Haferkamp had said, but he still hadn’t liked him. The man might be sincere in his political convictions, but they weren’t what drove him on. He might have been a good comrade once, but the Nazis and Soviets had taken their toll, and his heart was running on empty.
He was also backing the losing side. Russell wondered what an old communist like Brecht would find to admire in the current KPD leadership. Maybe nothing. It would explain why he hadn’t come back from America.
It was still only five — he had two hours to kill before his meeting with Isendahl’s ‘Jewish Avengers’. The name made him smile, which was probably not the effect they were hoping for.
He found a small bar behind the wreckage of the old Reich Statistical Office — the pre-war press corps had called it Fiction Central — and exchanged a pack of cigarettes for a glass of alleged bourbon. The only other customers were two Red Army soldiers, and they were engrossed in a game of chess. The barman disappeared out back in response to a woman’s summons, leaving Russell to idly skim through the Soviet-sponsored Tagliche Rundschau that someone had left on the bar. It was full of poems and short stories, and almost devoid of politics. A reader from Mars might reasonably conclude that sponsoring the arts was the Russians’ main reason for being in Berlin.
Well, no one could make that mistake with the British or Americans.
Two ‘bourbons’ and two excellent short stories later, he was ready for the Nokmim.
When he reached Isendahl’s building, the man himself was standing in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. ‘We’re meeting in a cafe,’ he announced, crushing the stub under his foot. ‘It’s not far.’
It was three streets away, in the candlelit basement of a bombed-out house, and felt more like somebody’s kitchen than a commercial establishment. There were two Nokmim waiting for them, and rather to Russell’s surprise one was a young woman. She seemed to have blonde hair — it was hard to be sure in the gloom — and probably blue eyes too. Her companion, a man of similar age, had a mass of frizzy hair which stuck out at the sides, and gave him the look of a wind-blown cedar. His piercing stare reminded Russell — somewhat inappropriately — of the happily departed Fuhrer.
Isendahl introduced them — the man’s name was Yeichel, the woman’s Cesia — and then sat off to one side, rather in the manner of an umpire.
‘What would you like to tell me?’ Russell asked the two of them.
‘You ask the questions,’ Yeichel said. ‘Isn’t that how it works?’
‘Okay. Tell me about the Nokmim? Who are you? What are your aims?’
Yeichel man smiled for the first time, and it lit up his face. ‘Do you know Psalm 94?’ he asked.
‘Not that I remember.’
‘He will repay them for their iniquity, and wipe them out for their wickedness; the Lord our God will wipe them out.’
‘The Nazis, I assume. So if God has them in his sights, where do you come in? Are you God’s instruments?
‘Not at all. If there is a God, he has clearly abandoned the Jews. We will do the work that he should have done.’
‘And wipe out the Nazis.’
‘That is the intention.’
Cesia seemed about to add something, but apparently thought better of the idea.
‘Have many of you are there?’ Russell asked.
‘A hundred or so. Perhaps more by now.’
‘And you have a leader?’
‘Our leader’s name is Abba Kovner. He is from Vilna. He was the leader of the ghetto uprising there, and the commander of the partisan army in Rudnicki Forest.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘We cannot tell you that.’
‘And the rest of the group?’
‘All across Europe. Wherever Nazis or their friends can be found.’
‘And you plan to wipe them out?’
‘We plan to kill as many as possible.’
Russell found himself imagining an army of 19th-century Russian anarchists carrying out coordinated bombings. ‘How?’ he asked.
‘However we can.’ Yeichel made a face. ‘And when we strike, you will have the answer to your question.’
Russell paused to marshal his thoughts. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked. The answer seemed obvious, but he wanted to hear it from them.
‘The world must know who was responsible, and why.’
‘You want me to explain your actions after the event. Like a spokesman. But I can’t promise to dress it up the way you want me to. I understand your desire for vengeance, but that doesn’t make it a good idea. Some might accuse you of acting like Nazis.’
‘So we should turn the other cheek?’ Cesia asked, speaking for the first time. ‘We are not Christians,’ she added contemptuously.
‘No,’ Russell agreed.
‘Look around this city,’ Yeichel said calmly. ‘Everywhere you turn, there are Nazis resuming their old lives as if nothing had happened. No one is going to punish them.’
‘We are living in the ruins of their capital.’
‘Oh, the Germans have been punished for invading other countries. But not for what they did to us. Read the reports from Nuremberg — the Jews are hardly mentioned.’
‘We are the lucky ones,’ Cesia said bitterly. ‘We survived when millions didn’t, and we owe them a debt. One day we will have homes and families and jobs again, but our war will not be over until that debt is paid. Until then we belong to the dead.’
‘And when do you think that might be?’
‘Soon,’ Yeichel told him. ‘We have a homeland to build in Palestine, so our business here cannot take long.’
Russell could think of other questions, but he wanted away from the two of them, from her burning resentment and his chilling self-righteousness. Haferkamp would have fitted right in.
Three corroded souls.
Interview over, he and Isendahl walked back down to Neue Konigstrasse. ‘What do you think they’re planning?’ Russell asked his companion, not really expecting an answer.
‘I don’t know. But… I have a Jewish friend — this is off the record, all right?’
‘Okay.’
‘This friend is also in a group — they call themselves the Ghosts of Treblinka. Or just the Ghosts. And they look for ex-Nazis. Not the sort who just joined the Party out of greed or fear, but men who killed Jews, or sought profit from their deaths. Men they could turn over to the Occupation authorities with a reasonable expectation of punishment.’
‘Sounds admirable.’
‘But they don’t turn them over,’ Isendahl continued. ‘They dress up as British soldiers, tell these men they’re arresting them, and then drive them out into the countryside. When they reach their destination, they tell the Nazi that they’re Jews, and execute him.’
‘Ah.’ Russell found himself wondering whether the Ghosts made use of Kyritz Wood. ‘You think the Nokmim are planning something similar?’
‘No. I told Cesia about these people, and she hated what they were doing. She said they were treating the Nazis as individuals, which was not how the Nazis had treated the Jews. She said the Nazis should be killed the way the Jews were killed. Anonymously, impersonally. On an industrial scale.’
‘Of course,’ Russell murmured. ‘Gas?’ he wondered out loud. ‘Poison in the water? But where would they find that many Nazis?’
‘In a prison camp.’
‘Did they tell you that?’
