a party of Jews heading in the opposite direction, around thirty in total, with the usual male majority. The luggage on display was remarkable, with everything from battered old suitcases to paper bags pushed into service. Spare pairs of shoes were laced together and hung around necks, and several umbrellas were vainly raised to ward off the mist. Many were carrying fresh loaves of bread, parting gifts from the refugee centre in Bratislava.
The two of them reached the city as darkness was falling, and walked down through rapidly emptying streets to a square at the heart of the old quarter. A domed Byzantine church loomed over one side; the other was dominated by the stone-built Hotel Jelen, where UNRRA and the Haganah shared quarters and responsibility for the Jewish emigrants. A small door cut in a larger gate led into a woebegone courtyard, overlooked by scum-covered windows and rusted iron balconies. They climbed the stone staircase to the first-floor reception, whose walls were plastered in writing. As Albert talked to the man at the desk, Russell skimmed through the messages in search of an Otto or Miriam. He found no trace of either, but the walls themselves seemed worthy of preservation. The wrong religion perhaps, but they brought back memories of reading Pilgrim’s Progress at school; there was something both chaotic and intensely focussed about this migration, and a sense that nothing could deflect it.
The Jews he met that evening did nothing to shift this impression — even those intent on reaching America seemed committed to the Zionist idea. Albert gave a brief talk on current conditions in Palestine, and Russell sat at the back of the rearranged dining room, watching the eager faces of those all around him. He was impressed by Albert, who managed to enthuse and reassure his audience without minimising the obvious difficulties. When one man asked what their chances of reaching Palestine were, he said ‘one hundred per cent’ — some might have to accept British hospitality for a while, but everyone would get there eventually. When another man asked if their women would be safe, he didn’t just say yes, he turned the question round. ‘Where,’ he asked his audience, ‘could a Jew find greater safety than in a Jewish state?’
Afterwards, when Russell congratulated him, Albert thought he might have ‘laid it on a little thick. But we need them,’ he insisted. ‘We need every Jew we can get.’
Russell said nothing to the contrary, but Albert must have detected some hint of ambivalence. ‘You’re not sure about it, are you?’ he said later, as they lay in their parallel bunks. ‘Our need for a homeland.’
Russell took the question seriously. ‘I don’t know. It’s hard. I spent most of my life learning to hate nationalism, and all the other evils it gives rise to. And nationalisms built around race — as you and I know only too well — can be even more murderous. But putting all that to one side, and accepting that the Jews have the same rights to a homeland as anyone else, there’s still the problem of the Arabs. Palestine already has a population. You’re not moving into an empty house.’
‘Jews have lived there for thousands of years.’
‘So have Arabs.’
‘God gave it to the Jews.’
‘Says who? I didn’t think you were religious.’
Albert grinned. ‘I’m not.’
‘I don’t think you can use the Bible as a title deed,’ Russell insisted.
‘Some people do. Like the Europeans who conquered the Americas — being in touch with the right God made everything okay.’
‘You don’t believe that.’
‘I think that’s what will happen.’
Russell thought about that. ‘Maybe it will,’ he conceded. ‘A friend of mine suggested emptying Cyprus — the Greeks to Greece, the Turks to Turkey — and then giving it to the Jews. Lovely beaches, good soil, not that far from Jerusalem.’
Albert propped his head up on one arm and gave Russell a look. ‘We already have our homeland.’
‘Yes, I expect you do.’
‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ Albert said. ‘I understand why the Poles are expelling the Germans from their new territories. And I understand why they’re making it impossible for the Jews to return. If my friends and I have our way, the Arabs will all be expelled from Palestine. Anything else is just storing up trouble for the future.’
‘That will put a bit of a strain on the world’s sympathy, don’t you think?’
‘Once we have the land, we can do without the sympathy.’
Since deducing the connections between her ex-Gestapo man, Geruschke and the Americans, Effi had been wondering what she should do. The sensible course, the one Seymour Exner had advised her to follow, was to wait for Russell’s return. They could then ignore his threats together.
The fact that Exner had suggested waiting for Russell rather prejudiced her against the notion, but as long as working consumed most of her waking hours, and exhaustion ruled the rest, she had little choice in the matter. Then on Tuesday the film’s leading man came down with a heavy cold, the cast was given the whole day off, and the chance arose to set something in motion.
But what? After giving the matter more thought, she still had no idea where to start with Geruschke, and reluctantly conceded that waiting for Russell might, in this one case, make sense. So what else could she do? Russell was dealing with Otto 3, Shchepkin, hopefully, with Otto 2. Kuzorra’s sighting of Miriam had given them hope, but there were no more people to ask and no more places to check — all she could do was wait and hope for some response to their messages.
Once satisfied that logic, and not Seymour Exner, had ruled out anything else, she decided it was time to deal with her flat, and the people who were living there. It wasn’t a prospect she was savouring, but she couldn’t put it off for ever.
She and Thomas had discussed the situation again, and he’d more or less confirmed what she already knew. If abandoning the property and ejecting the occupants were equally unpalatable, then all that remained was negotiation — she would have to meet those concerned, and make it clear that she wanted the flat back at some not-too-distant point in the future. If the occupants were reasonable people, then they could all agree a timetable. If they weren’t, Effi would just have to tell them she was starting legal proceedings.
All of which sounded fine, she thought, standing outside on the familiar street. And now for real people.
She climbed the communal staircase and knocked at the door. The woman who answered was thin and almost haggard, with pale blue eyes and straggly blonde hair.
‘What do you want?’ the woman asked, as Effi searched for the right thing to say.
She took a deep breath. ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this. My name’s Effi Koenen, and this is my flat.’
‘Yours?’
‘Yes. My parents bought it in 1924, and gave it to me in 1931. I lived her for ten years, until 1941, when it was confiscated by the government.’
The woman looked bewildered. ‘So how can it still be yours?’
‘It was the Nazi Government that confiscated it. Their laws are no longer recognised,’ she added, with less than complete honesty.
‘Oh.’ The woman seemed unsure what to do. ‘Well you’d better come in.’
Effi accepted the invitation to examine her old home. Some of the furniture was hers, but the flat as a whole seemed like somebody else’s, and for a few brief moments she experienced an acute sense of loss.
A child was sitting in the middle of the floor — a girl of about four with her mother’s hair and eyes. ‘What’s your name?’ Effi asked.
‘Ute,’ the girl said.
‘I’m Effi. How long have you lived here?’ she asked the mother.
‘Since March. We were given the flat by the Housing Office — you can check with them. No one said anything about an owner.’
‘Maybe the records were destroyed. Or they didn’t realise I was still among the living.’ The little girl was still staring at her, and Effi realised how cold it was in the flat. There were a few pieces of wood by the fireplace, but they were probably being saved for the evening. Noticing two rolled-up beds in the corner, she asked the woman where her other two children were.
‘The boys are at school. Look… we came from Konigsberg — my husband was killed by the Russians.’ There was a dreadful weariness in her eyes as she looked around her. ‘But if this is yours…’
