Authors: David Downing
She had known one Otto Pappenheim before the war, but he had been in his seventies. And she had known several Rosenfelds, but not a Miriam. She would ask around.
The other woman on Ali’s list who lived in Friedrichshain had only stayed one night in the Bismarckstrasse apartment, but Effi remembered her better. Lucie’s whole world had collapsed on that one particular evening in 1942. As a Jewish – and therefore unofficial – nurse, she’d been returning from an emergency call when the Gestapo arrived in front of her house. Cowering in a doorway, she’d heard shots inside the building and seen her elderly parents frog-marched into a waiting Black Maria. This had soon sped away, leaving uniformed police standing guard outside the front door. There was no sign of her husband and teenage son, and Lucie of course had feared the worst. Only a friend’s determination had got her as far as Bismarckstrasse, and Effi had spent most of the night trying to comfort her. Lucie’s face on the following morning, when news arrived of her husband and son’s escape, had been a sight to treasure.
And all three had survived, as Effi found when she reached their home. The husband greeted her with obvious suspicion, but Lucie recognised her immediately. ‘Frau von Freiwald!’ she exclaimed, jumping up from her chair, and rushing to embrace her.
‘My real name’s Effi Koenen,’ Effi said once they were done.
‘Not the actress?’ Lucie’s husband said in surprise.
‘The same,’ Effi admitted with reluctance.
Many questions followed, and it was almost an hour before Effi could leave with the promise of another signature. Neither Lucie nor her husband had come across an Otto Pappenheim or a Miriam Rosenfeld, but Lucie was doing voluntary shifts as a nurse at Lehrter Station, and said that she would check through what records there were. All their arrivals came from the East, but some at least were returnees, from either hiding or imprisonment. Otto and Miriam might be among them.
Effi enjoyed the time with Lucie and her family, but as she walked back down Neue Königstrasse towards the old city centre a dark cloud of depression seemed to roll across her mind. She missed Rosa, and the
search for the girl’s father seemed set to be endless. Looking for someone in Berlin reminded her of pyramid schemes, each helping hand seemed to spawn ten more. And the movie… She was loving the involvement, but that too seemed a string without end. When would she ever get back to London? And then there was Russell’s problem. Once she had finished her movie, and they’d done all they could to find Otto, she at least could return. But he would still be stuck here.
She wondered again about bringing Rosa back to Berlin, and the ruins around her seemed answer enough. In time, perhaps, but not in winter, not until… what? Until the rubble had been taken away, until all the windows had glass, until the Tiergarten had trees? Her train of thought was interrupted by a cruising jeep full of Red Army soldiers, all of whom seemed to be staring at her. She probably looked too old for sober predators, but she aged her walk just in case.
The jeep sped away.
Until the Russians had gone, she added to her list. But how long would all that take? The war had been over for six months, and Berlin was still in pieces. How many years would it be before a normal life was possible?
It was all so uncertain. She’d always thought of Thomas as a rock, but even he seemed unsure what to do. The way he’d been talking the other night she half-expected him to announce his retirement, and retreat to his in-laws’ country farm. But could he afford it? If his money was all tied up in the works, then the Soviets held the whip hand.
She was reminded of her own flat, and decided to see if it was still there. A crowded Stadtbahn train carried her from Alexanderplatz to Zoo, and the old familiar walk brought her to Carmerstrasse as the last light faded in the western sky. The building was still standing, and lights were burning in the first floor flat that her parents had bought her all those years ago. As she stood and watched, the silhouette of a woman cradling a baby appeared on the thin curtains, and Effi thought she heard an infant crying.
Should she walk right in and assert her ownership? No, or at least not now. There were already too many things to do and worry about – for a
fleeting moment she felt more overwhelmed than she ever had in the war. Survival had been such a simple ambition.
* * *
Russell spent the early afternoon visiting two more DP camps. Both were in the American zone – one in Neukölln, the other on the edge of Tempelhof aerodrome – but neither had any record of the two they were seeking. At the second camp one of the American administrators told him that all the Jewish inmates had recently been moved to their own exclusive camp in Bavaria. Berlin’s other Jewish DPs would probably go the same way, the man thought, and Russell could see why they’d want to. But he couldn’t help wishing that they’d put off moving until he found Otto and Miriam.
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 Ströhm, 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 Ströhm?’ 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.
