By this time Russell was ten metres down the street, running for his life. He was just thinking that they wouldn’t risk advertise their presence by opening fire, when the first bullet ricocheted down the narrow street, striking sparks on both walls.
He swerved right down a partly-stepped passageway, almost slipping on the wet stone treads, and forced himself to slow his pace just a little. The passageway was longer than he remembered, and another bullet went singing past him just as he gained the street beyond. But no lights went on around him-the neighbourhood was taking as little notice of the odd gunshot as he himself had been doing these past two months.
He heard his pursuer cry out, but didn’t stop to find out why. There was silence for several seconds, which suggested he might have fallen, but the footsteps pursuing him soon resumed, albeit further behind. Russell raced down the long and winding street, grateful to its architect for denying the possibility of a direct shot. Another stepped passageway offered itself, and he flung himself down it, still only one slip away from disaster. It opened into a small piazza, where a group of men were sitting out under a cafe awning, playing cards. He couldn’t remember feeling so pleased to see other human beings.
A couple of gaudily made-up women gave him enquiring looks. He smiled, shook his head and hurried on across the piazza, pausing at the top of another street for a quick look back. On the far side of the square a man appeared at the bottom of the steps, one hand held behind his back, and took in the possible audience. One glance in Russell’s direction, and he withdrew back up the stairway, feet finally passing from sight.
Russell turned and walked on down toward the distant bay, still breathing heavily, and cursing his own stupidity. If the man had been a better shot, or hadn’t slipped on the steps … It was all very well risking your life for something worthwhile, but to take such a chance on a childish whim? To get away with a young man’s prank, in Trieste or anywhere else, he needed a young man’s legs.
Effi had just kissed Rosa goodnight when there was a knock at the apartment door. It was almost ten, which seemed late for a visit, so she raised her voice to ask who it was as she tried to recall where Russell had put their gun.
‘You knew me as Liesel,’ a woman said clearly.
Effi opened the door, trying to remember someone of that name. Seeing the dark, petite, well-dressed woman in her late thirties who stood on the threshold, her first reaction was almost panicky-had some unknown relation of Rosa come to claim her? But then she recognised the face. Liesel had been one of the Jewish fugitives whom she and Ali had harboured for a night or two while Erik Aslund arranged their escape to Sweden. One of the more self-possessed, Effi remembered, a woman who had known enough to be terrified, but who was damned if she was going to give in to it. Like all the others, she had come and gone without leaving a physical trace, but Effi remembered liking her more than many.
‘I’m Lisa now,’ the woman said after Effi had invited her in. ‘Lisa Sundgren. I live in America, in Minneapolis.’
‘My geography’s terrible,’ Effi said, reaching for the kettle.
‘I had no idea where it was either,’ Lisa admitted. ‘It’s in the middle. They call it the Midwest but it’s closer to the east coast.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘I came to thank you.’
‘You didn’t come all this way to do that.’
‘Well, no. I’ve come back for my daughter.’
Effi took out the cups. ‘I didn’t know you had one.’
‘I have two now, but Anna is back home with her father, and my mother-in-law. Uschi was the one I left behind five years ago.’ She sighed. ‘This is a strange question, but back then, how much did you know about me?’
‘Nothing,’ Effi said, filling the teapot. ‘We were only ever given first names-which for all we knew were false-and instructions on where and when to pass people on. It was safer that way.’
‘Well, my name then was Liesel Hausmann. I was from the Sudetenland, which was part of Czechoslovakia until 1938, when the Nazis took over. I’m Jewish of course, but my husband Werner was a Christian, and we were well off. He owned a factory in Reichenberg-the Czechs call it Liberec now-and though the Nazis brought their anti-Jewish laws with them, my husband thought Uschi and I would be safe. And we were for several years, until he interceded on behalf of my brother’s family, who had all just been arrested. In case things went badly, he wanted Uschi and me to go off with our maid, whose family lived in a remote mountain village. But I insisted on staying by his side, and Uschi went on her own-she was sixteen by then, and we thought she’d be all right.’
Lisa took the offered cup of tea, and placed it on the table beside her. ‘And then my husband was arrested. I heard nothing for several days, and then an old friend from the local police called to tell me that he was dead, that I was about to be arrested, and that I should flee if I could. So I packed a bag and walked to the station and somehow reached Berlin, where we still had friends. And they knew someone who knew someone else, and that’s how I ended up staying with you in that house, and finally escaping to Sweden. Which is where I met my second husband. He had a wartime job at the American Embassy in Stockholm, and when he went back I went with him.
‘That was four years ago. We got married, and I had another child, but I always intended coming back for Uschi. If my mother-in-law hadn’t been ill for most of last year I’d have come over then, despite my husband’s objections. He didn’t-still doesn’t-like the idea of me being over here alone, but he knew he’d have no peace until he agreed.’
‘Have you had any news of Uschi?’
‘None. Once the war was over, we called the Czechoslovak Embassy in Washington, and they promised to investigate. When weeks went by and we didn’t hear anything, we tried again, and they made the same promises. The same thing kept happening, and there was no way we could tell whether they were having a hard time finding her or just fobbing us off. I had no real address, you see, only the name of the village, but even so I can’t believe they really tried. And by the time I finally decided that I had to come over myself, the communists had taken over. I’m an American citizen now, and I’ve been told that no visas are being issued to Westerners in the foreseeable future, so there doesn’t seem any way to get in. And as far as I can tell the communists aren’t letting anyone out. It seems my only hope of getting Uschi out is to smuggle her across the border.’ She smiled. ‘And that’s my other reason for looking you up.’
‘My smuggling credentials? I’m afraid they were only good for a particular time and place.’
‘Oh, I know you don’t do that sort of thing anymore. I read an article about you in an American paper-that’s how I found who you really were-so I’m not expecting practical help. But I did think you might advise me, or know someone who could. The people I knew here are dead or gone, either to America or Palestine. But with so many families still looking for relatives, there must be people who’ve learnt how to find them.’
Effi’s heart went out to her. She didn’t know of anyone, but maybe John would.
She explained that her husband was away, but that she would write and ask him. And maybe Strohm could help-she would ask him, too.
Lisa thanked her for that and again for Effi’s help in the past, and they arranged to meet up once Effi had finished filming. After her visitor had gone, she heard Rosa call her name.
The girl, it seemed, had listened to the whole conversation. ‘My mother never left me,’ she insisted, as if she feared the opposite.