Word had spread, and they had to queue for a table, but the aromas wafting past them seemed well worth the wait. ‘Chicken!’ Annaliese almost cried out when they finally got to see the menu. ‘Fish!’ Effi replied in equal amazement. ‘My treat,’ she added, pulling out her leading-actor-grade ration coupons. Looking around, she became suddenly aware of the clash between decor and clientele — a cafe used to serving workers was playing host to Berlin’s new rich. ‘Someone’s making a lot of money,’ she noted.
‘Grosschieber bastards,’ Annaliese observed almost cheerfully.
The meal cost the best part of a week’s coupons, but was worth it. There was even wine — nothing wonderful of course, but better than either of them expected. As they sat there nursing the last few drops, Annaliese leaned forward in her chair. ‘I’ve got something to ask you,’ she said softly. ‘I feel guilty about asking, so please, please, don’t feel guilty about saying no.’
‘All right,’ Effi agreed, wondering what was coming. ‘I learned to say no in the war,’ she added, then laughed. ‘That doesn’t sound right, does it?’
‘No. But here it is. The works committee that runs the hospital has negotiated a deal with a certain supplier for a bulk load of medicines. But the doctor who arranged it has come down with pneumonia, and now he needs the drugs as much as the patients do. No one was willing to take his place — they’re all too spooked by what happened to his friend, the one who went looking for insulin.’ Annaliese sighed. ‘So, like an idiot, I volunteered.’
‘Aren’t you spooked?’
‘Well, yes and no. I mean I know these are not nice people, but the deal has been agreed. The other time was different — that doctor was trying to find a legal source of insulin.’
‘Threatening their business.’
‘Exactly. This deal is their business. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d come along for the ride. Like old times.’
Effi smiled. The memory of their night drive across Berlin the previous April was one of her fondest. Not least because it had ended with her finding Russell half-asleep in her armchair — the first time they’d seen each other for more than three years. ‘Where would we be going?’ she asked. ‘And when?’
‘Tomorrow evening. The meeting’s scheduled for nine o’clock, out in Teltow. We bring the money, they bring the medicines. Will you come?’
‘How could I resist?’ She wouldn’t get much sleep that night, but her character was supposed to look wasted — she would save the make-up people some work. And, if she was being honest with herself, the prospect excited her. Her work in the war had occasionally been terrifying, but it had thrilled her in ways that acting never could. She had assumed that life was over, but maybe it wasn’t. She dreaded to think what John would say, but there it was. As long as she remembered to think before she leapt.
One thought occurred straight away. ‘How will we get there?’
‘A jeep. The British gave four to the hospital.’
Effi grimaced — after Russell’s experience in a jeep she would have preferred something a little more bullet-proof. Then again, they would be doing all their driving in the American sector, and would happily stop if so requested. ‘What if they try and rob us?’ she asked Annaliese.
‘Why should they? The Grosschieber want regular customers, and the men we meet won’t dare cross their bosses.’
That sounded like sense. ‘Where does the money come from?’ she asked out of curiosity.
Annaliese shrugged. ‘The committee gets money from the Occupation authorities and our local administration, and quite a few of us have dipped into our own pockets — doctors, nurses, families of patients who need the medicines.’
‘Do the Allies know what their money’s being spent on?’
‘Of course. They pretend not to, but that’s just a joke. They could bring us supplies from the outside, destroy the black market in medicines overnight if they really wanted to.’
‘Why don’t they?’
‘Remember what you said about that camp I was in? It’s the same two things. They still think we need to be punished, and more than a few of them are making small fortunes selling official supplies on the black market.’
‘I suppose that’s it,’ Effi agreed. There were free tables now; it was getting late, and she had another six o’clock start. ‘I must get home,’ she told Annaliese, ‘but I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time at the hospital?’
‘Okay. And thank you,’ she added, giving Effi a hug. ‘You know, I’ve almost forgotten what a normal life looks like.’
That said, it couldn’t hurt to take precautions. The gun that the dead American had given to Russell was still in the bedside table, and taking it with her would provide some insurance.
Russell’s train left the Sudbahnhof at ten past eight on Wednesday morning, and was soon rattling out through the Viennese suburbs. There had been no message waiting for him when he returned, somewhat the worse for wear, from his evening with Slaney, and none when he woke up, feeling very little better, on the following day. He had spent Tuesday morning vainly checking Vienna’s DP camps and Red Cross offices for any trace of Otto or Miriam, the afternoon sauntering around the city, wondering how long he’d be stuck there. It might be a great story, but he wouldn’t be back before Christmas at this rate, and no matter how often he reminded himself that Effi was well capable of looking after herself, the anxiety persisted. The trip in the Mercedes boot was still fresh in his mind.
Then a message had finally arrived, asking him to come to the Rothschild. There was a group crossing the border on Thursday or Friday, Mizrachi told him when he reached the hospital. If Russell took the morning train, he should reach Villach in plenty of time.
So here he was, staring out across the sun-washed Austrian countryside, the sky only smudged by the smoke from their engine. The landscape grew more mountainous by the minute, and after almost two hours they reached the small town of Semmering, which lay astride the Russo-British zonal border. There was no through service, and those passengers heading further east had to walk three kilometres to the British-sponsored train. There were plenty of soldiers in evidence from both armies, but none seemed keen to spoil their day with work, and only a few travellers’ papers were subject to a cursory examination.
The new train puffed its way down the Murz valley, as the outflung eastern arm of the Alps grew larger in the window. It was almost 250 kilometres from Semmering to Villach, and the scenery was mostly magnificent — the train leaping across torrents and delving through dark forests, skirting pellucid lakes and offering glimpses of distant snow-covered peaks shining in the afternoon sunlight. The towns they stopped in looked untouched by war, but Russell knew that wasn’t the case — each would be mourning its quota of men lost on Hitler’s battlefields.
Darkness was falling when the train pulled in to Villach. He had bought bread and sausage at one of the stops, but that seemed a long time ago, and an unofficial refugee camp seemed an unlikely place to find a decent dinner. Villach, it turned out, was not that much better, but he did find a reasonable bowl of soup in one of the bars near the station. Suitably fortified, he laid claim to the only apparent taxi and quoted the address that Mizrachi had written. It was only a street and number, but the driver wasn’t fooled. ‘Where the Jews are,’ he said, with only the slightest hint of distaste.
So much for secret camps, Russell thought.
In the event, it wasn’t so much a camp as a mansion, a large and rambling house with several outbuildings, set quite a way back from the road leading south, right on the edge of town.
On first impression it felt like a school — the house seemed full of children. ‘They’re mostly orphans,’ his Haganah host explained a few minutes later. His name was Mosher Lidovsky, and like Mizrachi he spoke perfect English. Before perishing in the death camps, a large number of Polish Jews had entrusted their children to Catholic friends, and since the war ended the Haganah had been systematically reclaiming them, and moving them out of Poland. As he looked round the faces, Russell noticed a shortage of smiles.