She reached the basement to find Ellen escorting an American colonel and his wife around the paintings. Ellen gestured for Effi to wait, and two minutes later was wishing her visitors goodbye. ‘Her brother was a painter,’ she explained. ‘He lived in Berlin until 1942. They think he died at Treblinka.’
‘Did he paint any of these?’ Effi asked, looking round.
‘No, all his paintings were burnt by the Nazis.’
Effi sighed. ‘I should have guessed.’
‘Anyway,’ Ellen said, breaking the spell, ‘I have news for you. A friend’s friend knew an Otto Pappenheim back in early 1941. Otto’s brother lived across the street from them, and both men were trying to get to Shanghai, like a lot of other Jews before the Russian war — by that time no one else was letting us in. My friend’s friend thinks they succeeded in getting Soviet travel permits. She didn’t see him or his brother after that time, so she always assumed they’d gone.’
‘Where was this? Where did your friend’s friend live?’
‘In Friedrichshain.’
‘And how old were these brothers?’
‘In their late twenties, early thirties. Around that.’
‘Did she say anything else?’
‘I can’t remember anything else. Would you like to talk to her? I’ll give you her name and address.’
Effi took them down. ‘Have any of the Jews come back from Shanghai?’ she asked. ‘None that I know of.’
Effi gave Ellen a hug. ‘Thank you for this,’ she said.
On her way home she found herself wondering about this new Otto. Why had he gone to Shanghai? Had he gone ahead, hoping to send for his wife and daughter? If it was only him the Gestapo were looking for, had his wife insisted he leave to save himself, as Effi had done with Russell? Or had nothing more noble than fear led him to abandon them?
Uwe Kuzorra’s old apartment building on Demminer Strasse was scorched and scarred but still in one piece. But no one answered Russell’s knock, and the dust outside the door seemed undisturbed. He tried the neighbours to no avail, but a young boy downstairs said his mother was next door. Russell found her hanging clothes in what had once been someone’s parlour, and which now seemed to function as a neighbourhood drying room. Several lengths of rope were strung between jutting bricks across the barely covered space.
‘He still lives here,’ she said in answer to Russell’s query. ‘Or he did. They took him away about ten days ago.’
‘Who did?’
‘French soldiers. We’re in their zone.’
‘Do you know where they took him? Where’s their HQ?’
She shook her head. ‘Not a clue.’
Russell thanked her and walked back to the busy Brunnenstrasse, where his chances of meeting a German policeman or French patrol seemed better. He walked north past Voltastrasse U-Bahn station without seeing either, turning west between what was left of the AEG factory complex and Humboldthain Park, where the apparently indestructible flak tower still exuded useless defiance. There were children playing football in the park, their hair slicked back by the drizzle. The schools were open again, but according to Thomas a huge number of parentless children were living almost feral existences in the ruins, playing games by day and working the black market by night.
On Mullerstrasse he found what he was looking for. The French HQ, a shopkeeper told him, was just up the street, in part of the old Wedding Police Station. In Nazi days the building had functioned as a fort, its Gestapo occupants mounting armed forays out into the local streets, where hammers and sickles still plastered the walls. Now the tricolour flew from the battlements, and basement beatings were hopefully a thing of the past.
Once inside, Russell was passed around like an unwelcome parcel, his journey finally ending at the desk of a middle-aged civilian in a beautifully cut suit. He let Russell struggle with his French, and had obvious difficulty containing his lack of interest. ‘We don’t give out the names of those in our custody,’ he eventually replied in perfect English. ‘Not to American journalists, in any case,’ he added, with something close to a sniff.
Russell wondered whether exceptions were made for scribes of Mongolian or Paraguayan descent. ‘I’m not asking as a journalist. I’m here as a friend of the man you arrested.’
‘Are you a relative?’
‘No…’ Russell began, realising his mistake too late. He should have said Kuzorra was a cousin. Or something.
‘Then I cannot help you.’
‘Can you tell me who can?’
‘You could apply to our headquarters at Baden-Baden.’
‘That’s four hundred miles away.’
The man shrugged. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sounding anything but.
Russell shook his head, walked out, and stomped angrily downstairs to the lobby. He was still seething when a hand slapped him on the shoulder, and a much friendlier French face appeared in front of his own. ‘John Russell! What are you doing here? You look like someone just slept with your girlfriend.’
It was Miguel Robier, a French journalist whom he’d met the previous winter, when both were commuting between Eisenhower’s Rheims HQ and the Allied front lines. They had enjoyed each other’s company, sharing tastes in wine and political cynicism.
Russell explained about Kuzorra, and the interview he’d just had.
‘Ah, Jacques Laval. He doesn’t like Americans. Or anyone, for that matter. Do you have a few minutes? Let me see what I can do.’
Russell waited and hoped, hugging himself for warmth and watching drizzle drift past the open doorway.
Ten minutes later Robier was back, looking triumphant. ‘I have the story. Not from Laval — I know someone in military liaison. He says your friend Kuzorra was arrested for being a member of the SS — is that possible?’
Russell shook his head. ‘Anything’s possible. In fact I seem to remember that all senior police officers had SS ranks by the end of the war. But that’s…’
‘It gets more interesting,’ Robier interrupted him. ‘Our people arrested him at the request of the Americans — which, by the way, might be why Laval was even less helpful than usual. Anyway, it’s almost two weeks now, and the Americans still haven’t sent anyone to interview him. Our people have already sent them two reminders.’
‘Is he here?’ Russell asked.
‘No. He’s out at Camp Cyclop.’
‘Where?’
‘It’s our military base. Out in Wittenau.’
‘Okay, thanks. So, how are your family?’
They shared personal news and contact details, and agreed to meet up for a drink before Miguel’s return to France. They probably wouldn’t, Russell thought, as he headed on up Mullerstrasse to the Ringbahn station, but it wouldn’t really matter — their paths were bound to cross again. He had long ago lost count of his chance encounters with other journalists.
One thing seemed clearer with each passing day — who was in charge of western Berlin. The Americans were deciding not only who could work in the British zone, but who should be arrested in the French. And no one seemed to find this strange, let alone feel impelled to protest, unless the sulking of men like Laval was counted as such. The war had only been over six months, but the British and the French were already irrelevant — there were only two real powers in the city, or in the wider continent. And as luck would have it, he was working for both.
If the Americans had arranged Kuzorra’s arrest, they could just as easily arrange his release. A meeting with Scott Dallin seemed indicated.
By the time Russell reached the American HQ on Kronprinzenallee, the drizzle had stopped, and there were hints of sunlight in the western sky. After asking for Colonel Dallin he settled down for a long wait, but was only halfway through the lead story in the Allgemeine Zeitung when a corporal came to collect him.