again, but he was Lothar’s father.
She walked back outside, and asked a passing boy for directions. Ten minutes later she was outside a door signed ‘Jens Biesinger, Director’. Of what, it didn’t say.
She knocked and a familiar voice said ‘Come in.’
The expression on Jens’s face passed through astonishment and pleasure before settling on apprehension. ‘Effi!’ he said, scrambling out of his chair and advancing for a familial embrace.
She allowed him one kiss on the cheek before shooing him back to his chair. He was wearing a remarkably shabby suit, a far cry from the Nazi uniform which Zarah had ironed about ten times a day. But he looked in better health than most Berliners, and several kilos fatter than when she’d last seen him four years before.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘I work here.’
Why haven’t you been arrested, she wanted to ask.
‘Lothar, is he alive?’ There was a quiver in his voice, as if he feared the answer. ‘And Zarah, of course.’
‘They’re both in London.’
‘London!?’
‘It’s a long story. We’ve all been living there. John and I only came back last week.’
‘London,’ Jens repeated. ‘I spent months looking for them. I never dreamed… Are they coming back too?’
‘I expect so. Eventually.’
‘How is Lothar? Does he ask about me? And Zarah… why hasn’t she…?’
‘She assumed you were dead. Or in prison. We all did.’
‘Why would I be in prison?’
‘Your past allegiances,’ she suggested.
He looked a trifle shamefaced, but the justification was clearly well-honed. ‘I was in the Party, true, but so were millions of others. I was a civil servant, after all, working for the state, so loyalty was expected. But we civil servants were not responsible for framing policies — we just did what we were told to do.’
Effi shook her head in disbelief, but he didn’t seem to notice.
‘Will you give me their address in London?’
‘No, but I’ll give her yours. And I’m sure she will write to you, for Lothar’s sake. And I know he will.’
‘I’m still at the old house on Taunusstrasse. In the basement, that is — there are families on the other two floors. It is good to see you,’ he said, as if vaguely surprised by the fact.
Effi smiled, and wished she could say the same. She told herself she was being mean. Lothar, at least, would he happy to hear that his father was alive. Not to mention free as a bird.
After finding and drinking a better than expected coffee in a cafe just off the Stephansplatz, Russell set off with his ancient Baedeker in search of the Rothschild Hospital. Beyond Vienna’s inner ring road the war damage was less extensive, and several streets seemed almost pristine. There was an obvious dearth of motor traffic — even the jeeps of the occupying forces seemed thin on the ground — and some vistas seemed more redolent of the Habsburg Empire than 1945.
The pavements outside the Rothschild Hospital were crowded with Jews. They were not, as one told Russell, intent on getting in, but were waiting for friends or relatives who might soon arrive from the east. The hospital itself had suffered some damage, but most of it seemed in use. After queuing at one of several reception desks in the old emergency room he was given directions to the Haganah office.
It was in the basement, at the other end of the long building. The corridors were jammed with people, and the rooms on either side offered a wonderful kaleidoscope of activities, from shoe repair through kindergarten lessons to full medical examinations. By the time Russell reached the Haganah office he felt as if he’d travelled through a small country.
The office was not much larger than a cupboard, but its contents seemed admirably organised. The man squeezed behind the desk introduced himself as Yoshi Mizrachi. He was obviously not surprised by Russell’s appearance, which was something of a relief. He spoke English with a London accent, and opened proceedings by stressing the restrictions on Russell’s reporting — he must not mention real names, of either people or places, if such exposure might compromise the Aliyah Beth.
Russell raised an eyebrow at the last phrase.
‘It is what we call this emigration. Aliyah has no direct English translation, but “moving to a better, or a higher, place” is as close as I can tell you. Beth means second — the first emigration is the one allowed by the British — only a few hundred per year.’
Russell wrote it down. ‘No names,’ he agreed.
Mizrachi passed a folded piece of paper across the desk. ‘This says that you are a journalist sympathetic to our cause, one that our people can trust. In some places you may be asked to produce it.’
Russell assumed the writing was in Hebrew. He wasn’t so sure about the sympathy — Zionism seemed a pretty mixed bag when it came to rights and wrongs — but Mizrachi’s imprimatur could hardly hurt. The journalist inside him bristled a little at having to prove his trustworthiness. ‘Is this necessary?’ he asked mildly.
‘It might be. Forgive my bluntness, Mr Russell, but there are many Jews on this road who would be only too happy if they never saw a goy again, and they will treat you as an enemy. This letter will persuade at least some of them to give you the benefit of the doubt.’
‘That makes sense,’ Russell admitted. He asked Mizrachi what his official position was.
‘I don’t have one. I’m a sheliakh, an emissary. There are many of us in Europe now. In all the countries where Jews are living and travelling.’
‘Was it the Haganah who got it all started? The Aliyah Beth, I mean?’
‘Not in Europe, no. It was young men and women from Poland and Lithuania — partisan fighters, most of them. They began establishing routes before the war was even over. They sent the first people south to Romania and the Black Sea, and then others through Hungary and Yugoslavia. Once the war was over it became possible to move people westwards, into the American zones in Germany and Austria.’
‘How did the Haganah get involved?’
‘We’ve always been involved in bringing Jews to Palestine — we have a special section called Mossad which is responsible for this. When the war ended the British Jewish Brigade was billeted in north-east Italy, outside Tarvisio. The Mossad people visited the camps in Germany and Austria, and talked to the Jewish DPs about Palestine. Those that expressed an interest were told where to go.’
‘So you are running things now?’
‘Yes and no. We provide documents — mostly forged, of course. We arrange routes and transport. We negotiate border crossings, usually with bribes. We’ve created reception areas along the way, with food and shelter for large groups. But we do have a lot of help. The organisations themselves can’t openly support us, but there are many individuals in the US Army, UNRRA, the Red Cross, the Italian police — even the Vatican, believe it or not — who do their best to smooth our way. This place is run by UNRRA, the US Army’s DP division, the city’s Jewish Committee and the DPs themselves. It’s often chaotic, but most of the time we all seem to be on the same page.’
‘So what’s the official position of the occupying powers? The British are obviously hostile, so I don’t suppose the Americans can be openly helpful. And what about the Soviets?’
‘The Russians don’t seem to care. The Americans… well, like you said, they’re stuck in the middle. A few weeks ago they intercepted three of our trains at Linz, and sent them straight back here. We organised demonstrations, got publicity in the American press, and they agreed to organise transit camps if we restricted the flow to 5,000 a month, which is more than it’s ever been. They want to help us.’
‘And the Italian authorities?’
‘Much the same. In fact, we had an almost identical situation with them — a trainload of refugees which the British wanted sent back. They forced the Italian police to put our people back on board, which took them half a day and really ticked them off. Ever since then the Italians have turned a blind eye whenever they could.’
‘Are there lots of different routes?’
‘Usually one or two. They change — one gets closed and another opens up.’
‘Does everyone end up in Italy?’
