Silesian Station (2008) (26 page)

'There was no way you could know that your brother would be attacked,' Russell told him.

Leon was not to be comforted. 'I always said my Miriam was too good for this world,' he said. 'Like an angel.'

Walking away down the dirt-track Russell could feel Esther's eyes on his back. Should he have raised her hopes? Did he have any reason to believe that Miriam was still alive?

Smoke was rising from the neighbouring farm. He thought of stopping to ask where Torsten worked, but the thought of meeting the boy's parents was uninviting. And the clues he had would be good enough. There weren't that many big stores in Breslau, and he was surprised that even one had been designed by a famous architect.

It seemed warmer than the previous day, and he hung his jacket over one shoulder. He walked swiftly, and was approaching the last crossroads, the roofs of Wartha visible across the fields, when he heard the lorry behind him. It was bumping along the dirt-track at a fair speed, belching dust into the air, and showed no signs of slowing down to spare his lungs. A blast of the horn reinforced the message.

Russell stepped onto the verge and beyond, reaching for his handkerchief to cover his mouth. The lorry lurched by, two men in the cab, two standing behind it in the open back.

Enveloped by dust, Russell heard rather than saw the lorry grind to a halt some fifty metres down the track. He saw two shapes climb down from either side of the cab, two more jumping down to the ground. All four shapes walked towards him. As the dust cleared, he saw that the driver and his mate were both wearing brown shirts. That was the extent of their uniform, but it was enough.

'Oh, fuck,' Russell murmured to himself. 'Good morning!' he said cheerily, as if these were the folks he'd most wanted to meet on such a beautiful day.

The response was less friendly. 'Where have you come from?' the driver asked. A short balding man with wide shoulders and a barrel chest, he was a good deal older than the others - around Russell's age - and he seemed to be in charge.

There seemed no point in lying. 'I've been up to the Rosenfeld farm.'

'For the night?'

'It was too late to get back to Breslau.'

'It's against the law, staying with Jews,' one of the younger men offered.

'Why were you up there?' the driver went on, ignoring his companion.

This, as Russell realized at the time, was the moment when he should have said something clever and self-exculpatory. That he was doing an article on Jews who refused to see sense and quit the Reich - something like that. But the last twenty-four hours had reduced his already limited willingness to indulge the local scum, and, in any case, the Rosenfelds deserved a bit of loyalty. 'I was telling them that their daughter is missing,' he said.

That didn't seem much of a surprise to his audience, who were presumably privy to Thomas's missing letter.

'She should have stayed here,' the same young man said with a grin. He was probably one of the gang that had intercepted Miriam on this very track, frightening the Rosenfelds into sending their daughter to Berlin.

The driver advanced a pace, close enough for Russell to smell the cabbage on his breath. 'So she's missing. What the hell is that to you?'

'Just another Jew-lover,' the other Brownshirt volunteered.

'Right,' Russell said sarcastically. 'When I could be admiring an aryan like you.'

He had time to move his head a fraction, saving his nose and teeth at his cheek's expense, but the power of the blow put him on his back. He shook his head, looked up at the four silhouettes gathered above him, and felt more than a little afraid.

'There's a good tree over there,' a voice said, compounding the effect.

'I'm an American journalist,' he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. 'And I also work for the Sicherheitsdienst in Berlin.'

'The what?'

'It's part of the Gestapo,' Russell said, somewhat inaccurately. 'Look at my papers,' he added, 'they're in my jacket.'

The driver picked up the jacket, rifled through the pockets, and examined Russell's journalistic accreditation. 'This says nothing about the Gestapo or the...Sicher-whatever-it-was.'

Russell decided it was time to get to his feet. 'You can ring their HQ at 102 Wilhelmstrasse,' he said, as he rose. 'Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth. He'll tell you.'

'Why would a Gestapo agent be visiting Jews?'

'Why do you think? Their daughter may be mixed up with enemies of the Reich...'

'Miriam Rosenfeld?!?'

'You know a lot about the Jewish opposition groups, do you?' Russell asked scathingly, risking another assault. 'It's very unlikely,' he admitted in a kinder tone. 'But we have to be vigilant.'

