Berlin: A Novel (52 page)

'If you like.' Fredie went upstairs.

The guard on night duty opened the gate for her. The glaring beams of spotlights shone down from the watchtowers, casting a harsh light on the gravel path leading to the camp.

Professor Georg Raab was engraving a copperplate under a strong lamp. His garland of white hair shone in the otherwise dim light. He looked like the kindly grandfather Marlene had never had.

'Professor, I have to leave this place.' She told him everything. 'I don't know where to go. Please advise me.'

You have great confidence in me, madame.'

'I've no one else to turn to.'

Raab continued working on the plate. 'There could be a way out.'

'I'll do whatever you suggest.'

'I could make you a pass allowing you to leave the country, a Swiss transit visa, and an entry permit to France signed by the German military governor. You can go to Paris by way of Munich and Geneva. The direct route over the Franco-German border is barred to civilians.'

'You know a lot about current affairs for a camp inmate.'

They let me have newspapers and the radio. The BBC is an invaluable source of information.'

'Why Paris?'

Because you can be sure no one will look for you there. And because I know someone in Paris who will help you. Do you have a passport photo? A fairly old one would be best.'

'I have five if you want them. The Photomaton doesn't do less than six at a time. I needed one two years ago for my new ID papers, and the others are with my sewing things in my workbox.'

'Bring them to me tomorrow morning. From now on Marlene Neubert is Helene Neumann. That's close enough for you to remember it easily. We'll leave your date of birth unchanged. You're on this trip to inspect buildings for their suitability as the headquarters of the Paris branch of the Nazi Women's Association. It sounds so crazy that no one will check up on it. And if anyone does, you'll be able to show a document to that effect from the Party leadership in Munich. I've made a good job of their letterhead, particularly the Nazi eagle. It squints slightly.' The little professor chuckled.

'Who is the person you know in Paris?'

An old friend. His name's Brunel, Aristide Brunel. Ask for him at the Louvre.'

'Where's that?'

Any Parisian will tell you the way. Ask Brunel if he's managed to tell the two Canalettos apart yet. He'll find you somewhere safe to stay, and then you just have to wait.'

For the Final Victory?'

'For the inevitable victory of reason and humanity.' The stout little man with the white coat over his striped camp uniform thought for a moment. 'You'll need money. The first series of Swiss francs is in production now - I'll print off enough of those for you at the same time. Don't change too many at once.' He hesitated. 'There's just one problem, though. Siebert is always looking over my shoulder while I work.'

'How long will you need?'

An hour a day for a week.'

'I can keep Siebert off your back for an hour every afternoon.'

'How will you do that?'

'Better not ask.'

Sex with young Siebert wasn't particularly exciting, but Marlene liked the thought of being unfaithful to Fredie with his subordinate in his their conjugal bed. They did it daily from three to four in the afternoon when the commandant was on his rounds of the camp. She made sure that Frau Werner got wind of these sessions too. Someone had to tip Fredie off, after all, or it wouldn't be half as much fun.

So for a week she had sex with Siebert in the Neubert bed, generously making him feel that he was an incomparable lover. Then the professor had finished his forgeries. 'With a new birth certificate thrown in. The best of luck, my dear.'

She put her hand on his sleeve. 'Just a moment, Professor. What about you? We must both go. I have to go because they want to send me to Theresienstadt. You have to go because that man Himmler has ordered you to be liquidated once Operation Needle and Thread is over.' She deliberately adopted a light tone. 'You're not going to wait around for that, are you? You can't! Forge yourself some good papers, and we can make off together, laughing at the thought of their faces when they find out.'

Raab looked at her sadly. 'I wouldn't get further than the gate. There's no escaping one's fate. Mascha will follow me when she hears the news. Our death is of no importance. What are two more dead Jews in two thousand years of the history of a monumental misunderstanding? You must live to tell the world about these appalling things. Now, please go, quickly.'

'You stupid idiot, you bloody stupid Jew!' she cried, giving vent to unspeakable grief and despair. She turned and ran, her face streaming with tears.

She had shut herself off from her fellow travellers behind Vogue, but she wasn't reading it. She was suspended in that state between waking and sleeping, when the body and mind can't agree on time and place. The last twenty-four hours had been too much, even for the born survivor from Riibenstrasse. Her headlong bicycle ride to Blumenau station, suitcase on the back of the bike. The early train that was late. Her fear of missing her connection in Berlin. The endless train journey to Munich. Changing to the Geneva train. Her heart thudding every time tickets were inspected. The official at the German border who told her, 'Come with me' - and then, confused, she realized it was the conductor of the train, who had found her the seat in a no-smoking compartment that she had requested. The relief when Germany was left behind her and Switzerland by night was slipping by, no checkpoints, windows brightly lit. The sleep of exhaustion that blotted out everything, only not the noise of the wheels on the tracks that became the sound of a hundred decapitated heads rolling away.

'Votre passeport, s'il vows plait.' Marlene woke with a start. It was early morning. A French passport inspector was in the compartment, a German military policeman behind him. My name is Neumann, went the words in her head, Helene Neumann ...

The French official leafed through Professor Raab's work of art. The military policeman read it over his shoulder. 'Where to?' he asked.

'Paris.'

'What for?'

She took the letter from the Party leadership out of her handbag. The military policeman read it. He obviously didn't understand a word. 'Thanks, all in order.' He gave her the letter back.

'Bon voyage, mademoiselle.' The passport inspector handed her papers back and turned to the next passenger.

