She looked at him. Until that moment, she’d been planning on hiring him — or whoever he recommended — with some sort of cock-and-bull story, and without revealing her motives. But it made more sense to be straight with him. She would have a clearer conscience, and probably get better results. ‘I need a photographer,’ she began. ‘I need someone to take pictures at the Honey Trap nightclub on the Ku’damm without arousing suspicion. Inside and outside. Inside, the photographer should look like he’s concentrating on the singer Irma Wocz — she’s an old friend, by the way — but catch as many people in the background as he can. Staff in particular, but customers too. The club is on a corner, and there’s a back way out onto Leibniz Strasse which only employees use. The buildings across the street were destroyed, and there’s plenty of rubble for a photographer to hide in. I need pictures of anyone using that exit.’
‘Are you going to tell me what it’s all about?’ Zembski asked.
‘The man who owns the club is a black marketeer who employs ex-Nazis. If I have photographs, I can get them identified.’
‘Why not just go to the Americans?’
‘That’s a long story. John could tell you…’
‘Ah, Mr Russell. Always in trouble with the authorities.’
‘I’ll tell him you said so. He’ll be pleased.’
Zembski laughed.
‘So do you still work as a photographer?’
‘No, I don’t.’
There was something in the way he said it that made her ask why.
‘The camp I was in — the commandant saw the occupation on my arrest sheet, and made me his camp photographer. I won’t go into what he had me photograph.’
‘I understand. Can you recommend someone else?’
‘Actually I can. He’s the son of someone I knew in the camp — someone who died there. I let the boy use my old studio in Neukolln. His name’s Horst Sattler. He’s young, but he’s good. Mostly he buys and sells cameras — there’s not much demand for wedding pictures at the moment — but he knows how to use a camera. And I think he’d like your proposition.’ Zembski looked at his watch. ‘He’s usually there until about six. Say that you talked to me about the job, and that I recommended him.’
She wrote down the address he dictated, promised to convey his good wishes to Russell, and walked to the nearest U-Bahn. Half an hour later she was in the studio, introducing herself to its young proprietor. Horst Sattler was skinny, with bushy black hair and glasses that made him look like a teenage Trotsky. Through the window behind him several young boys were playing football with a battered tin can.
Sattler’s eyes lit up when Effi outlined what she wanted — which was hardly the reaction she expected. Did he realise who she was talking about, that there might be dangers involved?
‘Of course,’ he said with a grin, as if surreptitiously photographing black marketeers was something he did all the time.
‘I haven’t sorted out the inside part yet,’ Effi told him; ‘I have to talk to my singer friend.’ Which was not only true, but would also give the boy a chance to prove his worth without actually sticking his head between Geruschke’s jaws. ‘If you could start outside…’
‘Absolutely. I have the perfect lens.’ He took it out to show her, and rattled on about stops and apertures and heaven knew what else.
‘You must be careful,’ she insisted. ‘Don’t let them see you.’
He raised both palms towards her. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll have an escape route planned. And my assistants — he waved a hand in the direction of the boys outside — will be on the look-out. We’ve done this sort of thing before.’
She was astonished. ‘When? Who else have you been taking pictures of?’
‘Wives,’ he said succinctly. ‘Most husbands these days know not to ask where their food and fuel come from. But there’s still some stupid enough not to make the connection. They think their wives are being unfaithful for the fun of it.’ He shook his head, as if the antics of the adult world were too strange to credit. ‘These days I’m more like a private detective than a photographer.’
Effi had to smile. ‘So how much is this going to cost me?’
He considered. ‘Given who the mark is, I’d almost do it for free. But I am running a business, and there are my “irregulars” to consider…’
‘Your what?’
‘The boys outside. Haven’t you read Sherlock Holmes?’
‘Never.’ John’s son Paul had tried to persuade her, but all she’d read in those days were scripts.
He tutted his disapproval, but otherwise let her failing pass. ‘A pack for every face I capture?’ he suggested, lingering almost lovingly on the final word.
‘Okay,’ Effi agreed. She had no idea whether that was a good deal, but was sure she could find more cigarettes from somewhere. And she didn’t think he would cheat her.
She started to give him directions, but he interrupted her: ‘I know where the Honey Trap is. Will you come here to see the pictures, or do you want them delivered?’
‘Deliver them, if you can. I live in Dahlem, and I rarely get enough time off work to travel this far.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m an actress.’
He looked impressed. ‘Should I have recognised your name?’
‘Not these days,’ she said. And not at your age, she thought.
‘Do you have a telephone that works?’
‘Sometimes.’ She gave him the number and the Dahlem address. ‘You can talk to me, John Russell or Thomas Schade — no one else. Okay?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll be in touch when I have something to show you.’
She was halfway to the door when another idea came to her. ‘Your “irregulars” — do you ever use them to follow erring wives?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Well some of the men leaving by the rear exit might go off on foot. I’d throw in another pack of cigarettes for each address that goes with a face.’
In the morning their one-coach train wheezed its way up through the snow-strewn foothills, arriving in Nachod soon after nine. The small town seemed unmarked by the war, but appearances were clearly deceptive — according to Albert, only twenty of its three hundred Jews had survived. And it was two of these — Moshe Rosman and Yehuda Lippmann — who had turned Nachod into a staging post for the Jews now fleeing Poland.
Both had been prominent businessmen before the Nazi takeover, and unlike most of their Polish counterparts had experienced little difficulty recovering their assets once the Germans were gone. Rosman’s oak-panelled office near the station certainly seemed of long standing, and it was hard to believe that the man behind the desk had recently been in Auschwitz. Once Albert had introduced Russell, and told Rosman what his friend was writing, the Czech insisted they both have lunch with him and Lippmann.
Leaving Albert to conduct his Haganah business, Russell worked his way down the short list that Rosman had given him, of individuals and families who took in transient Jews. None had any that day, but more were expected soon, and no one seemed put out by the prospect. They weren’t doing anything special, one woman told him — just providing food and lodging for a few nights.
At lunch he and Albert heard the full story from Rosman and Lippmann. Both seemed around forty, but were probably younger. Rosman’s parents and only sibling had died in Auschwitz, as had Lippmann’s wife, child and sisters. Soon after their return to Nachod a nearby camp had been liberated by the Russians, and they had done their best to feed and shelter the several hundred emaciated women who suddenly appeared on their doorsteps. They had approached their non-Jewish neighbours for help, and been almost overwhelmed by the response.
At first the townspeople were helping Jews find their way back to Poland, but since the summer the flow had reversed. Most returnees had searched in vain for the families left behind, and many had been given a hostile reception. The new Polish government had said all the right things, but fresh outbreaks of anti-Semitic violence were becoming an almost weekly occurrence, and those Jews that could had decided to cut their losses. They might
