The Legacy (15 page)

‘As with Napoleon, so with Hitler. Now Germans waited for the Allies to invade. Klaus Himmelsbach and his wife and young children had spent nights in the foetid air-raid shelters while the city and the port were bombed. He had seen the fires and devastation. It was a portent of the future, a future too terrible to be contemplated, for the Russians would be coming from the east.

‘One night, free from the howling of the sirens and the crash of bombs and anti-aircraft fire, his wife heard a knock on the kitchen door. Dousing the light, she opened the door, fearing it might be one of the bullying street wardens complaining that the blackout was not effective. She lived in fear of them; too many complaints and they would be arrested. But the woman standing on the step in the darkness was small and shrouded in a coat, the collar pulled up to hide her face.

‘“Frau Himmelsbach?”'

‘Leni Himmelsbach gasped. She thought she recognized the voice. “Frau Steinberg? Is that you … Oh my God …”

‘“I'm sorry to come.” Her voice was so low she could hardly hear it. “My husband sent me. He's sick with a bad cough. Can I speak to Herr Himmelsbach, please?”

‘Leni hesitated. She had been friendly with Ruth Steinberg long ago and quite liked her. They had been such good clients; very hospitable, very lavish when they entertained. She knew Klaus had not been in contact with them for a long time. “Please?” She wasn't immune to pity. If Klaus didn't want to see her, he would know what to do.

‘“Wait there,” she said. “Don't knock again, he'll come.” She closed the door and went to find her husband.

‘Leni waited upstairs for him for a long time. She prayed the sirens wouldn't go. If that woman was caught on the street, she'd tell the police where she had been; they would beat it out of her. She sat trying to sew and shivered with cold and fear. She began to hate Ruth Steinberg for coming. When Klaus came in, he was carrying something rolled up under his arm.

‘“Has she gone? Did you get rid of her?”

‘“Yes, she has gone home.”

‘“What did she want? She'd no right to come here and compromise us.” He didn't respond to that. He came and sat down and placed the roll on the table. He unrolled it slowly and held it in place with both hands. Leni leaned over his shoulder. It was a canvas, cut from the frame. A landscape in soft dreamlike colours with an ethereal white-clad figure, so delicate it seemed blown by a hidden breeze, one hand catching the brim of a hat.

‘“Oh,” she said. “It's lovely. What is it? Did she give it to you?”

‘It amazed him that after so many years in close contact with his business, she remained so blindly ignorant. He said patiently, “It's a Renoir. She tried to give it to me, but I wouldn't take it.”

‘She stared at him. “Oh, why not? It's worth a lot of money! It's no use to them. What did she want?”

‘He rolled up the canvas very carefully and knotted a piece of dirty string around it. “She asked me to help the family to get out of Germany,” he said. “They've heard about the new edict. The Führer says all Jews everywhere in the Reich must be taken east. There'll be house to house searches soon; no-one will escape. She begged me to help and offered me the Renoir; they've nothing else left, except some jewellery. She said they could sell it if they got away to Sweden.”

‘“Why Sweden?” she asked.

‘He showed a rare flash of temper. “Don't be stupid! Sweden's neutral. Where else could they go? Why don't you stop asking stupid questions and make me some coffee?” He scowled at her.

‘The coffee was a disgusting blend of acorns and some substitute, but at least it got rid of her and gave him time to think … He untied the string and examined the canvas again. He got up and searched in a drawer for some tissue-paper which Leni used as a lining. He spread it carefully over the painting before he gently rolled it up, retied it and put it away. It was the end for the Steinbergs; the end for the Jews of Germany, but the end for the Himmelsbachs too. Now the two were fused in a common destruction; theirs less immediate, but no less inevitable. He had made Ruth Steinberg sit down, given her a glass of water, calmed her nervous protest that she must go, she mustn't endanger them. He wouldn't accept the Renoir. They had been his friends, and their parents had bought from his father before they bought from him. He would think of some way to help if he could, and then he had asked if there were other Jewish families, people they knew who would risk an attempt at escape rather than wait to be rounded up. She said simply, “Yes,” she knew of two more: an old lady with three little grandchildren, ready to try anything to save them from disappearing like their parents and elder brothers. Frau Rabinowitz, did he know of her? He knew of her; they had been very rich industrialists, but not clients.