The driver still looked unconvinced. 'Get up on the lorry,' he said. 'You are coming with us.'

Those five words had never sounded sweeter. Wherever they were going, it had to be an improvement on a dirt track between open fields, with a 'good tree' close by. The police station or the local Party House?

It was the latter. They turned right at the crossroads and drove into Wartha, along a surprisingly deserted street lined with neat, well-kept houses. The Party House was just beyond the town square, a two-storey building with the usual oversized flag. There were two main rooms on the ground floor, the common room at the front for drinking, the office at the back for keeping tabs on the citizenry.

The local leader, a bespectacled man of around thirty-five with closely-cropped black hair, was in the latter. He was wearing full SA uniform, with every belt, buckle and button polished to perfection. Like most small-time Nazis of Russell's acquaintance, he looked like a puffed-up shopkeeper. Err on the side of flattery, Russell told himself, and for God's sake don't talk down to him.

The driver told his story. He and his friends had received a tip-off that an outsider was staying with the Jews, and they had stopped him before he could reach the station. 'He admitted it,' he added, passing over Russell's papers. 'He says he's a journalist and that he works for the Gestapo,' he added grudgingly.

'The Sicherheitsdienst,' Russell corrected him. 'The SD,' he added helpfully.

The man was examining his papers. 'I know what the Sicherheitsdienst is,' he said curtly, without looking up.

'May I know your name, Sturmbannfuhrer?' Russell asked politely.

'Lempfert. Wilhelm Lempfert.'

'The headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst is at 102 Wilhelmstrasse, Sturm-bannfuhrer Lempfert. Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth will vouch for me.'

'Not Gruppenfuhrer Heydrich in person?' Lempfert asked sarcastically.

'I have never had the honour of meeting the Gruppenfuhrer.'

Lempfert gazed at Russell for a few moments, as if wondering whether his sarcasm was being returned. 'I will check your story,' he said. 'Take him through,' he told the driver.

Russell was hustled into the common room, and his others captors looked up expectantly, still hopeful of a lynching. The driver shoved him towards an upright chair by the near wall and joined his companions in the circle of beaten-up armchairs by the window.

Minutes went by, rather more of them than Russell was hoping for. What would Lempfert do if Hirth wasn't there? And what would Hirth say when he heard about the Rosenfelds? The false papers for the Soviets should be waiting for him at Neuenburger Strasse by now. Surely Hirth wouldn't let a little race hatred cost him a good agent?

Almost an hour had gone by when Sturmbannfuhrer Lempfert emerged from the office. 'The Hauptsturmfuhrer wishes to speak to you,' he said shortly, gesturing Russell into his office. Much to the latter's surprise, the door closed behind him. Hirth must have asked for a private conversation.

The Hauptsturmfuhrer was displeased. 'What is this about? Who are these Jews?'

Russell explained about their daughter's disappearance. 'This is a journalistic matter,' he added, not wishing to involve Thomas.

'Can't you find anything more useful to write about?'

'If I stopped criticising the regime the Soviets would smell a rat.'

Hirth grunted his disapproval. 'So why did you mention this department?'

'Because I feared for my life, and I assumed you would want to save it.'

A lengthy silence followed. 'A big assumption,' Hirth said dryly. 'As it happens, you will find something waiting for you when you reach home. Something in need of your urgent attention. You are coming back to Berlin today?'

'I am.'

'Very well. Put the Sturmbannfuhrer back on.'

Russell fetched Lempfert, and watched as he listened to Hirth. 'It will be as you suggest,' Lempfert said finally. 'Thank you for your time, Hauptsturmfuhrer.' He replaced the telephone and looked up. 'You are free to go, Herr Russell. But next time, perhaps you would do us the courtesy of informing us of your plans in advance. It is we who are responsible for enforcing the race laws.'

'Of course. I apologise for not doing so.' He offered his hand across the desk. 'Thank you again.'

Out front, his original captors watched him leave with new expressions on their faces. A simple enemy had turned into something of a mystery - a foreigner who worked for the famous Heydrich, and who made enormous sacrifices for Reich and Fuhrer, like sleeping in a Jewish bed. Russell went across to the driver and offered his hand. The man seemed somewhat surprised, but accepted it.

