‘Which means what?’ Effi asked him.
He looked confused. ‘Which part don’t you understand?’
‘I understand all of it. Are you telling me that this ruling still holds?’
‘As of this moment, yes.’
‘Decisions of the Nazi courts are still valid?’
‘Most of them, yes. There has to be continuity.’
Effi held on to her temper. ‘Are you telling me the apartment is no longer mine?’
‘No, not necessarily. But I’m afraid you cannot expect to simply resume possession.’
But it’s mine, she felt like shouting.
‘You will have to apply for repossession,’ he said. He was, she realised, actually trying to help.
‘So I’ll need a lawyer.’
He nodded. ‘I would certainly recommend it.’
‘Who’s living there now?’ she asked. ‘And how long have they been there?’ She would feel much better about ejecting a family who’d been gifted the apartment by the local Nazis than she would a group of refugees from the East.
‘The name of the current residents is Puttkammer,’ he read from his papers. ‘A woman and three children. They moved in earlier this year, in March.’
Well at least they weren’t Jews, Effi thought. Not then, and not with a name like that. She asked for advice on how to proceed, and gratefully watched as he wrote out a simple list of steps she needed to take, and where she should go to take them. It sounded straightforward enough, though likely to take every hour God sent. It would all have to wait until filming was over.
She thanked him and made her way back to the street. Schluterstrasse and its cafeteria were only a short walk away, so she headed that way, hoping for lunch with Ellen Grynszpan. The former was available, the latter not, and after eating Effi started for home. But as she passed the remains of the Schmargendorf Rathaus on Hohenzollerndamm, it occurred to her that Zarah’s house might be standing empty.
This time it was a woman she eventually spoke to. Effi explained the situation: that she was there on her sister’s behalf, that Zarah and her son Lothar were in London, and that her brother-in-law was probably dead.
‘Jens Biesinger?’ the woman asked, reaching for a file of papers.
‘Yes,’ Effi agreed, somewhat surprised.
‘What makes you think he’s dead?’
‘The last time Zarah saw him, he told her he had suicide pills for them both. That was in April, just before the Russians entered the city.’
‘And she wanted to live,’ the woman said drily. ‘Apparently he did too.’
‘You mean he’s still alive?’
She was still looking at the file. ‘He is indeed. And would you believe it? — he’s working for us.’
‘Us?’
‘The District Administration. At the Housing Office.’
Effi couldn’t believe it. ‘And where’s that?’
‘On Guntzelstrasse. It’s only a short walk away.’
‘So he’s still the legal owner of the house?’
‘According to this.’
‘Then I suppose I’ll have to go round there,’ Effi decided. She couldn’t honestly say she was eager to see Jens again, but he was Lothar’s father.
She walked back outside, and asked a passing boy for directions. Ten minutes later she was outside a door signed ‘Jens Biesinger, Director’. Of what, it didn’t say.
She knocked and a familiar voice said ‘Come in.’
The expression on Jens’s face passed through astonishment and pleasure before settling on apprehension. ‘Effi!’ he said, scrambling out of his chair and advancing for a familial embrace.
She allowed him one kiss on the cheek before shooing him back to his chair. He was wearing a remarkably shabby suit, a far cry from the Nazi uniform which Zarah had ironed about ten times a day. But he looked in better health than most Berliners, and several kilos fatter than when she’d last seen him four years before.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘I work here.’
Why haven’t you been arrested, she wanted to ask.
‘Lothar, is he alive?’ There was a quiver in his voice, as if he feared the answer. ‘And Zarah, of course.’
‘They’re both in London.’
‘London!?’
‘It’s a long story. We’ve all been living there. John and I only came back last week.’
‘London,’ Jens repeated. ‘I spent months looking for them. I never dreamed… Are they coming back too?’
‘I expect so. Eventually.’
‘How is Lothar? Does he ask about me? And Zarah… why hasn’t she…?’
‘She assumed you were dead. Or in prison. We all did.’
‘Why would I be in prison?’
‘Your past allegiances,’ she suggested.
He looked a trifle shamefaced, but the justification was clearly well-honed. ‘I was in the Party, true, but so were millions of others. I was a civil servant, after all, working for the state, so loyalty was expected. But we civil servants were not responsible for framing policies — we just did what we were told to do.’
Effi shook her head in disbelief, but he didn’t seem to notice.
‘Will you give me their address in London?’
‘No, but I’ll give her yours. And I’m sure she will write to you, for Lothar’s sake. And I know he will.’
‘I’m still at the old house on Taunusstrasse. In the basement, that is — there are families on the other two floors. It is good to see you,’ he said, as if vaguely surprised by the fact.
Effi smiled, and wished she could say the same. She told herself she was being mean. Lothar, at least, would he happy to hear that his father was alive. Not to mention free as a bird.
After finding and drinking a better than expected coffee in a cafe just off the Stephansplatz, Russell set off with his ancient Baedeker in search of the Rothschild Hospital. Beyond Vienna’s inner ring road the war damage was less extensive, and several streets seemed almost pristine. There was an obvious dearth of motor traffic — even the jeeps of the occupying forces seemed thin on the ground — and some vistas seemed more redolent of the Habsburg Empire than 1945.
The pavements outside the Rothschild Hospital were crowded with Jews. They were not, as one told Russell, intent on getting in, but were waiting for friends or relatives who might soon arrive from the east. The hospital itself had suffered some damage, but most of it seemed in use. After queuing at one of several reception desks in the old emergency room he was given directions to the Haganah office.
It was in the basement, at the other end of the long building. The corridors were jammed with people, and the rooms on either side offered a wonderful kaleidoscope of activities, from shoe repair through kindergarten lessons to full medical examinations. By the time Russell reached the Haganah office he felt as if he’d travelled through a small country.
The office was not much larger than a cupboard, but its contents seemed admirably organised. The man squeezed behind the desk introduced himself as Yoshi Mizrachi. He was obviously not surprised by Russell’s appearance, which was something of a relief. He spoke English with a London accent, and opened proceedings by stressing the restrictions on Russell’s reporting — he must not mention real names, of either people or places, if such exposure might compromise the Aliyah Beth.
Russell raised an eyebrow at the last phrase.
‘It is what we call this emigration. Aliyah has no direct English translation, but “moving to a better, or a higher, place” is as close as I can tell you. Beth means second — the first emigration is the one allowed by the British — only a few hundred per year.’
Russell wrote it down. ‘No names,’ he agreed.
Mizrachi passed a folded piece of paper across the desk. ‘This says that you are a journalist sympathetic to our cause, one that our people can trust. In some places you may be asked to produce it.’
Russell assumed the writing was in Hebrew. He wasn’t so sure about the sympathy — Zionism seemed a pretty mixed bag when it came to rights and wrongs — but Mizrachi’s imprimatur could hardly hurt. The journalist inside him bristled a little at having to prove his trustworthiness. ‘Is this necessary?’ he asked mildly.