‘“The Brauners—Hilda and Benjamin, his parents, and their two children?”

‘“Ah, yes,” he said, “I didn't know there were any of them left.” He sounded sad. “They came to us for everything. I started their Fabergé collection. How are they?”

‘“Desperate, like us,” was the answer. And sitting at the kitchen table, watching her drink the water and gaze at him with haggard eyes, he had said gently, “But how will people like the Brauners live, if they get to Sweden? Elderly relatives, young children …”

‘“They will have saved something,” Ruth Steinberg answered. “We all did. Jews have always kept something back, against the pogroms or the tax collectors. It's in our blood to be ready to run. We'll all be able to pay for our lives.”

‘And he had reached over and taken the cold thin hand in his and said, “You will never pay me. I'll find away to get you and your friends out and you will take your treasures with you. Come back in three days at the same time, or the next day if there's an air raid, and I'll try and have some news by then?” She had seized his hand and kissed it.

‘“God will reward you. Keep the painting till I come. If I'm picked up on my way home, I don't want
them
to get it. I'll come back in three days.”

‘His wife came back with the coffee, disturbing his thoughts. “I've put some schnapps in, it'll help it taste better.” She didn't like him to be angry. He smiled at her.

‘“Thank you, Leni.” She glanced round.

‘“What have you done with the painting? I wanted to have another look. It must be very valuable.” A whine crept into her voice. “Couldn't you keep it? After all, she offered, didn't she …?”

‘“Yes,” he answered, “I could keep it, but what would the Russians give me for it, do you think? A good fair price?”

‘The sarcasm passed her by; she stared at him. “The Russians! Oh my God … don't even mention that. They won't get here. They can't … the Führer says every German will fight to the death! I won't sleep if you talk about the Russians.” He saw her wide blue eyes fill with tears. Such a silly woman, born, as he once said to his father, with big tits and no brain.

‘His father had laughed and said, “Isn't that the best recommendation for a wife? Never marry a clever woman, they're troublesome.”

‘“I shouldn't have worried you,” he said kindly. “You're right, they won't invade Germany, I was just being defeatist. No air raid so far tonight. Why don't you go to bed and I'll follow soon.” He gave her a playful slap on the bottom. At forty-nine and after five children, she still had a good figure. “Don't dream about Russians raping you,” he said, “it'll only be me!”

‘Then he sat back and began to think, carefully and in great detail, as he had done all his life before he risked his capital and went into the market to buy.'

‘Albrecht Hoffman had lost his leg below the knee on the Russian front. He had served with the SS panzer division that fought at Smolensk. He was in his late thirties, but he looked much older. The leg was amputated because of frostbite; he'd lain in the bitter cold, shot through the lung, freezing to death, before they could stretcher him back to a field hospital. His suffering showed in the deeply lined face and remorseless hatred in his distorted mind. He blamed the Jews for the war which had left him a cripple. He had a civilian posting with the port security at Hamburg; the SS looked after their own. His wife and only child had been killed by Allied bombing while he was in hospital.

‘He had found a group of Jews trying to escape by fishing boat; the captain had accepted their money and then betrayed them to the authorities. They were carrying jewellery and gold trinkets; these were forfeited. Hoffman managed to hide a little box with a monogram in diamonds for himself. He personally supervised the weeping badly beaten Jews onto the next cattle trucks bound for Auschwitz.

‘He didn't know what to do with the gold box, or how to get it valued. He was well educated and clever; he had been an accountant until he joined the SS. He asked permission to see the files at the Gestapo headquarters in the city and it was given readily; he was a war hero who'd also lost his family. All professions and trades were listed, with the names of the principals, their police records if any, their reliability and Party affiliations. Klaus Himmelsbach had a high rating; he had personal contacts in the SS and the Nazi Party officials in the city, he donated generously to the Welfare Fund, and he had provided useful liaison with the wealthy Jewish community. Hoffman knew what that really meant. He went to the Himmelsbach Galleries and asked to see Herr Himmelsbach. The little box was an eighteenth-century presentation box, given by the Elector of Hanover. Klaus knew where he had got it, because he had sold several such boxes to a collector as a hedge against inflation during the old Chancellorship. He gave him a handsome price and it was worth it. Hoffman had sold goods that belonged to the State, confiscated from Jews; from now on he was in Klaus's pocket.

