Kyritz Wood
Russell left early for his trip out to Wittenau, but the buses and trains proved worse on a Saturday, and it was early afternoon before he reached the French military base. The duty officer examined his passport and found his name on the shortlist in front of him, but still felt the need to seek confirmation from a senior officer. The major who emerged reeked of Gauloises, and gave Russell a long stare before examining his documentation.
Russell kept his temper. If they were seeking an excuse to renege on the promised visit, he wasn’t going to offer them one.
He wondered sourly why the French were even here in Berlin. The Resistance might have covered itself in glory, but the regular army had played no significant part in the Wehrmacht’s defeat. Half the generals had supported Vichy, yet here they were claiming equal shares in the occupation.
The major returned the passport to his subordinate, and walked back into his room without a word to Russell. A few seconds later a lieutenant appeared, and asked Russell to accompany him. They walked down a long line of wooden barracks still bearing Hitlerjugend exhortations, and into a large two-storey brick building. In an upstairs room two upright seats faced each other across an open table. The only item of wall decoration was an unframed photograph of General de Gaulle.
After about five minutes the door swung open and a limping Uwe Kuzorra was ushered in by the same lieutenant.
The detective showed surprise and pleasure when he saw who his visitor was. ‘John Russell,’ he said with a smile, extending his hand.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ the French lieutenant said, and left them to it.
They sat down. Kuzorra looked in poor health, Russell thought, but then so did most Berliners. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said, ‘but if we have only fifteen minutes we’d better save the small talk for later. I’m here to help, so tell me why you’ve been arrested.’
‘I was denounced as a former member of the SS.’
‘But you were never…’
‘Not in the usual way, no, but the reorganisations under Heydrich did confuse matters.’
‘But there must be colleagues out there who will testify that you were never a Nazi.’
‘There might be. But it wouldn’t help.’
‘Why not? Who denounced you?’
‘A man named Martin Ossietsky.’
‘Why? Has he got a grudge against you?’
Kuzorra shook his head. ‘He was paid to denounce me, and if his accusations prove insufficient then there’ll be others.’
‘Who paid him?’
‘A man I was trying to bring down. His name’s Rudolf Geruschke.’
It was Russell’s turn to be surprised. ‘The owner of the Honey Trap?’
‘Among other things. You’ve met him?’
‘In passing. I can’t say I liked him.’
Kuzorra grimaced. ‘He’s one of the Grosschieber, the black market kingpins. And probably the worst of them — some draw the line at certain traffics, but not him.’
Russell had a mental picture of Geruschke and the American colonel. ‘I’ve got a friend in the French press — according to his sources, it was the Americans who asked for your arrest. Could they be in bed with him?’
Kuzorra considered. ‘It’s a thought. I’d assumed they were being overzealous, but Geruschke might have friends over there. Some Americans have got very rich here, especially in the last few months.’
‘I might have some pull in that direction,’ Russell told him. ‘Maybe not enough, but I can try. What about colleagues? You can’t have been handling the investigation on your own.’
‘It sometimes felt like it. And I don’t imagine any of my colleagues have been eager to pursue matters since my arrest — they know a threat when they see one. I expect the investigation has been abandoned, or put off until “circumstances are more favourable”. And there’s nothing unusual about that — most black market investigations have ended the same way. They’re too damn dangerous. The black marketeers have guns to spare, but the occupation authorities won’t let us carry them.’
‘Okay,’ Russell agreed, ‘but it must be worth finding out whether they’ve given up on Geruschke. Are there any of your colleagues who would talk to me?’ Dallin, he knew, would need more than his and Kuzorra’s protestations of the latter’s innocence to take up the case.
‘Gregor would probably talk to you,’ the detective decided after some thought. ‘Gregor Jentzsch. He still has the makings of a good policeman, despite four years in the East. He works at the station on Mullerstrasse, and
lives a few blocks further down — Gerichtstrasse 44.’
‘I’ll find him. Now what have the French told you? Have they given you a date for a hearing?’
Kuzorra shook his head. ‘They’ve told me nothing.’
‘I’ll ask,’ Russell promised.
‘Good luck. I’m surprised you found someone to tell you I’d been arrested.’
‘One of your neighbours saw them take you away. I came to thank you for what you did in ’41.’
Kuzorra grunted. ‘I was glad you got away. Every now and then I got the chance to stick a spoke in the bastards’ wheels, and nothing gave me more joy. The one great pleasure I have here is knowing that most of my fellow inmates are Nazis.’ He smiled. ‘What are you doing now?’
‘Effi took in a young Jewish girl near the end of the war, and we’ve come back to look for her father. Or find out how he died. And Miriam Rosenfeld — remember her, the girl who disappeared at Silesian Station?’
‘I saw her,’ Kuzorra said unexpectedly. ‘Not long after you escaped — just after the New Year, I think. I was walking down Neue Konigstrasse, and this young woman was walking in the opposite direction. I looked at her photograph often enough when I was questioning people at Silesian Station. I’m sure it was her. She had a baby in a pram.’
‘A baby?’
‘A baby, a small child — I didn’t get a good look. The mother looked happy, I remember that. She hurried on past when she saw me staring at her, which was no great surprise. She wasn’t wearing a star, but of course I knew she was a Jew.’
The French lieutenant reappeared, and indicated that their time was up.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ Russell told the detective.
‘Be careful with Geruschke. I was nowhere near nailing the bastard and he got me locked up — I dread to think what would happen to anyone who really threatened him.’
‘I’ll bear it mind.’
When Russell asked his French escort how long Kuzorra would be held, he got only a Gallic shrug in return. Back at the office, the major had disappeared, and the duty officer might as well have. This particular investigation was not yet complete, he said. If Monsieur Russell wished to testify on the prisoner’s behalf, he should leave his address, and someone would be in touch.
With Kuzorra’s warning still fresh in his mind, Monsieur Russell declined to leave his address. If the detective was right, the only people who could get him released were the people who had got him locked him up — the Americans. Russell would be waiting at Dallin’s door when he arrived on Monday morning.
In the meantime, he had news of Miriam. News that was four years old, but four was better than six. In September 1939 she’d been in terrible shape, and here she was more than two years later with a baby in a pram. And ‘looking happy’. She must have found somewhere safe to live, at least until then. So why not the four years that followed? It still felt unlikely, but less so than it had.
Darkness was beginning to fall by the time he reached Wittenau Station. They were dining at Ali’s again, but he still had time to visit Gregor Jentzsch. After changing trains at Gesundbrunnen, he took the Ringbahn to Wedding and walked the short distance to Gerichtstrasse.
The street seemed more intact than most. The man who answered the door was around thirty, with short blond hair, gold-rimmed glasses and a boyish face. Hearing the name Kuzorra made him wary, but he agreed to give