'Can we drive you to the station?' he asked.

'Thank you, but no,' Russell said, keen to put the Wartha SA behind him. 'I need the exercise.'

It was a refusal he regretted ten minutes later, when the smoke rising above the station told him he had just missed his train. The next one, as he soon discovered, was not for another two hours. He spent them in the shade of the platform awning, sitting on the only bench and staring out across the sun-drenched grain. Hundreds of birds chattered in the copse of beeches beyond the empty siding, and every now and then a party of them would fly off towards the red-roofed farm in the far distance. It was an idyllic scene.

Russell remembered reading Wilde's
Picture of Dorian Grey
in the trenches, and idly wondered whether the Silesian countryside had made a similar pact with the devil. He imagined a landscape painting in Sturmbannfuhrer Lempfert's attic, fields of rotting crops under a red sky, an SA lynch party driving away from a burning farm.

It wasn't until he was settled in his compartment seat, and the train was pulling out of Wartha, that his hands began to shake. He sat there watching them, remembering the same reaction over twenty years before, some hours after a much-dreaded assault across no man's land had been cancelled.

His train reached Breslau just before three, saving him the choice between interviewing Torsten and catching the same service that Miriam had caught. The next Berlin train was not until nearly six, which gave him plenty of time to find the department store where the boy worked and collect his suitcase from the hotel.

He tried to telephone Effi from the Monopol but there was no answer. The receptionist took one long look at his battered cheek but said nothing. She told him the only modern-looking store in Breslau was the Petersdorff, and agreed to keep his suitcase behind her desk while he visited it. Following her directions, Russell walked up Schweidnitzer Strasse and turned right opposite the Rathaus. The Petersdorff store was on a corner one block down, a futuristic oasis in a sea of German tradition. The windows of the main frontage stretched the length of the building, and were rolled around in a semi-circle at one corner, like a six storey-lighthouse. The overall impression was of six trams piled on top of each other, speeding into the future. It looked like it had been left behind by aliens.

In a way it had. It reminded Russell of the Universum, and he was not surprised to find that Erich Mendelssohn had designed it. He was, however, surprised to find that fact still acknowledged on a plaque by the main entrance - Mendelssohn's name had long since disappeared from the Universum.

Inside he asked for the manager's office, and was directed to a suite of rooms on the second floor. The manager was a youngish man with a Pomeranian accent and an obvious desire to please. He confirmed that Torsten Resch worked there, and obligingly agreed to Russell's request for a short private chat without asking for details of the 'family matter' in question. Torsten arrived a few minutes later, a gangly youth with a shock of fair hair. He looked suitably bewildered.

The manager left them to it.

'What is this about?' the boy asked. 'Has something happened at home?'

'Nothing. I'm here about Miriam Rosenfeld.'

The boy's features seemed to soften. 'You have a message for me?'

'She has disappeared,' Russell said bluntly.

'What?'

'She travelled to Berlin, but no one has seen her since she arrived.'

'But that was weeks ago. And her uncle was supposed to meet her.'

'He was beaten up on his way to the station. He died a few days later. You saw her onto the train, right?'

'Yes, we had lunch together. She said I could write to her, but she hasn't sent me her address...'

'She didn't say anything about what she intended to do in Berlin?'

'I told you. She was going to meet her uncle. He had arranged a job for her.'

'She didn't know anyone else there?'

'No, I'm sure she didn't. How could she?'

He seemed genuinely distressed. 'All right,' Russell said. 'Thank you for talking to me.'

Torsten got up slowly. 'If you...' he began. 'If you find out what has happened, will you let me know? I like Miriam,' he said simply. 'I know she's Jewish, but...' He shrugged away his inability to change that fact. 'I've always liked her,' he added, as if it was a shameful secret he had to share.

'I'll let you know,' Russell promised.

The Berlin train left on time, and much to Russell's relief suffered only a few minor delays. It pulled into Silesian Station a few minutes short of midnight, and he stopped at the first public telephone to call Effi . She answered immediately, sounding excited. 'What's happened?' he asked.

'I'll tell you when you get here.'