‘They met at a dock-side café the day after Ruth Steinberg's visit; Klaus never went to his office. The effect of the air raids was all round them: shattered buildings, rubble, gangs working to repair the dock facilities, a smell of smoke and oil that caught in the throat and stung the eyes.

‘“Albrecht,” he said quietly, “how long can we survive this?”

‘Hoffman stirred his coffee. There was no sugar; rations were small and getting smaller. “Not long,” he answered. “We'll be invaded soon, then the Russians will come. I won't stay alive to see them come to my city; I know what they can do.”

‘“Killing yourself won't help anybody,” Klaus remarked. “You've done your duty for the Fatherland; no man could give more. You should be thinking positively; you have a life to live, you deserve it.”

‘Hoffman's face twisted. “What kind of life? A slave under the Russians. They killed our wounded … Better to put a bullet in my head.”

‘“Better to live in Sweden with a nice bank account,” Klaus said. “That's what I plan to do. I'm not waiting with my wife and children for the Russians, and I'm not escaping to live in poverty. Albrecht, we can help each other, we can both have a future. But there is a price.”

‘Hoffman didn't answer. His stump itched and he couldn't scratch it. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair, scrabbling uselessly at his trouser leg.

‘“Tell me about it,” he said.'

‘There were two nights of ferocious air attacks. Klaus and Leni spent them in the communal shelter with their children. Sleepless, nerve-wracked, the people emerged each morning to deal with the fires, the wreckage and the casualties. On the third night there was a lull and Ruth came to the kitchen door. She was not alone; there was another woman with her. Women attracted less attention than men, and both wore coats without the yellow star. If they had been caught, the penalty for defying that humiliating law would have been a systematic beating at the police station, just for good measure.

‘Klaus sent Leni upstairs. He asked Ruth to sit down, and waited for her to introduce her companion. In the electric light he noted that she was a beautiful young woman, so blonde and blue-eyed she could easily have passed for an Aryan German. She looked ill and underfed and she said nothing.

‘“This is my friend's daughter,” Ruth explained, “Hester Rubenstein. I've brought her along to see you. Have you any news?”

‘“Sit down, please,” Klaus invited them. “I have some wine saved to offer you. What terrible raids these last two nights? We had bombs very close here.” Jews couldn't risk the shelters; they stayed hidden above ground. He poured two small glasses of hock. Hester Rubenstein shook her head.

‘“Thank you, no. I'm feeding a baby and wine might upset him.”

‘A baby; that must account for the poor girl's drawn exhausted look. He said kindly, “I wish I had something else to offer … but I have news, good news. I have arranged a ship.”

‘He heard Ruth Steinberg catch her breath, and saw the look she gave the girl.

‘“A ship? To take us away?” He nodded. “Yes. It's been very difficult to arrange. I had to find someone I could trust.” The women were gazing at him; he was their saviour. He saw the blonde girl blink back a rush of tears.

‘“I have a friend in customs,” he went on, “from the days when I shipped goods abroad. He introduced me to a Swedish ship's captain. It's a trawler, not very big, but he's agreed to take passengers across to Sweden; for a price, I'm afraid, a high price.”

‘Ruth interrupted. “I told you, we can pay. Anything. How much does he want?”

‘Klaus explained slowly. “Not in money. He doesn't want Deutschmarks; he says they'll be worthless when we lose the war. He wants something he can sell. Ruth, you offered me your lovely painting, and I offered it to him; that's the price. He can take twelve people for that. It will be very cramped and a rough sea crossing, but you'll be safe at the end.”

‘“Twelve?” Ruth repeated. “But we're nineteen with Hester's husband and his parents …”