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 Schlüterstrasse.
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 more 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.
‘I’ve been waiting for your call,’ Russell replied, taking the
unoffered
seat in front of the other man’s desk. ‘I left a number and address downstairs.’
Dallin grasped his nose between two fingers and sighed. ‘I never received them. But…’ He brought both palms down on his desk. ‘Let’s get on with it.’ He gave Russell a cold look. ‘You can probably imagine how I felt when London told me they were sending you.’
‘Relieved? Ecstatic?’
Dallin grunted. ‘You haven’t changed. So, please, let’s start from the beginning. Give me one good reason why I should believe the story you told Lindenberg.’
‘He did.’
‘He’s in London, and he doesn’t know you like I do. You used to be a communist, you flirted with the Nazis. You even worked for us to buy yourself a US passport. Is there any intelligence organisation you haven’t worked for?’
‘The Japanese. Look, Colonel, I never, as you put it, flirted with the Nazis – every dealing I ever had with the bastards was a matter of necessity. I did used to be a communist, but so did a lot of other people back then. And there are a lot of honourable men still out there who call themselves communists – most of them were fighting Hitler long before Pearl Harbour. But I left the Party almost twenty years ago, mostly because I didn’t like what was happening in Russia then, and now it’s ten times worse. I’m sure you and I have our differences, but we’re on the same side now.’
Dallin looked less than convinced. ‘So what made the Soviets think you would work for them?’
‘I promised them I would. They had my son in a POW camp, and in return for his release I said I would spy for them. I had no choice if I ever wanted to see him again.’
Dallin steepled his hands as he considered this. ‘All right,’ he said finally, with almost palpable reluctance.
They really were desperate, Russell thought. Dallin had been told to enlist him, and was either letting off steam or trying to convince himself
that he had nothing to lose. Probably both. The American would give Russell enough rope to either hang himself or tie the Soviets in knots. A win-win situation.
‘So have you been in contact with the Russians?’ Dallin asked.
‘Yes. I saw Shchepkin the other day. He’s my Soviet contact.’
‘How do you spell that,’ Dallin asked, reaching for his fountain pen. Like Russell’s old boss in Heydrich’s
Sicherheitsdienst
, he favoured green ink.
He repeated the name. ‘Anyway, the NKVD wants me to check out several high-ranking German comrades. I’ve seen one already. His name’s Gerhard Ströhm – he was a member of the communist underground during the war, and I knew him slightly back in ’41. He was actually born in America, but he’s lived here since he was about thirteen. He’s very disillusioned with the Soviets. And I think he might be recruitable in the long term. I’ve found out he’ll be voted onto the KPD Central Committee next spring, so he’d be an excellent asset.’
‘That sounds promising,’ Dallin said, placing his hands behind his head. He seemed pleasantly surprised, but was doing his best not to show it.
‘It is,’ Russell agreed. ‘And from what Ströhm told me, there are a quite a few others. The Russians are supporting the German communists who spent the war in Moscow, and they’re not giving the ones who stayed in Germany a look-in. The second group are really ticked off. So there’s quite an opportunity for us.’
‘That sounds good.’
‘And there’s another friend who could be very useful, but I’ve run into a problem with him. His name’s Uwe Kuzorra,’ Russell went on, watching in vain for any sign that the name was familiar. ‘He used to be a detective in the criminal police, and he owes me a few favours. But the French have arrested him for some reason or other, and they won’t let me visit him. A French friend looked into the matter for me, and he says that we asked for him to be arrested.’
‘We?’
‘It was an American request.’
‘It didn’t come from this department.’
‘I didn’t think it did. But could you look into it? He’s not a Nazi. Never was – he actually resigned from the Kripo when the Nazis took over, and set up as a private eye. He only rejoined the police after his wife died, when they were really short of men; he was never in the Gestapo. He could be very useful to us both. He knows Berlin better than anyone I know, and he doesn’t like the Russians.’
Dallin reached for the phone on his desk. ‘You’d better wait outside,’ he said, almost apologetically. Noting the marked change in attitude, Russell closed the door behind him. The way to a spy chief’s heart was clearly to offer him spies.
He could hear Dallin’s tone through the door, and there was no mistaking the rising anger. Call seemed to follow call, and the voice grew harder, more insistent. Finally Russell was summoned back in.