Colonial masters, Stave thought to himself. The English live here the way they do in India or Africa, and we’re their new coolies. Except that neither the Africans nor the Indians set half the world on fire and had only themselves to blame for their humiliation.
Innocentia Strasse: bare branches of young oak trees, jeeps parked at the side of the road, behind them rows of white, four-storied villas, maybe 50 or 60 years old. There was jazz coming from the window of one of them, the BBC maybe, or perhaps a record playing on a requisitioned gramophone.
House number 28. The chief inspector showed his police ID to a soldier standing guard at the gate and asked for MacDonald.
‘Third floor, second left,’ the Brit answered, in English of course.
He’s about the same age as my son, Stave reckoned, and at that moment he would have preferred to simply turn round and run away from there, out from under the oak trees back down to the railway station. But instead he simply nodded and climbed the grand staircase, trying to conceal his limp from the sentry’s eyes.
Stave knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. Maybe the lieutenant had gone out? He was about to turn away when he heard a noise behind the door. So he waited. Eventually MacDonald opened the door, barefoot, wearing just a shirt and trousers. The villa was heated but it was hardly warm enough for that.
MacDonald was out of breath, but he pulled himself together, and forced a smile. ‘What can I do for you?’
Stave, noticing that the lieutenant was blocking the doorway, took a step backwards and gave a gentle cough. He explained as quickly as he could about his visit to Ehrlich and the Warburg Children’s Health Home and the British permit he needed to go there. But even as he was speaking he glimpsed a shadow, a movement behind MacDonald’s shoulders.
Erna Berg.
Stave continued talking as if he hadn’t noticed. MacDonald glanced nervously over his shoulder, then looked at the chief inspector as if wondering whether or not to admit he had been caught out. Then he gave a brief smile and made an oblique, vaguely apologetic gesture.
‘I’ll sort it out,’ he promised. ‘We can go there together in the morning. It’ll be quicker in my jeep. And I’m curious too to see if we can find out anything there. I’ll pick you up from the CID headquarters. If you want, we can take Maschke too.’
‘Thank you,’ Stave said. ‘Enjoy the rest of your Sunday.’
‘You too,’ MacDonald called after him, but Stave had already turned away. He was in a hurry to get out of the house.
Survivors and Missing
Monday, 3 February 1947
They drove in silence, MacDonald at the wheel, Stave in the front passenger seat, Maschke on the hard bench behind. The vice squad man had to hold on tight to the jeep’s metal frame to avoid being sent flying every time they went over a pothole. He looked as if he was being driven to the dentist. The lieutenant stared straight ahead as they thundered down the Elbe embankment. The chief inspector watched him from the corner of his eye.
Nobody had said anything about their encounter the previous day. Erna Berg came into the office, as merry as ever. Either she had no idea I spotted her yesterday, thought Stave, or is so thick-skinned that she couldn’t care less if I caught her out. The fact was that Stave’s secretary was married, although her husband was on the ‘unaccounted for’ list. Theoretically she was committing adultery. But what has that to do with me, Stave told himself, and tried to concentrate on the interrogation ahead.
Interrogation was probably the wrong word. They were going to a children’s home. He had a police photo of a murdered girl in his coat pocket. Should he even show it to the children? Children whose parents had been gassed, or their school friends shot dead, or their houses bombed? Should he just show it to the warden? But did he know all his charges well enough to recognise one of them from a police photo?
He looked around. To their left the thick ice on the Elbe sparkled in the morning light, as rough and flat as a slab of concrete. A few small ships, freighters and fishing boats were frozen in alongside the ruined piers. The superstructures of two sunk steamers reared out of the ice. Cranes leant low, half toppled over. Two men, bent double and wrapped in overcoats and blankets, crossed the ice from the Hamburg side walking into the brutal wind.
‘Why do I need a British permit to visit a children’s home?’ Stave asked, partly out of curiosity, partly just to break the awkward silence.
MacDonald was quick to answer, obviously pleased to have something to talk about. ‘The home’s official name is the Warburg Children’s Health Home, in English. It is located in a villa belonging to Eric Warburg, the man who founded it.’
Stave nodded. ‘The banker? The one who emigrated?’
‘To the USA. In 1938. After the war he came back, and it now belongs to him again. Its main purpose is to help Jewish children, mostly concentration camp survivors. Many lost more or less their entire families. They come from various countries. Here in Blankenese they are nursed, given decent food and schooling. The institution is under the particular care of the Occupation Authorities.’
‘Have you spoken to any of the people there?’
‘On the telephone, this morning. I let them know why we were coming, but not in too much detail. The female teacher I spoke to had in any case heard that a child had been murdered. Things like that get around town fast. She’d already seen the police posters of the two previous victims. They’re all over the place. But in Blankenese no child of that age has gone missing.’
‘Why are we even bothering to go out there, then?’ Maschke said.
‘If the murdered girl had ever been in a concentration camp then we might find somebody who knew her,’ Stave explained.
They turned into Kosterberg Strasse, a narrow, cobbled lane leading uphill, bordered on either side with hedges, behind which they could see villa roofs sparkling with frost. At the top of the hill was a huge, yellow-painted castle with tall windows in the midst of a meadow. It turned out to be just the city water works, a relic of long-gone days of extravagance and plenty, when they even built stately homes for pumping machinery.
The entrance to house number 60 was opposite. High hedges and wrought-iron gates that hung on yellow-painted pillars. A young man opened one of the heavy gates when he saw the jeep. The drive was raked gravel. Behind a huge bare oak tree stood a villa from the wealthy mid-nineteenth century, with windows round as bullseyes in the upper storeys.
Children peering out from behind the windows with inquisitive looks. A woman at the door, aged about 30, with short black hair, in a grey woollen overcoat, welcomed Stave and Maschke as if they were tabby cats.
‘I’d prefer it if you don’t pull out your ID cards,’ she said to Stave. ‘It can bring back unfortunate memories.’
Strange choice of words, Stave thought. Odd accent too. He considered and then dismissed shaking her hand, and gave her a slight bow instead. MacDonald gave her a casual wave.
‘My name is Therese Dubois. I was the one you spoke with this morning, Lieutenant. I’ve been given instructions to help as much as I can with your business.’
Camp inmate, Stave guessed. Probably French. Maybe Alsace. Lots of French – mainly Jews or resistance fighters – were taken to Bergen-Belsen. Or Ravensbruck. He recalled the trial going on in the Curio House. Ehrlich probably knows her. He didn’t bother to ask who had given her ‘instructions’.
‘I’m sorry to have to turn up here under such unpleasant circumstances,’ he said at last. ‘I will try to keep our visit as brief as possible.’