking him to come to the Rothschild. There was a group crossing the border on Thursday or Friday, Mizrachi told him when he reached the hospital. If Russell took the morning train, he should reach Villach in plenty of time.

So here he was, staring out across the sun-washed Austrian countryside, the sky only smudged by the smoke from their engine. The landscape grew more mountainous by the minute, and after almost two hours they reached the small town of Semmering, which lay astride the Russo-British zonal border. There was no through service, and those passengers heading further east had to walk three kilometres to the British-sponsored train. There were plenty of soldiers in evidence from both armies, but none seemed keen to spoil their day with work, and only a few travellers’ papers were subject to a cursory examination.

The new train puffed its way down the Mürz valley, as the outflung eastern arm of the Alps grew larger in the window. It was almost 250 kilometres from Semmering to Villach, and the scenery was mostly magnificent – the
train leaping across torrents and delving through dark forests, skirting pellucid lakes and offering glimpses of distant snow-covered peaks shining in the afternoon sunlight. The towns they stopped in looked untouched by war, but Russell knew that wasn’t the case – each would be mourning its quota of men lost on Hitler’s battlefields.

Darkness was falling when the train pulled in to Villach. He had bought bread and sausage at one of the stops, but that seemed a long time ago, and an unofficial refugee camp seemed an unlikely place to find a decent dinner. Villach, it turned out, was not that much better, but he did find a reasonable bowl of soup in one of the bars near the station. Suitably fortified, he laid claim to the only apparent taxi and quoted the address that Mizrachi had written. It was only a street and number, but the driver wasn’t fooled. ‘Where the Jews are,’ he said, with only the slightest hint of distaste.