Isendahl smiled at the conceit. His view of the Nokmim seemed a mix of amusement and awe.
Russell had never heard of the group, but he recognised the makings of a story. He asked Isendahl if he was in contact with them.
He wasn’t, but he promised to ask around. He was thinking of becoming a journalist himself — or a writer of some sort — once Europe was put back together.
‘Do you remember Miriam Rosenfeld?’ Russell asked abruptly.
‘The mute one.’
‘Do you know what happened to her?’
‘Not in the end, no.’
‘Did she get better?’
‘Yes, she did. I remember now — she had a baby, and that changed everything. Or so I heard.’
‘Did she stay with the same family?’
‘The Wildens? Yes, but later they were killed in the bombing. Someone told me that Miriam hadn’t been hurt, but I don’t know what happened to her after that — we all got more isolated as the war went on. But I can ask around.’
‘Thanks. I don’t suppose you know any Otto Pappenheims?’ He explained about Rosa, and their search for her father.
‘I do know one Otto Pappenheim. Not well — I only met him once.’
‘When was this? How old would he be now?’
‘I only met him a few weeks ago. I should think he’s about thirty-five.’
‘Did he ever have a wife and daughter?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘How would I find him?’
‘Good question. He’s not in Berlin, anymore. He and a friend of mine went off to Poland last month. They’re on their way to Palestine.’
‘Through Poland?’
‘The road begins there, in Silesia. Do you know about this?’
Russell shook his head. He had assumed that Palestine-bound Jews were following well-beaten paths, but had seen no reports of their actual location.
‘A group called Brichah started organising things in Poland,’ Isendahl explained. ‘Then the Haganah — the army of the Palestinian Jews — did the same at their end, and eventually the two of them met in the middle. There are people right along the route now, in Czechoslovakia and Austria, across the mountains and down through Italy to the ports and the ships. The ships that the British try to intercept and send back.’ He noticed the gleam in Russell’s eyes. ‘Another good story, yes? And I am in contact with these people. I could arrange a meeting if you want. They won’t talk to many Western journalists, but I think they would talk to you.’
‘I’d like that,’ Russell admitted. It did sound like a great story, and he might get news of this third Otto Pappenheim.
Walking in the Grunewald was like walking through the past. Some damage had been done by stray bombs or shells, but nature was rapidly repairing all but the deepest scars, and the smell of the pines reminded Effi of Sunday strolls before the war. It was only when they reached the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Turm, and looked back across the treetops at the lacerated skyline in the distance, that the present again became real.
It was a cold day, and seemed to get colder as Annaliese told her story.
‘When I was picked up by American soldiers I felt really pleased with myself. I’d done it — I’d got away from the Russians. The GIs were pretty free with their suggestions, but the ones I met took no for an answer — I wasn’t raped, and neither were any of the other women I came across during those first few days. I was put on a truck with other refugees and some soldiers they’d found hiding in a village, and we were driven west. We were told that there were camps waiting for us, which sounded a little ominous, but just letting us loose didn’t sound so wonderful either — there had to be some sort of organisation, and we thought that was why they were keeping us together.
Annaliese shook her head. ‘We couldn’t have been more wrong. The camp was called Rheinberg — it can’t have been far from the river — and it was hell on earth. You wouldn’t believe how bad it was. There were thousands of us: mostly men, but families as well, and far too many children. When we got there it was just a huge field surrounded by barbed wire — there were no buildings, no tents, no shelter of any kind. And there was hardly any food. Teething troubles, I thought, but things got worse rather than better. Any food that arrived was rotten, and there was hardly any water. Before too long we were eating grass, and getting sick.’
‘People started digging holes for shelter — the soil was sandy so it wasn’t too hard — but the walls would collapse and those inside were covered in sand, and too weak to fight their way out. Almost everyone had dysentery, and the toilets were just poles strung across pits. People who didn’t have the strength to hold on would fall in and drown.’
‘Did the people higher up know about this?’ Effi asked. ‘Was it just this one camp?’
Annaliese shook her head. ‘I don’t know who knew, but it wasn’t just Rheinberg. I’ve met people since from several other camps, and they all sounded much the same. It was policy — it had to be. How should I say this? The guards didn’t beat people up or torture them with irons — they just killed them with neglect. We found out later that there was enough food and water — but they’d deliberately withheld it. During the weeks the Americans were in charge about a hundred bodies a day were carried out. They stacked them in quicklime outside the fence.
‘There were a few doctors in the camp, and several nurses like me. We did what we could, but it wasn’t much. We were all so weak ourselves. I’m still thinner than I was in the Bunker last spring.’
‘How did you get out?’
‘The camp was in the British zone, and in June the Americans handed it over. The British couldn’t believe what they found, and some of their officers talked to the press, but it was all hushed up. One officer told me that a few dead Germans weren’t worth a big row with the Americans, not with the Russians to worry about.’
‘I expected better of the Americans,’ Effi said.
‘So did I. But most of them seem so angry. When the British arrived they were much more sympathetic — they seem to get it that we weren’t all Nazis. The Americans hate us, or at least a lot of them do. The ones at Rheinberg blamed every last one of us for the war, and all the horrors that were done in our name. And they were quite prepared to let us all die.’
They were both silent for a few moments, listening to the breeze stirring the pines. ‘Why did you come back here?’ Effi eventually asked.
Annaliese smiled. ‘I missed the place. And I felt guilty about leaving Gerd’s parents to fend for themselves. I persuaded the British to let me go — one officer took a bit of a shine to me, I think — and I managed to get on a train. What a journey that was! I’ve never seen anything like it — every place we stopped there were other trains full of people, and huge camps by the side of the tracks, with everyone hungry and begging for food. It felt like the whole world was on the move.
‘It took me four days to get here. I needn’t have worried about Gerd’s parents — their staying was a damn sight more sensible than my going. They were surprised to see me, but pleased, I think. And I got my old job back. I took a trip in to the Elisabeth Hospital, partly to see if it was still there, and hoping to find old friends if it was. And of course they were short-staffed.’
‘But you’re a sister now.’
‘Impressive, isn’t it? The pay’s better too, or would be if the money ever showed up. And if you could buy anything with it. But it’s all so frustrating, Effi. Without medicines, we’re just a half-wrecked hotel with nurses. We know the medicine’s out there, but most of the time we can’t afford it. I ask you, what sort of bastard wants to get rich on the backs of dying children? After all we’ve been through, it’s still pieces of shit like that who are running things. Why don’t the occupation authorities do something about it?’
‘I think you already answered that — because, consciously or not, they want to see us suffer. And because they’re up to their ears in shit themselves.’
Annaliese gave her a look, part surprise, part admiration.
‘We’ve all lost our innocence,’ Effi said. ‘Even the children.’
