cafe. He’d noticed a letter with US Army postal markings on the man’s desk, so maybe Freya was in touch, or even coming back.
He eventually found a bar off Alexanderplatz, and spent a couple of hours sketching out a series of articles on ‘The Jews after Hitler’. He reached the corner of Hufelandstrasse just in time to see Effi step down from the Soviet bus, and stopped her in mid stride with a long whistle. She hurried towards him, eager to hear the news from Shchepkin.
‘It might have been Rosa’s dad,’ Russell told her, ‘but we’ll probably never know.’ He explained the circumstances of Otto 2’s disappearance.
Effi made a face. ‘What more can we do?’
‘Nothing more,’ Russell told her, ‘at least for the moment. I think we have to assume that Rosa’s an orphan, and act accordingly.’
She took his arm as they walked back down to Ali’s building. ‘There’s not much else we can do, is there? But she so needs to know, one way or another. She never says so, but I know that she does.’
And so do you, Russell thought.
They walked on up to the apartment, where another delicious-smelling meal was in preparation. Neither Ali nor Fritz had ever celebrated Christmas, but both confessed to a childhood fascination with the Christian festival and its rituals, particularly the one which involved taking a tree indoors and smothering it in trinkets. Fritz had been gifted a bottle of wine by a friend in the US forces, and they all drank a toast to the future.
‘While I remember,’ Effi said, ‘the photographer I told you about has taken some pictures.’ She took the sheaf from her bag and placed it on the table. ‘If you could show these around. The more people get to see them, the more we’ll identify.’
Ali leafed her way through them, Fritz looking over her shoulder. ‘The stuff of nightmares,’ he murmured. ‘If you do get them identified, what then?’
‘I’ll take the names to someone in the US records office.’ Russell replied. Luders had given him one contact, and there were bound to be others. ‘From there — I don’t know.’ He knew he should talk to Dallin before taking the matter any further, but he didn’t really want to.
‘Like mopping up after a battle,’ Fritz murmured.
Or clearing the decks for the next one, Russell thought sourly. He told himself to cheer the hell up. 1946 was bound to be better.
The women had gone into the kitchen, and he could see Effi leaning back against the wall, smiling at something. The world might be going even further to the dogs, but she was as wonderful as ever. How lucky was he?
It was a pre-war sort of evening, with good food and conversation, a wine that wasn’t an insult, an enjoyable game of cards. It was snowing again when they left, large flakes floating out of the darkness and clinging to the riven walls. There weren’t many roofs for Santa to land on, but several hopeful chimneys rose out of the empty shells.
It was, Effi decided, ‘almost like a real Christmas’.
Christmas morning drew them to the Ku’damm, in hope of reprising their own pre-war ritual of coffee, cakes and a stroll in the wintry park. Rather to Russell’s surprise, they did find an open cafe, its tables set out on the snowy sidewalk, the smell of real coffee strong in the air. The price was black-market steep, but the coffee seemed more than worth it, a suitable present for each to be giving the other. They sat outside and took their time, smiling at passers-by and imagining the boulevard re-built. When a British jeep drove by garlanded in silver tinsel the patrons all clapped, causing the corporal next to the driver to stand up and bow.
The sound of a tram squealing its way round the truncated Memorial Church reminded Effi of what they had planned. ‘So, Schulstrasse?’ she asked.
‘I suppose so. It doesn’t feel very Christmassy.’
‘Neither does sitting at home with no heat.’
‘True. Well, let’s hope we can get there.’
They walked down to Zoo Station, where both the Stadtbahn and U-Bahn were running some sort of service. The outdoor option seemed preferable, and not just to them — the high-level platforms were crowded with families, most of whom seemed in high spirits. A lot got off when they did, probably bound for the funfair in the Lustgarten. They walked down to the U-Bahn platform, where a train stood waiting to carry them northward. ‘It’s always like this for royalty,’ Russell noted.
They reached the Jewish Hospital around one o’clock, and the crowded canteen seemed like a good place to start. With only the one set of photographs, they worked their way from table to table, trying to disarm what suspicions they encountered, as prepared as they could be for signs of anguish.
Effi’s Gestapo officer was recognised almost straight away, first by one young man, and then by several women. All agreed his surname was Mechnig, and one of the women thought his first name was Ulrich. He had worked at the Columbiahaus ‘wild concentration camp’ before the war, and later at the Alex. He had no particular reputation as a sadist, but then the competition had been fierce.
An hour or so later, five other faces had been recognised. Russell noted the names on the backs of the photographs, along with the details of witnesses willing to testify.
Which was good, but less than they’d hoped for, and as they made their way out Effi insisted on interrupting a football kick-about in the ambulance bay. It was the third boy — a wary-eyed lad of around sixteen — who lingered over the picture of Geruschke. It is him,’ he whispered eventually, and Effi thought for a moment that the boy was going to cry. But instead the eyes turned to stone. ‘Standartenfuhrer Fehse,’ he said, and abruptly handed that picture back.
‘Are you certain?’ Effi asked, and received a pitying look. ‘Where do you know him from?’
‘He was in charge of the detention centre in Leipzig. He sent us to Auschwitz.’
‘Who?’
‘My mother, my father, my sisters. They all died.’
‘How did you survive?’ Effi asked.
The boy shrugged. ‘I was a good worker.’
‘What can you tell us about Fehse?’
‘He was one of the worst. In Leipzig he took bribes to let people go — money, daughters, whatever they had — but later we found out that he’d just moved the girls to another building. They still ended up on the train.’ The boy resumed his perusal of the pictures. ‘And Fehse enjoyed watching beatings,’ he added as an afterthought.
Two more men were picked out. The first he thought was named Schonhoft, the second he couldn’t remember. Both had been jailers in Leipzig.
‘Would you testify against these people?’ Russell asked.
‘Not in a German court.’
‘An American one?’
‘Perhaps.’
Russell asked the boy for his name.
‘Daniel Eisenberg. But you’d better hurry — I plan to be in Palestine soon. We all do.’
‘Did you mean it — about going to the Americans with what we’ve found out?’ Effi asked Russell as they walked up Vogelsangstrasse. ‘They’ve already warned us both to leave the man alone. Or are you hoping they don’t know who he really is?’
‘I’d be amazed if they didn’t. And to answer your question, I really don’t know. We have to tell someone, and maybe we can find some Americans who do want to listen. But first I think we might pay your Gestapo man a visit. We need more information, and we have his address. If we offer Herr Mechnig some money and a head start, he might tell us more about Geruschke’s — Fehse’s — operation. And particularly about the American that young Horst took the picture of. I’d like to know more about him before I go to Dallin. Or whoever it is we go to.’
‘I don’t like the idea of letting Mechnig go,’ Effi protested. She could still see the boy on the U-Bahn platform.
‘We won’t,’ Russell said. ‘We’ll take a leaf out of Fehse’s book, and promise him something we have no intention of delivering.’
