‘How is he?’
‘In a lot of pain. They’re low on morphine at the Elisabeth — only the very worst cases are given any. Half the ward seemed to be screaming when I went in this morning — it sounded like the end of a battle.’ Fritsch seemed to take in Russell’s appearance for the first time. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost yourself.’
‘My own.’ He told Fritsche what had had happened that morning: the news of Kuzorra’s death, his own abduction and unlikely reprieve.
Fritsch shook his head in wonder. ‘Someone up there likes you. But the men who took you — they sound like American gangsters. They take people for “rides”, don’t they?’
‘So did the Gestapo.’
‘True. So who have you annoyed?’ Fritsche wondered out loud.
Russell felt reluctant to name him. ‘The same bastard as Luders, I think. Maybe I should go and see the boy in hospital, compare notes.’
Fritsche grunted. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. If anyone’s watching it’ll look like a council of war, and Luders can’t even sit up in bed, let alone defend himself. Once he’s back on his feet I’m sure the young idiot will be happy to join forces. The two of you can sign a mutual suicide pact.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Good. Walk away, that’s my advice. Situations like this, all sorts of diseases are bound to be rife. And there’s precious little you can do about it until the situation changes. As long as you have a black market you’ll have people like Rudolf Geruschke. Once it disappears, so will he.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘In the meantime, we live with the guilt of watching better men go down in flames.’
Russell admired the clarity, but not the world-view.
Back on the pavement, he found his knees were still shaky, and spent a few moments leaning against a convenient lamp post, wondering what to do next. Was there any point in going to the police or the occupation authorities? The pair who’d marched him out of the station were probably genuine soldiers, but was it worth looking for them? There were upward of ten thousand British troops in Berlin, and even if he found this particular duo it would only be his word against theirs.
There was certainly no point in openly declaring war on Geruschke — the man would hang him out for the crows. But he couldn’t just let him get away with it — he owed Kuzorra too much for that. He would stay out of the ring for a while, let Geruschke believe he’d been scared — not difficult, that — and then, very quietly and carefully, start amassing evidence. It might take a while, but he and maybe Luders would take the bastard down with good old-fashioned journalism.
A communal canteen offered itself, and he exchanged some ration stamps for a bowl of surprisingly tasty vegetable soup. ‘I’m alive,’ he told his reflection in the washroom mirror. ‘But Kuzorra isn’t,’ the reflection retorted.
A bus dropped him off on Dahlem’s Kronprinzenallee, and he walked back through the suburban streets to Thomas’s house, eyes peeled for any sign that he was being followed. Berlin felt less safe than it had that morning.
Once home, he shut himself up in his and Effi’s room. Feeling suddenly cold, he lay down under the blankets. He began to shiver, and realised that the shock was wearing off. An hour later, when Effi came in, he was more or less recovered, but she immediately knew that something had happened.
She listened aghast as he told her what. ‘And this was the man who had Kuzorra killed?’ she asked, after holding him tight for a minute or more.
‘I don’t know for certain. It could have been someone with a personal grudge that we don’t know about — Kuzorra must have made enough enemies in his years at the Alex. But Geruschke was the one he was after.’
‘And you weren’t?’
‘No, I just visited Kuzorra. All I can think is, I went to the Honey Trap before I knew Kuzorra had been arrested — I was looking for Otto, but Geruschke might think that was a cover story, that I was already investigating him when I heard about Kuzorra, and that I went to see Kuzorra because I hoped he could tell me more. So first he killed Kuzorra and then he came for me.’
‘But changed his mind,’ Effi said doubtfully.
‘Yes. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Perhaps they were only trying to scare you,’ she suggested hopefully.
‘If they were, it worked. But no, they were really annoyed when someone told them to bring me back.’
‘Were they wearing masks or anything? Would you know them again?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘The police could watch the nightclub for them.’
Russell shook his head. ‘The police are a broken reed at the moment. Even if they wanted to help, I don’t think there’s anything they could do. I think my best bet is to lay low for a while.’
She gave him a who-are-you-kidding look. ‘Really?’
‘For a while — yes, really. I’m sure Kuzorra wouldn’t want me to throw myself on his pyre.’
‘No, he wouldn’t. And if you change your mind I want to hear about it before you do anything risky, all right?
‘Okay,’ Russell said, taking her into his arms. They held each other so tightly that the phrase ‘like there’s no tomorrow’ popped into his head. ‘So what have you been doing?’ he eventually asked her.
‘Rushing around. We’re actually starting filming tomorrow. At Babelsberg, believe it or not.’
‘That’s great.’
‘Yes, yes it is.’ She heard the lack of conviction in her own voice, and wondered why that was. It was wonderful to be in at the beginning of something so important. She was so lucky. She’d had an extraordinary life, with and without him. But now she wanted something else for the two of them, something that seemed more impossible each day — an ordinary life.
‘But?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘John, what are we going to do?’
‘I don’t know. Something’ll come up — it always has.’
There was a knock on the door. It was Thomas, come to tell Russell that he had a visitor.
‘Who?’
‘A British soldier.’
‘I’ll come down.’
Frau Niebel was guarding the hall, the visitor still poised on the stoop. He was wearing a Jewish Brigade uniform. ‘You are John Russell?’ he asked in English. ‘Wilhelm Isendahl gave me your name and address, and since I was leaving Berlin this evening, I thought I would take a chance on finding you at home.’
‘I’m glad you did. Please, come in.’
The visitor watched Frau Niebel scuttle away. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’
‘Use my study,’ Thomas suggested.
Russell ushered the man in and shut the door behind them.
‘My name is Hersch,’ the man began. He was about thirty, Russell guessed, with deeply tanned skin and dark, almost racoon-like eyes. ‘As you can see, I’m an officer in the British Army’ — he allowed himself a wry smile — ‘but I’m here on behalf of the Haganah. I assume you know who we are?’
‘The defence force of the Palestinian Jews.’
‘Yes. And you, I believe, have proved yourself a friend of the Jews.’
It seemed easiest just to nod.
‘We have a proposition for you. You know about the flight route to Palestine?’
‘Isendahl gave me a primer.’
‘Would you like to write about it?’
‘Very much, but why would you want the publicity?’
Hersch smiled for the first time, and looked about ten years younger. ‘To give the survivors hope. To encourage them to join us. To tell the world that the Jews have seized control of their own lives, and that we’re no longer willing to submit.’
‘All good reasons. But won’t you also be making it easier for the authorities to stop you?’
‘We will expect you to keep some secrets, to change the names of people and places.’
‘I can do that.’
‘Then I think we have a deal.’ He reached inside his tunic pocket for a crumpled piece of paper, and handed it across. ‘You must reach Vienna by Monday if you want to be sure of joining the next group. If you arrive any later, then you may have to wait for the one after that. If you contact that person at that address, then everything will be arranged for you.’