Russell said nothing to the contrary, but Albert must have detected some hint of ambivalence. ‘You’re not sure about it, are you?’ he said later, as they lay in their parallel bunks. ‘Our need for a homeland.’
Russell took the question seriously. ‘I don’t know. It’s hard. I spent most of my life learning to hate nationalism, and all the other evils it gives rise to. And nationalisms built around race — as you and I know only too well — can be even more murderous. But putting all that to one side, and accepting that the Jews have the same rights to a homeland as anyone else, there’s still the problem of the Arabs. Palestine already has a population. You’re not moving into an empty house.’
‘Jews have lived there for thousands of years.’
‘So have Arabs.’
‘God gave it to the Jews.’
‘Says who? I didn’t think you were religious.’
Albert grinned. ‘I’m not.’
‘I don’t think you can use the Bible as a title deed,’ Russell insisted.
‘Some people do. Like the Europeans who conquered the Americas — being in touch with the right God made everything okay.’
‘You don’t believe that.’
‘I think that’s what will happen.’
Russell thought about that. ‘Maybe it will,’ he conceded. ‘A friend of mine suggested emptying Cyprus — the Greeks to Greece, the Turks to Turkey — and then giving it to the Jews. Lovely beaches, good soil, not that far from Jerusalem.’
Albert propped his head up on one arm and gave Russell a look. ‘We already have our homeland.’
‘Yes, I expect you do.’
‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ Albert said. ‘I understand why the Poles are expelling the Germans from their new territories. And I understand why they’re making it impossible for the Jews to return. If my friends and I have our way, the Arabs will all be expelled from Palestine. Anything else is just storing up trouble for the future.’
‘That will put a bit of a strain on the world’s sympathy, don’t you think?’
‘Once we have the land, we can do without the sympathy.’
Since deducing the connections between her ex-Gestapo man, Geruschke and the Americans, Effi had been wondering what she should do. The sensible course, the one Seymour Exner had advised her to follow, was to wait for Russell’s return. They could then ignore his threats together.
The fact that Exner had suggested waiting for Russell rather prejudiced her against the notion, but as long as working consumed most of her waking hours, and exhaustion ruled the rest, she had little choice in the matter. Then on Tuesday the film’s leading man came down with a heavy cold, the cast was given the whole day off, and the chance arose to set something in motion.
But what? After giving the matter more thought, she still had no idea where to start with Geruschke, and reluctantly conceded that waiting for Russell might, in this one case, make sense. So what else could she do? Russell was dealing with Otto 3, Shchepkin, hopefully, with Otto 2. Kuzorra’s sighting of Miriam had given them hope, but there were no more people to ask and no more places to check — all she could do was wait and hope for some response to their messages.
Once satisfied that logic, and not Seymour Exner, had ruled out anything else, she decided it was time to deal with her flat, and the people who were living there. It wasn’t a prospect she was savouring, but she couldn’t put it off for ever.
She and Thomas had discussed the situation again, and he’d more or less confirmed what she already knew. If abandoning the property and ejecting the occupants were equally unpalatable, then all that remained was negotiation — she would have to meet those concerned, and make it clear that she wanted the flat back at some not-too-distant point in the future. If the occupants were reasonable people, then they could all agree a timetable. If they weren’t, Effi would just have to tell them she was starting legal proceedings.
All of which sounded fine, she thought, standing outside on the familiar street. And now for real people.
She climbed the communal staircase and knocked at the door. The woman who answered was thin and almost haggard, with pale blue eyes and straggly blonde hair.
‘What do you want?’ the woman asked, as Effi searched for the right thing to say.
She took a deep breath. ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this. My name’s Effi Koenen, and this is my flat.’
‘Yours?’
‘Yes. My parents bought it in 1924, and gave it to me in 1931. I lived her for ten years, until 1941, when it was confiscated by the government.’
The woman looked bewildered. ‘So how can it still be yours?’
‘It was the Nazi Government that confiscated it. Their laws are no longer recognised,’ she added, with less than complete honesty.
‘Oh.’ The woman seemed unsure what to do. ‘Well you’d better come in.’
Effi accepted the invitation to examine her old home. Some of the furniture was hers, but the flat as a whole seemed like somebody else’s, and for a few brief moments she experienced an acute sense of loss.
A child was sitting in the middle of the floor — a girl of about four with her mother’s hair and eyes. ‘What’s your name?’ Effi asked.
‘Ute,’ the girl said.
‘I’m Effi. How long have you lived here?’ she asked the mother.
‘Since March. We were given the flat by the Housing Office — you can check with them. No one said anything about an owner.’
‘Maybe the records were destroyed. Or they didn’t realise I was still among the living.’ The little girl was still staring at her, and Effi realised how cold it was in the flat. There were a few pieces of wood by the fireplace, but they were probably being saved for the evening. Noticing two rolled-up beds in the corner, she asked the woman where her other two children were.
‘The boys are at school. Look… we came from Konigsberg — my husband was killed by the Russians.’ There was a dreadful weariness in her eyes as she looked around her. ‘But if this is yours…’
Anger or resentment would have been easier. ‘Please,’ Effi said, ‘I don’t need the flat at the moment — I’m staying with friends. I shall want it back eventually, but I won’t ask you to leave until you have somewhere else to live. And I’ll help you find somewhere. In the new year, we can start looking.’
The woman was using a hand on the table to hold herself upright, Effi realised. Both mother and daughter were in desperate need of a decent meal.
‘Look, I’m an actress,’ Effi told her. ‘For reasons best known to themselves, that means the authorities give me top-grade rations. More than I need. So please take these,’ she said, searching through her bag for the relevant coupons. ‘Give your children a good meal. And yourself.’
After only a slight hesitation the woman took them. She looked more bewildered than ever.
As well she might, Effi thought. A stranger arrives, claims the family home, and then dispenses gifts. ‘I’ll come and see you again after Christmas,’ Effi said. ‘And don’t worry — you can stay as long as you need to.’
‘Thank you,’ the woman said.
‘What’s your name?’ Effi asked her.
‘Ilse. Ilse Reitermaier. Thank you.’
Effi went back down to the street. Sensing watching eyes, she turned to see mother and child looking out of the window. She waved and they waved back.
She wondered how many families Hitler had torn apart with his stupid war. And how many more Seymour Exner would destroy with the one that he was planning. Did men never learn?
Of course the war had been good to some. Men like Geruschke and his ex-Gestapo underling were thriving on the misery of other people’s lives. She wondered how many other Nazis he was employing.
A sudden thought stopped her in her tracks. She could bring Jews to the Honey Trap, Jews from Schulstrasse and the survivor organisations, Jews that Ali and Fritz and Wilhelm Isendahl knew. They were bound to recognise some Nazis.
No, she thought. After what Exner had told her, it seemed clear that the authorities weren’t interested, and without some guarantee of official protection she would be putting the Jews in danger. So no.