It was a cold day, and seemed to get colder as Annaliese told her story.
‘When I was picked up by American soldiers I felt really pleased with myself. I’d done it — I’d got away from the Russians. The GIs were pretty free with their suggestions, but the ones I met took no for an answer — I wasn’t raped, and neither were any of the other women I came across during those first few days. I was put on a truck with other refugees and some soldiers they’d found hiding in a village, and we were driven west. We were told that there were camps waiting for us, which sounded a little ominous, but just letting us loose didn’t sound so wonderful either — there had to be some sort of organisation, and we thought that was why they were keeping us together.
Annaliese shook her head. ‘We couldn’t have been more wrong. The camp was called Rheinberg — it can’t have been far from the river — and it was hell on earth. You wouldn’t believe how bad it was. There were thousands of us: mostly men, but families as well, and far too many children. When we got there it was just a huge field surrounded by barbed wire — there were no buildings, no tents, no shelter of any kind. And there was hardly any food. Teething troubles, I thought, but things got worse rather than better. Any food that arrived was rotten, and there was hardly any water. Before too long we were eating grass, and getting sick.’
‘People started digging holes for shelter — the soil was sandy so it wasn’t too hard — but the walls would collapse and those inside were covered in sand, and too weak to fight their way out. Almost everyone had dysentery, and the toilets were just poles strung across pits. People who didn’t have the strength to hold on would fall in and drown.’
‘Did the people higher up know about this?’ Effi asked. ‘Was it just this one camp?’
Annaliese shook her head. ‘I don’t know who knew, but it wasn’t just Rheinberg. I’ve met people since from several other camps, and they all sounded much the same. It was policy — it had to be. How should I say this? The guards didn’t beat people up or torture them with irons — they just killed them with neglect. We found out later that there was enough food and water — but they’d deliberately withheld it. During the weeks the Americans were in charge about a hundred bodies a day were carried out. They stacked them in quicklime outside the fence.
‘There were a few doctors in the camp, and several nurses like me. We did what we could, but it wasn’t much. We were all so weak ourselves. I’m still thinner than I was in the Bunker last spring.’
‘How did you get out?’
‘The camp was in the British zone, and in June the Americans handed it over. The British couldn’t believe what they found, and some of their officers talked to the press, but it was all hushed up. One officer told me that a few dead Germans weren’t worth a big row with the Americans, not with the Russians to worry about.’
‘I expected better of the Americans,’ Effi said.
‘So did I. But most of them seem so angry. When the British arrived they were much more sympathetic — they seem to get it that we weren’t all Nazis. The Americans hate us, or at least a lot of them do. The ones at Rheinberg blamed every last one of us for the war, and all the horrors that were done in our name. And they were quite prepared to let us all die.’
They were both silent for a few moments, listening to the breeze stirring the pines. ‘Why did you come back here?’ Effi eventually asked.
Annaliese smiled. ‘I missed the place. And I felt guilty about leaving Gerd’s parents to fend for themselves. I persuaded the British to let me go — one officer took a bit of a shine to me, I think — and I managed to get on a train. What a journey that was! I’ve never seen anything like it — every place we stopped there were other trains full of people, and huge camps by the side of the tracks, with everyone hungry and begging for food. It felt like the whole world was on the move.
‘It took me four days to get here. I needn’t have worried about Gerd’s parents — their staying was a damn sight more sensible than my going. They were surprised to see me, but pleased, I think. And I got my old job back. I took a trip in to the Elisabeth Hospital, partly to see if it was still there, and hoping to find old friends if it was. And of course they were short-staffed.’
‘But you’re a sister now.’
‘Impressive, isn’t it? The pay’s better too, or would be if the money ever showed up. And if you could buy anything with it. But it’s all so frustrating, Effi. Without medicines, we’re just a half-wrecked hotel with nurses. We know the medicine’s out there, but most of the time we can’t afford it. I ask you, what sort of bastard wants to get rich on the backs of dying children? After all we’ve been through, it’s still pieces of shit like that who are running things. Why don’t the occupation authorities do something about it?’
‘I think you already answered that — because, consciously or not, they want to see us suffer. And because they’re up to their ears in shit themselves.’
Annaliese gave her a look, part surprise, part admiration.
‘We’ve all lost our innocence,’ Effi said. ‘Even the children.’
That evening Russell told Esther what he’d learned from Kuzorra and Isendahl, that Miriam had given birth to a child in either 1940 or 1941, and that both had been alive in early 1942. Esther had listened with her usual composure, made sure that she had understood him correctly, and then sat in thoughtful silence, as if carefully weighing what it did and didn’t mean.
First thing on Monday morning, Russell arrived at the French administrative HQ on Mullerstrasse. Major Giraud proved willing to see him, but, as Jentzsch had feared, knew nothing of Kuzorra or the reasons for his arrest. Thinking he was being helpful, he took Russell upstairs and introduced him to Jacques Laval, the man who’d been so singularly obstructive on his last visit.
Russell refused to be daunted. He told the cold-eyed Frenchman that he’d been to see Uwe Kuzorra at the detention centre in Wittenau, and was pleased to note the momentary look of surprise in the other man’s eyes. ‘I’m writing a story about his arrest,’ he lied glibly, ‘and the treatment he’s receiving at French hands. As far as I can tell, no date has been set for a hearing or trial.’
‘That is quite usual,’ Laval replied. ‘We only have the people to conduct a few cases at a time. Even the Americans have this problem. Your friend will just have to wait his turn. Now…’
Russell noticed the slight sneer in Laval’s voice when he mentioned the Americans. ‘You arrested Kuzorra because the Americans told you to,’ he said coldly. ‘Are you holding onto him out of spite?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Then why? Why hasn’t he been handed over to them?’
‘He will be.’
‘When they snap their fingers, perhaps.’
‘When they make an official request.’
Russell laughed. ‘Monsieur Laval, let me tell you what my story will be. That you are holding a wholly innocent man in custody, with no intention of giving him a fair hearing or trial. And that you’re not doing this in the interests of France, but because the Americans have ordered you to. Is that a fair summary of the situation?’
‘We don’t take orders from the Americans.’
‘Then give me the name of the American who wanted Kuzorra arrested, so I can ask him why the man’s been left to rot out at Camp Cyclop.’
Laval considered, but only for a second. He had, Russell guessed, no qualms about holding an innocent man for as long as expedience dictated, but a public reputation for sucking up to the Americans was not something he wanted to defend at Parisian dinner parties. ‘Colonel Sherman Crosby,’ he said, almost biting out the syllables.
‘Thank you,’ Russell said, and left it at that.
He made the long trip back to Dahlem — he was, he reckoned, covering more miles each day than he had with Patton — and asked for a brief meeting with Dallin. ‘I can give you five minutes,’ he was told on reaching the intelligence chief’s office.