A French steam engine had taken over from the Swiss electric locomotive and puffed away fast, staccato, until its flywheels took hold and the train slowly moved away.

The Gare de Lyon was a peaceful scene, one that a few German soldiers lounging about could not disturb. Passengers in a hurry. Porters bustling about. Brightly coloured kiosks. A man playing the accordion. A dog lifting its leg against the advertising pillar bearing the Picon ad. And hovering over everything its own particular mixture of smells, a compound of soot, cheap perfume, Gitanes and pastis. Marlene breathed it all in. No different from Lehrter station, just not the same, she thought with her best Riibenstrasse logic.

Bicycle taxis were waiting outside the station. Gasoline was in short supply. Marlene put her case in one of these vehicles. 'To the Louvre, please.' She enjoyed the swaying ride through the city, little damaged by a few weeks of war and twelve months of ceasefire. 'Attendez,' she asked the cabby when they reached her destination.

Outside the Louvre a group of German officers had gathered around a tourist guide who was explaining something in terrible German. 'Mon dieu, non, c'est intolerable. Parlez francais, s'il vows plait.' a captain told the guide in fluent French.

A major left the group and came over to Marlene. She put her case down to get her papers out of her handbag. I expect they check up on you here even if you want to go to the loo, she thought crossly.

'Vous permettez, madame?' The major was after her case, not her passport. 'Ou puis je vous la porter?'

'Up there, please.' She indicated the steps up to the entrance.

'You're German?'

'You can hear I am.'

'Visiting the Louvre?'

'You can see I am.' A German officer was the last thing she needed just now.

He was not to be shaken off so easily. 'Major Achim Wachter, if I may introduce myself. Perhaps we could see each other again?' He was about forty and had some grey in his hair. He was sizing her up.

Now he's wondering out how easy it would be to get me into bed, she thought. 'Thank you for carrying my case.' She left him standing there and turned to the museum attendant in the entrance. 'Je cherche Monsieur Aristide Brunel.'

'Vous etes la dame allemande?'

Any objection?'

'Allons.' The man went ahead of her. A small side door. A narrow passage. A spiral staircase. A long corridor. Tall double doors. An imposing desk. A white-haired man in a dark, double-breasted suit. 'La dame allemande, Monsieur le directeur.'

'Our visitor from Munich.' The white-haired man spoke German. 'From the Alte Pinakothek, am I right? The restorer? Bonjour, madame.'

'I don't have anything to do with restaurants. I'm to ask if you've been able to tell the difference between the two Canalettos yet.'

Brunel's face brightened. 'How is my friend Georg Raab?' he asked, delighted.

In a terrible way. And as long as he's in a terrible way he's all right because he's still alive. But don't ask me for how much longer.'

'Is it that bad?'

'Worse.'

'What about you, madame?'

'I managed to get away. With his help. He says you'll find a safe place for me to stay.'

Brunel made a call, speaking quietly and fast. Marlene couldn't make out a word. He hung up. You were never here, and we'll never see each other again. In the unlikely event of a chance meeting we don't know each other.'

'I understand. So now?'

'Go downstairs, and the rest will follow.' He kissed her hand. 'Bonne chance, ma chere.' He escorted her to the top of the spiral staircase.

The group of German officers had disappeared. The bicycle taxi was waiting at the foot of the broad flight of steps. Marlene stopped short. It wasn't the same cabby, but a dark man with a moustache, who silently indicated that she should get in.

Jerkily, they set off. They rode fast through the city: Marlene had no idea for how long or where to. The cyclist had to tread hard on the pedals as they went uphill. 'Montmartre,' he told her, out of breath. Next moment they were coasting downhill again towards an entrance. BERTRAND'S VELOTAXIS, she read over the gate as it clanged shut behind them. There was darkness all around.

So now what, she thought, more baffled than alarmed.

' Votre nom?' said a voice in the darkness.

'Helene Neumann.'

'Votre vrai nom.'

'Look, I don't understand. My French is strictly limited, if you know what I mean.'

'We want your real name,' the voice demanded.

'Let's have a bit of light in here first so that I can see you.'

A quiet murmuring, then a pause, and the creak of shutters. Light dazzled her, and traced the outlines of three people. She raised a hand to shield her eyes. She recognized the man with the moustache. A young woman stood beside him, wearing a brightly coloured summer dress and fashionable wedge heels. Her long black hair was caught up and turned under in a roll. She was sizing Marlene up.

'We want to know who you are, what your real name is and where you come from.' The speaker was a tall, dark man of around thirty with a craggy chin. His German was fluent. Marlene, whose own native Berlin accent was returning to her, thought she heard the trace of a dialect that she didn't recognize.

'Why do you want to know all this?'

'farce que vows etes allemande et les allemande sont nos ennemis,' said the young woman sharply.

'Very well, if you must know, my name's Marlene Neubert. I've come from Blumenau camp near Berlin. A friend of your friend Monsieur Brunel helped me get out with forged papers. The papers say my name is Helene Neumann and I'm in Paris to find a suitable building for the Nazi Women's Association. Here's my passport, and a letter from Party leadership - that's a fake too.' She handed the papers to the speaker. 'So now maybe you'd be kind enough to introduce yourselves.'

'My name is Armand, this is Yvonne, and this is Bertrand.'

'Nos noms de guerre,' the woman added.

And you'll be Madeleine from now on,' Armand told her. 'We're all on first-name terms here. What happens if the Germans check up on you?'

'Nothing at first. But if I'm identified back in Berlin I'm done for. They'll kill me or send me to Theresienstadt, which comes to the same thing. Any more questions?'