It was partly the relative warmth, Russell thought, as he stiffly climbed down from the back of the lorry. It was the first time in a week that he hadn’t felt really cold.
The Pontebba site had hosted a munitions dump before the Jewish Brigade arrived, and now that both were gone it look like a half-abandoned POW camp, a few dusty barracks in a sea of discarded packing. Russell headed straight for the office to enquire after Otto Pappenheim.
‘He’s here,’ the Haganah representative confirmed, once Russell had explained why he wanted him. ‘But he and a few of the others have driven down to Resiutta — there’s a cinema there. And girls.’
Russell walked across to the group’s designated barracks and left his suitcase on an empty cot. The room was full of excited chatter — his Jewish companions might still be a long way from their Palestine, but reaching Pontebba obviously felt like a huge step in the right direction.
He went in search of something to eat, and ended up sharing a table with two young men from Breslau. They were happy to describe their escape from Poland — a meet at the abandoned farmhouse, the walk across the mountain border, a long train journey through Czechoslovakia. But what had impressed them most was the warmth of their reception in the small Czech town of Nachod, where two local Jews had created a place of refuge for those heading south and west. This was brave but not surprising — what astonished Russell’s companions was the whole-hearted involvement of the town’s non-Jews. Nachod, almost alone in Europe, seemed eager to lend a helping hand.
Listening to the two young Zionists, Russell knew he would have to visit the town. Not on this trip perhaps, but soon. Both Poles and Czechs had treated their new German citizens appallingly in the immediate aftermath of the war — like Nazis, as one sad American journalist had told him in London — and if one Czech town was doing well by the Jews it deserved both praise and publicity. In post-war Europe kindness was a story in itself.
He returned to his bunk intent on waiting for Otto, but thirty-six hours without sleep had taken their toll. The next thing he knew a hand was gently shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes to morning sunlight and someone standing above him.
‘You wanted to speak to me,’ a male voice said. ‘I’m leaving in half an hour so I thought you’d want me to wake you.’
‘You must be Otto Pappenheim,’ Russell said. He levered himself off the bunk and offered his hand. This Otto was a tall young man in his twenties, with bushy black hair and a friendly smile. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Palestine, I hope.’
‘Thanks for waking me,’ Russell said. Looking around, he saw that many others were still asleep. ‘We’d better talk outside.’
It was a lovely morning, the sun dousing the distant hills in an almost golden glow. A large bird of prey was drawing circles above the camp, presumably hoping for breakfast. Otto lit a cigarette as Russell launched into his now familiar spiel.
Otto shook his head. ‘I have no children,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been married,’ he added, in apparent explanation.
‘Are you sure? I don’t mean to question your honesty, but you’re a good-looking boy…’
Otto gave him a self-deprecating smile.
‘You didn’t know a girl, a woman, named Ursel? In the summer of 1937?’
‘I had my first real girlfriend in 1938, and she threw me over for a goy. I was only sixteen in the summer of 1937.’
‘Okay,’ Russell said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Pappenheim is not an unusual name,’ Otto remarked, grinding his cigarette out in the dust.
‘So I’ve discovered,’ Russell agreed. ‘You’re our third Otto.’
‘Well, good luck with the fourth.’
‘And to you,’ Russell replied. Watching the young man walk away, he wondered whether Shanghai Otto would prove to be the one. With any luck Shchepkin would have some news the next time he saw him. Whenever that was. He wondered how long an absence from Berlin the Soviets would tolerate.
With no little effort, he worked out what day it was — Saturday the 15th of December. What should he do? If he continued on with the group, he might end up hanging around some South Italian port for weeks on end. Sailing on to Palestine — or a British internment camp on Cyprus — would certainly round off the story, but could he spare the time? And he had the gist — the journey and how it was organised, the people and why they were taking it.
The Soviets might or might not be pining for him, but he was certainly missing Effi. If he started back now he should reach Berlin by the end of the week, in plenty of time for Christmas.
Always assuming he could find some sort of transport. He doubted whether any trains or buses were running into Austria, at least along the road they’d travelled. There might be flights north from Venice or Trieste, but it would be a long journey south to find out. Hitching a lift seemed the best bet. A lorry most probably, though a private car would be nicer.
A car like the one moving northwards along the road that skirted the camp. He thought of waving to attract the driver’s attention, but knew he was too far away. And then the need disappeared — as if in response to his silent entreaty, the car turned in through the open gates and drove up to the barracks containing the office.
The young man who got out seemed familiar, but Russell was still trying to work out why when the man caught sight of him. ‘Herr Russell!’ he exclaimed with what sounded like pleasure, and walked across to meet him.
It was Albert Wiesner.
Russell should have been surprised, but he wasn’t, not really. In these circumstances, running across Albert was not such a great coincidence — there couldn’t be many young Palestinian men better versed in the whys and wherefores of fleeing a hostile Europe.
Almost seven years earlier, in March 1939, Russell had helped smuggle the seventeen-year-old Albert out of Germany. Originally employed by Albert’s doctor father to teach English to his daughters Ruth and Marthe, Russell had quickly become a friend of the family, and when Frau Wiesner had begged him to talk to her son — whose angry outbursts were putting them all in jeopardy — he had reluctantly agreed. Albert was certainly prickly, but few of Berlin’s Jews were brimming with good humour in March 1939. At their meeting in Friedrichshain Park, Albert had calmly predicted the death camps. ‘Who’s going to stop them?’ was the question he’d posed to Russell.
Then his father Felix Wiesner had been beaten to death in Sachsenhausen concentration camp, and Albert had gone into hiding after braining a Gestapo officer with a table lamp. As part of a convoluted deal with British and Soviet intelligence, Russell had managed to arrange the boy’s escape to Czechoslovakia and the rest of the family’s emigration to England. Albert had gone on to Palestine, and had been there ever since.
He was now in his mid-twenties. He looked bigger and healthier than Russell remembered, with shorter hair, a permanent tan and the same intelligent eyes. ‘It’s good to see you,’ Albert said. ‘The last time Marthe wrote to me, she said you’d all had dinner together in London.’
‘In early November,’ Russell confirmed. It seemed months ago. He explained his and Effi’s return to Berlin as best he could, given the need not to mention spying.
‘So what are you doing here?’ Albert asked.
‘Telling these people’s story. Someone thought I’d be a sympathetic witness.’
‘And are you?’ Albert asked with a disarming smile.
‘How could I not be?’ Russell replied in kind. ‘But what are you doing here?’